Adore (On My Knees Duet Book 2)

by Ella James

  “Thanks.” His voice sounds ragged.

  I scoot back a little, spread his cheeks, and start to put the soft pack there, but his hand stops me. “I like it.”

  My cock twitches. “Do you?”

  I trace a fingertip along his purple-stained crack. Then he rocks back toward me.

  My pulse surges. “You want it.” I swallow hard. “You want me in you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want my fingers or—”

  “I want to be used so hard I can’t walk tomorrow. Then I want to fucking sleep.”

  I’ve never been harder in my life. I help him shift onto his back and work his cock and mine together till we’re both rock-hard and groaning. Then I fill him up with lube. I rub my thick cockhead against his hole and work my way in slowly, watching his face for pain. But he looks rapt. He’s breathing deep and steady. When I’m pushed deep into him, I raise his legs over my shoulders.

  I’m so worked up that it hurts to hold out—but I do, for the first few minutes. He gives a groan and then a hoarse shout as I start to come in harder, faster. He must feel my dick swell when I’m close, because he reaches out and runs his palm over my thigh and starts a grunted litany of, “oh yeah...oh yeah…oh yeah.”

  Finally, when I’m shaking and sweating and I can’t help it—I’m about to come—I rub his hot spot, and he shudders my name.

  I come harder than I ever have. So hard that by the time I open my eyes, I wonder how we got where we are. I’m slumped half on top of him. He’s got an arm behind his head. He’s sort of smirking at me, even though his abs are streaked with cum and one of his legs is still up on my back. I laugh, and his lips twist into something like a grim smile.

  He looks tired but I think…not unhappy.

  “Fuck.” He twists his hips, lifting off the bed like he’s sore. Then his tired eyes find mine. “Whatcha gonna feed me, preacher man?”

  The doorbell rings right at that second, and his eyes pop open wide.

  I laugh at his surprise. “Hang on.”

  I feel almost heady as I jog off down the stairs.

  4

  Vance

  Fuck, I’m crazy. I wash up while he’s downstairs and think on that the whole time. Everything about today was crazy—I’m not a damn submissive—but I liked it. Let’s be honest—fucking loved the filthy, depraved shame of all that. I’d do it again, I think.

  I can’t picture eating with him—if food’s even what he went to get. I figure I’ll come out of the bathroom and he’ll be gone. Instead, I find him waiting on the bed with a brown bag. He’s got his back against a pillow at the headboard and his legs out, ankles crossed in front of him. He looks like a demigod in white briefs. He looks just like I remember, and it makes this feel surreal.

  I swallow as his gaze moves over my fresh boxer-briefs, then back up to my face.

  There’s a beat where we don’t speak. Where it feels…strained. Where he looks at me with a grave face, and I feel like I’m stepping into thin air as I get up on the bed beside him. I can smell food in the bag. He put in a food order—before he got here.

  “Whatcha got there?”

  His gaze touches mine before retreating. “Vegan Greek.”

  I can’t see his features well. Over here on the bed, away from the light spilling through the bathroom and bedroom doors, things are darker. We’re both cast in dim light from the window by the bed.

  Heat moves through me—just a consequence of being near him. I drag in a deep breath, hoping he won’t notice. I try hard to keep my voice low-key as I ask, “How’d you know?”

  He lifts two takeout containers out of the bag and opens one. “How do you think?”

  He remembers what I like from when he used to watch my Instagram. But that was years ago now.

  “Did I mention vegan?”

  He shifts his shoulders, window light emphasizing his features so I can see his mouth twist. “Lucky guess.”

  I rub one of my biceps and sit cross-legged. I’m hungry and cold. As if he can read my mind, Luke reaches over my lap, grabs a fistful of blanket, and pulls it across both of us.

  “Cold night.”

  I can’t find my voice.

  He hands over my to-go box. As I set it in my lap, it hits me—I feel scared. I’ll do anything for him. It’s like…I just can’t not. I’ve never been a stupid guy, but I have no sense of self-interest when I’m near him.

