Page 40 of Emmett

Maybe it was because a small part of me likes the way it feels to have his body pressed against my own.

With the little Fowler’s arms still wrapped tightly around me, I pull his hand away, bringing it to my mouth, and I press a kiss to his palm. He stirs behind me with a sleepy groan, and I kiss him again.

Again.

One more time.

He rolls away from me and I hear him fumble with something on his nightstand before he mumbles, “It’s not even six yet.”

I flip myself to face him, and I take in the mussy sleep that covers him with a chuckle as he scrubs a hand over his face. If it’s not six, that means that we’ve only been out for three hours or so; but I don’t really give a shit.

I climb over him and drop my mouth to his, trailing my hands over his strong chest and feeling his heart thump away just beneath the surface.

“I gotta go take a shower,” he grumbles. “And you gotta get out of here before my family starts waking up.”

“We can manage both,” I muse.

The confusion on his face is replaced with mischief as he scrambles out of the bed and toward the door, poking his head out and gesturing for me to follow him. I keep my eyes glued to the perfect, perky ass that he always hides under those damn slacks. I really need to have my stylist get him into something better-fitted to his shape.

As childish as it may be to be sneaking through a house as a grown adult, there’s something thrilling about hiding under Colt Fowler’s roof and fucking his son behind his back.

The two of us slip into a bathroom down the hall and he quickly locks the door behind us. Fowler Junior flips on the overhead fan, which fills the room with a low mechanical hum, then he reaches in past the glass sliding door to turn the shower on.

I wrap my arms around his waist, trailing kisses from the top of his shoulder up to the space behind his ear. He flinches with a quiet laugh, just like he did the last time that I touched him there; itdoestickle. I fight a smile against his skin as I log the information away in the back of my mind to use later.

The water drenches us as we step into the shower, which is nearly a snug fit with the two of us, but I don’t think either of us care about that at all.

I let Fowler Junior take the lead as he pushes me backward against the shower wall and he draws my mouth into his. I bring my hands to his arms and slide them over every curve of muscle, following down the length of his toned back.

“We only have, like, ten minutes,” he tells me. “We have to hurry.”

I bite down a chuckle, tracing a thumb over the sharp angle of his jaw. “Now, I’m taking my time,” I croon. “I don’t like to do what I’m told, either.”

My teeth graze his lower lip and I leave a trail of kisses down his neck, his chest, the carved plane of his stomach, teasing him as his cock swells under my touch.

Dropping onto my knees, I grab onto the base of his shaft and drag my tongue over it, keeping my touch featherlight. He gasps at the contact and plants a hand firmly onto the wall next to him for support. I pull his cock into my mouth, feeling his body tense and relax in just moments, and I wrap a hand around it, stroking as I tease the tip with my tongue.

“Christ,” he breathes as his hips give small thrusts, pushing more of his shaft into my mouth.

I bring my free hand up between his legs and use it to cradle his balls, teasing for just a few seconds before I gently massage them against my palm. A strained whimper pours from his lips, and I moan my own approval as my tongue laps at his slit.

He’s at war with himself, and I know it. I fought the same war twenty-four years ago; the fear, the shame, the insistence that a part of him doesn’t exist. I’m all too familiar with it, and I can feel it in his body; in the small moments where he tenses, trying to deny himself the pleasure of letting go rather than give himself over to it wholly.

He whispers something – maybe nothing more than nonsense – and I can’t hear him over the splash of the water, but his body jerks and his stomach tightens as his tip angles down the back of my throat.

“Nash, shit,” he pants, orgasm in his grasp. “I—”

If he’s going to deny himself pleasure, then I’ll deny him, too.

I pull his cock from my mouth and stand, slapping a smirk onto my face as he gapes at me, his chest heaving.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you,” I tease. “I’m taking my time.”

“Oh my god, you’re such aprick. I was so close.”

His right hand flies down to his shaft, wrapping around it, and I let him get in two long strokes before grabbing onto his wrist and bringing his hand to my mouth instead, kissing his palm and ignoring the daggers that he’s staring at me.