“How do you know about this?” He asks. It’s Rhys’ turn to look disgusted.
“Found it by accident, which in turn meant I needed years of therapy.” Shuddering, Rhys tightens his grip on my hand. “Anyway. It’s professionally cleaned regularly and perfect for what I want from you.” Dragging me around to crash into his chest, his eyes are gleaming all of a sudden, the tempest within flaring back to life. “You got lucky with that little alcove you found. Forgot about that damn theater room. I was sure all of the secret compartments and rooms were behind locked doors.”
“You set me up!” I gasp, knocking aside the fingers that try to toy with the ends of my hair. Rhys smirks, raising one shoulder playfully.
“I told you I didn’t play fair.” This time, his fingers make it into my hair as they forcefully grip the back of my head. Despite my narrowed eyes, I struggle to keep up the pretence of anger. Especially as I spot Clay wandering towards a spanking horse and stroking the burgundy leather. My cheeks heat as his open curiosity. Growling low in his chest, Rhys jolts my attention back to him and crashes his mouth against mine.
Rhys claims me with a force that steals every thought directly from my mind. It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision of sexual frustration, desire and something feral that’s been pacing inside him all night. My breath catches in my throat as his hand fists tighter in my hair, yanking just enough to make my knees go weak. The sting blooms sweet and sharp along my scalp, a warning I should learn to adhere to, but my body responds before any reasoning can.
Instead, I push myself against the hardening length of him, hoping to hell that Rhys is sober enough to balance us both. In response, Rhys kisses me like he’s trying to drag the air out of my lungs and replace it with his own. His hunger for me is messy and unrestrained, whiskey coating his tongue. His otherhand slides to my jaw, thumb pressing firmly as if he’s shaping the angle he wants, controlling the tilt of my mouth, guiding the pace. He swallows the soft sounds that slip from me like he was waiting for it. Every rough scrape of his lips pulls me deeper and drives me higher simultaneously.
Somewhere behind him, Clay makes a quiet, fascinated noise at whatever he’s touching, but Rhys refuses to let me look. He growls again, low and territorial, and slants his mouth harder against mine. I’m lost in the swirling of his tongue, the clashing of his teeth and the pounding of my heart against his chest. My fingers clench the front of his T-shirt, ready to surrender when Rhys suddenly pulls away as if he’s been burned.
There are no words passed now, both of our chests heaving too much. Roughly spinning me around, Rhys crowds me to move across the room. The floor under my feet is plush, a rug thick enough to muffle sound, dyed the same deep red as the walls. The air is warm and faintly scented with something musky, like vanilla, smoke, and old secrets.
In the corner, there’s a cabinet with frosted glass doors, shadows of coils and clasps lurking behind them. A narrow shelf runs above it, lined with candles, drip marks down their sides like tears frozen mid-slide. Another door sits opposite the one we entered, discreetly flush with the wall, hinting at a bathroom. It’s as tasteful as it is obscene.
Much to my surprise, out of all the contraptions in here, we stop in front of a chair that looks like a mashup between a high-backed throne and something I’d find at the OBGYN’s. The crimson suede body appears comfortable, as do the outward-pointing cushions and slats intended for calves. Underneath, straps hang with the promise of biting into the fleshy part of my thighs. My brain melts at the thought of being bared to them so openly.
“Sit,” Rhys orders. He’s caught me at the right moment, because I don’t even question the way I respond to his request. I move a step forward, but his arm winds around my middle and drags me back against his chest. “Not you. Him.”
Together, we both look over at Clay, who quickly retracts his hand from the spanking horse he seems to be becoming familiar with. I tuck away that piece of information for a rainy day. Despite Rhys making the demand, Clay stares at me with an intensity that almost burns. I study his face, realising he’s waiting. He’s waiting for me to ask for his submission instead. Slowly licking my lips, I stall whilst trying to figure out how to play this. How to keep the fragile balance between us all intact.
“Take a seat, Clay,” I repeat more gently than the man clinging onto my body. Clayton takes a step forward as a smile curves my mouth upwards. “Once you're naked.” Clay’s feet stutter to a halt, and Rhys’ arm around me tenses. A moment passes where I wonder who will express their disgust first, but much to my surprise, Clay gives a singular nod.
Oh. My. God. I adore drunk, agreeable Clayton. Peeling his T-shirt over his head, sexy boy style, I devour the sight of his muscles being revealed. The stretch of his arms draws his torso tight, abs popping and shifting beneath his flawless skin. If Clay is feeling any hesitation about stripping in front of an audience, the raw hunger in my gaze helps to destroy it. I vaguely sense the shift of Rhys’s head, turning towards the wall and ignoring what's happening in front of us. I, however, am completely enthralled.