  When I look up again, he’s stretched out on his back. He’s got his arms folded behind his head and his eyes shut.

  “I was seeing someone.” I watch his chest rise…then fall. “Someone I liked.” He shifts a muscled arm over his eyes—the way he does when he can’t stand my eyes on him. “Tonight, I broke it off. So I can be with you for shy of three months. And you know the worst part?”

  “No.”

  He moves his arm so he can look at me. “I don’t regret it. If I could fix the cameras every day, I’d make you wear that every day to work.”

  He means that he’d want me at his mercy every day. Because he wants to make me feel how he feels—and he feels helpless. Like he doesn’t have a choice at all.

  He feels just like I do.

  His eyes burn. His jaw is hard. Like he resents this.

  “You want me to say I’m sorry?” I ask. My pulse picks up as his gaze holds onto mine. “Yeah well, I wish I was. Wish I understood why this shit with you keeps on happening. Especially if you don’t want it.”

  And he doesn’t want it. How could he? He just fucking told me I’m wrecking his shit. Doubt rises in me—followed by a prickling irritation that comes from having my pride stomped on. “Maybe I should go.”

  He covers his face again, and for the longest time, it’s quiet. Then he moves his arm.

  “Go,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

  “Why? Because you’re scared?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Because I’m fucking scared, Vance.”

  I think of his life and feel a sharp twist of guilt. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “No.” His face is hard. “It’s not your fault. Go back to Chelsea.”

  Then he’s up, crossing the room with long strides. The bathroom door shuts hard behind him.

  I knock twice, and when I find it locked, I realize there’s got to be something that lets me in; this is a rental unit, after all. I rub my fingers over the door’s frame. I don’t know what it’s called, but one of those pointy…there! I knock something off the door frame, and it lands between my feet.

  “Luke?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I poke the thing into the small hole on the doorknob, jiggle it and twist until it catches, and push the door open slowly. I find him in the shower with his forehead pressed against the wall, his broad back heaving. I touch his shoulder; it feels goose-bumped, slicked in cold sweat.

  “Sorry,” he says. It’s more like a gasp.

  I hesitate for just a second before I wrap my arms around him from behind. His muscles tremble. “I’m not strong,” he rasps.

  “What do you mean?”

  He doesn’t answer, so I come around in front of him. His head is bowed. Moving between him and the shower’s wall, I pull him up against me and wrap my arms around him. He’s so fucking still. I run my fingers into his hair, holding him tight.

  “I’m…not strong.”

  I have to struggle not to laugh at such a fallacy. “Yes, you are. You’re too strong.”

  He shakes his head. A little shiver starts to tremble through him. He just stands there, locked around me, shaking like that, and I feel so fucking helpless I could drive my fist through the wall.

  “I thought you would go.” His words are soft groans.

  “Didn’t think I’m tough enough to go out with a plug in my ass? What the hell would make you think that?”

  I feel him smirk against my neck. I hug him closer. “I will go.” I slide my hand up his nape, fingers stroking into his hair. “I’ll do whatever will help you. That’s the way it is with you a
nd me, yeah?”

  He lifts his head, his glazed eyes reaching for mine. His lips press together, bringing both his dimples out. “I want you to stay,” he murmurs.

  Cool relief spins through me. “Not gonna fuck you up?”

  His lips twist. “Nothing new.”

  Same here, bud.

  I kiss his sad mouth. We start slow and soft, but I can feel him quaking again—this time from desire. Soon we’re wrenching apart, gulping air back. He shoves me against the shower wall, kissing like he means revenge as he strokes my cock so good that I’m gripping a rail for support.

  “I’m gonna come,” I groan out.

  His bites my throat. “Good.”

  Luke

  We stand on the mat after the shower, drying ourselves, and when I tie my towel around my waist, I notice he’s grinning.

  I narrow my eyes in exaggerated skepticism. “What?”

