Slade stepped back, allowing him to pass before locking the door.
“Whyareyou here then?”
Atticus turned to face him, his face drawn in hard lines, his green eyes flashing fire even as his gaze shifted to Slade’s bare chest. “Because you jacked off and said my name.”
Slade’s breath shuddered. “What?”
“I heard you,” Atticus declared, stepping toward him, meeting Slade’s eyes. “In New York.”
Fuck.
Slade didn’t even have a chance to be embarrassed before Atticus was plowing forward, clearly determined to speak his mind.
“I pretended it didn’t happen. Or I tried to. But I couldn’t get away from you. Everywhere I go, there you are.”
“We work together,” Slade said, realizing how lame that sounded.
Atticus ignored him. “And then you kissed me.”
Was it his imagination, or did Atticus shiver when he said that?
“I should—”
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Atticus snapped, grabbing his head. “It’s up here now. That memory is permanently etched, and I don’t fucking want it.”
Slade swallowed, stepping back when Atticus stepped forward. He didn’t want to fight with him.
“I know you’re angry,” Slade said, trying to reason with him. “You should be.”
“You’re damn right I’m angry.” Atticus took another step forward. “I hate this. All of it.”
It was all Slade could do to breathe while Atticus seethed, staring up at him.
“We work together,” Atticus continued. “There’s a better than good chance this’ll fuck that up.”
This? What “this” was he talking about?
“The two of us … together … it’ll change things.”
Slade agreed. It was why he’d been trying to ignore it for so long.
“Yet I’m still here.” Atticus sighed, some of the heat in his tone fading. “I’m. Still. Here.”
Then they were staring at one another. Slade was bound and determined to let Atticus speak his piece so they could move on. He deserved all of it.
“Why?” Atticus asked.
Slade wasn’t sure what he was asking. Not that it mattered because he couldn’t find words to respond.
Atticus’s voice was little more than a tortured whisper when he said, “Why do I have to want you?”
Something inside Slade snapped. Atticus wasn’t backing away. He was inching closer. Closer still. He wasn’t denying Slade; he was giving him exactly what he wanted. An opening. A chance.
The next thing he knew, he grabbed Atticus’s face and leaned in, slamming his mouth down on his. Atticus’s fingers curled around Slade’s wrists, but he didn’t shove him away. The opposite. He held him as the kiss went nuclear, filling his vision with heat and light and a satisfaction that knew no bounds.
Slade hadn’t noticed how much smaller Atticus was until that moment, until he let his hands wander, sliding over his shoulders, down his arms. He skimmed the thin muscles on Atticus’s arms before grabbing his wrists, lifting his arms, and placing them around his neck. Atticus didn’t resist him, holding on, his fingers teasing the nape of Slade’s neck, keeping him close while they both drowned in the intense pleasure that consumed them.
Slade’s hands slid over Atticus’s back, holding him while he plundered his mouth, attempting to satisfy this absurd craving. But he wanted more. So much more.
