statement about him dominating her…that had changed everything.
For a few seconds, he’d actually thought she was kidding—until the glints in her eyes said she wasn’t. Fuck. How had he not seen it before then? How had he not realized that the little torch she’d carried for him before the mission had somehow kindled into something more?
Easy answer.
Because it was impossible. She just didn’t see it yet.
She was Rita Hayworth. He was Lon Chaney. She was Emma Stone. He was the Phantom of the Opera—without the let-me-fuck-you-and-get-away-with-it voice. She turned every head in rooms she entered. He made people avert their eyes. He’d told her all of that, too—and meant every word. She deserved someone who could be with her anywhere, everywhere. A Dom who’d take her dancing in the sun as easily as he pulled her into the shadows. A man who’d never be ashamed to lead her anywhere.
She’d finally understood, thank God. They’d hugged to affirm the new course of their friendship, righted on a fresh keel of honesty.
Then why hadn’t his demon gone back into hibernation?
Why was he taking four days of radio silence from Tess into something more than they were? Why didn’t he believe himself when rationalizing she’d likely just been thrown an intense case? Why was he so restless that he’d called Franz and suggested they go out?
Why was he so messed up, he’d thought a few hours in Catacomb would calm him? That all this would help with the images she’d evoked the other day? That he’d be able to banish the dream of her nudity as she stripped for him…then the fantasy of her dark red curls beneath his fingers as she knelt at his side? And the imagining of her lips, so plump and red, wrapped around those same fingers as he slipped them inside her mouth. Then the words he’d murmur, telling her how good it would feel when he fed her his cock in the same way.
Shit.
No more thinking of your best friend’s mouth like that, dammit.
Not even as Max slipped his fingers between his little tamago ’s lips, damn near picking up where his fantasy left off.
Dan grimaced. “ Dude . Want to show some mercy to the hard-ups?”
“Speak for yourself,” Franz snarled. “But you, ”—he speared a finger Max’s way—“are still being cruel.”
“ Pssshhh ,” Max volleyed. “Cruel would be neglecting to tell you who just walked in the door.” After Franz spun on his stool, eyed the cute blonde goth at the door then appeared to swallow his tongue, Max chuckled. “Yes, I called her when I knew you were coming. And yes, you’re welcome.”
The half-Samoan swung his friend a pleading stare. “Tell me you reserved room five for us and I’m naming my firstborn after you.”
Max barked a laugh. “The thought of your progeny bearing my name is a terror I’d never unleash on the world.”
“Whatever. Room five?”
“What’s in room five?” Dan cut in.
“Not much.” Max smirked. “No carpet, pillows, or cushions on the rack. Fairly primeval.”
“Exactly what she begged for the last time we scened,” Franz filled in.
“Damn.” Dan smirked. “Dog face has found a soul mate.”
“Right?”
“Just give me some advance notice for the wedding date. I lost my social coordinator a few days ago.”
Franz glowered. “Mention the w word again and you’re castrated.”
Outwardly, Dan chuckled. Inwardly, a different growl echoed. Castration would be a mercy, my friend. At least my body won’t remember what I’m missing.
Max held out his hand to Franz. A medieval-looking key hung from his finger, engraved with a fancy number 5. “All yours.”
Franz’s lips burst into a grin. “You’re a god.”
Tamago slapped his arm. “My line again!”
“Easy, baby.” Brick’s words were cute but the tone was command. He stressed the point by tucking a hand beneath her corset and sharply pinching one nipple. After she grimaced, Tamago dipped her head Franz’s way.
“Apologies for the
For a few seconds, he’d actually thought she was kidding—until the glints in her eyes said she wasn’t. Fuck. How had he not seen it before then? How had he not realized that the little torch she’d carried for him before the mission had somehow kindled into something more?
Easy answer.
Because it was impossible. She just didn’t see it yet.
She was Rita Hayworth. He was Lon Chaney. She was Emma Stone. He was the Phantom of the Opera—without the let-me-fuck-you-and-get-away-with-it voice. She turned every head in rooms she entered. He made people avert their eyes. He’d told her all of that, too—and meant every word. She deserved someone who could be with her anywhere, everywhere. A Dom who’d take her dancing in the sun as easily as he pulled her into the shadows. A man who’d never be ashamed to lead her anywhere.
She’d finally understood, thank God. They’d hugged to affirm the new course of their friendship, righted on a fresh keel of honesty.
Then why hadn’t his demon gone back into hibernation?
Why was he taking four days of radio silence from Tess into something more than they were? Why didn’t he believe himself when rationalizing she’d likely just been thrown an intense case? Why was he so restless that he’d called Franz and suggested they go out?
Why was he so messed up, he’d thought a few hours in Catacomb would calm him? That all this would help with the images she’d evoked the other day? That he’d be able to banish the dream of her nudity as she stripped for him…then the fantasy of her dark red curls beneath his fingers as she knelt at his side? And the imagining of her lips, so plump and red, wrapped around those same fingers as he slipped them inside her mouth. Then the words he’d murmur, telling her how good it would feel when he fed her his cock in the same way.
Shit.
No more thinking of your best friend’s mouth like that, dammit.
Not even as Max slipped his fingers between his little tamago ’s lips, damn near picking up where his fantasy left off.
Dan grimaced. “ Dude . Want to show some mercy to the hard-ups?”
“Speak for yourself,” Franz snarled. “But you, ”—he speared a finger Max’s way—“are still being cruel.”
“ Pssshhh ,” Max volleyed. “Cruel would be neglecting to tell you who just walked in the door.” After Franz spun on his stool, eyed the cute blonde goth at the door then appeared to swallow his tongue, Max chuckled. “Yes, I called her when I knew you were coming. And yes, you’re welcome.”
The half-Samoan swung his friend a pleading stare. “Tell me you reserved room five for us and I’m naming my firstborn after you.”
Max barked a laugh. “The thought of your progeny bearing my name is a terror I’d never unleash on the world.”
“Whatever. Room five?”
“What’s in room five?” Dan cut in.
“Not much.” Max smirked. “No carpet, pillows, or cushions on the rack. Fairly primeval.”
“Exactly what she begged for the last time we scened,” Franz filled in.
“Damn.” Dan smirked. “Dog face has found a soul mate.”
“Right?”
“Just give me some advance notice for the wedding date. I lost my social coordinator a few days ago.”
Franz glowered. “Mention the w word again and you’re castrated.”
Outwardly, Dan chuckled. Inwardly, a different growl echoed. Castration would be a mercy, my friend. At least my body won’t remember what I’m missing.
Max held out his hand to Franz. A medieval-looking key hung from his finger, engraved with a fancy number 5. “All yours.”
Franz’s lips burst into a grin. “You’re a god.”
Tamago slapped his arm. “My line again!”
“Easy, baby.” Brick’s words were cute but the tone was command. He stressed the point by tucking a hand beneath her corset and sharply pinching one nipple. After she grimaced, Tamago dipped her head Franz’s way.
“Apologies for the
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