  His smile widens, and he shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve gotten off like ten times today.”

  “Oh. So it’s like that.” I arch a brow in mock condemnation.

  He ruffles my hair. “Yeah. I drop everything for a painful emotional gamble that requires relocating myself and my giant marble centaur for a few orgasms all the fucking time.”

  “Ten’s more than a few.” Then his words sink into my head: painful emotional gamble.

  My whole body tightens, and he notices.

  “Fucking shit, man.” His hauls me up against his hard chest. “That was overstated. Especially the painful part. I don’t even have real feelings. Got my DNA test, turns out I’m ninety percent android.”

  I give a choked laugh. “Not worried about your feelings, buddy.”

  He grins, and I jerk one of his curling locks.

  “You like that curly-Q thing it does after showers?” He smirks. “My mom used to think it was adorable.”

  “Yeah.” He steps back a little and starts toweling his gleaming shoulders, exposing his lower body. I touch his hip where it’s stained purple. “So…adorable.”

  Vance tosses his towel over the shower door and walks into the bedroom, leaning over to dig in his suitcase. I can tell he’s flexing his glutes, so I take my towel off, twist it, and pop him.

  “Fuck!” He whirls on me, adorably incredulous, and shoves my chest the way he likes to do—and so of course I have to grab his arm and walk him to the bed and bend him over…rub myself over his purple-stained bottom.

  “Someone’s been to the gym,” I say.

  “Fighting.”

  I trace a ridge of muscle along his hip. “That so?”

  “Just a little MMA to take the edge off.”

  “I can tell. You’re bigger.”

  He turns over, showing off his six pack and his long erection. I can’t help stroking it—and my own.

  “You missing the twink look?” he says.

  I grin, remembering when I first met him. Guess he was a little twinky. “I like every way you look.”

  “Sincerity…” He’s panting, gritting his teeth as I pump him. “You’re off Team Android,” he says.

  “Please. You’re the most emotional dude I’ve ever met.”

  “What?” He tries to sound offended, but he’s pumping my cock now, and his eyes are lust-glazed.

  “I’m just teasing.” I’m not, but I don’t want to piss him off. And anyway, I like the way he is.

  “Oh fuck.” His dick thickens in my grasp.

  “I know,” I groan. “Me too.”

  A few more strokes, and we both have to clean up before putting on our underwear, which makes me laugh…which makes him get this smirky look.

  “What?”

  He smirks more. “Nothing.”

  “Really, what?”

  “I like you.”

  And it happens—that thing. I feel really hot, and all my thoughts sort of congeal. He leans in and kisses my jaw. “Don’t let it go to your head, preacher boy.”

  I laugh. “I thought I was preacher man.”

  “You were.” He looks proud of himself for giving me a status downgrade. I reach out and flick his nipple.

  He leans away. “Shit, man, I’m about to eat my hand. You’re gonna be carrying me and the food down to the microwave.”

  I was so wrapped up in all this, I forgot for a little while there that he might not have eaten today. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I think you kept me filled up pretty good.”

  He scoops up the food boxes as I tug my boxer-briefs on. “Here.” I try to take the boxes from him, but he lifts a dark brow. “I got ’em…buddy.”

  “Not your buddy, pal.”

  “I’m not your pal, preacher.”

  “I’m not your preacher.”

  “Yeah, you’re not,” he quips as we walk into the hall. “I’m Buddhist.”

  “What?”

  He chuckles.

  “Are you?”

  “If I am, do I get plugged or sent home?”

  I laugh. “Neither.”

  He snorts as we walk down the stairs toward the kitchen. “I’m not really. I mean, sort. But I’m an unsuccessful Buddhist. The not wanting things…” He lifts a shoulder. Softly, he says, “Not so good at that.”

  “I remember that about you, I think. Hedonist.”

  “Says the man in the thousand-dollar suit.”

  I chuckle. “Usually at least two.”

  He tsks and sets our food on the counter. “Really, I’m nothing. Grew up Catholic.”

