I place my hand in his, and he pulls me from the bed roughly, as if I don’t weigh more than him. I slam into his chest with a harsh exhale.
“I’m beginning to think you like it rough,” I say, leaningforward to bite his shoulder. His groan goes straight to my still-hard dick.
“Surprised?” he asks.
“Not in the slightest,” I answer, filing that information away.
We shower quickly, keeping our hands mostly to ourselves because there isn’t enough room to do more than bathe in here. But as soon as Vox shuts the water off, he drags me back to bed.
“Once I get started, I won’t stop,” Vox informs me. “Is there anything in particular you don’t care for?”
“Yeah, being edged,” I say jokingly, reaching for him, pleading for him to get on with it.
One corner of his mouth turns up in that wicked grin of his. “Sometimes the anticipation is the best part.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” I reply, my fingers tracing the lines at his hips as we face each other on our sides.
Vox stills my hands and looks me dead in the eye.
“I meant, do you preferdoingthe fucking orgettingfucked, Connor?”
Jesus Christ.
Holding his gaze as best I can, I give him an answer I’ve never given anyone.
“Both.”
When I was at the top of my game as an athlete, my ego wouldn’t let me submit to anyone enough to let them inside me. I was hellbent on staying on top in every sense of the word, much like Vox’sritual. But ever since the accident, my desire to be intimate with someone has been nonexistent, and when the mooddoesstrike, I’m too broken to be on top.
Being a top…agoodtop…requires a level of care and concern for your partner that I just can’t seem to find anymore. Sex hasn’t been something I’ve enjoyed for quite a while now.
I took on the role of bottoming as a self-inflicted punishment—fucked up, I know. I’d never say a word or crymercyif my partner was being too rough or if I wasn’t ready for him. The more it hurt, the more it relieved my guilt. I was happy to trade my psychological pain for physical pain every now and then, even if it was only temporary.
But being with Vox makes me crave more, makes me want to be better, makes me want to take Sam’s advice and forgive myself. And those desires have created a pocket of air large enough for me to finally draw a breath.
“I want both,” I repeat with more confidence this time.
“Then, both it is,” Vox says.
Not that I want to interrupt the mood, but before I lose my sanity entirely, I ask, “What about condoms? Lube?” I don’t think I could stand to become more turned on than I am right now and not sink into him, but we’re already risking our careers, so we probably shouldn’t risk our health, too.
“Promise you won’t get mad?” Vox asks, sliding from the bed.
Propping myself up on my elbow, I watch him walk to his discarded jacket on the floor next to his sweater.
“Mad at what?” I ask, bracing for some news that will halt this moment in its tracks.
Vox holds up a sleeve of condoms in one hand and packets of lube in the other.
My brow arches as I bark out a laugh. It’s equal parts relief and anger.Does he always carry condoms ‘just in case’?
“Hey,” he says, walking back toward the bed. “I told you not to be mad.”
“No,” I correct. “You asked if I promised not togetmad. And for the record, I didn’t answer.” I should just stop there and let him explain why he has all this, but I feel him slipping through my fingers already, and I fuckinghateit. “So, what? You just carry this around in case any ol’ opportunity to fucksomeone comes your way? I mean, it’s not like there’s a shortage. Being attracted to guysandgirls means your options are pretty fucking endless, and it’s clear from the night of the time trials that you’ll capitalize on all of them.”
I wish I would shut the fuck up. I also wish I could keep the hurt out of my voice.
Vox and I aren’t together, for fuck’s sake. I have no claim over him. He’s twenty-five, which is basically his sexual prime, and I know what a heady combination being beautiful, talented, and sought-after is.
