Page 29 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Whip It

Anthony

The low thrum of the refrigerator and the soft shuffle of Little G shifting in his sleep are the only sounds breaking the stillness of the apartment. I blink into the darkness, disoriented, until I realize I need to use the bathroom.

Sliding off the couch as quietly as I can, I pad toward the hallway, and gently open and close the bathroom door. On my way back from the bathroom, I pass Chance's door and notice it’s slightly ajar. My steps falter, my gaze drawn to the sliver of light spilling into the hallway.

Through the gap, I can see him.

He’s sprawled across his bed, one arm resting above his head, the other wrapped around his cock.

His hard and glistening cock. The moonlight filtering through the blinds outlines the sharp lines of his chest, rising and falling with every ragged breath.

I’m rooted to the spot, frozen, incapable of looking away.

My lower abdominals tense as my eyes trace the contours of his torso, the deep lines of his muscles, and the taut skin stretching over them.

He’s… stunning. The thought surfaces unbidden, leaving a warmth in its wake.

It’s part embarrassment, part something deeper, something I’m not ready to confront.

I should leave. I should go back to the couch. But I can’t. I’m cemented in place, that buried part of me demanding more.

His cock—fuck, it’s impressive. I know mine is big.

I have hangups, but I’m not blind. And based on the relentless teasing I’ve endured since high school, I’m more than just big.

But Chance? He can’t be much smaller than me, from what I can tell, and it looks thick too.

My mouth is suddenly dry, and I have to fight the urge to swallow, afraid it’ll make a sound and pop this bubble of discretion.

Chance reaches for his nightstand and grabs something.

The quiet pop of a cap fills the air, and a drizzle of lube glistens as it slides down the head of his cock and then his entire length.

He strokes himself in one slow, deliberate motion, spreading it evenly.

Then another stroke, the pleasure pulling a soft moan from his lips.

I feel the heat pooling low in my stomach, and with a mind of its own, my hand drifts down and squeezes my own cock through my sweatpants. It’s rock hard, the pressure from my hand offering a fleeting relief I don’t dare prolong. What the hell am I doing?

Chance’s movements change. He bends his knees, feet flat against the bed, the bottom globes of that big, bubble ass pressing against the backs of his thighs.

The cap pops again, and this time he coats two fingers.

My breath stills as he moves his hand lower, spreads his legs wider and begins circling and tapping against his hole with a slick precision that sends a shiver down my spine.

Slowly, he pushes his fingers inside, his hips lifting slightly to find the perfect angle.

I’m transfixed, my gaze glued to every subtle shift of his body. His moans grow louder, his strokes faster. He’s completely in tune with himself, lost in his own pleasure as his fingers piston in and out of his hole in sync with each stroke of his cock. It’s... mesmerizing.

My hand gives another reflexive squeeze, then another. I know I should stop, but I’m powerless against the scene unfolding before me. Then, as his breathing turns shallow and erratic, I hear him gasp out words that turn me completely inside out and set my entire body ablaze.

“Fuck me, Ant. Fucking wreck my hole, Beautiful.”

The sound of my name on his full, sinful lips leaves me stunned. Then, in an explosion of tensed muscle, Chance arches slightly off the bed and comes with a throated moan that sounds a lot like my name. The first shot hits his chest, then his abs, and finally pools near his belly button.

I’m paralyzed. I don’t know if I’m more shocked by the raw intensity of what I just witnessed or the fact that my sweatpants are now soaked. I just came. Completely untouched.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I look up and see Chance’s face.

His eyes are open, crystal blue piercing through the darkness, and I swear they are locked directly onto mine.

His lips part slightly as if to say something, but he doesn’t.

The moment is suspended in a tense, unspoken exchange.

I can’t tell if seconds or minutes pass before I finally force myself to look away, my face burning.

My heart pounds so hard it echoes in my ears.

Reacting on pure instinct, I whirl around, pressing my back to the wall, and hold my breath.

Minutes pass, though it feels like hours, before I force myself to move, darting toward the bathroom and gently closing the door behind me.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Leaning against the sink, I splash cold water on my face, trying to calm the storm raging inside me.A little frantically, I turn the water to warm, grab a washcloth, and clean my dick as best I can.

What the hell just happened?

I don’t know if he saw me, if he knew, or if it was all in my head. All I know is that I can’t go back to the couch yet. Not until I’ve convinced myself to stop thinking about the way he looked in that bed.

Then there’s the matter of my name falling from his mouth. I’m not sure what’s more unnerving—whether he said it because he knew I was watching, or if I was just the focus of his private fantasy.

I groan myself awake, the events of last night rushing back in vivid detail.

My pulse starts to race with a mix of embarrassment and something I don’t really want to admit flooding my chest. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Why did I just stand there watching him like that?

I couldn’t look away, though. The way his body arched and flexed in a muscular display of masculinity as he shot ropes of cum everywhere…

I can’t even think about it without my cheeks flaming.

Fuck, he was a sight.

I shake off the memory, trying to focus on the present.

The apartment is quiet except for Little G snoozing in his bed, which is now near the couch, one ear twitching in response to my movements.

I could go to the team training facilities for a workout and avoid facing Chance this morning.

But that’s ridiculous. He probably has no idea I was even there. Right?

I scrub my hands over my face and take a deep breath. Time to get up and face whatever this day has in store.