  “Are you agnostic now?”

  He gives me a big grin, clearly getting a kick out of this. “If I say I am, are you gonna make me say Hail Marys?”

  “Nah, but I might baptize you in the shower next time.” My poker face is really good. His face stays neutral, but his brows bend, and I realize he’s not sure if I’m kidding.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “No.”

  “Sorry for my potty mouth.” Now it’s my turn to wonder if he’s kidding. “Really, though,” he says. He puts one of the cardboard to-go plates into the microwave. “Does it offend you religiously, my shitty language?”

  I press my lips together. “No.”

  “But is it shocking?”

  “Everything about you is a shock to me, Vance.”

  5

  Vance

  I look at him, and he looks at me. Luke McDowell—standing in the kitchen of a San Francisco townhouse with me.

  We take our food upstairs and sit cross-legged on the bed facing each another. He’s everything that I remember. Beautiful body and that dazzler of a smile. The sort-of shyness—quietness.

  “Was it risky for you to come here tonight?” I ask him. “How does that work?”

  His mouth dimples between bites of gyro. “Wore a hoodie.”

  My heart gives a hard kick. “You still have that?”

  He gives me this long look, and his mouth bends down…but then he smiles and rubs his hand over my calf. “It’s downstairs.” He takes a bite and doesn’t look up from my calf, where he’s tracing a circle as he chews.

  I get a big bite of briam.

  “This is good shit.” His eyes flit up to mine, and he smiles. “Good stuff,” I correct. “Dammit!” That gives him a good laugh. “How the hell do you avoid those words?”

  He quirks a brow up. “How do you stand up on scaffolding all day?”

  “It’s your job.”

  “And it’s not yours, Vance.” He gives me a kind smile—one that says he doesn’t give a shit if I curse all damn day.

  “I read ‘goddamn’ is the most offensive to you mega Christians. I’ll cut that one.”

  He smiles wider.

  “I bought your books.”

  His smile falls off. “Which ones?”

  “Both the ones from your church press.”

  His dimples come out for a little frown before he eats another bite.

  “Not a good thing?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No
mixing worlds?”

  He looks at his plate, then brings his gaze back up to meet mine. There’s a little notch between his brows. “Did you read them?”

  “Nope. Burned ’em both.”

  He looks down his nose at me.

  I chuckle. “Yeah, I read them. Read them both twice. Good stuff.”

  He screws his face up, like he’s not sure if he believes me. I grab his knee, squeezing as I grin and then lean in to brush a kiss over his jaw. I rub my forehead against his scruff. “You smell just the same, guy. Maybe better because now I know what’s in that head of yours, and I get what the fuss is all about.”

  I lean away, and he picks at his food, avoiding my eyes.

  “Oh c’mon. Embarrassed?” I tease.

  He looks at me with his eyes held sort of wide, and I tug on his leg hairs. “I liked the love stuff a lot. The focus on gratitude even though you didn’t really call it gratitude. But I was highlighting the part about forgiveness.”

  His mouth pulls into a thoughtful slant. “Your father?”

  I let a breath out. “Yeah.”

  “I met with him last year—at the Capitol. Nearly drove me crazy not to say something.”

  I laugh. “Like what?”

  “Like he’s making a big mistake. Like he’ll be dead one day and never get another chance to know a good man he could call his son.”

  I’m struck still, like one of my marble slabs. My eyes well up because I’m fucked up from my dad, and I’m an artist so the hurty shit hurts bad, and Luke’s face is so handsome and so fucking nice.

  I lean down, rubbing my forehead. “Shit, man.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t tell him he’s a fool. But I thought about you after that and checked your stories from a fake account.”

  I’m grinning—because suddenly I feel almost shy. “Gosh, how thoughtful of you.”

  “You stopped doing stories.”

  I swallow and then take a bite so I can get a second. He moves his hand off my leg, like he can tell I need it. “I stopped doing Instagram,” I say.