The best part is that Clay doesn’t rush. Every movement is slow, sensually deliberate, and short-circuiting my brain. He drops his shirt to the floor without looking at it, his eyes flicking up to mine as though checking whether I’m still watching. As if I could look away. He brings his hands to the waistband of his jeans, thumbs hooking under the denim, and for a second,he justpauses. Not shy or embarrassed, but lingering to let the anticipation burn through my veins. I’m suddenly very aware of how dry my mouth is.
When he finally shoves the jeans down his hips, the movement is somehow hotter because of his clumsy, drunken state. The denim snags on one ankle, and he huffs out a laugh, a soft, boyish sound that punches me straight in the chest before he manages to kick his jeans off with a small stumble. Straightening, standing tall in nothing but his underwear, Clay’s skin flushed from the alcohol, his breathing a little uneven. His hands slide to the elastic at his waist, and he tugs them down over the sculpted V lining his hips. My mind glitches, all static and sparks.
Fuck, he’s perfect.The lines of his torso, the strength in his thighs, the way he stands there fully bare with a hint of pink on his cheeks, but his gaze is locked on me like he’s waiting for approval. It’s such a lethal combination, that vulnerability wrapped in quiet confidence, and my stomach swoops. But there’s something else, something inherently sexy that I can’t quite put my finger on, until it comes to me in the rush of a revelation.
The man before me isn’t hindered by his guarded walls, isn’t hiding behind the trauma he can’t shake. He’s just Clayton in his purest form, and now I’ve seen it, it’s the only version of him I’ll now accept. I just need to figure out how to access it when he’s sober, but that’s not a problem to solve right now.
As Clay sits in the designated chair, a knowing smirk licks the corner of his lips. It’s secretive and wicked, as his thighs spread open and his hand drops to his shaft. The moisture in my mouth dries up instantly. I'm transfixed by that hand, the slow drag of his fingers stroking up and down, his black eyes boring into mine. My thighs clench, the heat between my legs intensifying.
“Okay, okay, enough of that,” Rhys grumbles irritably. Turning me by the shoulders, his hands are jerky and rough, dragging my clothes from my body. Unlike the sensual show Clay gifted me, Rhys’ hands are trembling too much to go slow. He yanks my T-shirt upward in a messy tangle, nearly taking my bra with it, cursing under his breath when the fabric catches on my elbow. Impatience radiates off him in waves, his possessiveness present in each hot, frantic breath. I can’t resist smiling as I watch the lust dilating his pupils.
My leggings are next, his fingers fumbling with the waistband as he shoves them down in one hard motion. It’s not graceful or elegant. It’s simply Rhys, desperate to strip down every barrier between us. Just as he’s about to grip my head again, a thread of clarity filters back in.
“Wait,” I frown, visibly shaking myself. “I was hiding in a dusty little hole in the wall. I should clean off first,” I try to slip aside, but Rhys grips my throat, dragging me back before him. His lip peels back, an animalistic snarl escaping him. I’m not a genius, but something tells me his patience just ran out.
“Do you really think I wouldn't want to fuck you because of a bit of dust in your hair and you smell like a mothball?” he growls, the inked fingers on my neck trembling. His blue eyes are all I can see, his desire all I can feel. “My obsession for you has no conditions. All I care about is this smart mouth, this beautiful mind, this perfect body and this hot as fuck tight pussy.”
Holy hell, I think to myself. Biting down on my lower lip, I shudder at the way Rhys tracks the movement.
“What if it isn't always as tight?” I whisper, because for some reason, I have self-sabotage on the brain. Rhys clicks his tongue, shifting his hand to reach for my receivers.
“Then I've done my job.” Tugging my receivers free, he tosses me back into my personalised silence and effectively ends the conversation.
At his gentle push, I retreat back a few steps until the back of my knees greet the chair’s edge. Keeping my eyes on Rhys’, I lower into Clayton’s lap, sitting pretty in only my underwear. Clay’s shaft nestles between my ass, his rough hands gliding over my thighs. Lifting my legs on the cushioned stirrups, he holds them for Rhys to strap me in place.
Goosebumps ripple across my entire body as I relax back into Clay’s chest, feeling the rumble of him speaking. Whatever he says to Rhys strikes as intended, his blue eyes snapping up to mine with a sudden wash of fear. It’s gone in the next second, and by Clay’s hand, so are my panties. Torn at the side, the fabric falls away, and Rhys is distracted again.
I know I’m wet by the cold air that brushes against my center and as Rhys’ mouth descends, I make a mental note to circle back to what Clay said. I hate them speaking over me, I hate…oh fuck, that’s the spot. Right there.
Chapter Nineteen
