Page 21 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

Aiden

Cash's fingers circled my wrist like a vise, his grip just shy of painful as he dragged me across the shop floor.

His face was carved from stone, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something I couldn't name—anger, desire, fear, all of it swirling together in a storm I wanted no part of.

Or maybe I wanted all of it. I was suddenly certain Cash blamed me for the confrontation that had just unfolded in front of his coworkers.

"Cash, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" I started, stumbling over my words as he shoved open the bathroom door.

He didn't respond, just pulled me inside and kicked the door shut behind us, the heavy metal thudding with finality, then reached out and turned the deadbolt.

The overhead fluorescents flickered and buzzed, casting harsh shadows across the angles of his face, making him look dangerous in a way that sent a forbidden thrill through me despite my fear.

The bathroom was all industrial concrete and metal, the cold efficiency of it amplifying the echo of our breathing—mine quick and shallow, his deep and controlled.

When the lock clicked into place, I braced myself for the explosion, for harsh words, for blame. Instead, Cash turned to me, his eyes dark with an emotion I couldn't read, and dropped to his knees on the hard concrete floor.

"What are you—" The question died in my throat as his hands went straight to my belt, fingers working the buckle. Understanding crashed over me in a wave of heat that left me dizzy. "Oh. I mean, yeah, I feel a bit fired up, too. But do you want to talk?"

He didn't look up, didn't speak, just tugged my jeans and boxers down in one rough motion.

My cock sprang free, already hardening from the mere proximity of him, from the shocking reality of Cash Upton on his knees before me.

He finally looked up, holding my gaze for one breath-stealing moment before leaning forward and taking me into his mouth without hesitation.

"Fuck," I gasped, my head falling back against the tile wall with a thud I barely registered.

The wet heat of his mouth engulfed me, inexpert but eager in a way that made my knees weak.

His technique was clumsy—too much suction, then not enough, teeth occasionally scraping in a way that walked the knife's edge between pleasure and pain—but what he lacked in skill he made up for in raw enthusiasm.

His hands gripped my hips, pinning me against the wall, thumbs digging into the hollows beside my hip bones with bruising force. The slight pain only heightened the pleasure, grounding me in the moment, in the impossible reality of Cash Upton sucking my cock in the FRMC bathroom.

"Jesus, Cash," I breathed, one hand finding his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. He made a sound—not quite a moan, something deeper, more primal—that vibrated around my length, sending shocks of pleasure up my spine. “You could just say thank you.”

He started to pull back, and I grabbed his hair, keeping him on my cock.

“This works too. Will never complain about this,” I said with a breathy laugh that dissolved into a moan as his tongue swirled through my slit.

I tugged gently, trying to guide him, to slow the frantic pace that threatened to end things embarrassingly quickly.

"Like this," I murmured, showing him with slight pressure how to bob his head, how to use his tongue along the underside.

He was a fast learner, adjusting his approach immediately, finding a rhythm that had me biting my lip to keep from crying out, hoping no one could hear us.

They probably guessed what we were doing.

Cash hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder as his hand wrapped around the base of my cock, working what he couldn't fit in his mouth.

His eyes flicked up to mine, dark with determination and something that looked almost like reverence.

The sight of him like this—this man who barely strung three words together, communicating everything he couldn't say with his mouth and hands—pushed me dangerously close to the edge.

"I'm gonna come if you don't stop," I warned, voice strained.

He pulled off with an obscene pop, lips slick and swollen, chin wet. "Not yet.”

He stood in one fluid motion, shoving my jeans down and lifting me so my thighs wrapped around his. He pressed me into the wall as he reached into his pocket for a small packet of lube, ripping it open with his teeth.

"You came prepared," I observed, breathless with want and the realization that he'd planned this—or at least hoped for it.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear, breath hot against my ear as he nibbled at my throat.

Then his slick fingers were probing between my cheeks, circling my entrance with surprising gentleness given the urgency thrumming through both our bodies.

One thick finger pressed inside, stretching me with careful precision.

He moaned, adding a second finger alongside the first, working me open with efficient strokes that made my cock jump and leak against my stomach.

I pushed back against his hand, greedy for more, for all of him. "Please," I gasped, beyond pride or pretense. "Need you inside me."

Cash nipped at the junction of my neck and shoulder, the slight pain drawing a whimper from my throat.

A third finger joined the others, stretching me wider, brushing against that spot inside that made stars explode behind my eyelids. My legs trembled, threatening to give out entirely as pleasure coursed through me in hot waves.

"Now," I demanded, pushing back against his hand. "Cash, please, now."

He withdrew his fingers, and I heard the rustle of another lube packet being opened, the rasp of his zipper lowering.

Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against my entrance, hot and insistent.

He pinned my legs high and wide as he drove slowly up into me from below, breaching me in one long, slow thrust that burned and stretched and filled me so completely I forgot how to breathe.

The pain gave way to pleasure as he bottomed out, his hips flush against my ass, his cock throbbing inside me. He paused, giving me time to adjust, his breathing ragged against my neck. I could feel the tremors running through his body as he fought for control.

"Move," I gasped, pushing back to take him impossibly deeper. "Please, Cash, fuck me. Show me you don’t believe him. You don’t think this is wrong."

Something in him snapped. He pulled back almost to the tip, then slammed forward with enough force to drive me hard against the wall.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed obscenely in the tiled room, but I was beyond caring, beyond anything but the perfect rhythm he found—hard and deep and relentless.

His lips crashed against mine, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, unable to do anything but cling to him as he fucked me wildly.

His breathing punctuated each thrust, occasionally breaking on a low, possessive growl that sent electricity racing through my veins. One hand left my hip, snaking between us to wrap around my neglected cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

I spread my legs, taking him deeper, harder, my body singing with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. The dual stimulation of his cock hitting that perfect spot inside me and his hand working my shaft drove me rapidly toward the edge.

