“That I don’t want your money.”
Rhys’s spine went rigid and his eyes flew open. “Please don’t say that.”
“But it’s true,” he protested.
“If you don’t want my money, what then?” Rhys tightened his hold on Beckett’s hand. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Yes, let’s shower.”
“Rhys.”
“Come on.” Rhys flashed him a plastic smile. “If you think the living room is bad, wait until you see the rest of the place.”
Beckett let Rhys pull him down a long hallway and into the master suite that was easily as big as Beckett’s entire apartment. The room looked completely devoid of emotion, somehow like and also unlike Rhys.
“Is this your brother’s style sense or yours?” he asked.
“Sebastian.” Rhys gingerly stepped out of his underwear, and Beckett knew how much the nakedness cost him. In response, he took off the rest of his clothes and followed Rhys into the bathroom.
“You have a copper sink?”
“Sebastian,” Rhys said again, turning on the shower.
Beckett faced the large mirror over the sink and traced his fingers up the clean white marble to the broad, copper bowl sink. It was almost gaudy, but Beckett absolutely adored the feel of the bathroom. He tested one of the copper knobs and flicked his hands under the stream of water before turning it back off.
“I like the sink,” he said, wiping his fingers on his bare thigh.
“Really?” Rhys looked over his shoulder and arched a brow.
“It has the most character out of everything in this condo.”
“Ouch.” Rhys rubbed his chest like Beckett’s words had injured him, and Beckett wondered if they had.
He let out a breath and followed Rhys into the shower, which was honestly large enough to accommodate a rugby team if Rhys had ever gotten the inclination. But it was a nice bathroom. Nice shower. Nice bedroom. Nice everything.
“Let’s sort you out, then.” Beckett cleared his head and reached for the soap, walking Rhys backward and against the wall. Rhys’s nostrils flared, and the tip of his cock dragged against the front of Beckett’s thigh.
“Nearly insatiable,” he murmured, soaping his hands and setting them on Rhys’s body.
“I can’t help it.” Rhys’s head landed against the wall with a thud. The water rained between them, rinsing the soap from Rhys’s chest as soon as Beckett scrubbed him clean.
“I don’t believe that,” Beckett countered, reaching down and back. He slipped his soapy fingers between the slick crack of Rhys’s ass, laughing softly when Rhys’s knees gave out. “I think you’re a control freak, Rhys St. George.”
“I’m not a freak about it.”
“You just know how you like things?” Beckett teased a finger around Rhys’s swollen rim. He prayed he wasn’t making a mistake. That Rhys wouldn’t ice him out again after another orgasm.
“I know how to get things the way I like them to be,” Rhys said.
Beckett eased a finger into Rhys’s ass. “And how do you like me?”
“Just like this,” Rhys rasped. “Hard and inside of me.”
“Now who’s bold?” Beckett pressed another finger inside of Rhys and kissed him to swallow down the moan that left his mouth.
“You drive me out of my mind,” Rhys whimpered, his back arching away from the wet tile and against Beckett’s chest.
“More like out of your comfort zone.” He kissed Rhys again and withdrew his fingers, rinsing them under the spray.
“Don’t stop.”
