“Oh, God.” Watch what it does to him.
Grant’s head tips back, throat tight, one hand braced on the wall like the air’s been knocked out of him. His breath punches out on a curse. My cock aches just from seeing it—seeing him like this. Coming apart because of me.
“Dante,” he grits out. “Fuck. Someone could walk in.”
I don’t pause. Don’t even hesitate.
“I would fucking love it if they did.”
Because I want them to see. Every single person in this goddamn club. I want them to know exactly who he belongs to—who he’s always belonged to—even when we were stupid kids pretending we didn’t notice the way our eyes lingered too long.
I work his cock with my mouth, slow at first. Long pulls down his shaft, then back up again, lips tight, tongue teasing theslit until he groans—a rough, broken sound that sends a thrill straight down my spine. I hum around him, letting the vibration hit him deep.
“The whole fucking club can see me on my knees for you,” I growl between strokes, my voice ragged. “I wouldn’t care.”
Because this—us—has never been about hiding. It’s been about fighting. About years of pretending it didn’t burn between us like crackling electricity.
I take him deeper, choking slightly as he hits the back of my throat, and fuck, I love it. I love the way he tastes—familiar and new all at once. Love the way he trembles, trying to stay quiet, but he can’t. Not when my mouth is on him like this. Not when I’m savoring every goddamn second like I’ve waited my whole life for it.
Because I have.
I’ve thought about this moment for years. Since the first time I saw him looking at me like he wanted to kiss me but didn’t have the balls to do it.
Grant’s hand clamps the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair. Fisting it. He could pull me off. He says he wants to. Says it under his breath like a warning, like a plea. “You need to stop, Dante.”
But then his hips jerk, thrusting forward, pushing his cock deeper into my throat like instinct overrides everything else.
Like he needs this just as bad.
“F-Fuck.”
He puts pressure on the back of my head, not to stop me—but to keep me there. To anchor me to this moment, like it’s the only one that’s ever mattered.
And maybe it is.
Because this? This has been forged into our lives for nearly twenty goddamn years. It’s been simmering beneath every joke, every fight, every near miss that left us both aching.
When I was a teenager, jerking my cock to the thought of my best friend—the way he’d come out of the shower, towel low on his hips. The way he’d laugh and then look at me, all heat and confusion. Every time I caught him watching me like he wanted to close the distance between us and fuck it all up.
This has always been inevitable.
If Grant would only stop fucking fighting it.
“No.”
The word leaves his mouth in a breathless stutter, punched out between clenched teeth and ragged moans. “No—Dante—no?—”
But it comes with every thrust of his hips, every desperate roll forward that buries his cock deeper down my throat.
“Fuck.”
“Oh, fuck. Dante,” He’s pulsing his hips as I suck. “Fuck. Fuck… don’t.”
“Ah.”
“Stop.”
With every suck of my mouth on him, it loses strength. Loses meaning. Until all that’s left is the way he trembles—then locks up.
