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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PERRY

My next move was about to be mounting St. Clare and grinding against him until I came. And kissing him. Lots of kissing him.

But now, Lars is pacing and talking, and the intensity is high, but all I can think about is my dick and the way it’s straining very specifically toward the man sitting next to me. I grab a dusty cushion and plant it over my lap.

“I’m sorry, are you asking me to plan again?” I don’t mean for it to come out in a pathetic whine, but I’m not in control of a lot right now.

“Well, we need to do something because all of this sitting around is driving me mental.”

I’m feeling a bit of that myself, except it has nothing to do with sitting around. “Can I suggest you take a long, long walk into the woods? I think an hour should do it.”

Beside me, St. Clare coughs over a laugh, and I’m close to smothering him with the cushion. No more sounds from him, thank you. I’m horny enough as it is.

Lars pins me with a flat look. “No.”

“Half an hour, then?” I’m straining not to hump the fucking cushion. All that keeps flashing through my mind is how St. Clare’s tongue felt in my mouth and the way his cock was strong and needy against mine. There was something about the way he took control that made me burn from the inside out, and I don’t think that burning has gone away much.

The whole fighting for my life thing kinda dulled it, but now that’s over and I can think again, it’s all come roaring back.

I’m really fucking attracted to St. Clare.

And I’m pretty sure it’s him and not the fact I’m sleeping with a man for the first time. That’s appealing, sure, and so obviously hot, but my cock imitating a war hammer is all him. That blond hair that waves just right. The suckable bottom lip. The way he sometimes looks at me like he’s sharing a secret.

Do I know what that secret is?

No fucking clue.

But it’s the thought that counts.

And right now, all my thoughts are about how to get him naked. Maybe if Lars hadn’t interrupted, we could have taken care of that side of things and then freed up our brains for super-serious plotting things. Really, this is his fault. Because who can care about murder plots when your brain has relocated south?

Lars looks me over and smirks around the sip he’s taken. “Might want to shower before you take those thoughts any further.”

The second he says shower , my smell hits me, and fucking hell, how did St. Clare get so close without gagging? I’m grudgingly grateful for Lars breaking up the moment, considering my mouth doesn’t taste good even to me, and kissing would have been a fast way to make sure nothing else ever happened between us again ever.

“After that, I want to go outside and practice some shots with you. If you’re serious about helping me keep him safe, I need to be confident that you know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe, but I need to be confident.”

I glance over at St. Clare, and something inside me gives a little skip. I’m serious. There’s no way I’m letting anyone hurt him. So if I need to jump through hoops for Lars, I’ll do it .

Just … not right now.

“Can we rain check for tomorrow?” I ask. “I’m beat. So tired.”

“We need to take shifts in staying awake.”

“Good idea. You take first shift while St. Clare and I sleep, then wake me in a few hours.”

Lars looks like he wants to argue but swallows it all back. “Great plan.” There’s something in his voice that doesn’t sound so great, but I ignore it, too busy calculating how I’m supposed to get up without thrusting my hard-on into everyone’s faces.

Maybe if I shimmy to the edge of the sofa, then do a full one-eighty as I turn?

“Leave your clothes out, and I’ll throw them in the wash with ours,” he says.

“That’s actually … nice of you.”

Finally, I get the smallest genuine twitch of Lars’s lips. “I promise you I’m being completely selfish in not wanting to smell that for days on end.”

“Works for me.” I shrug. “I don’t want to smell this either.”

St. Clare extends both arms along the back of the sofa. “Guess I’m in the minority in not minding the way you smell.”

Heat floods from my gut to my face. “Noted.”

Lars sighs. “Maybe I should take that walk after all.”

“Maybe you should.” I have to choke out the words because while it’s weird that he knows there’s something going on between us, it’d also be weirder for him to not pick up on all this sexual tension. And if confirming it will get him out of here and St. Clare into the shower with me, even better.

“I’ll come with you,” St. Clare says to Lars, and my jaw almost hits my balls it drops so fast.

“Ah, what?”

“Yeah …” Lars narrows his eyes. “What?”

“It’s a nice sunset, and it’ll be too cold to go outside soon. A walk sounds great.”

I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Doesn’t he get what’s happening here? Lars is offering to leave so we can hook up. They do that wordless staring thing again, and still, St. Clare doesn’t get the message that Lars is putting out, which is a goddamn worry, considering I’m reading him loud and clear.

All six feet of St. Clare’s lightly muscled, domineering, slutty-forearmed self stands and looks down at me. His gaze slides over me like a hot coffee slipping down my throat, and my nipples prick harder at the attention.

He knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s leaving me desperate. And maybe this is repayment for me stupidly declaring Arlie the love of my life, and maybe I should hate it, but the whole thing only makes my cock harder.

I’m ready to whimper like a fucking dog at his feet as St. Clare’s eyes fill with that secret amusement before I’m left to watch them walk out the door.

Lars disappears first, and just as St. Clare is about to close the front door behind him, he pauses, half inside, and turns his head so I can make out his profile.

The way his lips move has me mesmerized, and it’s a second before I register what he’s saying.

“I dare you not to touch yourself while you shower.”

The confidence in his tone has me swallowing hard.

Then something lights up behind his eyes that makes me shiver. “I might even reward you if you don’t.”

Thankfully, he walks right out and doesn’t hear the help that bubbles from my lips. How the fuck am I supposed to not touch myself now? I’m half tempted to storm outside and drag him back in here to have his filthy way with me. He’s not playing fair, and we both know it, but the real fuck me moment comes when I realize that I don’t hate it.

It’s torture, but I think I’m sort of enjoying it.

I cheat in the shower, just a little bit. While I’m scrubbing every filthy inch of me I can reach and keeping my fucked-up shoulder dry, I’m also angling my still-too-hard and too-needy dick right under the water flow. It’s as bad as his sinful mouth, though, because it keeps me right on that edge of pleasure without giving me any of the payoff. I can’t come like this, and all I’m doing is furthering St. Clare’s mean, evil, downright maniacal plan .

He doesn’t need to make me want him even more.

I already want him most.

I’m an instant-gratification kind of guy, and nothing about this is instantly gratifying. Even our orgasm last night left me wanting more. I hate this. Because I really, really don’t hate this.

I’m about to give in to the urge for a little tug when I stop myself and turn off the water instead. I’m going to be a good boy. No touching. I want to know what St. Clare’s reward is more than I’m interested in anything else. I might have a giant target on my head, but Margot and Elle are safe, we’re currently in the middle of fucking nowhere Washington, and some things are more pressing than figuring out who wants to kill you.

I’d argue that St. Clare’s mouth wins in importance against just about anything.

I towel off, realize I have literally no clothes to wear after dumping my jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie onto the small two-seater table for Lars to deal with, and then settle for wrapping my towel around my hips.

I eat, brush my teeth—thank you to Lars for remembering to buy these supplies and to me for remembering to bring them with us—then … wait.

And hope like hell that St. Clare wasn’t fucking with me.