"That's it," he growls against me. "Come for me, babe. Let me taste it. Let me feel you fall apart on my tongue."
His fingers pump faster, harder, while his mouth sucks and licks and drives me higher and higher until I'm right there, right on the edge, my thighs trembling and my breath coming in gasps—
"FUCKER! I AM CALLING THE POLICE!"
Lucy's voice from outside, loud and furious, shatters the moment.
Drogo moves faster than I've ever seen anyone move. He yanks my shirt down to cover me, pulls me off the chair, and pushes me behind him in one smooth motion. His body shields me completely as we both freeze, listening.
"Don't you fucking touch her!" Marcus's voice, deeper and deadly.
We look at each other, and in unison we say, "Shit!"
Drogo runs for the door and I follow, pulling my pants up, my body still trembling from being so close to orgasm, my heart pounding from the sudden shift from pleasure to panic. He yanks the front door open and shouts, "Stop!"
Everyone freezes. The men in suits halt mid-motion. Lucy and Marcus stop on the walkway—Lucy pale and shaking, Marcus holding her upright with his arm around her waist. But Marcus's eyes are locked on Drogo in complete shock, like he's seeing a ghost.
Lucy's knees buckle and Marcus catches her fast, but his expression never leaves Drogo's face.
Drogo steps forward slowly with his hands visible and non-threatening. "Mate?" he says carefully, like he's approaching a wild animal, which knowing Marcus isn't far off.
Marcus stays frozen with his arm around Lucy and his fist clenched at his side. Drogo gets closer—two feet away, then one—and then Marcus drops Lucy—poor babe lands on the floor—and punches Drogo in the face. Hard. The crack echoes through the morning air.
Every man in a suit moves instantly with guns drawn, running toward Marcus, but Drogo raises one hand. "Stop."They freeze with guns still out but not aimed, waiting for orders.
Drogo spits blood onto the walkway and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then smiles. "Good to see you too."
Marcus stands there silent with his fist still clenched at his side, chest heaving. Then his face cracks into a smile—small at first, then wider. "You bastard," he breathes.
"Yeah."
They move at the same time, crashing into each other in a hug that looks more like a tackle, arms around each other and gripping hard, almost violent in its intensity. Marcus makes a sound—half-laugh, half-sob. "You fucking bastard. Where the hell—two years—"
"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—" They're both shaking, holding each other like they're drowning and the other is the only solid thing left.
I watch from the doorway and think: oh, so this is what they call bromance.
Lucy stumbles to her feet and looks at me, then at them, then bursts into tears. I move to her and pull her into my arms while she sobs into my shoulder with huge, wracking sounds. "He's alive," she gasps. "He's fucking alive—"
"I know."
"How long have you—did you know—"
"Since last night."
She pulls back and stares at me. "LAST NIGHT?! And you didn't call?!"
"He took my phone! And my internet! And posted armed guards!"
"WHAT?!" The men in suits shift uncomfortably as I point a finger at them.
Drogo and Marcus finally pull apart, both wiping their eyes like they weren't just crying, both grinning like idiots. "You look good," Marcus says, his voice rough. "Different. But good."
"You too. Still ugly, but good." Marcus laughs and punches his shoulder lighter this time. "Fuck you." "Missed you too."
They grin at each other, then Marcus's expression shifts and hardens. "Where were you?"
Drogo's smile fades. "Long story."
