Page 67 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Sexual Healing

Chance

Ant’s got one box labeled CLOTHES balanced on his hip, and I’m carrying the other as we step through the front door of the condo.

Little G spins in circles, chasing his tail in excitement.

Honestly, same.

The possessive rush that comes with carrying Ant’s boxes into my place hits hard.

I need to reel it in.

I’m not trying to be a full-blown walking red flag.

I’ll just be a teeny, tiny, bite-sized one.

I set the box I’m carrying on the counter and grab the box of clothes from Ant instead.

Selfishly, I want to hang just a few of his things in our closet.

It’s already half full of his stuff, but this makes it official.

I slide his shirts onto hangers and run my hand down the line of fabric.

T-shirts, dress shirts, hoodies I’ve stolen and plan to keep stealing.

They belong here. Like he does.

When I leave the closet, I find Ant setting two more boxes on the bed. One of them has my name written on the side in his handwriting. It’s sobering. It takes me back to the day I left—how I just… disappeared. And yet he kept my things.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

Ant shrugs, already unpacking the other box. “Just some of your stuff. Thought you might want to go through it, so I brought it this trip.”

I move to the bed and pop the lid off. Inside is a stack of records. I run my fingers over the note I had left on the bathroom mirror for him and start flipping through the albums, one by one. I stop when I see a bold flash of red.

I look up. “Hey, Ant?”

He turns after setting the framed Stevie Nicks drawing and lyrics I gave him on the nightstand. “Yeah?”

I hold up Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me by The Cure.

A smile blooms slowly across his face.

I tap my lips twice, deliberately.

He huffs out a laugh and walks over, pressing a kiss to my lips.

Foreheads resting together, I whisper, “Seeing your stuff here makes me a very happy man.”

“Me too.” He kisses me again, softer this time. “Okay, you finish getting reacquainted with your things. I’m going to go start dinner.”

“A very, very happy man.”

Ant grins and points a finger at me. “Have fun. I’ve got stuff for Chicken Piccata. Sound good?”

I groan in anticipation. “Is that even a question?”

He smirks and walks out. The moment he’s gone, I dive into the box.

I pull out the rest of the albums and burst out laughing at what I find.

At the bottom of the box is a piece of clothing I haven’t seen in years. I pull it out, shake it open, and hold it up.

The jersey Jen made me wear to Ant’s game, complete with his name and number across the back.

Under it? That ridiculous ‘80s crop top Lexi gifted me, and my favorite Depeche Mode hat. It’s black with the white DM stitched across the front. I grin like a fool, toss the hat and jersey on the bed, and head straight to my dresser.

A few seconds of digging in the top drawer, and—bingo!

He’s not ready for this.

I rip off my shirt, jeans, and briefs, and head straight to the shower for a quick scrub. Once dry, I tug the jersey over my head. It hangs loose, familiar, and perfect. Hat goes on next—backwards, of course.

Now, the finishing touch: I step into a black jockstrap I’ve never worn before.

It’s not your standard issue athletic supporter.

It’s more… after-party couture.

I move the boxes to the floor, then climb onto the bed, facing the headboard.

On all fours. Knees wide. Back arched.

Waiting.

I call out over my shoulder, “Hey, Ant… can you come here for a minute?”

I hear his voice from the kitchen. “Be right there.”

I face forward. Count the seconds.

Then…

“What did you need—oh, holy shit!”

The energy shift in the room is immediate and palpable.

I don’t even need to see his face to know.

Possessive Ant has come out to play.

A low, primal growl works its way out of his chest. I flash a wicked grin over my shoulder. “What are you waiting for, baby? You know you want to fuck me with your name on my back.”

He’s already stripping off his shirt and unfastening the buttons on his jeans. “Oh, I’m so going to own this ass.”

I drop my head between my arms, spine curving deeper as I arch my back—showing off my best asset.

And I wait.

Smack.

I throw my head back on a groan. “Fuck, baby, do that again—”

Crack.

Both cheeks sting as he snaps the band of my jock, right where it hugs the small of my back.

Then he smooths his hands up my spine to my shoulders.

He leans in, kissing the corner of my mouth, then the spot just below my ear.

His palms shift to wrap around my throat, fingers locking gently as he squeezes.

Releasing me, he grabs the bill of my cap and flings it somewhere across the room. His fingers comb through my hair, grip two fistfuls, and pull me back until I feel his cock press between my cheeks. My own dick slaps against my abs, leaking in anticipation.

Then… nothing.

Ant’s not moving. He’s still. Silent.

I groan when I realize what he’s doing.

“You’re looking at your name on my back, aren’t you?”

