Magnus’s jaw unhinged when he saw Trey stroking himself. The lubricated latex covering him glistened in the dim yellow glow from the lamp.
“Turn over,” Trey commanded.
Magnus rolled onto his stomach, spreading his legs, making room for Trey between them. The bed dipped from Trey’s weight, then there were hard hands on the backs of his thighs, massaging, kneading.
“Grip the edge of the mattress,” Trey ordered as he forced Magnus’s knees toward his chest.
Shifting into position, face down, ass up, Magnus curled his fingers over the edge of the mattress and held on for dear life.
A satisfied exhale escaped him as Trey stroked his cock, working him back up to that precipice all over again. But just when Magnus thought the man would impale him, Trey’s tongue took over, rimming him, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his entire body.
Trey certainly knew how to make him moan, and sometimes it seemed Trey’s sole objective was to do just that.
“Trey…”
Or maybethatwas Trey’s goal. To make Magnus beg.
“God, Trey … I want you inside me.”
That guttural rumble from behind him sent chills dancing down Magnus’s spine.
When Trey’s lips glided upward, along his spine, Magnus didn’t know what to expect next. Trey never ceased to surprise him.
A soft growl sounded, then Trey gripped his hips, the mattress rocking as Trey inched closer to him. A hard hand landed between his shoulder blades, keeping Magnus’s face in the mattress. A second later, he was impaled by Trey’s enormous cock. Pain blazed briefly, morphing instantly into pleasure.
Trey didn’t hold back, pounding into him, holding his hips while Magnus tried to remain still, accepting every savage thrust as Trey used him in the most delectable way possible.
Needless to say, when Magnus came, it was once again one of the most exquisite orgasms of his entire life. Made all the more satisfying when Trey followed him right over the edge.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brantley kicked his feet out in frontof him, wishing like hell he was at home and not in this godforsaken airport. The only positive in the whole fucking mess was that his headache had remained manageable. All credit went to the pain medicine that Reese had so kindly thought to pack for him.
Reese.
Damn it.
Not for the first time, Brantley regretted reacting so rashly. He hated airports. All the people, the noise. The coming and going. Granted, that sure as shit beat the waiting he’d been doing for three hours now.
He checked his watch. Make that three hours, thirty-nine minutes.
Why he hadn’t thought to call ahead to confirm a flight, he didn’t know. Now his ass was keeping the uncomfortable chair warm. And at best, he was on standby for the next flight to Austin. His chances of actually getting on a plane were probably slim to none.
Hell, he could’ve driven back to Coyote Ridge in less time.
Only Reese had his fucking truck.
Brantley sighed. He scanned the concourse, noticed a coffee shop. Couldn’t hurt, right?
Forcing himself up from the chair, he shouldered his bag. He made it no more than a few feet when his phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced at the screen, saw it was an unknown number. He should ignore the damn thing. If it was a potential case, it wasn’t like he could do a damn thing about it. His entire team was here in Dallas. Anyone down in Austin would be shit out of luck.
The call ended before he had to make a decision.
Brantley stepped up to the coffee counter. “Large black coffee.”
The woman rattled off the price, so he pulled out his wallet, grabbed some cash. As he was passing it over, his phone rang again. This time RT’s name appeared.
“Hey, what’s—”
