Page 12 of Broken Highway (Cult Boys #1)

His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek as he hesitates for a few seconds before taking the bait.

He rises to his feet and slithers out of his plaid shirt and tugs his black tee over his head.

The neon red glow of the vacancy light cascades over him, coating his chest and abs in a tempting sheen.

The forbidden fruit I’m not supposed to bite, but I’ll swallow that apple whole.

He hooks my gaze with his own, makes sure I’m watching, as he unlatches his belt buckle.

I wade in place as he continues to undress.

He kicks off his shoes one at a time and peels socks from his feet. The belt buckle clangs as he unzips his jeans, pushes them to his ankles, and steps out of them. He hunches over and gathers his clothes into a pile, and then his fingers flirt with the waistband of pale blue boxers.

I eagerly await his boxers joining the rest of his clothing, but they don’t. He smiles—his definition of smiling, anyway—and steps toward the pool. It’s impossible to look away as he approaches, his cock swinging freely under the loose fabric.

He knows exactly what he’s doing as he takes a seat on the ledge of the pool and drops his legs into the water. His feet sway back and forth, creating gentle tides that roll my way. He drops a hand to adjust his cock, pushing it to the side.

In here, even when the blistering sun is replaced by the cooling night air, the water stays warm.

The temperature rises a few degrees as Noah slithers down into the pool, as soft and silent as an assassin.

The water rises to the base of his chin until he pushes himself backward, holding onto the ledge with outstretched arms on either side of his head.

I meet him at the ledge and hover just in front of him until I work up the nerve to reach out to him. I brush a finger over his eyebrow, admiring the pool of purples and blacks webbing outward from his eye. “Nothing hotter than a man who knows how to win a fight.”

“I’m glad one of us got something out of that, because let me tell you, I’m not nearly as enthused.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

“Because sometimes taking a hit to the face makes me feel alive. It’s a reminder I can still feel pain. A reminder that I can feel anything at all.”

I’d call him on his bullshit, but he’d only deflect again. Those dark stormy eyes I mistook for hunger are layered in something far more dangerous. Loneliness, sadness, and enough rage to fuel a thousand broken hearts.

I lower my hand to the side of his stiff neck and hold him there. “Why haven’t you tried fucking me yet?”

“You said your hole was a no-no square.”

“Most men still try.” I latch onto the other side of his neck, holding onto him so that I don’t have to kick my feet so hard to stay afloat. “Why don’t you try?”

“I think about it all goddamn day and night. But—” He shields his gaze with a tilt of his head to the side.

“But what? You have too much respect for the boundaries of others?”

And then he looks back at me. Looks right on through me. “Because when I get what I want, you’re as good as gone.”

“You really still believe it’s that easy to get rid of me?”

“I have a rule about not getting attached, and you can’t get attached to someone that’s already gone.”

“He hurt you, didn’t he?”

“Did you see how well I took those punches? I’m like a brick wall.” He breaks away from me by disappearing beneath the surface. I turn to follow his silhouette underneath and meet him eye-to-eye when he resurfaces on the opposite side of the pool. “Can’t be hurt. Can’t be broken.”

He thinks he’s a better liar than he is. He wears his ghosts on his face like an ill-advised tattoo. Thinks he’s mysterious and sexy, but he’s just obvious and sexy.

“But let me tell you what hurts,” he continues. “My head hurts from this constant game of a thousand questions. I don’t go poking around in your life.”

“My skeletons would very much like to stay in the closet.”

“Don’t worry, nobody is trying to drag them out.”

He buries his face under the surface and swims to the other side of the pool. When he breaks back through the water, he lifts himself with strong arms onto the concrete deck. Pool water cascades from his body, plopping against the hard ground like torrential rain.

I’ve never seen such a broken man claim he can’t be broken. It’s like glass shattered across a highway with a single shard bearing a sticker proclaiming it to be bulletproof.

“Noah?” I call out to him.

He turns on his heel, the fabric of his boxers clinging to his cock. “Yeah?”

“What do you call the other side of half the truth?”

He laughs incredulously. “Another damn question.”

I’d apologize if I ever learned how. “The answer is that it’s a lie.”

He nods. “Even if it’s half the truth?”

“Then it’s still half a lie.”

“Then I guess everyone’s lying about something.” He turns and waves his hand over his shoulder. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

I’m not much of an ass man but there’s something to be said about the way his boxers clihg to his ass, perfectly displaying the thin space between his cheeks.

As he storms through the iron gate and disappears behind a row of bushes, I try to imagine what’s made him so confrontational to the concept of human interaction.

He reminds me so much of Silas. Fool me once, shame on the other person. Fool me again, also shame on the other person. Fool me for the third time, shame on someone else because I’m not taking responsibility for shit.

Silas was a man on the run. The demons that chased him weren’t the ghosts of others.

Instead, it was himself who he was running from.

He’d burn the world down to escape the desires that threatened to consume him.

Would always come, and then he’d be gone.

He burned me a hundred times, and I always came crawling back.

As for Noah, he seems to just want to watch the world burn.

And men who play with fire are always on the run from something or someone.

There’s just one question, what the hell is he running from?