Page 81 of King of Pain
I watch as he visibly swallows, his throat bobbing.
“I, uh—” Chance stutters, his voice slightly rough. “I went next door to grab coffee. Got us some donuts too… just to hold us over before we eat one of everything on the boardwalk.”
I glance at the white bag on the bed, then back at him, watching him try—and fail—not to look at my chest.Keep looking. Please.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching for one of the cups, our fingers brushing. A tiny jolt of electricity runs up my arm, and from the way Chance’s breath hitches, he felt it too.
I take a sip, sighing at the warmth. “I’ll get dressed while you get ready, then we can head out.”
Chance nods but doesn’t move. His eyes stay on me a beat longer before he finally turns away.
Getting ready is an exercise in torture. I should be focusing on what to wear, but instead, I’m watching Chance peel his jeans off, showing off thatbig, gorgeousass. The material of his boxer briefs has its work cut out trying to contain all of that. I grip the edge of the dresser to keep myself from making a sound.
He turns and catches me staring.
I blink, frozen.
Chance smirks, winks, then walks into the bathroom—knowing exactly what he’s doing to me.
Ineedto get my hands on that ass.Soon.
Once we’re ready and make the quick walk to the beach, the boardwalk buzzes with life as locals and tourists weave between surf shops, boutiques, and food stands. The salty ocean air fills my lungs, and the sun, battling against the slight January chill, casts a warmth that makes the whole moment feel almost surreal.
After strolling the boardwalk for a while, I take Chance to Laventina’s, my favorite pizza shop, and we each grab a slice. Chance chooses a small high-top table for us, and the moment we sit, our knees knock together. Chance snickers, then, without breaking eye contact, spreads his legs slightly, drops his hands under the table, and grips the edge of my chair. With a slow tug, he pulls me closer, sliding my left knee between his thighs before clamping down, locking me there.
Everything around us fades. The chatter of nearby diners, the distant crash of waves—it all disappears. All I can focus on is theheat of his body, the weight of his legs around mine, and the way my dick is rapidly stirring to life, reaching for Chance’s thighs like it wants to say hello.
Chance takes a bite of his slice and groans dramatically. “God, that’s good. There’s just something about boardwalk pizza. Greasy, a little burnt on the edges, perfect ratio of sauce to cheese—this is what pizza’smeantto taste like.”
I take a bite of mine, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, it’s solid. What’s your favorite topping combo?”
“Sausage, pepperoni, and mushroom,” he says without hesitation.
I raise a brow. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. It’s the perfect combo.”
I smirk, already planning my rebuttal. “You’re missing one crucial ingredient.”
He eyes me warily. “Oh, God. What?”
“Black olives.”
Chance pulls a face like I just suggested anchovies and peanut butter. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes,” I counter, pointing at him with my slice.
He shakes his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Nope. Not messing with perfection.”
“Well, youwillonce I make you a homemade pizza,” I say with confidence. “Real dough, fresh sauce, the whole thing. And I’m putting black olives on it.”
Chance narrows his eyes at me. “You’re really going to die on this hill?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well,” he says, wiping his hands with a napkin. “At least we can agree pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza.”
I shrug.
