Page 46 of Missing Pieces (Brantley Walker: Off the Books #12)

Slade was lying in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, when he heard the front door open.

After their meeting, he’d helped Becs with a few things, but found that there were too many hands in the pot after a while.

Rather than start another fight, he’d slipped out while Atticus was talking to Archer.

He knew it wasn’t rational, but the jealousy had been eating a hole through him all afternoon.

On top of that, he felt like an ass.

Then again, he kinda was an ass. Or he had been to Atticus earlier when he’d harped on the man about avoiding him.

It hadn’t taken Atticus five seconds to get fed up with it, and honestly, Slade couldn’t blame him.

He was doing it again. Being too needy, too clingy.

It wouldn’t be long before Atticus decided it was too much for him.

And it wasn’t the first time in the past couple of days that Slade had fucked up.

He’d practically accused Atticus of thinking Archer Halligan was hot.

It was more of a kick in the pants that Atticus hadn’t even been thinking about their newest addition to the team.

The guy was Atticus’s partner, for fuck’s sake.

That didn’t mean they were going to have a secret rendezvous.

Yet, for some fucked up reason, Slade’s insecurity got the best of him and when he looked at the two of them together, that was all he could think about.

Well, that and how he was going to make it up to Atticus.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think that would happen tonight.

It wasn’t until he was home that Atticus sent him a text to let him know he was having dinner with Carson. There was no invite, but Slade hadn’t expected one. He’d really fucked up this time.

Now, as he lay there, he wondered whether Atticus had come back alone or if Carson was with him. He didn’t care enough to get up to look.

Okay, that was a lie. He cared enough. But he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. Not tonight, anyway. If Atticus was leading Carson to his bedroom, he didn’t want to know about it. Best to go to sleep and find out tomorrow.

But he wasn’t perfect, so he listened intently, trying to capture the sound of footsteps that might tell him how many feet were moving down the hallway. He heard nothing except for the rapid beat of his heart as anxiety flooded his system.

Slade wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this.

Every single day, he found himself balancing on pins and needles, waiting to find out which way the wind was going to blow so he’d know which direction to move.

He was in this vicious cycle, waiting to find out what Atticus did or did not want from him.

When they were together, he didn’t wonder; he simply savored every second.

When they were apart, he felt as though he was seconds from being pulled in two.

He’d considered confronting Atticus, asking him point-blank where he saw this going.

But what if he was the only one who cared?

What if Atticus saw him as the pain in the ass who needed more than a good fuck to feel like he was worth a shit?

Slade didn’t want to be that guy. He was trying to go with the flow, to ignore his feelings, even as they intensified.

Truth was, he was pathetic. A sap who wasn’t built to sustain casual sexual encounters. It was the reason he’d never been able to maintain a real relationship. He was too needy, too—

A sharp knock sounded on his bedroom door a second before the knob turned. He didn’t even have time to call out before the door swung open.

“For fuck’s sake,” Slade hissed, sitting up straight, eyes locked on the two men stepping into the bedroom. The light was on in the hallway, so he saw mostly a silhouette, but enough to tell that Carson was fully dressed while Atticus didn’t have a stitch on.

“He’s not allowed to talk,” Carson explained, his tone casual.

Likely to prove his point, he was standing behind Atticus, one hand covering his mouth, the other wrapped firmly around Atticus’s cock.

“Turn on the lamp,” Carson instructed.

Slade didn’t look away even as he fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand. He was mesmerized by the rapid rise and fall of Atticus’s chest as Carson stroked his dick.

The lamp came on, bathing the room in soft white light, highlighting the ridges and valleys of Atticus’s muscular torso.

Slade was still getting used to how much the man had changed during his time in Dallas.

Atticus was on the small side as far as stature went.

Probably around five-eight, maybe five-nine, with a slim build and small bone structure.

Although Slade clocked in at six-two, two twenty-five, for some strange reason, he was fascinated by his smaller size.

When they met, Atticus had been rail-thin and slightly underweight, but that was no longer the case.

During his time in training, he’d started working out, lifting weights, and eating healthy.

It had allowed him to pack on some pounds—all muscle—and filled him out.

