Page 21 of Slick Trip

But I was in too deep. Having him sprawled in my lap, open and vulnerable, was too good, like a drug I was already addicted to.

“Green means go on,” I said, forcing myself to sound steady.

He nodded, like negotiating colors was something he did on a daily basis. I was pretty fucking sure this was a first for both of us.

“Yellow means pause.”

My hand hovered over the tight curve displayed in front of me, and desire gave a rough edge to my voice. “Red means stop.”

He swallowed with difficulty, then nodded.

“Repeat them.”

“Green means go on. Yellow means pause. Red means stop.”

“What color?”

He turned his head, eyes shimmering with raw intensity.

Say red and save us, I thought wildly. Say green and—

“Green.”

He said it like I was someone safe. I wasn’t. Because here I was, taking his trust and shattering it.

I released a slow breath.

Then I started.

I wasn’t trying to hurt him. Pain was never the point. The point was the claiming and the overwhelming relief of finally touching him. The first sound he made after the impact of my hand on his ass—a quiet gasp of surprise—ripped through my chest, and I knew I’d never forget it, as long as I lived. My palm warm and hard, I smacked his left cheek, then his right, my eyes fixated on his barely covered ass. Each strike strengthened my desire, giving me ideas I tried my best to ignore. It didn’t help that Cooper’s body responded to every touch, making small, broken sounds that only fed my hunger.

I lost track of time. I only knew the way he felt—the heat of his skin through the denim, the way his fingers clutched at my shirt when he sobbed and rubbed himself against my thighs.

“Jon—” My name broke in his mouth.

I kept going because stopping felt like dying. I wanted him to stay right there, under my hand, in my lap, safe and mine forever. Did I want what happened next? To feel him come apart in my lap, to hear that startled, painful moan, followed by the broken, wet sob of, “Red.” Maybe I did. And I had to live with that.

I let go of him immediately, but it was too late: the damage had already been done. I’d taken all his trust and turned it into tears.

I let him burn.

He scrambled off my lap, shaking. He wouldn’t even look at me. That was the moment it hit me—the realization of what I had done. What I’d let happen.

“Cooper—”

“Don’t,” he choked out.

Then he ran.

That night, I learned what I did when I cared about someone. When I finally let myself want something.

I destroyed it.

8

The Fever

COOPER