by Rayne, Sara
The soft breath Pretty Boy inhaled in response sent a honeyed shiver through his chest, chased by the electric heat of the moonshine. He felt vulnerable, exposed. Lying to Pretty Boy wasn't that much different than just flat out telling the truth. Dude was wicked clever and insightful as fuck.
Especially when it came to Shep.
That realization did little to cool his growing interest. He was a hair's breadth from too turned on to sit on a barstool.
He squeezed his hand into a fist, trying to regain his composure. Fuck. If he didn't get him to back off, he'd be in some serious trouble. He managed to grit out a terse, "Never have I ever made such a fuss over a simple kiss."
"I call bullshit. One, you're a liar. Two, that kiss was about as simple as our first. And three—I ain't made shit out of it. Yet." Pretty Boy ticked his points off on long, tapered fingers.
Shep took a long drink and nodded. "You wanna play or you wanna gab my ear off?"
"Never have I ever let my father convince me to pretend to be something I'm not."
Shep let out a low whistle. "Damn, boy. You ain't playing anymore."
"Sure ain't."
"Just remember who you're playing with. I always play to win." Shep felt something dangerous creep into his tone. He was drunk, frustrated and weary. He'd given up on falling asleep, deferring to habitual drinking and passing out to get a little shut eye. And that made him a damn, mean drunk.
That's why he usually avoided people in the wee hours.
"You think my father did a number on me?" Shep knew his smile hadn't reached his eyes.
The pissed off warning radiating from Pretty Boy's tight shoulders should have turned him off. Should have. Chin tucked down, he glared at him through a fringe of hair falling in his face. "You trying to say something?"
"Quick and dirty—I wasn't the guy that shoved a lit cigarette down a man's throat then broke his neck to get a little payback on daddy." He meant his words to hurt. “Doesn’t matter who you’re punching, it’s always his face you see.”
Problem was seeing Pretty Boy all worked up over what Shep said, all wounded pride and righteous fury and you can go fuck yourself—was just goddamn beautiful. Hypnotically striking didn't begin to cover it. So even if he got Pretty to back off, Shep'd still be aching.
Pretty Boy's head snapped up. "Had nothing to do—"
"C'mon. Who you talking to?" Shep darted a hand out to circle Pretty Boy's wrist, flipping his arm over to the soft, pale underneath. White, circular scars shone in the moonlight spilling in the windows. Shep traced one with the tip of his finger, feeling Pretty Boy shudder under his grip. He barely bit back a groan. He tried to remind himself why he couldn't have this, shouldn't want it. He was coming up empty. "You going to tell me that had nothing to do with this.”
Pretty Boy took a long swallow of 'shine. "I could use a smoke."
"Thought you just had one?"
Pretty Boy waggled his eyebrows. "Not the kind I intend to have now."
"Roll it. I'll take the heat from Ryker." Shep leaned back, studying Pretty Boy's methodical movements as he rolled a blunt, the flash of his thumb ring catching the moonlight.
"You're mad I killed that guy?" He ran his tongue along the seam of the cigar wrap.
"I worry about what it says when a man kills a person and doesn't even blink," Shep said softly. He flicked his Zippo open running the flickering flame along the seam as Pretty Boy perched the blunt between two fingers.
"You did."
Shep took a long swallow of his drink. "I blinked."
"Yeah, I guess so," he said, bitter bristling around the words. "You dropped out of seminary, dropped the church … dropped me."
"I …" How did he want to say this? "I came back for you."
Pretty Boy smirked. "Yeah, led me to the promise land of the Four Horsemen MC. And here I am. What the fuck are you going to do with me now?"
"That's the million dollar questions, isn't it?" Shep stared at the bits of peach floating in his Mason jar.
"There's no answers in that glass," Pretty Boy said. "But I can give you some, if you need." Somehow, his low growl of the word made it sound X-Rated.
Shep swallowed hard. "Hit me."
Pretty Boy inhaled deep, holding the smoke in his lungs as he rasped, "You came here tonight to see me. You locked all the doors before you sat down so our little chat wouldn't be interrupted. And you can't lie when you're drunk."
"That a fact?"
