Page 94 of Played
I dust my lips over his. “I love you. I’m gonna try to wrap up my meeting in half an hour. Will you hang around and wait for me? We can grab lunch. Or go back to my place and spend the day in bed.”
His grin is wicked and sexy, but it fades when he checks his watch. “As tempting as that offer is, I have some things to take care of.” He clears his throat. “But can I see you tonight?” As if I didn’t just ask him to spend the day in bed with me, his tone is pleading, his expression filled with anticipation. As if there’s a world in which I would say no to him.
“My place?” I suggest, not particularly wanting to spend time in his apartment.
That gets me a huge smile that makes his dimple pop. “I’ll be there around six. That work for you?”
I nod. “That works.”
His mouth crashes against mine, and he tangles his fingers in my hair as he tongue-fucks me like he owns me. I grind against him, feeling his cock stiffen against my own. With a Herculean amount of effort, I pull away, breathless. “It’s now seven minutes to my meeting, and I really don’t want to meet my potential new clients with a raging hard-on.”
He glances down at the outline of my very hard dick in my suit pants. “No, I guess that’s not the best first impression.” His eyes are twinkling when they meet my gaze. He brushes his lips over mine. “Time to think unsexy thoughts, Playboy.”
“Then you need to get out of here, Hotshot.”
He brushes his knuckles over the bulge in my pants, and my cock twitches at the brief contact. “Tonight, baby boy. We’ll talk, okay?”
With that promise hanging in the air, he walks out of my office. I blow out a breath and push all thoughts of him from my mind, focusing instead on the clients I’m about to meet. Thankfully, we’re discussing new AI software that writessystems maintenance code for waste treatment plants, which is the most unsexy thing I can think of.
Chapter
Forty-Seven
KING
Iwipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and try to swallow past the lump in my throat, but it feels like it’s swollen shut. This is the last time I will ever come to this house. And if I can help it, the last time I will ever speak to either of my parents again. I’ve seen my future, and they’re not in it, and I couldn’t be happier about that fact.
I press the doorbell and wait, my heart hammering against my ribcage. I’m determined to keep a lid on my rage, say my piece, and leave. That goes straight to hell the moment I see his face.
All I see is what he did to Mason. To the boy I loved. The boy I gave up for his approval.I see seventeen-year-old Mason—who was nothing but goodness, light, and kindness—being violated by this piece of shit.
I push him full force in the chest, and he staggers back. “You disgusting piece of shit!” I roar, over twenty years of rage and hatred pouring out of me at once. I advance on him, and he retreats down the hallway.
Did Mason cower like that?
“Why?” I shove him again. “I can almost understand why you hated what I was. Your own father fucked you up, and youmarried a sociopath incapable of feeling, so I can wrap my head around that even if I don’t agree with it. But how could you…” I punch him in the jaw, and he falls to the floor.
“Kyngston Worthington!” My mother’s shrill voice echoes down the hallway. A hallway I now notice is empty of the antique furniture that usually resides here. “How dare you.”
I spin to face her. “How dare I?” I roar. “Do you know what he did? To a seventeen-year-old boy? He fucking raped him. Did you know that?”
“It was a very long time ago,” she says, deadpan.
“So fucking what. He raped the man I love.”
She blanches. “How dare you,” she says again.
“That’s what gets the reaction from you? That I told you I loved a man—not that your husband raped a seventeen-year-old boy?”
Her lip curls, but she doesn’t respond.
“Kyngston, son?” My father pleads, his voice soft and calm. “Think about what you’re saying.”
I turn my anger on him again. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I. Am. Gay. Despite the torture and your efforts tocleanseme, I love dick. Specifically, I love Mason James’s dick. I love him. And you…” I point a finger in my father’s direction and then have to take a breath to calm my temper before I beat him to a pulp with my bare hands.
I change the subject. “What did you do to Cassidy Jones? Where is she?”
His lip wobbles, but it’s my mother who answers. “That silly little whore.”
