"You—I ambleeding—"
"Are you?" His voice has gone soft.
He's already moving. Drops to one knee on the bathmat. Hooks two fingers in my wrist and tugs my hand off the welt. I feel his breath on my skin a second before his mouth finds the welt—open, hot, wet, an unhurried tongue dragging across the raised line he just put on me. He sucks. The flesh stings sharp, then aches, then throbs in a way that goes straight to my belly and my mouth falls open on a sound I do not authorize.
"There," he murmurs, against the welt. "Better."
"That is not—"
"Mm." Another open kiss. Slower. His thumb traces the edge of the welt. "Atlas will have my head when he’s seen what I’ve done to your beautiful ass."
"You are unhinged—"
"Yeah, baby." He stands. Drags the towel down my back, my ass, my thighs in slow possessive strokes that have nothing to do with drying me off. "I know."
He drops the towel over my head. Rubs my hair with both hands. Comes out the other side with my hair stuck up in fourteen directions and a private smile he doesn't bother to hide.
I look up at him. He’s so devastatingly handsome my lower abdominals clench and my cock twitches.
"You're very different in here than out there," I say.
"Don't tell anyone."
"You'd kill me."
"In your sleep. Painlessly. Out of love."
"...thanks."
"Mm."
He bends down and kisses the welt one more time through the towel. Then he kisses my forehead. Then he is past me and out the bathroom door, naked and dripping, leaving me to put my brain and my clothes back on alone.
∞∞∞
Lunch is on the back deck.
Sandwiches Bane stacked together. Iced tea sweating in glass tumblers. A bowl of grapes sweeter than dessert. The breeze off the water moving the wind chime over the door.
In front of me, in addition to the sandwich, there is a chipped white bowl of scrambled eggs. Slightly too much pepper. A piece of toast cut diagonally and propped against the rim like a flag.
Zero made these. He came down to the kitchen forty minutes ago looking like a man on a mission, and apparently he wasn’t kidding about making me something to eat.
He is watching me across the table to see whether I'm going to eat them.
I pick up the fork.
"Good boy," he mouths at me. Silent. Filthy.
I almost choke before I've even taken a bite.
The sun is high. The boat is still out. We have hours together–the four of us.
Atlas is in dark sunglasses with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, suit slacks rolled up at the ankle for the sand on the deck, the most off-duty I have ever seen him. He is watching me more than he's watching anyone. He hasn't said much. He doesn't need to.
Bane is in the chair on my other side, all sleeves and forearms, brushing the back of his hand against mine every time he reaches for his drink. I don't think he realizes he's doing it. I do. The bond hums every time.
Zero is across from me, sprawled like a cat in the sun, his bare foot pressed against mine under the table.