After taking Little G out for his morning business, I step into the kitchen and pull the coffee grounds out of the freezer—stored just the way grandma always insisted—fill the maker with filtered water, and assault the brew button with unnecessary force, as if that’ll somehow get caffeine into my system any faster.

While I’m waiting for the coffee to brew, I check my phone and shake my head at the first notification on my screen.

Mom: Anthony, I wish you would answer my calls and texts. What are you doing for Thanksgiving? Will we hear from you?

Nope. I think, as I toss my phone on the counter.

As the last drops of coffee hit the pot, I hear Chance’s bedroom door open, perfectly timed, like he somehow knew. I’m already breaking a sweat at the thought of facing him, dreading the possibility of having to explain my creepy peepshow attendance last night.

He saunters in, shirtless as usual, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. His golden skin seems to glow in the soft morning light, and his hair is frustratingly sexy with that just fucked— Nope. Not going there. Not thinking about that.

Chance pours himself a cup of coffee, humming softly to himself. Mug in hand, he looks up and flashes me one of his disarming grins.

“Morning, Beautiful,” he says, his voice warm and easy.

Relief floods through me. He’s acting completely normal. He doesn’t know. Thank God.

“Morning,” I mumble, trying not to meet his eyes for too long as I move toward the coffee pot.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, leaning casually against the counter. His tone is light, almost teasing.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, pouring myself a cup and taking a long sip to buy myself time. “The couch is, uh, still comfortable.”

“That’s good,” he says with a wink. “I see Little G stayed with you all night again. Traitor,” he scoffs, glancing at the sleeping dog with mock disapproval.

“Yep, he stayed put.”

We fall into a comfortable moment, each sipping our coffee in silence before Chance breaks it.

“So, Friendsgiving,” he says, setting his mug down. “What can I do to help? Tell me I’m not just the pretty face invited for wit and aesthetic.”

I snicker, the tension in my body easing a little.

“You can pick up the hard alcohol. I also put in an order with the vendor from V&V for some wine, and they’re dropping it off at the shop.

Frank and Kathy said we could borrow the event tables and chairs they use for V&V, along with some tablecloths. ”

“Done. I’ll borrow Lexi’s car and pick everything up,” Chance says with a nod. “What’s on the menu?”

I hesitate for a second, wondering if he really wants the details.

But when I glance at him, his expression is genuinely interested, so I launch into it.

“Turkey, of course. Italian stuffing, roasted garlic and cream cheese mashed potatoes, homemade mac and cheese, asparagus with hollandaise, and lasagna.”

“You’re making all of that? Ant, that’s insane.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s not that big a deal. I like cooking, and honestly, Thanksgiving is one of the easiest meals to cook.”

He smirks. “You’re not fooling me. You’re basically a culinary wizard, and you love showing off.”

I laugh despite myself. “Okay, maybe a little. But seriously, it’s not that hard. Especially if everyone else is bringing desserts.”

“Yes, I’m glad that’s the plan,” Chance says, grinning. “Because if you were going to make pies and cakes on top of all that, I’d have to stage an intervention.”

I shake my head, smiling into my coffee.

“No, desserts can be up to the guests. If you can let Lexi know, I’ll tell Butters.

If you think I’m good in the kitchen, you should taste his cooking.

Italian comfort is my specialty—he does the high-end gourmet shit.

It’s impressive. Jen… well she can pick up something from the store. ”

Chance snickers. “Jen baking? Yeah, I can’t see it.”

We spend the next few minutes ironing out the details: when to pick up the tables and chairs, what time everyone’s arriving, and how we’ll set up the space. Talking about it eases some of the nervous energy that’s been buzzing under my skin since I woke up.

Chance leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re pretty incredible, Ant.”

I glance at him, startled by the sincerity in his voice. “It’s just dinner, Chance.”

“It’s not just dinner,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re going all out to make this special for everyone that won’t be with family for the holiday. That’s... not something most people would do, particularly at our age.”

His words flatter me, but they also make me feel exposed. I look away, focusing on my coffee mug. “It’s nothing,” I mumble.

“Bullshit,” he says softly, and when I glance up, he’s watching me with an expression that makes my heart race. “You’re one of a kind, Beautiful.”

The way he said that sends a shiver down my spine, but before I can even think of what to say, Little G lets out a loud snore from his bed, breaking the moment. Chance laughs, and I join in, grateful for the distraction.

“I should probably start my list for the market,” I say, setting my mug down and moving toward the fridge.

“I’ll probably start cooking a couple days early.

With one oven and a small kitchen it will be easier to do the lasagna and potatoes ahead of time.

Lasagna is always better after it’s had a day to set anyway. ”

“You sure you don’t need any help?” Chance asks, as I open the fridge.

“I’m sure,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Deal,” he says, grabbing his phone from the counter. “I’ll text Lexi about dessert.”

As he taps away on his phone, I start taking inventory of ingredients in the fridge, mentally running through my grocery list and game plan for the day.

Despite the nerves that linger from the events of last night and whatever this is that Chance is unraveling inside of me, I can’t help but feel a small flicker of excitement.

Friendsgiving is shaping up to be something special, and I feel like I’m doing something good for the guy who’s opened his home to me.

And something tells me Chance needs this more than he’s revealing.