Page 15 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Fifteen

SILAS

I knew better than to give him time to think. Mason lived in his head; the second he started analyzing, he’d talk himself out of this. I couldn’t let that happen.

Not when I needed him so badly.

It’d be easy to pretend this was just about control. That I wasn’t chasing something deeper every time he gave in to me like this. But I wasn’t in the habit of lying to myself.

So I went full shock and awe, striking him so hard and fast that he wouldn’t have room to breathe, let alone second-guess what we were doing.

“Take your cock out,” I growled. “Jerk off while I watch.”

His eyes hardened, and I cocked an eyebrow, daring him to admit I was pushing him too far. That Beaufort backbone was stiff with defiance. I could practically hear his back molars grinding as he reached for his waistband. He hooked his thumbs into his waistband and slowly, agonizingly, eased his pants down just enough to free his cock. It sprang forward, curving elegantly toward his stomach, flushed and slender enough to fit perfectly in my mouth—if I let it.

“That’s it,” I coaxed, keeping my voice dark and indulgent, meant to pull him in and keep him panting. “Stroke that pretty cock for me.”

His head dropped, dark hair falling forward to hide his face. What a shame. Those sharp blue eyes were too pretty to hide behind his glasses, and right now, I wanted every piece of him exposed.

His strokes began tentatively at first, but as I continued a stream of filth in his ear, they got faster, rougher, needier, until his hand was flashing up and down his rigid shaft. His teeth sank into his bottom lip, fighting hard for pride, but the moans and whimpers won.

“Faster,” I commanded, watching him through hooded lids, entranced by the desperation etched across his face. “Come on, counselor. Show me how bad you want it.”

Color climbed his throat, staining high on his cheeks as he picked up the pace, fist flying in tight, frantic strokes. A ragged, guttural moan slipped out, and the sound punched right through me. I ground the heel of my palm against the fly of my jeans, chasing the memory of his mouth wrapped around me. Those soft lips, that desperate tongue. I could practically feel them as I watched him touch himself.

“You like this, don’t you? Touching yourself for me. You’ve probably done it a hundred times already. Every time you get near me, that pretty little cock of yours is already tenting your pants, begging for me to give it some attention.” I put my lips right against the shell of his ear, letting the words slip inside him like velvet. “I’ve barely touched you yet, and you’re already this out of control. How does it feel?”

Mason’s answer was a choked gasp as he doubled down, white knuckles flashing over the swollen head of his cock. His jaw was clenched so tight the cords of his neck stood out in stark relief. The flush spreading across his pale skin was more than arousal now; it was the sting of humiliation and hunger. This was far outside his comfort zone.

“Tell me how much you love it,” I whispered, clasping him by the neck and yanking him into a fierce kiss. He sucked my tongue hungrily, chasing it when I pulled back, whimpering whether he realized it or not. “Tell me how bad you want to be under me right now.”

“I…hate it,” he growled stubbornly. His eyes were blazing blue like a gas burner turned up to max. He was so close, I could practically taste his arousal. “You… fucking …asshole.”

I laughed, delighted, and brushed my thumb over his trembling lips. He clamped his mouth shut, denying me the sounds I wanted most, so I slipped my thumb between his lips and forced him to suck. He fucking melted . He slumped against me, and I had to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him from tumbling us both off the bike.

He was so damn close to breaking. Closer than I’d anticipated from just a few minutes of his own hand. I didn’t want him spilling too quickly.

“Come on,” I taunted, watching him unravel. “Edge for me, sweetheart. Show me how much you can take.”

“Oh fuck— Silas —” Mason choked out, twisting his head away, trying to hide from me. His hips bucked wildly, and he grabbed the base of his cock, trying to stop himself. Too late. He came with a raw, broken sound, streaking his stomach and thighs in sticky ropes. Helplessly, he clutched at the front of my shirt, hanging on for dear life as his orgasm ripped through him.

I kept my arm around his waist, holding him steady while I enjoyed the view: flushed cheeks, sweat-slick skin, and spent cock lying against the mess he made. Utterly debauched.

“That’s what I like to see,” I murmured, running my fingers through his damp hair. “Went off like a rocket there, counselor.”

His head lolled toward me. “Fuck you,” he muttered, hoarse and half-spent, but there wasn’t an ounce of venom in it. Just the last scrap of pride refusing to crumble.

I chuckled and caught him by the jaw, pulling him in for a kiss that shut him up fast. He gave in like he always did, parting his lips and greedily drinking me down. When I finally pulled back, I trailed my fingers down his chest, smearing the mess he’d made without apology.

“Here,” I said, reaching for the rag tucked in my saddlebag. I wiped him off with the kind of care that said I’d earned the right. He flinched under my touch, oversensitive now, but he didn’t stop me. His lashes were low, eyes half-lidded and blown wide—hazy, fucked-out, and still somehow focused on me.

Beautiful.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing a crooked grin I’d never seen before.

It took me a second to realize I’d spoken out loud.

I hissed when he groped me through my jeans, his fingers twitching like he couldn’t help himself. The pressure surged straight to my balls. It hurt to stop him, but when he popped the button and dragged the zipper down, I caught him by both wrists and held him still.

“Wait.”

This wasn’t part of the plan. I’d been holding onto this debt since the night I forced him to his knees and never repaid the favor, but a quick fuck in the dark wasn’t good enough. Not for him. Not for me. I’d taken the edge off for him, but now I wanted more.

I guided his hands away, caught them in one of mine, and pressed them flat to his thighs. “I want to bring you home,” I said gently. “In my bed. Under my sheets. Buried deep inside you ’til morning.”

Mason wiped his hands on the cloth and tugged his shirt over his head in one smooth pull. He was turning it over in his mind, avoiding my eyes as he calculated the risk, putting distance between us now that he’d gotten a little post-nut clarity.

“Doesn’t sound like keeping things simple,” he muttered.

“It can be the simplest thing in the world if we let it,” I said, stepping off the bike. My knees popped as I stretched, stiff from sitting backward for too long. I rolled my shoulders, twisting out the tightness, letting him look his fill. “Think you can keep your hands to yourself on the ride back, counselor?”

His snort was soft and biting. “Think you can?”

I settled in front of him, and his hands rested lightly on my waist, like he was still not sure he had the right to touch me. That didn’t cut it. Not at this stage. I reached back, caught his wrists, and tugged his arms forward until they locked around me.

The engine came alive beneath us, a low growl that rippled through the bones. I let it hum, let the vibration settle between us, then turned my head just enough for my voice to carry.

“Not a fucking chance.”