Page 27 of Brushed and Buried
Time stretches. Each second is a slow drumbeat of shared, unspoken desire and tension. His glances, the flick of muscle, the shivers that run through him pull me deeper and make me ache for the final surrender I know is coming. In that space, I finally see him. Controlled, fierce, and almost unreachable. I let myself revel in the fact that he is mine, if only for this electrifying moment.
We stare at each other, our bodies still trembling from what just happened, but we both know we cannot stay suspended in this haze forever.
He pushes me upright, gripping my shoulders, then rights himself in one smooth motion. I shift, adjusting my own throbbing erection, sharp and insistent, but I know this is not the moment to press my luck. Vince’s walls, as much as he tore them down, will start rising again soon enough.
He cleans himself slowly, glances flicking at me, his eyes dark and calculating. I keep my expression steady, making it look likeI do not need him to take care of me. He meets my gaze, and I tilt my chin in a subtle command to move along.
The unspoken agreement hangs heavily. We move back to the front, and the engine roars back to life. My chest hollows.
We get to the overlook late, and everything is already in motion. Other teams are laughing, arms draped over each other, leaning in for photos, their joy spilling outward like light. I see it all, but it barely touches me. It’s like I am watching through a pane of glass into someone else’s world. I force a grin, snap our proof shot, make a joke about getting lost along the way, and the sound of my own voice startles me with how convincing it sounds. Nobody questions it. Nobody notices that I am not really here.
Next clue, next stop, another fake smile, another stepthrough the motions. By the time we reach the cliffside picnic, the sun is melting into the horizon, bleeding violent orange into soft pinks and streaks of violet that should make me reach for my sketchbook, but I cannot. My hands tremble. Everything beautiful I see blurs into the memory pressed close under my skin, heavy and insistent and impossible to ignore.
Trevor calls out cheerfully, “Finally! Scenic route, huh?” Laughter ripples through the group. I laugh too, too loud but hollow, carrying through the air without touching me. The other teams are already halfway through wine and finger food. Becca beams and drags me into a photo, framing us with her sunny, oblivious energy, and I barely feel it.
Vince stands apart as he always does, hands shoved in pockets, a shadow carved from stone. I steal a glance at him. He does not look back; he does not need to. That alone tells me everything.
Because the prize was never the picnic; it was never the game. The prize was him in the car, unraveling beneath my mouth, letting go in a way no one else sees. That memory cuts through me, sharp and hot, drowning out laughter, wine, and sunset alike. It is both the best victory I have ever had and the worst, leaving me shaking long after the painted sky fades to violet night.
11
Adrian
The largest of the groomsmen suites at Azure Tides looks like it’s survived a storm. Half-empty bottles glimmer on the low table, their labels catching in the mellow lamplight. Jackets sag in a corner, and someone’s sunglasses lie abandoned on the carpet, like they’ve melted there. The air smells of sunscreen, sweat, and the sharp bite of bourbon, with a faint trace of citrus cleaner lurking underneath. Golden light pools in the corners, soft and forgiving, glinting off glass and polished wood.
I sink into the arm of the couch, pretending to scroll through my phone, but really I’m watching. Trevor sprawls back, fingers brushing the rim of a whiskey glass. Becca has been swept away by her aunt and a circle of relatives after dessert at dinner. That leaves him with the guys. Just us guys.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he says, swigging from the bottle, “but how come none of you blokes have even thought about hitting the resort bar? The place is crawling with girls.”His tone is easy, teasing, but there’s still a question tucked in there, a little needle under the joke.
Silence stretches, taut and sharp enough to cut. Lance raises his brows, his gaze drilling into me as if he’s trying to map every inch of me and every secret I’m too scared to admit. George scratches at his jaw, eyes flicking to me like I would know the answer to that. Vince doesn’t look up from the bottle in his hand, but I can feel him in the room. Precise, controlled, a predator waiting for the tiniest slip.
The usual testosterone drive to hit the bar, to chase and to throw themselves at strangers, isn’t there. I honestly wouldn’t know what they normally do since I just met them a few days ago, except for Vince, but something tells me it’s not normal for them to sit here and do nothing.
All of them are looking at me. Heat prickles under my collar, twisting in my stomach. “Yeah, I wonder why. So…why not, guys?”
With that trademark half-smirk tugging at his mouth, Lance finally breaks the silence. “Well,” he drawls, casual but not careless, “lately my tastes have kinda…evolved. I figured I would try and humor it, see if I like myself doing it or being it.” His tone is light, almost teasing.
“Yeah…you tell us,” George murmurs, and it lands heavy, like the fault is mine to carry. It’s like I’m supposed to know why things are…different.
Vince’s silence, though, makes the most impact. His history with women is curated the way museums display art. Polished, high-profile, untouchable. It was never messy or lingering, yet there are gaps I can’t ignore. Would he hook up with someone without rules or control?
I swallow. The moment stretches tight, crackling with something curious, hungry, and daring. None of us speaks it aloud, but the tension presses against our throats. Vince’s gaze slides over me in a slow, calculating sweep. I can feel it in my chest, a sudden, low-burning awareness I can’t name. This isn’t straight-guy territory anymore, no, not tonight. And somewhere in the pit of my stomach, a thrill blooms that I can’t stop.
Lance leans back on his elbows, grin wide and suspiciously tipsy, eyes glittering like he’s just dared himself to light a match in a room full of gasoline. “Alright, boys. How about we play a game? Something pretty boy Adrian over here would definitely…enjoy.”
“What game?” Trevor asks, though his eyes are already cutting toward me, like he knows damn well where this is headed.
“Truth, Dare, or Touch,” Lance declares, savoring every word. “Strip if you chicken out.”
I groan and laugh at the same time, dragging it out, already resigned to my fate. “Okay, but why do I feel like the stripping part is mainly reserved for me? I mean, sure, it’s literally my job.”
Lance just beams, smug and merciless, like a cat with a mouse. He points at me, tapping his finger against my chest, the touch light but loaded. “You’re it the whole night. Entertainment package.”
The room shifts, the air tilting heavy as the words sink in. For a beat, no one moves.
Trevor leans back, eyebrows arched, grinning like he’s already replaying myMagic Mikenumber in his head. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” he drawls, drawing out the vowels like he’s settling in for a show. “I’ve seen what this guy can do with his hips. I can’t wait to see what he does when we’re calling the shots.”
“Okay, so how does it work?” George asks.
