“You put one of them on me and hid my smokes while I was asleep,” I grumble, narrowing my eyes at him, earning a chuckle and a dip of his head in response. “Kind of made it seem less like an ask and more like a demand.”
“But you kept up with it.”
“Yeah, well…” My sentence trails off, momentarily overtaken by thoughts that are louder. “I have to outlive the son of a bitch, right?”
His shoulders lift in a shrug, a playful grin spreading across his face. “If that’s the thing that motivates you to keep going.”
The shop.
The cigarettes.
The painfully empty room down the hall.
A lonely old man who needed connection.
The woman sleeping thirty feet away from us.
A knowing look takes over Connor’s features, approval following. Gripping me by the back of the head, he pulls me close to meet me in a kiss. The metal of his ring is cool against my skin, his fingertips heating the longer that we stay locked together.
I let a hand wander beneath his waistline to take hold of his dick, his breath sharp as I stroke it with a featherlight touch. Parting from each other, our eyes meet, and he offers me a nod in answer to the question that I don’t ask him out loud.
While I strip out of the pants I just put on, he carefully closes the door at our side to offer Jules a barrier from the sound inside the bathroom.
I pull his shirt over his head to toss it to the floor, and his hand wraps around my cock, watching as he strokes it.
“You looking for your name?” I tease. “Or just watching it get hard?”
His lips quirk, a huff pushing out of his nose with a shake of his head. “Both,” he admits with a tightening of his hand that makes me grind into his fist with a low chuckle.
Clamping a hand at the base of his neck, I capture his mouth with mine, and as our tongues tangle with each other, I bite back a laugh at the taste of his peppermint toothpaste. We spent an hour once, years ago, debating over sweet mint or peppermint being the superior flavor.
I still think I’m right; peppermint tastes like Christmas.
My teeth sink into his lower lip, tugging until he lets out a whine, and our eyes meet.
“You want your name on my cock?” I purr. “You want everyone to know it’s yours?”
“No,” he breathes with a shake of his head, his gaze trained on my lips. “I want them to know thatyouare.”
Dropping as much spit as I can into my palm, I coat my dick with it as he turns to face the counter, carefully notching my tip into place behind him with one hand while the other spreads him open.
The only other option for lube in this room is the selection of soaps and conditioners in the shower, and I’m pretty sure the‘external use only’ warnings on them roughly translate to ‘please don’t put this inside your husband’s asshole.’
I spit again, this time directly onto his skin, for good measure before nudging inside. With a curse under my breath, another inch slides in, my movement only stopped by a hand taking hold of my hip. I expect him to call it, to end it here, but he shifts his body instead, angling his hips toward me.
His hands come to rest on the counter with mine on top of them, and I study the image staring back at us. Connor’s brow pinches with every inch that I push inside, pleasure and pressure fighting for dominance, which I try not to let feed my ego too much.
A rock of my hips tests the waters as my lips meet the skin just behind his ear to earn a whine from him. With that small sound of approval, I pull my hands from their place over his, letting them find his waist instead, and my fingertips dig into his skin as I feed his body the rest of my cock.
His hands reach behind him to find my waist, and my teeth find the lobe of his ear. A desperate groan floods the room as they graze against it, ricocheting off of the walls and bouncing back up at us from the porcelain of the sink.
In our reflection, Connor’s mouth drops open, his eyes falling closed as his cock grinds against the counter’s edge. With every push of his hips, he squeezes my dick. I don’t mean for my grip on him to falter, and I definitely don’t mean to fuckingwhimperthe way that I do, but it’s already a tight fit, and every squeeze sends a bolt of heat straight through my body.
Bringing a hand to the back of his head, I take hold of the crown, yanking it backward. His mouth hangs open, his chest heaving, as his palm finds its way to my cheek.
“Riptide,” he pants.
Capturing his mouth with my own, I let that hand slide down his spine, landing at the image that I tattooed into it after my ill-conceived visit home. I’m not sure that he’s even properly looked at it yet; he knows it’s from my sketch book, and I’m sure that he’s gotten glimpses in the mirror, but as far asreallyseeing it…I think he would have said something.