"Close," I warned, voice breaking on the word. "So close, Cash."

His pace became punishing, his hips snapping against mine with enough force to drive me up onto my toes. His hand tightened around my cock, thumb swiping over the sensitive head on each upstroke.

The tension inside me snapped like an overstretched wire. I came with a muffled cry, spilling over his hand and onto the tile wall in hot pulses that seemed to go on forever. My body clenched around his cock in rhythmic waves, drawing him deeper, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

Cash thrust once, twice more, then buried himself to the hilt with a strangled groan against my neck, his body going rigid as he followed me over the edge. I felt the pulse of his release deep inside me, hot and slick.

For long moments, we stayed like that, joined and panting, his weight pressed against my back, pinning me to the wall.

His heart hammered against my spine, his breath hot and damp against my neck.

Slowly, the world began to reassemble itself around us—the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sounds of the shop, the cold press of tile against my overheated skin.

Cash eased out of me with surprising gentleness, one hand steadying me as he dropped my legs to the ground and I winced at the emptiness he left behind.

Our eyes met, and for one suspended moment, everything else fell away. Leo's anger, the shop, the world outside this bathroom. Just us, and whatever this was between us that defied easy definition.

Then Cash looked away, breaking the spell, and the cold reality of what we'd just done came rushing back. He still hadn’t explained things to me. He just kept shifting gears from the intense sexual closeness to this cool silence so fast it gave me whiplash.

The water ran cold over my hands, numbing my fingers as I mechanically washed away the evidence of what we'd just done.

The mirror above the sink reflected our awkward choreography—me at one basin, Cash at another, both of us focused on the mundane task of cleaning up as if the world might end if we acknowledged what had just happened.

The space between us, barely two feet of industrial bathroom tile, felt wider than the Grand Canyon.

I sneaked glances at him through the mirror, searching for any hint of what he was thinking, but his face had returned to that unreadable mask, jaw set, eyes downcast, shoulders rigid with tension I longed to ease but didn't know how.

I adjusted my clothes, wincing slightly at the pleasant soreness that reminded me of his urgency, his need, his possession.

My shirt was rumpled, hair a disaster from where his fingers had gripped it.

Cash looked equally wrecked—lips still swollen, a flush lingering high on his cheekbones, stubble burn reddening his jaw where I'd rubbed against him.

Physical evidence of our connection that stood in stark contrast to the emotional chasm widening between us.

Minutes earlier, he'd been inside me, gripping me like he never wanted to let go. Now he wouldn't even meet my eyes.

The soap dispenser wheezed as Cash pressed it again, working up a lather with methodical precision. His movements were measured, controlled, nothing like the desperate urgency that had possessed him before. I watched his hands and tried to reconcile their tenderness with his current distance.

"That was..." I started, then faltered, unsure how to finish. Intense? Amazing? Terrifying in its implications? “Hot.”

Cash grunted, a non-committal sound that could have meant anything or nothing. His eyes remained fixed on his hands as he rinsed them, watching the water swirl down the drain as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

The silence stretched between us, broken only by the steady drip of the leaky faucet and the distant sounds of the shop floor.

I could still hear Liv's laugh, Dylan's deeper voice responding.

Life continued outside this bathroom as if nothing world-altering had happened inside it.

As if Cash hadn't just fucked me against the wall with an intensity that had made my knees buckle and my heart crack open.

"Your brother's an asshole," I said finally, desperate to break the silence with something, anything.

Cash's lips twitched, almost a smile but not quite. "Yeah."

One word. Just one. But it felt like a victory after the wall of silence he'd erected. I pushed further.

"You okay? After what he said?"

His shoulders tensed slightly, the movement barely perceptible. Then he shrugged.

I turned off my faucet, grabbing a paper towel to dry my hands. My reflection stared back at me, cheeks still flushed, eyes too bright, looking altogether too vulnerable for a man my age. Cash continued to wash his hands, the water running long after all traces of soap had disappeared.

What the hell were we doing? Was this just some adrenaline-fueled response to his brother's appearance? A way to stake his claim, to rebel? Or was it something more, something deeper that he couldn't articulate?

I studied his profile in the mirror—the strong jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the tight set of his mouth.

He looked... troubled. Conflicted. And suddenly I needed to know, needed words where actions weren't enough, needed confirmation that I wasn't just a convenient body, a warm mouth, a tight ass for him to lose himself in when emotions ran high.

"Is this just sex?" The words emerged softer than I'd intended, small but steady in the quiet bathroom.

Cash froze, water still running over his hands.

I watched his reflection, saw the subtle stiffening of his spine, the slight widening of his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched as if physically chewing on my question.

For one heart-stopping moment, I thought he might actually answer, might give me something real to hold on to.

But the moment stretched, seconds turning to eternity as he stood there, unmoving, silent. The only sound was the steady rush of water over his motionless hands, washing away nothing, just running and running as the silence between us deepened into something painful and raw.

My throat tightened, eyes burning with the threat of tears I refused to shed. His silence was becoming its own kind of answer, one that hollowed out my chest and left a cold ache where warmth had been. I'd handed him my vulnerability on a silver platter, and he couldn't even look at me.

"Right," I said finally, the word catching on the edge of a laugh that held no humor. "Stupid question."

Cash's eyes flicked to mine in the mirror for one brief, unreadable moment before dropping away again.

I felt myself shrinking, folding inward around the wound his silence was carving into me. This man who had held me through the night, who had shared his tent, his bike, his body with such unexpected tenderness couldn't—or wouldn't—tell me if I meant anything to him beyond a convenient fuck.

And I turned and walked out of the room, not looking back.