Page 159 of King of Pain
His voice cuts off when my hand slides down between us, curling around his cock.
He groans, bracing one hand on the wall as I work him over.
My eyes are locked on his cock, and I revel in the feel of velvet-covered steel in my hands.
Chance grips my chin and guides my gaze up to meet his.
His pretty eyes smolder. “I'm not going to last.”
I lean in and claim his mouth, my tongue demanding entry.
That pushes him over the edge, his release painting my abs like I'm one of his canvases.
I need to try something. I need to taste him. My fingers drag through what hasn't rinsed off yet and I bring them to my mouth. Chance's eyes blaze when I slide two fingers into my mouth and pull them out in a slow, sucking motion. I'm surprised by how much I like the taste. Probably because it's him. Everything about this man is addictive.
We finish getting cleaned up and towel off, both of us laughing and stealing little kisses.
Chance keeps dropping his towel on purpose to show off, flexing as he dries his hair, and I’m pretty sure it’s just to keep my eyes on that ass of his.
Chance grabs some jeans and a Boston St. Paddy's Day t-shirt for me to wear and tosses me a grin as I pull them on. He's enjoying the sight of me in his clothes a little too much.
“Breakfast?” he asks, hopeful.
“Yeah. I'm just going to text Lexi and check on Little G and then let Meg know I'm taking a personal day.”
He lifts a brow. “Is that going to be okay? Taking a day off? I don’t want to—”
“She’s seen you. She’ll understand,” I interrupt teasingly. He blushes a little before shooting me a blinding smile.
“Sounds good. Where do you want to go?” he asks as I shoot off messages and check emails.
“Have you been to Tom’s Diner yet? It’s a few blocks from here. You know—just past my office,” I add pointedly, giving him a look.
He smirks, completely unapologetic.
“Nope. Pass it all the time on my runs to the gym though. Been meaning to try it.”
I open the door, laughing under my breath. “You mean your stalker runs.”
Chance just shrugs, flashing his dimples. “I have no remorse.”
We head down to the street level, stepping out into the crisp morning air. Without even thinking, I reach out and grab Chance’s hand.
He laces our fingers together immediately, the connection pulsing with quiet possession.
We walk a few blocks like that, hand in hand, and I soak up the warmth of him through our linked palms. I’m grinning like an idiot when we near the restaurant, the yellow awning of Tom’s Diner coming into view.
Then I sense it. I sense it before I even hear it.
The low hum of an engine moving slowly behind us. I stop right in front of the restaurant, tugging Chance to a halt beside me.
Turning, I spot the black SUV pulling into a spot along the curb. Behind the wheel, as I expected, is the same huge, muscled, military looking guy I’ve noticed everywhere I go for at least two years now.
I drop Chance’s hand, march straight up to the SUV, and tap lightly on the tinted window.
In the reflection, I catch Chance’s head fall forward, his shoulders slumping like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
The window whirs down and the man peers at me, sunglasses covering half his face.
