Page 29 of Atlas and the Traitor

“I’m not going to touch your pretty cock. You’re going to sit on my dick and make yourself come.” He tilted Atlas’s face down, their lips brushing. “Use me.”

Atlas grinned against his lips. “We may have to work on your definition ofmean.”

Robin’s palm came down hard against his ass cheek. “Less talking, more riding.”

His lips wanted to curl into a wider smile, but he busied his mouth with Robin’s for another deep, sweeping taste before he reared back and rose on his knees. Hand around Robin’s cock for position, he slowly slid down the length of him, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully seated, stuffed full of Robin.

The shifter leaned back his head, and his thunderous moan nearly made Atlas come on the spot. When he was sure the brush of the coarse hairs that bisected Robin’s pelvis wouldn’t make him explode, he tipped forward, arms outstretched, hands on either side of Robin’s head and nibbled a path up his neck to his ear. “You ready?”

“Now, who’s being mean?”

“I’ll show you fucking mean.” Curling his fingers around the top of the chaise for leverage, he rose to the tip end of Robin’s cock, then rammed himself back onto it. Over and over, building them up, Robin’s rough grunts in his ear as good as any sweet words, his fingers leaving bruises on his hip and shoulder as he slammed him down harder better than any soft touches, his growled “Mine” as they raced toward their climax almost enough to throw Atlas over the edge.

He reared up one last time and clasped Robin’s face, forcing his golden gaze back to his. “It cuts both ways. You get that, right?”

Robin covered his hand, digging his fingers in harder, same as Atlas had done his earlier. “Yours.”

Heat and something else exploded inside Atlas, and as he shoved back a final time, his orgasm erupting, Robin’s doing the same inside him, he tipped back his head, let his eyes slip closed, and told a cackling fate to fuck right off.

Twenty-One

Atlas kicked the shredded stolen suit aside as he returned from the bathroom. “You know, I have nothing to wear out of here now.”

“You can borrow some jeans and a flannel,” Robin said from where he stood by the bar.

Atlas made a retching sound, then promptly erased the horrific thought with the shot of vodka Robin offered him.

The coyote eyed him over the rim of his own glass, gaze heated even after round-Atlas-had-lost count. “Tie the flannel around your waist, like a kilt.”

An admittedly less horrific idea, but the implications... “If I walk into Monte Corvo with your flannel around my hips, they’ll know we fucked.”

Robin shrugged, tossed back the rest of his vodka, then wound an arm around his middle. He pulled him closer, nose nuzzling behind his ear, semi nudging his hip, ramping up to go again. “Speaking of fucking...”

They’d get there—impossible not to with the both of them still naked—but Robin’s comment had piqued Atlas’s earlier curiosity again. “Have you been staying here?”

He promptly unplastered himself from Atlas’s side and poured another shot. “Between Icarus’s shit and Paris’s.” He rotated to rest back against the bar, gaze toward the boarded-up windows as if he could somehow see outside. “We needed eyes on the city.” Atlas didn’t think that was all there was to it, given the tightness of his shoulders and the lines that deepened around the corners of his eyes. “And I like it better here.”

“Aren’t you supposed to love the wide-open range? Roaming the hills and valleys and shit?”

Robin chuckled, his shoulders loosening, and Atlas was glad for it. “It makes me antsy.”

“Same,” Atlas said, hiding his smile in his glass. “I loathed working for Vincent, but I enjoyed living in YB.”

Robin cut him a side-eye and returned a version of his earlier question. “Aren’tyousupposed to love nature? You bought a vineyard, for fuck’s sake.”

His turn to laugh. “I do, when I just want to be. No mission, no to-do list, no crisis to avert. But when I need to work, I like the challenge of the city. What’s more impressive than a weed fighting to grow through a crack in the concrete?”

“You mean Paris,” the shifter astutely surmised. Atlas shrugged and finished his shot. “I feel the same,” Robin continued. “Running comes naturally, but hunting here in the city, any city for that matter, takes more than speed and strength.”

“Strategy.”

“Exactly.” Robin finished his drink, then angled again toward Atlas. “It’s what we need to do if we’re going to survive the next nine days.”

He’d walked right into that one, tricky bastard. “I don’t do?—”

Robin’s mouth stole the rest of his protest, drowned it with another of those toe-curling kisses that tangled his insides. “You lost the right to that excuse five fucks ago.” Arm around his shoulders, Robin brought them front to front again and buried his nose in the divot behind his ear. “And when you let me smell the real you. Fuck, it’s addictive.”

He arched his neck, wanting more, Robin’s rough lips and teasing touch ramping him up again too. “What do you smell?”

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