And he’d stuck to the regimen of healthy eating—most of the time—and consistent workouts, which Slade found insanely hot.

“Move to the end of the bed,” Carson insisted as he urged Atticus forward.

Slade threw off the blankets and scooted to the end of the bed. He usually slept naked, but tonight, he’d kept his boxers on, unsure whether he would confront Atticus when he returned. Not that they did a damn thing to conceal the erection now fighting to get free.

“Stroke his dick,” Carson said. “Go easy. He doesn’t have permission to come.”

“Where are you goin’?” Slade asked when Carson released Atticus’s cock.

“To get a chair. I’ll be right back.” He pressed his mouth to Atticus’s cheek. “No talkin’.”

Slade saw the way Atticus’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly in his throat. He noticed the glitter in his eyes. He liked to be dominated.

Since Atticus was instructed not to speak, Slade didn’t bother asking questions. He knew Atticus was obedient when it came to their instruction. He’d noticed it more than once. Instead, he watched his hand move up and down Atticus’s shaft, admired the pearly drop of precum lingering at the tip.

Carson returned with a chair from the kitchen, setting it at the end of the bed before walking around to admire Atticus from all angles.

“How’s our boy doin’?”

“His cock’s weeping with anticipation,” Slade answered, surprised by how much he liked that Carson had called Atticus theirs. Despite the tension, it still felt right. The three of them together.

“How would you like to play this?” Carson asked.

Slade wasn’t able to hide his surprise, his head snapping around, eyes slamming into Carson. “You’re askin’ for my input?”

“I’m askin’ if you want to have a say.”

Slade’s cock pulsed and thickened. That hard, dominating tone always got him. It was one of the things he’d loved most about Carson. The way he could turn him into putty without even trying.

Slade looked up to see Atticus watching him closely, waiting for his response.

“What do you think?”

“He doesn’t get a say,” Carson snapped. “He doesn’t get to speak.”

Slade was still watching Atticus, still had his hand around the man’s dick, so he felt and saw how much that turned him on.

“Decide,” Carson said firmly.

He turned his head slowly, meeting Carson’s gaze once again. “No. I don’t want a say.”

“Good boy.”

Jesus fuck. Those words said in that dark baritone were nearly enough to make him come. He hadn’t heard them in so damn long he’d forgotten just how powerful they were.

Carson moved closer, gripping Slade’s wrist and stilling it.

“You take over,” he instructed Atticus as he pulled Slade to his feet.

Slade stood, his own breaths labored as anticipation coursed through his veins.

“Undress me,” Carson commanded, his eyes fixed on Atticus’s hand moving up and down his shaft.

With so much heat churning in his veins, it was a wonder Slade was capable of performing such a simple task. Yet, he got to work doing exactly that.

Carson watched Atticus watching Slade remove his clothes, piece by piece.

The more he took off, the hotter the gleam in Atticus’s eyes became.

It was a heady feeling to know the man was turned on as much as he was.

Especially like this. Carson got off on instructing, on watching a scene play out.

But being part of the action only added to the intensity.

Admittedly, he used to keep himself detached from the action.

It was easier that way. Back when he’d been with Slade, Carson had kept it that way, choosing to watch Slade with other men.

On occasion, he would participate, but for the most part, he would revel in the debauchery and then simply take what he wanted from Slade after the fact.

With Atticus and Slade, Carson didn’t want to be on the periphery.

He wanted to be with them. Both of them.

With every passing day, his need for both of them was intensifying.

Almost to a point that it scared him. He knew Slade still hated him for what he’d done, for how he’d mishandled their relationship.

He didn’t blame him. It was the least Carson deserved.

Still, he wanted more, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to express that. When it came to sex, he was a pro at taking control, pushing boundaries, fulfilling fantasies. When it came to feelings, he was a novice.

“Atticus, get on the bed. All fours, facing that wall, not the headboard,” Carson told him. “Put your chest on the mattress and spread your cheeks.” Carson looked down at Slade. “You can stand up now.”

Slade got to his feet and moved to Carson’s side, watching as Atticus crawled up on the bed and did as instructed.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as he got into position.

When he reached back to reveal his puckered hole, he hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough to give Carson a reason to swat his ass, which he did.

Atticus moaned.