"Yeah it is." He grinned. "So, judging by the relax in your posture, now's a marvelous time for us to have that talk you've been working up to, don't you think?"
"Talk?" Shep asked softly. Pretty Boy wasn't wrong. He was a shit liar when he was sauced. Which probably put him on really dangerous ground.
"About me kissing you in the alley. Or about you kissing me back." Pretty Boy took the smoke out of Shep's hand. He'd let it burn to the filter in one long cylindrical ash. He put it out in an empty saucer. "Which was it?"
"I … didn't." At least, he shouldn’t have. Dammit.
"Didn't what?" Pretty Boy smirked. "Kiss me back?"
He shook his head. Pretty Boy licked his lips and said, "Try again, Shep. You kissed me back. Not just a little. Full throttle, hands all over me, tongue in my mouth, hard as a rock in your pants."
Shep pulled out another smoke and lit it. He held the hit, savoring the toxins. When he exhaled, he picked up his glass and took a long drink, staring Pretty Boy in the eyes. "Yes."
Pretty Boy trembled. He wet his lips. "New game. You stop me when I tell you something about you that isn't true."
Shep nodded, as certain this would go nowhere good as he was that moonshine on an empty stomach was a one-way ticket to hangover land come tomorrow.
"You feel like shit for using Wendy. But you can't focus on that, because you keep picturing what happened with me." He leaned closer, the piney scent of his aftershave just tinged with sweat drifting around Shep, coating his throat, teasing a taste across his lips.
Shep held his gaze for a long moment. He could picture it. Every hot second. The feel of Pretty Boy's body pressed to his, all rippling, hard muscle. The rasp of his five o'clock shadow. The angel-light weight of his silky black hair. The sinfully plush velvet of his lips. The ravenous need to be closer, to feel more, to connect in the oldest way two people could. His cock stiffened just thinking about it, the amount of alcohol he'd drunk bedamned.
"I'm picturing it now," he whispered. A confession to whatever god temptation prayed to.
He watched the confirmation ripple though Pretty Boy's body like a stone skipping across a pond. The sharp inhale of breath, tension trickling through his muscles, his eyes dilating. He wet his lips and Shep was transfixed, unable to look away.
"And you feel like shit about that, too."
Shep looked away. "Is there a way to quit this game? Shouldn't I have a safe word or something?"
"Safety words are for dares, not truths," Pretty Boy scolded in husky tones. He leaned closer, locking his gaze with Shep. "If I came across this bar right now, you're not sure you'd push me away. And that scares the shit out of you."
Shep's hand shook as he reached for his glass—for a taste of something familiar and not forbidden.
Pretty Boy pushed Shep’s glass away, grabbing a bottle of water from the chiller under the bar. "You're losing this game, time to switch to something that won't blind you."
Shep laughed. "You ain't wrong."
The drunker he was, the more Texan his twang. A little secret Pretty Boy happened to be in on. He hid his grin unsuccessfully behind his hand, biting into his thumb ring to stifle a snicker.
Shep's eyes twitched to the movement, fixated on the metal against Pretty Boy's mouth. He swallowed hard and shifted on his barstool.
He was a fuckin’ masochist.
Pretty Boy put his hands flat on the bar and in one fluid pivot, vaulted to the other side, landing lightly on bent knees. Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he looked up at
Shep, a deadly glint in his gaze. Shep's heart stumbled through the next few beats, his breath leaving him in a hurried whisper.
"What are you doing?" Shep's voice sounded like a hollow echo to his own ears. A futile protestation from the sinner who'd already succumbed, crying mercy.
"You want to resist. Pretend you don't want this. Don't want me." He gave a harsh laugh as he stood. "Couldn't say I'd blame you for feeling that way. But that's not true at all. You want me. And you know it's just a matter of time before … you … break."
"You're killing me," Shep whispered, voice dark and rough. He took a swig of his water, holding Pretty Boy's gaze.
Something wild and possessive rode Pretty Boy's voice. He stepped close enough that their knees brushed together. "So why fight it? Why not give in?"
Shep grimaced, but he couldn't move away. "Because I can't. This is … not right."
