Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
As punishment, I don't even bother reaching for the traitor. I already know that gripping him in my palm, giving him a few strokes, hell, even taking myself all the way would seem second best at what I know Zeus would be capable of making me feel. I've never really been the type to settle for second best, so why start today?
I feel like a complete creep, but more than that, I'm intrigued by what I would find if I opened the door.
That thought makes me take a step back, pressing my hand to the coldness on my cheek from where it had been pressed against the door.
The man has a right to his privacy, and I have no entitlement to know what he does on his own time.
Turning to walk away seems impossible, but somehow I manage to twist, my feet angling toward my room, knowing I'm going to have to press a pillow over my ears to keep from hearing the noises he's making. Even then, I have no doubt my mind will take over at that point.
Escaping him seems even more impossible now.
I'm fully committed to giving the man privacy, glancing over my shoulder toward the living room, wondering if the listening device The League planted is picking any of this shit up when I hear it.
I tilt my head, fully aware that my mind could be playing tricks on me, but then I hear it a second time, the whisper of my name.
My eyes dart back to the door.
A third time.
Zayne comes out of the room with even more urgency than before.
As much as I would've assured someone this happening would be the best thing in my life, that man thinking of me in that way, it's also impossibly dangerous for the job we're in the middle of right now.
There's a fucking reason why people who sleepwalk and shit are discharged from the military. Controlling yourself at all times is imperative to the kind of jobs that are expected of you, and this situation is no different.
Indignant and a little giddy at being given the opportunity, I reach for the doorknob, twisting it before shoving the damn door open.
I fully expected to see the man sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking himself. If I let myself think about it long enough, I would've bet money he also had a snarl on his face because he was pissed I was in his head at all.
But that isn't how I find my old friend.
Frankie Jenkins is face down on top of his covers, back bare with muscles tensing as he moves, hips grinding his pelvis into the mattress.
"Fuck," I whisper, knowing I've been caught when every muscle in his body tenses.
He flips over, eyes wide, cock straining in his boxers, the patch of wet on the front of them catching my eyes first.
When I find the strength to look at his face, I see cheeks pink with embarrassment, throat working on a swallow as he stands.
I take a step back, sure he's about to punch me in the face or at minimum yell at me for invading his privacy.
I stand my ground, needing to remind him of the situation we're in and how his little dreams could get us both killed.
His eyes drift down the front of me, slowly making their way down to my knees before sweeping back up again.
When his eyes meet mine, there's not a hint of anger I can find in them.
Now it's my turn to swallow, the lump of what needs to be said, battling with the teen I was years ago who would've given both kidneys for the chance of this man looking at him the way he is now.
Instead of a fist to the face, he steps in close, reaching around me to close the door at my back.
The room is tiny, but it feels even smaller with him so close I can smell the mint of toothpaste on his breath.
"I he-heard noises," I stammer, feeling like a fool. "I wanted to make sure you were alright."
"Did I sound like I was in pain?" he whispers in my ear, his warm breath traveling down my neck.
My mouth opens to respond, but no sounds come out. The brush of his lips at my racing pulse fries my brain, making it impossible to form words.
Have I ever been able to speak?
What is language anyway?
I press myself closer, giving in to the need to press my erection against something, anything that belongs to him.
He doesn't take a step back.
He doesn't question what I'm doing or respond in a way that makes me think I'm crossing a line he doesn't want to cross with me.
I freeze, knowing from experience that the line will come, and he's the only one who knows where it is. I've been down this road with him before.