Page 41 of Played
Well, now I like the late Arthur Blackthorn even more. “Do they know?”
He snorts a laugh. “Yup. Couldn’t give a fuck. His own daughter didn’t come see him when he was dying. How fucked up is that?”
“Pretty fucked up.” I take a sip of my Scotch, and when I put my glass down on the counter, King is staring at me intently.
“I’m really sorry, Mase,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
I swallow hard, unsure what he’s apologizing for.
“For what happened today. But also for what I did eighteen years ago. All the things I said. Leaving the way I did.”
I don’t go near the whole eighteen-years-ago thing because everything is already raw and emotional enough. “You don’t have to apologize for what happened today. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. It was…” I take a deep breath. “It was a lot to process, and it took me by surprise. But I wanted what happened, and I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t.”
“I appreciate you telling me that.” Now his deep-green eyes rake over me unashamedly. “You know, I think I do know why I came here.” His voice is dark and seductive, and that inappropriate hard-on situation is becoming more real by the second.
Fuck me, this just got a whole different kind of intense. Memories of today—of how good it felt to have his hands on me, how easily he manipulated my body—fill me with both shame and desire. “And why is that?”
“I think…” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. “I think I needed to be around someone who loved me. Even if it was a long time ago.” Tears fill his beautiful green eyes again, and I have to take a deep breath as the force ofhis admission hits me. He downs his Scotch. “I also think it’s dangerous to admit something like that to you.”
“Dangerous how?”
He walks around the kitchen island. “Talking feelings with you is dangerous, Mason. Don’t you think?”
It’s not talking about feelings that scares the hell out of me where he’s concerned. It’s acting on them. Still, I inch closer, hyperaware of the heat from his body. King Blackthorn is fire, and it seems like I’m looking to get myself burned. This is a dumbass move—I know it and so does he. We’re going to regret this tomorrow, but as idiotic as it is, I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m hypnotized by those dark-green eyes, rock-hard abs, and gray sweats. I glance down. Yeah, definitely by the gray sweats, or more likely by the outline of the impressive semi-hard cock I can clearly see in them. Fuck me. I think I just lost fifty IQ points.
He sits on the stool directly beside where I stand, facing me and daring me to make the next move—after my reaction in my office earlier today, I can’t blame him.
“No, but I think it’s dangerous to have you sitting in my kitchen like this.” I trail my fingertips over his jawline, my fingernails rasping against his thick stubble.
He grabs my hips and pulls me between his spread thighs, and I don’t try to stop him. “Like what?” His voice is low and full of gravel, and each word feels like a caress on my skin.
“Half drunk and half dressed.”
He tilts his head to the side. “I’m not drunk. Not even a little bit. Are you?”
Nervous energy sizzles along my spine. I know exactly where this conversation is headed, and I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop him. “Not drunk, no.”
He breathes heavily, his warm breath dusting over my skin and making me shiver. His fingers flex on my hips, digginginto the muscle. He drags his bottom lip through his teeth and groans. “You are so fucking sexy. Do you know that?”
I don’t reply. Can’t form a word. All my effort is being directed into not smashing my mouth against his and then begging him to fuck me.
“Yeah, you know that already, right, Playboy?”
“Fuck you, Hotshot.”
He tugs me forward until my hips are pressed against his thighs. I know if I look down his cock will be as hard as mine is, so I don’t. He leans closer, his mouth inches from my ear. “No, but I’d really like to fuck you.”
I groan. Actually fucking groan. God, I’m ashamed of myself.
He pulls back a little, and I’m left staring into his deep-green eyes. “I need you, Mase. Please?”
I can’t believe this is real and that he’s saying these things. Would I be taking advantage of his grief and the fact that he’s seeking comfort? Would any warm, willing body do, or is it specifically me he needs? I realize I don’t fucking care, at least about the latter. Not right now at least, with his hands on me and my cock aching for his touch, not to mention the need coursing through my veins like it’s my life force. But I do care about taking advantage of someone who’s not thinking clearly. “This is your grief speaking. You’re not gay, remember? You’ll regret this, if not tomorrow, then when you’re thinking straight.”
He huffs a dark laugh. “Mason, I am one hundred percent gay, even if I’ll never admit it openly. And this isn’t my grief talking. This is me wanting you the way I have since you walked into your brother’s office a few weeks ago and tore me a new one. Nothing more and nothing less.” And fuck me, but I want him too, no matter how much I should hate him. He palms my cock over my shorts, and it stiffens further at his touch. “You want me too. I know you do.”
I can hardly deny that fact when I’m hard as fucking iron. “If we do this, it’s once, King.”
He wraps a hand around my throat and squeezes lightly, and pleasure snakes its way up my spine. “Of course it is. I’m not looking for anything serious, Playboy.”
