Page 36 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Cherish

Anthony

The first thing I become aware of is warmth.

The second thing is that it’s his warmth.

Chance’s arm is draped over my waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of my neck. His body is pressed firmly against mine, solid and unyielding. For a few minutes, I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. I justexist, wrapped in his heat, his scent, him.

My mind replays the night before, the tequila-fueled confidence that had me dragging him onto the dance floor.

The way our bodies moved together like we had done it a thousand times before.

I can’t believe I was that bold, can’t believe I let myself get so lost in it.

Was it just the alcohol? Or was it the culmination of a slow, inevitable process of opening up?

Not just to Chance, but to myself as well.

As my thoughts spiral, I become painfully aware of the other problem at hand.

Morning wood.

Shit.

My face burns as I realize the precarious position I’m in. I need to get out of bed without waking him or, worse, having his hand accidentally brush over it.

Fuck .

Without breathing, I carefully lift his hand off my waist, setting it gently down on the mattress. Then, with the stealth of a damn ninja, I slide out from under the covers.

I adjust myself in my boxer briefs quickly, facing the mirror across the room to make sure I’m not walking around like a fucking flagpole, and sneak into the bathroom.

I close the door and exhale deeply. I need a shower— a real one. Rinsing off with damp paper towels in a club bathroom doesn’t exactly count, especially after coming in my pants like a desperate teenager.

Jesus Christ. Who the hell took over my body last night?

I strip off my briefs and turn the shower knob to hot, waiting for the water to heat before stepping inside.

Letting the water scald my skin, I begin washing away the remnants of the night.

But it doesn’t wash away him . He’s in my thoughts, in my skin, in the way my body remembers his touch, his breath against my ear, his hands gripping me.

I press my forehead against the tile and take deep, steady breaths. Get it together, Pacini.

Once I feel sufficiently composed, I shut off the water and grab a towel, running it over my skin until I’m mostly dry. I wrap the towel securely around my waist before stepping out of the bathroom and come to an abrupt stop, barely avoiding a head-on collision.

Chance is standing there, holding two cups of coffee.

His eyes drag down my body, slow and heated, lingering on the droplets of water trailing down my chest. A blush crawls up my neck, but this time, I welcome his eyes on me.

I watch as he visibly swallows, his throat bobbing.

“I, uh—” Chance stutters, his voice slightly rough. “I went next door to grab coffee. Got us some donuts too… just to hold us over before we eat one of everything on the boardwalk.”

I glance at the white bag on the bed, then back at him, watching him try—and fail—not to look at my chest. Keep looking. Please.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for one of the cups, our fingers brushing. A tiny jolt of electricity runs up my arm, and from the way Chance’s breath hitches, he felt it too.

I take a sip, sighing at the warmth. “I’ll get dressed while you get ready, then we can head out.”

Chance nods but doesn’t move. His eyes stay on me a beat longer before he finally turns away.

Getting ready is an exercise in torture.

I should be focusing on what to wear, but instead, I’m watching Chance peel his jeans off, showing off thatbig, gorgeousass.

The material of his boxer briefs has its work cut out trying to contain all of that.

I grip the edge of the dresser to keep myself from making a sound.

He turns and catches me staring.

I blink, frozen.

Chance smirks, winks, then walks into the bathroom—knowing exactly what he’s doing to me.

I need to get my hands on that ass . Soon.

Once we’re ready and make the quick walk to the beach, the boardwalk buzzes with life as locals and tourists weave between surf shops, boutiques, and food stands.

The salty ocean air fills my lungs, and the sun, battling against the slight January chill, casts a warmth that makes the whole moment feel almost surreal.

After strolling the boardwalk for a while, I take Chance to Laventina’s, my favorite pizza shop, and we each grab a slice.

Chance chooses a small high-top table for us, and the moment we sit, our knees knock together.

Chance snickers, then, without breaking eye contact, spreads his legs slightly, drops his hands under the table, and grips the edge of my chair.

With a slow tug, he pulls me closer, sliding my left knee between his thighs before clamping down, locking me there.

Everything around us fades. The chatter of nearby diners, the distant crash of waves—it all disappears. All I can focus on is the heat of his body, the weight of his legs around mine, and the way my dick is rapidly stirring to life, reaching for Chance’s thighs like it wants to say hello.

