Page 155 of King of Pain

His hands are on me and I’m not going to survive it. “Beautiful, I’m not going to last thirty more seconds. I’ve wanted this for too long.”

“Then come for me, Chance,” he says, smiling up at me. “Come on my chest. Mark my skin like I marked your throat.”

That does it. Staring into his eyes I spill onto his chest. Rope after rope hits his beautiful skin and my brain sounds like a skipping record, repeatingmine-mine-mineuntil I’m spent.

When it’s over—when I’ve all but melted under his touch—he looks down at his chest, swirls his fingers through the mess I leftthere, and sweeps it over to his left pec, rubbing it into the wing tattoo over his heart.

“That’s where you belong,” he says, eyes coming back to meet mine.

A fire ignites in my soul at his words, and I pull him up, slam my mouth to his, and kiss him deeply. I smile against his lips.

“Stay with me tonight.”

He nods against my forehead. “Okay. I’ll just text Aunt Lexi that her nephew is staying overnight.”

I laugh and step back. “I’m going to grab a bottle of water. Need one?”

I kick off my wet jeans, and start to pull my much drier underwear back up, when I hear:

“Nuh-uh. No you don’t, mister.”

I freeze, looking at him.

“I’ve waited years to see that ass in its full glory and Istillhaven’t seen it. Take those all the way off,” he says, snapping the waistband, “and walk to the kitchen.”

I snicker, peeling the offending underwear off… and fling them straight at his head. “You really are an ass man, aren’t you?”

He nods aggressively.

I tap a finger to my chin, then back up slowly towards the kitchen, making a show of it, my spent dick swinging.

“Chance Sullivan, if you don’t turn around right this—”

I spin mid-step and saunter toward the fridge.

Behind me, Ant groans, “Jesus fuck, it’s even better than I fantasized. Wait—is that a four-leaf clover on your left ass cheek?”

I throw him a smirk over my shoulder and wink.

He fires back with a blinding smile and says, “Lucky me.”

TRACK FIFTY•FOUR

Angel of the Morning

Anthony

Chance's arm is draped across my waist, his bare chest pressed flush against my back. His breath fans over the back of my neck, warm and steady. I shift a little—adjusting to the feeling of being in his arms like this again—and feel a not unwelcome sensation.

His morning wood, thick and insistent, pressing right up against my ass.

A slow, lazy smile pulls at my lips.

I push my hips back just a little, teasing, and feel him groan low in his chest.

God, last night.

It floods back in vivid flashes: