Page 80 of Unlocked Dive
“So you seriously inserted a butt plug in a Cirque lot port-a-john? That doesn’t sound very sexy. Or sanitary.” The snort that escapes me is halfway between derisive and hysterical, and he gives me a guarded glance, holding the elevator door so I can slide past.
“Jean let me use one of the trailers. And no, I didn’t tell her what I was doing.”
“How does it feel?” Even in the harsh fluorescents of the elevator, he’s stunning—loose tendrils of his chestnut hair framing the lines of his jaw and tickling his throat. His jacket is slung over one forearm, and he leans against the wall, watching me with his hands in his pockets, a study in wary affection tinged with tentative relief.
“Better now that I’m not driving. Or dealing with lot security.”
I step across the enclosed space and grip the handrail at his hips, caging him in.
“Don’t think this lets you off the hook,” I tell him. He shakes his head.
“I don’t expect that. I don’twantit. You deserve—”
“He was the last guy you fucked, wasn’t he? Before me?”
“Yes.”
“But you never let him top you.” I don’t even think Gabe is vers, and Byrd said he’d never bottomed, but I have to be sure.
“No.”
“And you did this”—I slide my hand around to cup his ass and press lightly on the end of the plug with my middle finger—“for me. Because you didn’t want me to hurt you?”
“I didn’t want you to have to be careful. I wanted to make it good for you.”
“Fuck you, Byrd. You know that’s my job tonight, right?”
“Are you sure you still want to?”
The elevator dings, sliding open on the executive level before I can answer. I let him go and walk out first, becauseof courseI still fucking want to. But I also want to hurt him right now—at least a little—and it’s making me reckless.
“It’s probably a bad idea,” I confess, leaning against the wall while he uses the electronic key card to open the door to our suite. He nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and doesn’t look at me. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”
I can forgive him. That’s what love is, right?
“Okay.”
34
Echo
Forgiveness is fuckinghard.
I’m halfway across the living room of our suite when I realize he’s still leaning against the door, watching me miserably, and the regret painted on his features brings all my old frustrations rushing back.
“I’m sorry,” he says, for what feels like the millionth time. My least favorite words from his mouth, even if, this time, I know I should want them.
I take a breath, forcing the words out calmly through the spike of rage. “Why are you always apologizing for giving me your truth? I never asked you to fucking coddle me. Iwantyour truth. Even if that truth is that you fucked my shit-stain brother and let him break your heart.”
“I’m not apologizing for lo—fucking Gabe. I’m apologizing for keeping it from you for so long.”
He’s afraid.Again. Does he think I’ll leave him now? No—that would be vindication, not fear—fulfillment of the prophecy he’s been so sure ofall along.
Does he think I’ll hurt him, here tonight, taking what he promised?
God, I want to. I want to throw him up against that door and drive into him until the only name he knows is mine, and it bursts begging from his lips.
I close the distance, and something darkly eager blooms in his eyes alongside the fear. And yes, when I turn him to face the door, I’m not gentle. A sigh escapes him, laced with gratitude. He’s expecting punishment—for me to soothe his guilt by giving it life.
