Until vanilla and cinnamon wrapped itself around my hindbrain and squeezed until every certainty I had about myself cracked down the middle.
"Raf." Phoenix's voice cuts through my spiral. He hasn't moved from his position, still flat on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes. "You doing okay?"
"Peachy," I mutter, which is such obvious bullshit that Phoenix actually snorts.
"Yeah. Me too."
Silence falls again, heavy and oppressive. I can hear Bells moving in the next room—the rustle of blankets, a soft sound that might be a whimper or might just be my imagination torturing me.
My hand slides down without conscious permission, palming my cock through my slacks. The friction helps exactly not at all, just makes everything worse, makes me more aware of how badly I want something I shouldn't fucking want.
"Fuck it," Phoenix mutters.
"Huh?" I mumble, dazed, turning my head to look at him. He's sat up, his massive frame taking up more than his fair share of his bed, blue eyes darker than I've ever seen them. His pupils are blown wide enough that the blue is just a ring around endless black.
"What?" I ask warily.
"I can't—" He drags both hands through his messy blond hair, making it stand up in all directions. "I need to dosomethingor I'm going to lose my mind. And I can't go in there. Won't. But I need?—"
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
I know what he needs. Know because I need it too. Something to take the edge off, to bleed off enough pressure that we don't snap.
"Come here," I hear myself say.
Phoenix's eyes snap to mine. "What?"
I sit up to face him. My heart is hammering hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere. "You heard me. Come here."
He doesn't move immediately. Just stares at me like he's trying to figure out if I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe this is the worst idea in a night full of terrible ideas.
Suddenly he's right there, close enough that I can smell him under the phantom traces of Bells's scent. Pine and something earthier, grounding.
"Raf," he says quietly. "We don't have to?—"
"Shut up." I grab his belt, yanking him closer. The buckle is cold under my fingers, and for one insane second I think about what the fuck I'm actually doing. About how this rewrites everything I thought I knew about myself.
Then Bells makes another sound through the wall—something between a whimper and a gasp—and rational thought evaporates like water on hot asphalt.
"Raf—" Phoenix starts, but I'm already yanking the belt free, the leather sliding through loops with a hiss that sounds obscene in the quiet room.
"I said shut up," I growl, and my hands are on his shirt now, working the buttons with fingers that won't quite cooperate. Too desperate. Too fuckinggoneto care about finesse.
Phoenix's hands come up to help, and together we strip the fabric away. It hits the floor in a heap of dark cotton.
Phoenix is built like a fucking grizzly bear.
A broad, strong torso covered in a layer of comfortable padding. Thick shoulders that could probably benchpress a car. Arms corded with muscle beneath sun-speckled skin. Everything about him screamsmale.
Phoenix is the complete opposite of every woman I've ever been with. No delicate curves, no soft breasts, no hips that flare under my hands. Just solid alpha male taking up space like he was built to fill it.
And I want it.
Wanthim.
Fuck.
Phoenix's hands find my shirt, and he's gentler than I was but no less desperate. Buttons come undone one by one, revealing my own torso—leaner than his, more defined, skin bronzed and decorated with enough ink to qualify as a gallery. The kraken on my left arm seems to writhe in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