“Where it fucking belongs.”

Good. God.

Without another word, he lets go of my hair and traces every muscle and dip from my shoulders down to my lower back. I mourn the loss of his cock between my cheeks as he sinks down and spreads them open with his hands.

“Look at this pretty fucking hole.”

“Ant—”

My words vanish when he spits on my hole and starts to work me open with two fingers.

“Fuck, baby, I need you so bad,” I pant, breathless.

Ant leans in and buries his face between my cheeks, tongue spearing as far as he can reach.

I cry out, trembling with ecstasy while Ant softens my opening with one of his world class rim jobs. I swear, one day I’m insuring that tongue. It should have its own policy. The wicked things it can do. He’s made me come hands-free from just his tongue before.

More than once.

“You like that don’t you?” he murmurs, coming up for air. “So sweet and open for me.”

“Ant, please,” I beg over my shoulder. “I want you to fuck me so hard I feel it in my throat tomorrow.”

He rises, eyes blazing, one hand gripping the small of my back while the other stretches toward me, palm open.

“Lube,” he growls. “Right. Fucking. Now.”

I scramble forward and yank open the nightstand drawer. After a frantic dig, I slam the bottle in his outstretched hand.

Fuck, the way he’s looking at me. Forget his tongue. I could come from that alone.

I turn toward the wall as I hear the pop of the cap. Seconds later, two fingers hook inside me and he’s working my prostate like it’s his side hustle.

“I’m good, baby,” I all but scream, pushing back and fucking myself on his fingers. “Just put that cock to work and rearrange my insides.”

Ant grabs the strap of my jock like a harness, lines up the head of his cock, and slams in balls-deep—just the way I like it.

“Fuck. Yes.”

He holds me steady—one hand clutching the jock, the other gripping my hip—giving me a moment to adjust to his size. When I start to wiggle back, eager for more, he tightens his grip and starts moving. Slow. Torturous.

The big-dicked bastard is going to make me earn it. This is what he does when he’s preparing us both for a long, hard, breathless fuck that ends with me rode hard and put away wet.

Ant’s thick cock stretches me wide, brushing my prostate on every pass. He pushes up the jersey, revealing more skin to touch, to own. His hands caress my back, my ribs—exploring every inch and setting my skin on fire.

It’s tender and languid. Unbearably slow. But I know that won’t last.

Without warning, Ant pulls out, grips me by the hips and flips me onto my back.

I study his face as he applies more lube.

His eyes are wild. Feral.

There he is.

“As much as I love that jersey on you,” he rasps, pushing it up my chest, “I need to see all of you. Play with all of you. Take it off.”

He helps me peel it off, then spreads my legs and settles between them. Dipping his head, he kisses my abs, then grabs my cock, currently straining against the pouch of my jock.

He pulls the fabric aside and sucks the head into his mouth.

“Fuck.”

He moans around me and takes me to the back of his throat. My back arches and I fist the comforter, completely at this man’s mercy.

He releases me and moves lower, kissing his way down to my balls, sucking them gently as he strokes me.

He slides further down and starts to work my taint with that magic fucking tongue.

I trap his head between my thighs and squeeze like a vice. A low rumble comes from Ant’s throat. I huff a small laugh. His obsession with my lower body—it’s deep and it’s real.

Ant hooks his arms around my thighs and pulls them apart again, rising to his knees. Then he plants his hands on either side of my head; forehead pressed to mine. He rubs his nose against mine and looks through my eyes—to somewhere deeper—and has a conversation with my soul.

I just nod.

Ant crashes his mouth to mine and slams his cock all the way to the base inside me.

I moan into his mouth as he begins a punishing rhythm of long, deep strokes.

After what feels like five straight minutes of kissing through the fucking, Ant snakes his arms under my back and grips my shoulder blades.

Oh fuck.

My toes curl and point at the ceiling as Ant uses the new angle to fuck the soul out of me.

He drops his mouth to my neck, latches on to his favorite spot, and sucks hard.

The room fills with the rhythmic sound of skin slapping against skin.

“H-holy shit, babe—”

Ant snarls against my neck, still marking me.

Then he flips us over like I weigh nothing.

I’m straddling him, knees spread wide. I lean back, burying him even deeper, and run my hands down his legs behind me to shift into a riding position.

Ant’s eyes flare with lust when I grab just above his ankles to steady myself and start gliding up and down, his cock hitting every nerve ending inside me.

I don’t dare touch myself. One brush and I’ll explode. I need to last. Ant is a marathon fucker. Where he gets his stamina from, I don’t know, but… yay, me!