Page 11 of Confession (Constantine Brothers #2)

TEN

Vitali

It takes me a while to cool down as I sit on the couch in my office, my head resting back. I had no idea that Quinn could give me an out-of-body experience then piss me off in such quick succession.

Fuck, he took me deep. Watching him handle that then watching him come with my cock rammed down his throat? I start getting hard again just thinking about it.

But then he was such a dick.

He’s not going to get away with it. I’ll give him a minute because I need a minute too. Hell, I’ll give him until we get home because I’d rather deal with shit there. But we are dealing with it.

When I’m capable of being civil, I get up from the couch and go retrieve my phone from the desk. I send Sasha a text, then I get everything shut down in my office and gather my shit. When I hear back from Sasha, I grab Quinn’s jacket and gun, then I head out, locking my office behind me.

I find Quinn at the mezzanine railing. He’s leaning down with his forearms resting on it as though he’s listening to the music, even though I know he hates hip-hop. He doesn’t play music often at home, but on the occasions that I hear it through his door, it’s always really grim and depressing.

For once, everyone is leaving him alone. His body language is forbidding.

He straightens at my approach. I hand him his jacket with his gun concealed inside. His face is blank. No, not blank. Stony. He’s got his defenses up.

Quinn follows me across the mezzanine to the stairs.

We descend then weave through the crowd on the main floor to the side exit.

I open the door, revealing the running Jag.

Sasha’s in the driver’s seat. I get in the front passenger seat and Quinn gets in the back.

He sits directly behind me so I can’t see him.

It’s another tensely silent car ride. I don’t know what Sasha suspects. Definitely something, but she doesn’t say a word. I busy myself with my phone.

When we reach the house and park in the garage, Sasha says she’ll do the security check.

Quinn offers a brusque thanks because it means he doesn’t have to do it, but the fact that he doesn’t look at her and so quickly escapes tells me that he doesn’t like that she’s noticed … whatever she’s noticed.

I abruptly realize something that’s always been kind of obvious: Quinn doesn’t like being noticed.

Well, that’s too fucking bad.

But I let him think he’s getting away. I give him a head start, hanging back until I’m sure he’s in his room, which is on the basement level—his choice—far away from all the other bedrooms. I wait outside his door until I hear the shower. Then I go in.

There’s a bedside lamp on, illuminating the king-size bed and old brick walls.

Sasha refers to this room as the dungeon, but I can see why Quinn likes it.

It was the original kitchen, back when the house was fully staffed.

The old harvest table is still here and a sort of minikitchen.

There’s a door to the outside patio that was once the kitchen yard.

I wouldn’t say I snoop, but I do look around and I don’t really like what I see.

Quinn’s been here for two years, but there’s very little that’s personal in this room.

There’s the stereo and a laptop, an old-fashioned wardrobe that came with the room and an old green leather couch that also came with the room.

The room itself has character, so Quinn must like that, but there’s no artwork, no stuff . Anyone could be living here.

I go to sit at the table, divesting myself of my jacket, gun, and phone. I wait.

Quinn’s not vain like me, so it doesn’t take long for him to emerge from the bathroom with a blue towel wrapped around my waist. He stops dead at the sight of me, which gives me a moment to really look at him.

He’s beautiful with that broad, ruggedly handsome face. His brown hair is darker than usual because it’s damp. It’s simple, unfussy. It looks really good on him, but I can tell he doesn’t do anything with it.

His body, however, he spends time on.

This is the first time I’ve seen him shirtless since realizing—no, accepting—that I’m attracted to him and I make no secret of checking him out: the heavy chest and shoulders, the thickly muscled abdomen, the pronounced bulge of his cock against the towel.

I don’t like, however, the wound closure tape where he got cut the other night. I don’t like all the scars. He’s lived a very rough life, a dangerous one.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice rasping because of what I did to his throat.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Just a second,” he tells me and walks over to the big, old-fashioned wardrobe. It has a mirrored door, and I see him watching me in it. Then he opens the door and grabs something from a shelf. He drops his towel, baring his ass.

Jesus Christ. My cock swells at the heavy, curved muscle of his glutes and the thick musculature of his legs. He bends slightly to step into his gray sweats, sending a wave of arousal through me as his cheeks part.

