“No.” Gedeon’s refusal rang out like a strike of lightning. “Not like this.”
We stilled, unmoving, intertwined by phantom restraints, aware that one wrong move would harshen whatever Gedeon planned to dole out for us messing with his clothing.
But the strawberry t-shirt was worth it. I’d almost peed myself when I’d hid Gedeon’s backpack in the shed and Zion hung the special garment in the closet this morning.
“You said you wanted to taste her, Zion? You will.” A warning rippled in Gedeon’s voice. “But first, restrain her.”
Goosebumps peppered my flesh at his intonation.
We were in deep trouble.
Mute, Zion raised my arms above my head and secured each end of the rope around my wrists separately, the knots surprisingly comfortable.
Scrutinizing his work, he surveyed me from my hands to my thighs, causing me to try to rub my legs together. The hunger in his eyes hardened my nipples to the point I wished he’d torture them, just a little bit.
The absence of fabric covering his chest exposed the labyrinth of scars utilizing his torso as a canvas, the jagged contours a story of his survival. The damaged tissue was so enticing, I craved to trace it, from the horizontal line across his pectorals to that dot right above his right hipbone, the one his loose pants were currently concealing.
“Good boy,” Gedeon purred.
But there was something in how he said it—with a dash of sweetness, a stark contrast to the icy-cold smile he exhibited. As though he was admiring Zion and couldn’t contain the softness within himself, his control slipping.
Zion’s cheeks reddened, but from how he adjusted himself, I figured he enjoyed the praise.
“Now strip,” Gedeon ordered, sprawling in his seat. The size-too-small t-shirt grew taut across his chest, the thin cotton accentuating the muscles honed by years of training and fights while simultaneously obscuring dozens of scars and the tattoos on his back—hundreds of tiny bird silhouettes serving as graves of ink for the losses.
Without a protest, Zion worked the fraying laces of his worn boots and tossed them aside. I expected his pants to follow, but instead, he stretched his arms toward the ceiling, the veins on his forearms standing out even through the tattoo and burn scars, and…
Wiggled his ass.
Left. Right. Again. And once more, the fabric of his wide-legged pants swayed with the movement.
I exploded into a fit of giggles at Gedeon’s expression. Bewilderment, shock, and then amusement flashed across his unblinking state.
The tremors rocking through me pulled on my restraints, and I twisted, trying to adjust to the sensation of rope abrading my wrists. “You look like you’ve never seen Zion naked before.”
“I’m not naked.” Zion freed the top button of his pants. “Yet.” The waistband loosened, and he moved on to the second, then the third, the hemline slowly sliding down his waist.
With the last button undone, he let the fabric glide down even more, exposing the top of his toned ass and?—
He caught the material right below his hips.
The tease dried out my mouth.
For more than a decade, I hadn’t allowed myself to consider wanting someone, but these two had tied me to them, not only with actual shackles, but invisible ones too. I craved them like fresh air after waking up in a stuffy bedroom.
“Zion.” Turmoil bubbled inside Gedeon based on how he shifted in the chair, his fists rolling hard enough for all color to leave the capillaries in his knuckles.
Allowing the fabric to lower one more inch, Zion rolled his shoulders, his back rippling like water after a stone had been thrown into it. “Yes?”
Gedeon rubbed his face. “You will regret this, I promise you that.”
“Good. I will hold you to that.” He dropped his pants. The fabric pooled on the floor, revealing his sculpted legs, his strong thighs, his?—
I swallowed at the sight of the prominent vein running along his cock, the winding road my tongue had followed many times, yet hadn’t satisfied its hunger, not once.
Switching my focus from the man stepping out of his clothing, I gaped at Gedeon.
With knees spread, elbow on an armrest, two fingers pressing against a temple, he might have seemed a picture of nonchalance, but in reality, hevibratedfrom the tension.
