His chest is heaving in tandem with Demeroven’s. Demeroven’s face is flushed, his eyes suddenly a little wild, his hands balled into fists.
“It’s not a question of your status or... political value,” Demeroven says rapidly.
“What, then it’s my personality that’s so abhorrent?” Bobby asks, wondering when his mouth got so fully away from him.
“Have you lost your mind?” Demeroven exclaims.
“You’re the one that dragged me in here. If it’s so difficult to be around me, why don’t you just—”
Demeroven steps forward, his hand sliding around to the back of Bobby’s head to pull him into a rough and sudden kiss. All that animosity, all the anger, all the hurt boils between them as Demeroven leans forward, trapping Bobby against the wall, their bodies pulled flush together.
Bobby groans into Demeroven’s mouth, surprised and aroused and strangely delighted to discover that Demeroven feels just as chiseled beneath his linen coat as he looks. Betterthan that, Demeroven can bloody kiss. It’s all fierce, needy lips and groping hands, and Bobby gives himself over to the physicality of it.
Rough, and hot, and heady—is this what was coming for them the whole time? All the fighting and petty words, was it reallythisbeneath the surface, all along?
Demeroven sucks on his bottom lip as he palms Bobby’s arse, grinding them together in a press that’s delicious friction and frustration and utter glory—
Until Demeroven suddenly pulls away, the two of them left gaping at each other with kiss-raw lips, hair mussed, bodies heaving.
What the actual—
Chapter Twelve
James
Hell.
Oh, hell. What did he just do?
He kissed Mason. Bobby Mason. Bold, fearless, reckless Bobby Mason.
Bobby Mason, who’s been beautiful since they were young. Bobby Mason, who wouldn’t have given him a second look at Oxford, is now standing debauched and winded, watching him hungrily as if he might like to—
Oh,hell.
James can’t seem to make... any part of himself work. Can’t move, can barely think. All he can feel is the heavy drum of his pulse and the tightness of his midsection and his—
Mason reaches out as if to pull James back into his arms. James almost goes, staring at Mason’s reddened lips, thinking of the snag of his light stubble and how if James pushed him up against the wall at the right angle, he could wedge his thigh in tight and—
There’s a great cheer from the stands far beyond them.
“We can’t,” he croaks, stepping back from Mason’s reaching fingers.
“We absolutely can,” Mason counters, pushing off from the wall.
“I—I heard someone.”
Mason pauses, listening. James tries to breathe steadily against his racing pulse. He didn’t hear anyone. But he could have.
Mason pulls back the curtain and peers out into the tent. James stands there, mind whirring as blood slowly makes its way back into his skull. Mason turns back to James with a sly smile and drops the curtain, sidling forward.
James is so paralyzed by indecision and arousal that he doesn’t move. The feeling of Mason’s broad palm skating along his jaw to cup his neck makes James shiver. His thumb rests right at James’ earlobe, stroking gently.
He could melt into a puddle right there, just collapse into Mason’s arms.
“Funny how we’ve spent so many weeks sniping at each other, when we could have been doing this instead,” Mason says huskily, leaning in to glance his lips off James’.
It takes everything James has not to chase his mouth. “We shouldn’t,” he mumbles, the words bubbling up from the depths of his mind even as the rest of him strains toward Mason.
