“If you say so,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
I pause, looking at him. I hate fighting with Eric—especially when I’m finally in a good place. “Did you find your Scooby-Doo bartender yet?” I ask, mostly to shift the mood.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m starting to think I made him up.”
“You’ll find him,” I say—because I love throwing out those optimistic, vaguely ominous predictions.
“If you say so,” Eric echoes again. Then glances past me and adds, “Go on—your bully’s waiting.”
I snort and turn around. Moon’s there, watching us from the hallway. I smile, then follow him.
***
It’s a little awkward leading a guy into your bedroom when there’s a party still going downstairs and at least three people there know exactly what you’re about to do—but I try not to think about that. Because the second I get Moon inside and lock the door, he’s on me. He shoves me back against it, lips crashing into mine, hands already working my shirt open.
I kiss him back, laughing under my breath at the sudden urgency. He practically yanks the shirt off me, then shoves my pants down.
“Easy,” I murmur, catching his wrists just as he reaches for my boxers.
“Fuck me, please,” Moon breathes—but I kiss him instead, slowing him down, cupping his face, trying to pull him back into the moment.
“I want to make you feel good,” I whisper, then lean in and kiss his neck, biting down just enough to leave a mark. He moans, arching into me. I grab his ass, and he writhes under my hands, cursing as I squeeze. I keep pushing him until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed.
He falls onto it, blond hair spilling across the black sheets—and I climb on top of him. I undo his shirt, trailing kisses down his chest and abs, then strip off his belt and pants, tugging them free.
When I look down, he’s already wrecked—flushed, breathing hard, lying there in just his boxer briefs and open shirt, staring up at me with this desperate, undone look. I can see the outline of his cock, hard and straining, begging to be touched.
My own cock throbs at the sight. But I pause, sliding back up to meet his eyes.
“You okay?” I ask, brushing a kiss over his lips.
“Yes,” he says, gaze locked on mine—mesmerized.
“How drunk are you?” I ask, still not completely sure.
“A little,” he admits, then quickly adds, “But I’m perfectly in my right mind, Mark.”
“Good,” I say. “You sure you want—”
He shuts me up with a kiss—a hard, hungry crash of lips, because Sawyer Moon is impatient. Then, without warning, he pushes me onto my back and climbs on top. I look up at him, my whole body buzzing from how fucking hot he looks right now.
He grinds down, rubbing his ass against my cock, focused like he’s trying to ruin me with just that.
“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching for his hips—but he catches my wrists.
“Can I try something?” he asks, eyes dark.
I nod, breath catching as he urges me higher on the bed, until I’m half propped against the headboard. Then he grabs his belt, loops it, and presses my wrists above my head, securing them to the wooden plank with a tight, practiced tug.
A wave of heat rolls through me as it hits—I’m tied up. At his mercy.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, that twisted little smile curling on his lips.
I test the belt—feel the resistance, the way it digs lightly into my wrists—and fuck, my pulse spikes.
Moon sits back on his heels, eyes raking over me as though he owns the view now. His hand brushes down my chest, fingers skimming the lines of my abs like he’s memorizing every ridge. Like I’m his to explore.
Then he suddenly leans in, dipping toward my boxers, his tongue dragging along the fabric, mouthing my pulsing, already leaking cock. I shudder.