"Why is that?" Pretty Boy set one hand on the arm of the bar stool and the other on the bar. "Because of your bastard of a father? Or because of mine?"
"I'm starting to feel real serious about that safe word."
"Or is it about punishing yourself? For what you want?'" He slid his hand off the arm of the chair and down to Shep's thigh. The dull pressure of his blunt nails dragging along the muscle sent tendrils of fire burning through his gut. Pretty Boy flexed his grip and Shep shook.
Pretty Boy pressed closer, pinning him on the barstool. His hand inexorably—and achingly slow—drawing higher up Shep's thigh. Pretty Boy's stubble rasped against his cheek as he whispered in his ear, "Your safe word is 'Pretty Boy.' But for what it's worth, safe words are for pussies."
Shep shifted and longing pierced his stomach. A need to feel Pretty Boy's hand against his cock, to feel contact … friction…heat. The ferocity of his hunger took his breath. A naked tempest of want, regret and desperation swirled in his chest.
"What are you doing to me?" Shep groaned. He had a white-knuckled grasp on the bar with one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist. He slammed it down on the bar, squirming on the stool, teeth gritted against the unrelenting heat unfurling in his belly. He forced himself to breathe, struggling to regain his composure.
"Whatever you'll let me do," he replied silkily, his hand sliding dangerously close to Shep's fly.
"Exactly what do you think that is?" Shep turned his head to the side, and Pretty Boy pressed his lips to his exposed neck, nipping lightly. Shep felt his pulse racing under the brush of Pretty Boy's tongue. Liquid heat infused his blood.
"Let's find out." Pretty Boy flicked open the top button of Shep's jeans. His breath caught, trapped in his throat. The sound of the zipper lowering actually made Shep jerk. He wanted to end the teasing. He wanted Pretty Boy's hands on his cock, skin against skin. He wanted him moaning and twitching and coming undone. He wanted—
Pretty Boy paused with Shep's zipper halfway down. "You want me to stop?"'
"I …" Shep cleared his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut to escape the liability of meeting Pretty Boy's gaze and holy fuck that was a mistake. The heat of Pretty Boy's hand on his thigh, the cool air teasing the head of his cock through the thin layer of his exposed boxer briefs, the hot breath stroking his ear, the sweet piney, herbal scent of Pretty Boy invading his lungs—it overwhelmed his senses.
Pretty Boy's teeth grazed the sensitized flesh under Shep's ear. "Problem?"
Shep shook his head slowly, not sure which question he was answering.
"Tell you what," Pretty Boy whispered as he slid his hand under the waistband of Shep's boxer briefs. "You want me to stop, use your safe word. Just be careful you don't get the urge to call out my name and accidentally stop us at an inopportune moment."
His fingers closed around Shep's hardened shaft. Shep’s eyes slid closed. He trembled, knowing Pretty Boy could feel every shiver. "Right now,” Pretty Boy said, “you feel like you should want to stop me. But you don't want to stop. Do you?"
Shep bit into his lower lip, a pained sound escaping him. Pretty Boy tightened his grip and shoved Shep's underwear out of the way. He followed Shep's gaze down to the hands wrapped around his cock, slowly sliding up and down. He swirled the cool metal of his thumb ring over the purple head and Shep gasped.
"You like this. You don't want to. Don't think you should get to have this. But," Pretty Boy paused, running his tongue over the rim of Shep's ear as he twisted his hand with a practiced motion that had Shep's eyes rolling back in his head for a moment. "You're going to."
Shep panted, every cool touch of Pretty Boy's thumb ring pushing him closer to the threshold, reminding him of everything he wanted and couldn't have.
Pretty Boy nudged his head against Shep's. "You're going to come any second now. Even though you don't want to, do you?"
Shep's hips bucked up and his death grip on the bar got impossibly stronger.
Pretty Boy whispered in his ear, "You like this part right here. The feeling and the wanting, the so close to getting it, but being denied. You fucking masochist."
Shep shook, looking away, trying to hold back. He gasped, "True."
"Look at me," Pretty Boy demanded.
Shep complied. His desperation and fear drove his pleasure to unspeakable heights. As their gazes locked, something deeper and infinitely more fragile clicked into place, reverberating through his chest.
