Page 33 of Played
He doesn’t respond to my jibe, recognizing it as the attempt at deflection it is. “You don’t have to tell me, but know I’m here if you need anything. Okay?”
I consider telling him all about King. I really do. I even consider telling him about everything that happened in the past with King and his sick fuck of a father. Of all the people in my life, Maddox would be able to relate to that kind of pain. That’s why I nearly told him thirteen years ago when he came home from a party one night and found me sitting in the den in the dark, half a bottle of Scotch in.
He slumped in the chair beside me and asked what was wrong. He assumed it was about Mom, and I snapped and told him not everything was about Mom. And then I felt guilty ashell, but even at the age of seventeen, Maddox was insightful. Constantly high, but deep as the ocean. Living with our mom’s illness affected us all in different ways. So he didn’t make me feel guilty. He sat with me. Quiet. Steady. I was about to tell him, but then he got the phone call that changed the course of his life forever.
And maybe that’s why I don’t tell him now. Because my wise-as-a-sage baby brother will listen intently, and then he’ll expertly guide the conversation in such a way that I’ll come up with what I should do next. And it will be what I should do, of course, because this is Mad, and he always does the right thing. And once I decide what to do about King, it will eat me up until I do it. It’s better—easier—to go on living in this hellish limbo of wanting him and not being able to have him.
“Thanks, Mad,” I say sincerely. “But you know what I could really use? Some of that coffee you promised me. The one that will have me buzzed for days, if you’re to be believed.”
He glances forlornly at my green shake and his shoulders slump. “Fine. Be right back. I’ll grab our lunch too.” He slides out of the booth and heads into the kitchen.
Left to my own devices once more, my thoughts predictably return to King. The man I saw today has dredged up far too many unwelcome feelings. Feelings I don’t have a fucking clue what to do with.
Nah, I know just what to do: Bury them in a vat of Maddox’s buzzed-for-days coffee and keep on pretending that everything is fine. I have a date to get to after this.
Chapter
Sixteen
MASON
Icheck my appearance in Jack’s bathroom mirror, running a tongue over my teeth and making sure there’s no stray greens from our early dinner date. His bathroom is tidy and elegant, with expensive grooming products neatly displayed on a shelf.
I like a guy who takes good care of himself, and Jack Donnelly definitely falls into that category. He’s a regular at my gym, and we’ve been eyeing each other for weeks. Last night, he finally asked me out, and as luck would have it, neither of us had plans for this evening. The guy is built. He has muscles on his muscles and tattoos covering most of his chest and arms, not to mention a killer smile. He’s funny too. Also terminally single. In short, he’s exactly my type.
So why aren’t I fucking ecstatic about what’s about to happen? Inviting me to his apartment for a drink is code for fucking, and we both date enough to know it. Yet, I’m… I’m not exactly nervous, but I’m not thrilled either. And I should be. This is what I do. I hook up with super attractive guys for meaningless but fulfilling sex. If things go well, we might date for a few weeks, and then we’ll move on.
I wash my hands and give myself a pep talk. This has nothing to do with King Blackthorn walking back into my life. And absolutely fuck all to do with the memories seeing him has dredged up. Get it the fuck together, Mase.
Pep talk administered, I head back into the open-plan living space. It’s a nice apartment. Clean, orderly, tastefully furnished.
Jack has fixed us drinks, and my Scotch and his vodka sit side by side on the coffee table in the center of the room, but from the look in his eyes as he prowls toward me, I’m not certain we’ll be drinking them any time soon.
He comes to a stop in front of me, and we act on instinct, our mouths crashing together and hands roaming wildly.
He pulls back, breathless. “I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to be fucked by you from the second I set eyes on you, Mason.”
I arch an eyebrow, tugging his head back with my hand fisted in his hair. His eyes are dark with hunger. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re hot as fuck.”
His T-shirt strains against his hard pecs, and my mouth waters at the thought of running my tongue over his skin.
“Can I taste you?” he pants.
“Knock yourself out, handsome.”
He drops to his knees and makes quick work of my belt and jeans. My cock hardens at the touch of his skilled fingers, thickening in his grasp. He murmurs appreciatively, then his tongue darts out, flicking over my crown. I groan, pleasure building in my core. I grab his hair again and guide him onto my waiting cock. He takes all of me until I hit the back of his throat. Then he looks up at me, tears being squeezed from his eyes.
A memory takes hold, and I shake my head, trying to shake it loose. But it’s too late. It’s no longer Jack’s mouth on me; it’s mine onhim.
I’m on my knees. Choking. Crying. My head is held still. He tells me how disgusting I am to be enjoying what he’s doing.
I screw my eyes closed, willing the memory to slink back to the deepest recesses of my brain where it belongs. But it’s a stubborn little fucker.
And now I can taste him. Smell him. My stomach rolls.
I stagger back a step, sliding from Jack’s mouth. “I can’t,” I mumble.