I am absolutely, 100% going to fuck him.

He tugs his sweats up then snatches the damp towel off the ground. He turns and chucks it into a laundry basket, then he starts walking back my way. His dick is still swollen, very noticeable against the front of his sweats.

Whatever is going on with him, it’s not a lack of interest. He goes to sit on the arm of the green leather couch. It puts him facing me without being too close.

“So was it true?” I ask. “That you’ve been used harder?”

“You really wanna talk about past hookups?”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” He doesn’t reply, so I fill in the blanks. “Which you did so I’d leave you alone?”

“I’d just come in my pants while blowing you. I didn’t really want to chat.”

“I love that you came like that while blowing me.”

His nostrils flare. He shifts on the arm of the couch. His dick is stiffer than before. So is mine.

We’re going to fuck. But we’re not there yet. We have shit to deal with first.

I decide to wait him out. Sometimes in interrogations, it’s the best strategy. You’ll know what’s important only when the other person offers it. It takes a while, but I can be patient when motivated.

He finally says, “Coming down my throat doesn’t make you gay.”

“Is that important to you, whether or not I’m gay?”

“You’re experimenting.”

“Maybe you don’t need to tell me what I’m doing, Quinn.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Claiming you.

I don’t care that it’s too soon, that it makes no sense, that I haven’t even fucked him yet. I know. But I stop myself from saying it, and Quinn fills in my silence.

He snorts, “That’s what I thought.”

“Just because I don’t know exactly what I’m doing doesn’t mean I’m experimenting.”

“That’s kind of the definition of experimenting,” he says wryly. “And you don’t do relationships.”

“We already have a relationship,” I point out.

“Then you understand how complicated this might get.”

It’s already complicated, but I don’t tell him that. “So what do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, closing my eyes at the wave of arousal that goes through me. That’s not what I expected him to say. I press the heel of my hand against my dick. “So you do bottom.”

“I think you knew that.”

“Tell me what you like.”

“You’ve never done this before,” he reminds me, evading the question.

“I’m confident that it will work out.”

He huffs. “Of course you are.”

When I shrug, a smile tugs at his lips. Goddamn. He’s so fucking beautiful.

“I loved fucking your mouth,” I tell him. “I loved seeing your lips around my cock.” Those lips, still swollen, part slightly. He starts breathing harder. I stand from the chair. “I loved how your eyes were streaming, how you gagged and struggled with my dick down your throat.”

His hands clench beside his thighs as I walk toward him. His dick is standing stiff inside his sweats. I curl my hand around his jaw from underneath like I did earlier, tilting his head.

“And when you came, choking and screaming on my cock?” His eyes close and he shudders. I wrap my other hand around his covered dick, eliciting a needy little sound that makes me ache. “You were the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen in my life.”

His eyes squeeze shut. I can see his frustration.

He has something he wants to say. I let him take his time while I lightly stroke his dick through his sweats.

I’ve never touched another man’s dick before, but even without touching his skin there’s an electrical current going through my body. I love having my hand on him.

Deep in my mind, there’s a frustration with myself that I’ve never discovered this before. I want to know why.

I force the question away. I’m here now, and it feels right. I want him. I want inside him.

More than that, I want him to understand that he’s mine. I think, in a way, he always has been. How the hell did he imagine that I was going to let him go, much less fire him?

Quinn says, “I need this to be just—oh, fuck. Jesus Christ,” he cuts off when I squeeze his dick.

I know what he was going to say. He needs this to be just sex, as though we’re going to start fucking and somehow continue with everything else as though things will stay in their own little boxes.

He’s fucking delusional.

There’s a part of me that recognizes I’m thinking and acting a bit insanely. I’ve never behaved this way before. Quinn wasn’t wrong about me not doing relationships.

But this is different. Quinn was already not allowed to leave my life, something I didn’t fully realize until he got hurt.

And he may think I’m experimenting, but I’m not.

This will be different for me, but I already know, from everything I know about him, and definitely from the way he blew me, that he’s perfect for me.

To my surprise, the fact that he has a cock is not only not a problem, but a huge bonus. I need my hand on it bare. But I need to finish this conversation first.