"You're going to do something for me, VP." The use of his title tasted dangerously illicit. "You're going to look me in the eye and say my name as I make you come."
"Or what?" Shep's voice was breathy and strained.
"I may not do it again." Pretty boy hastened his pace, then adjusted his grip so his thumb ring raked repeatedly under the sensitive spot just under the head of Shep's cock.
A wave of pleasure hit him out of nowhere, so strong it felt like the air clenched around his body. Shep came apart, shaking, balls tightening, panting. His fist unclenched and he buried a hand in Pretty Boy's hair, pulling him down to look him deep in the eyes as he came, gasping out like a prayer, "Noah, Noah, Noah …"
Blasphemy had never tasted so goddamn sweet.
Chapter Ten
Nobody fucks with kids and doesn't end up bloody.
~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook
* * *
Pretty Boy dragged himself out of bed, scratching his head and wondering why the inside of his mouth felt fuzzier than a peach peel.
Moonshine.
Oh, right.
He walked straight into the bathroom and turned on the shower, taking care of his other morning needs while the water got hot. He stepped into the steaming spray and let his forehead rest on the cool, damp tile of the shower wall.
Moonshine with Shep.
The memory of last night washed over Pretty Boy, a flood of sensation and arousal sweeping through his gut.
What the fuck had he been thinking? How many times had he told himself not to push this? Just because Shep was attracted to him—the thought left his mouth dry—that didn't mean he wanted to act on it. Except… he'd asked Shep so many times if he wanted to stop.
He laced his fingers over the back of his neck, squeezing the muscles there as hot water pounded down his back. He couldn't shake the guilt. Truth was, at heart, Pretty Boy was a manipulator. The better he knew a person, the easier it was to push their buttons, sway their decisions, an invisible influence.
And he'd pushed Shep's buttons. Hell, he'd encouraged him to get drunk.
Pretty Boy felt like an asshole. But the guilt couldn't tamp down his body's reaction to the memories. The feel of Shep in his hands, the sharp hunger in his kisses, the unholy sounds he’d made while writhing underneath him. The reverent way he’d whispered, "Noah." How he'd looked, all just-been-fucked hair and mussed clothing, panting and wrecked, pupils blown, staring up at him before he could gather himself back together.
He reached down, jerking himself over the shower drain, the warm water didn’t make him feel any cleaner. He remembered the soft steel of Shep's cock in his hands, smooth
and hard and his. The way he'd lost control, surrendered and consumed, shaking as he spurted into Pretty Boy's hands. He groaned as the orgasm built in his lower back, rolling through his hips and coiling in his balls. He thought about Shep's tongue thrusting into his mouth, his ragged gasp of 'Noah' echoing in his ears and came so hard, his knees wobbled.
By the time he’d recovered, the water had run cold. He climbed out, not bothering to dry off with the towel before he slung it around his hips and padded out into his living room. His doublewide was nicer than most, because his father had been the on-site manager of the trailer park. Nobody else wanted the job, so Pretty Boy had taken over with a sizable pay cut, but free utilities.
He made coffee, rolled a blunt and walked out the faux French doors onto his patio. His lot was surrounded by a six foot privacy fence and butted up against the woods surrounding the park. Just behind the fence, he grew his main source of income. Which smelled delicious right now. He inhaled deeply, holding it while he sipped his coffee and exhaling in a smooth stream. He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen up.
His phone buzzed, the notification sound—the ring of a bell between rounds of a fight—echoed through the morning.
Balls. How long had he been ignoring his phone? Had he missed some prospect shit?
But the text was from Etta.
Did you ask him yet?
No, he'd gotten distracted by giving Shep a handjob. Goddammit.
I'll do it today. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. As much as he wanted the excuse to check the status of their relationship, the idea of getting Shep to come over here for this made him want to dry heave. Text you when it’s a good time.
He cracked his knuckles, then tossed the phone back and forth between his hands as he considered. He could text.
If he was a fucking coward.
His hand shook a little as he searched Shep's name in his contacts, fingers going numb when it started ringing.
"Yeah?" Shep's voice sounded somehow both wry and wary.
