Atticus was pretty sure Brantley was asadist.
What other reason was there for why their boss wanted them up at six o’clock in the morning for breakfast? Seriously.
Granted, Atticus had passed out early last night, but still. The day wasn’t meant to be started until after sunrise, and from what he could tell, the sun wasn’t up yet. Not for another half hour or so, anyway.
But Atticus was up. He wasn’t sure Slade was, though. The man hadn’t emerged from the bedroom yet, and Atticus needed to take a piss. He considered heading downstairs to the lobby and using the restroom down there, but he wasn’t sure his bladder wouldn’t burst before then, and he didn’t look forward to explaining why he was standing in a puddle in the elevator.
Slade would just have to suck it up.
Atticus turned the knob to the door as slowly and as quietly as he could. The room beyond was dark, which meant Slade was still asleep. Atticus would give him until he finished in the bathroom, then he would stumble through like a bull in a china shop just to wake his ass up. It would serve him right.
He moved slowly to the bathroom and paused when he heard a soft grunt from the direction of the bed.
“Oh, God,” Slade moaned. “Fuck. Suck me, Atticus.”
Atticus’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Was the guy dreaming? Or was he inviting Atticus to join him?
“Yeah. Like that.” Slade gasped and sighed. “Just like that.”
His eyes adjusted to the near pitch-blackness, and he made out Slade’s outline in the bed. He certainly wasn’t asleep. The blankets were shoved down to his knees, his hand was curled around his cock, and he was moving it up and down, his hips pumping upward on every third stroke.
“Suck harder … oh, yeah … I’m gonna come in your mouth.”
Feeling flushed, Atticus hurried to the bathroom and closed the door, praying Slade didn’t hear the door close. He leaned against it, dragging deep gulps of air into his lungs. He fumbled for the switch on the wall and flipped it. The room brightened instantly.
This had to be a dream. One of those inspired by the body’s needs. He had to pee, so his brain worked that into the dream. No way had Slade said his name. No fucking way.
And if, by some strange chance, he was awake, Slade was fucking with him. Had to be. Hell, the other night, Slade’s eyes had been glued to Becs’s willowy body all damn night. No way was he jacking off, pretending Atticus was the one giving him pleasure.
He recalled the conversation he’d had with Carson. He could practically hear Carson’s gruff baritone in his ears.
Sharin’ a hotel room with another man. Should I be worried?
I don’t know. You think Slade swings that way?
Rumor is he might’ve dipped his wick a time or two when he was with the missus.Kinky sex games or some shit. His wife was all about mixin’ it up.
No way. Atticus hadn’t believed it then, and he didn’t believe it now. Slade wasn’t gay. Atticus was asleep. That’s what it was.
He moved to the sink and turned on the water.
Instantly, the urge to pee intensified. He went to the toilet and stared down, praying this wasn’t a dream and he wasn’t about to wet the fucking bed.
He relieved himself with a sigh, then flushed the toilet. No doubt that got Slade’s attention because Atticus heard a thud on the other side of the door.
So if Atticus wasn’t dreaming and Slade wasn’t asleep … what the fuck was going on?
He turned back to the sink and washed his hands. He grabbed his toothbrush from the toiletry bag he’d stashed in here. He brushed his teeth while he stared at his reflection, frowning as his brain tried to process what he’d heard.
By the time he was finished, he had again convinced himself that Slade was fucking with him. Which meant Atticus had to pretend he hadn’t heard. And why would he let Slade know anyway? It wasn’t like he was interested. No, Atticus’s interest was back in Coyote Ridge. A tall, handsome electrician who, according to the texts Atticus had received yesterday, was waiting patiently for Atticus’s return.
Exhaling heavily, he put the travel cover on his toothbrush and tucked it into the bag. He stood at the door for another minute before he scrounged up the nerve to open it.
“You ready?” Slade prompted when Atticus emerged from the bathroom.
Atticus glanced at him, watching as Slade rummaged through his bag, not looking at Atticus.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes to get down there,” Slade noted. “And you know Brantley’s motto.”