Chance takes a bite of his slice and groans dramatically. “God, that’s good. There’s just something about boardwalk pizza. Greasy, a little burnt on the edges, perfect ratio of sauce to cheese—this is what pizza’s meant to taste like.”

I take a bite of mine, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, it’s solid. What’s your favorite topping combo?”

“Sausage, pepperoni, and mushroom,” he says without hesitation.

I raise a brow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. It’s the perfect combo.”

I smirk, already planning my rebuttal. “You’re missing one crucial ingredient.”

He eyes me warily. “Oh, God. What?”

“Black olives.”

Chance pulls a face like I just suggested anchovies and peanut butter. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” I counter, pointing at him with my slice.

He shakes his head, chewing thoughtfully. “Nope. Not messing with perfection.”

“Well, you will once I make you a homemade pizza,” I say with confidence. “Real dough, fresh sauce, the whole thing. And I’m putting black olives on it.”

Chance narrows his eyes at me. “You’re really going to die on this hill?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well,” he says, wiping his hands with a napkin. “At least we can agree pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza.”

I shrug.

He screws his face up in horror. “Hand it over.”

“What?”

“Your Italian heritage card. Give it.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Sorry, but ham and pineapple? Salty and sweet will always hit.”

Chance groans. “You’re hopeless.”

After finishing the last bite, he leans back, stretching. “Hey, we should video call Ma while we’re by the water. She’d love it.”

Excitement and fondness stir in my chest. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

We venture over to the beach and grab a seat on the low wall lining the boardwalk. Chance pulls up her contact, and within two rings, Mary’s face appears on the screen. Her expression shifts to one of pure joy.

“My boys! What a surprise!”

Chance and I laugh and say hi in unison. She squints at the waves crashing onto the beach in the background. “Wait, where are you?”

Chance grins. “Newport Beach. We took a little road trip.”

“Oh, how wonderful. It looks gorgeous there.”

“It is,” I chime in. “But can we please talk about the convertible your son rented… in January .”

Mary laughs. “Yep, that sounds about right.”

Her expression softens and she quietly studies Chance for a moment. Then, with a tender tone, she says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your smile that big, Chance.”

She shifts her gaze to me, her eyes warm and knowing. “Anthony, you don’t have to say anything, but I need you to know that I thank you from the depths of my heart. I know that smile is because of you.”

My chest cracks wide open and moisture pools in my eyes. Chance looks at me, grinning even bigger. “It’s true. It’s all your fault.”

I clear my throat, and with confidence, I reply, “I mean, I am beautiful, and I keep you well fed.”

Chance barks a laugh and shoves my shoulder.

Mary watches the exchange, eyes gleaming. “Chance, I’m so glad you’re living your life. I wouldn’t change a thing; do you understand what I mean?”

Chance exhales softly. “Yeah, Ma, I think I do now. I still miss you, though.”

“I miss you too, my baby boy. But just know—after seeing your smile today—my heart is whole.”

My stomach flips.

What have they been through?

“So, Chance,” Ma says, her tone lightening, “was this your birthday trip?”

I startle and snap my head toward him. “It’s your birthday?” I ask, a little annoyed he didn’t tell me.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Not until the Saturday after we get back.”

I look back at Ma on the phone. “We’re going to do something special for his birthday, Ma. Thanks for the heads-up.”

She winks. “Happy to be of assistance.”

Chance groans, tilting his head back. “Oh no. There’s two of you.”

“Seems like something you might need to get used to,” Mary quips. “Now, you boys enjoy your little vacation. Be careful, and text me when you get home safely. I love you both.”

After saying our goodbyes, we hang up. For a bit, we just sit in silence, watching people meandering the boardwalk, the waves behind us our only soundtrack.

Finally, I turn to him. “If you don’t mind me asking, what did she mean when she said she wouldn’t change a thing?”

Chance takes a deep breath; his gaze fixed on the shops ahead of us. “She pushed me to leave Boston. To get out of the life I was born into.”

I frown. “Chance, you don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts gently. “I want you to know everything about me.”

I nod, giving him space to continue. He exhales, running a hand through his hair before finally speaking. “The area of South Boston where I grew up is controlled by two organizations,” he begins. “They operate outside the law and are sometimes at odds with each other.”

I hesitate before asking, “Were you part of one of them?”