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I reached down, grabbed his cock, felt it’s warmth and hardness. “I’m hungry for you, Sir,” I whimpered. For a moment, I felt it throb in my hand, then, there was a banging at my front door.

“Fuck,” he said. “Who’s that?”

“Lena!” came a familiar voice. “It’s Mia—you ready to organize the bachelorette?”

“Oh no!” I cried. “I have to do this!”

“Blue balled because of Thor,” Tyson said, shaking his head. “That fucker’s gonna pay.”

I laughed and said, don’t worry, Big Boy, I’ll be back soon.”

“And I’ll be waiting.”

Chapter 10

Tyson

Ihadtodosomethingto take my mind off her.

The walk to Thor's garage took every ounce of discipline I'd earned in two decades of military service. My cock throbbed with each step, still hard enough to pound nails, and the taste of Lena lingered on my tongue like gunpowder after a firefight. Five seconds. Five more goddamn seconds and I would have been buried inside her, making her scream my name loud enough for the whole building to hear.

Instead, I was heading to discuss party planning with a raging hard-on and her wetness still on my fingers.

Yup.

Hearing Mia talk about the bachelorette had reminded me that I needed to organize Thor’s bachelor party.

Thor's garage sat on the industrial edge of Ironridge, a converted warehouse that smelled like motor oil and male ego. The massive rolling door stood half-open, classic rock bleeding out into the afternoon air. Inside, fluorescent lightscast harsh shadows over the organized chaos—tool chests lined up with military precision, bike parts hanging from the walls like modern art, and in the center, Thor's current project bike stripped down to its bones.

I found them exactly where I expected. Thor was elbow-deep in the engine of a vintage Harley, grease coating his massive forearms, while Duke held a trouble light at just the right angle. The normalcy of it felt like stepping into an alternate universe where I hadn't just had my fingers on Lena's clit, where her taste wasn't still flooding my senses, where my control wasn't hanging by a fucking thread.

"It’s your local party planner," I called out, adjusting myself as subtly as possible before stepping fully into the light.

Thor's head emerged from the engine compartment, Viking beard adorned with a streak of grease. “Party planner?”

“Right. Wedding’s coming up.” I grabbed a folding chair, straddling it backward to hide my persistent situation. "Figured we should talk before you end up at a pottery class or some shit."

"Pottery class?" Thor wiped his hands on an already-filthy rag, grinning like a kid at Christmas. "Finally! Was wondering when someone would bring this up. I've got ideas—"

"Traditional or stupid?" Duke interrupted, setting the trouble light aside with practiced ease. His eyes found mine across the garage, and I fought not to squirm under that calculating gaze.

"Knowing him, both," I said, forcing casual into my voice. "But first, ground rules. No strippers—Mia would castrate you." I paused for effect. "And us. Guilt by association."

"Actually." Thor straightened fully, cracking his back with a sound like snapping branches. "Mia and I were thinking . . . joint party?"

Well, that was a terrible idea.

Lena and alcohol and lowered inhibitions, all trapped somewhere I couldn't escape? Where I'd have to watch her danceand laugh and probably wear something that would make my current predicament look tame? Fucking disaster.

"That's . . . unconventional." My mind raced through potential catastrophes.

"Everything about us is unconventional." Thor shrugged those massive shoulders. He grabbed a beer from a mini-fridge, passed it over to me. "Besides, all our friends overlap. Seems stupid to have two parties when everyone's invited to both anyway."

"I don't know." I tried for reasonable concern as I cracked the beer. "Bachelor parties are about last night of freedom and all that symbolic bullshit. Having your woman there defeats the purpose—"

"You sound like someone who's never been in love." Duke's observation cut through my deflection like a tactical knife. He moved with that deceptive casualness that meant his radar was pinging, settling against a workbench with arms crossed.

Well, I may not be in love, but I’m fucking the woman you declared off-limits.