Tobias (The Kings of Brighton Book 1)

by Megyn Ward

  Reaching down to fist my hands in his hair, holding him in place one second, trying to pull him away from me the next. “Oh—oh my…” I pant out, eyes screwed shut against the bright, overhead bulbs. “Tobias, please—I can’t—”

  Ignoring the desperate grip I have on him, he presses forward, the impossible width of his shoulder so forceful, it pushes me toward the opposite edge of the counter. Without letting up, he slips a hand under the small of my back while laying a heavy forearm across my lower belly, anchoring me in place. He makes a sound, low and ravenous, in the back of his throat before latching his mouth around the hot flesh between my thighs.

  And then he devours me.

  Licking and sucking. Nipping and swirling. Gentle one second, almost rough the next, Tobias consumes me until I can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t feel anything but him.

  Even though I can feel the excruciating pleasure building inside me, the orgasm takes me by surprise, ripping through me like lightning. Galvanized, I feel like I’m spinning apart inside my own skin and my eyes pop wide as I let out a shuttering moan, shaped around his name.

  “Tobias.”

  And then I’m in his arms, dazed and still shaking, being carried across the empty expanse of his apartment, his legs eating the distance between the kitchen and his bedroom with long, purposeful strides.

  Kicking the panel open with an impatient growl, he tosses me on the bed. Standing over me, his gaze, dark and feral, rakes over me as his hands go for his belt, pulling its tongue loose of its notch with an impatient jerk that draws my attention. His erection is enormous, pushing at the front of his pants, straining toward me against the teeth of his zipper. Remembering the way he felt pressed against me, the promise of him stroking me through my borrowed silk boxers tightens my nipples and dampens my core all over again.

  Staring down at me, he reaches for his fly, ripping it open with a look of stark hunger that stalls the breath in my lungs.

  And then he stops.

  His hands go still and the air in his lungs pushes out in a fast rush. He mutters a curse, lifting his hands to his hair, running his fingers through it with a frustrated push. “I don’t have any condoms.”

  The intrusion of reality is like a slap in the face. Pushing myself up on my elbows I look up at him. “What?” I say, hoping like hell I heard him wrong.

  “I’ve never—” He cuts himself off from whatever he was about to say, letting his hands fall away from his hair. “I don’t keep condoms here.”

  Oh.

  Frowning slightly, he nods. “I’ll call Ang—”

  Whatever he’s about to say, I don’t let him finish. Scrambling to my knees, I kneel on the bed in front of him to hook my fingers into the waistband of his pants, yanking them down around his hips to free his arousal.

  Looking down at me, he seems almost confused, like he can’t figure out what I’m doing.

  That changes when I wrap my hand around his shaft and slide the head of him past my open lips.

  He groans, the sound of it low and heavy in his chest. Looking up at him through my lashes, I find him watching me lave and caress him with my mouth and tongue, an odd sort of fascination on his face, like he can’t figure out who I am or how we got here.

  “Argenta…” he says my name, pushing his fingers through my hair, rocking his hips against the pressure of my mouth. “Jesus.” Closing his eyes, Tobias throws his head back, thick neck tight and corded with muscle. Jaw clenched, mouth lax against the shallow, uneven push of his breath as he fights for control.

  “I’m—stop.” He pushed the word through clenched teeth, the hands in my hair becoming urgent, gripping so tight my scalp starts to tingle. “Wait.”

  Remembering the relentless way he drove me toward orgasm, I don’t stop. I don’t wait. I pursue his pleasure as ruthlessly as he did mine, sucking and licking until I feel the tense and jerk of his release against the back of my throat. Taste the salt of it on my tongue.

  10

  Tobias

  It’s got to be close to 3 AM by now. I should be getting up. Hitting the gym. Starting my day. Instead, I’m lying in bed—my bed—with a woman I barely know and I don’t want to leave.

  If we’d been at the Hawthorne, I’d have been gone hours ago. Showered and dressed, instructions left with the concierge to deliver my guest an eight o’clock wake-up call, followed by breakfast at nine and a car to take her wherever she wanted to go.

  I reason that I’m sticking around because I don’t want to leave her alone in my private space. That doing so would be a mistake. Send the wrong message. As if anything that’s happened over the past three hours sends the right one.

  Like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, she sits up without warning, moving toward the edge of the bed, away from me. I watch her move around my room, dark hair licking at her lush hips. Full, soft breasts swaying as she leans down to gather up her discarded dress. Sinking down, she sits at the foot of the bed, shoulders sagging a bit. Like the prospect of putting it on is too much to even consider.

  Let her go.

  Let her leave.

  “I can call Angus,” I say quietly, watching her back instantly stiffen at the sound of my voice. “Have him bring you something… easier to wear.”

  She shoots me a wry smile over her shoulder. “Doesn’t poor Angus ever sleep?”

  “I don’t pay him to sleep.” I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, intent on finding my cell phone. “I pay him for chocolate cake and midnight Tiffany runs.” When all I get for my joke is another half-smile I reach for my pants to dig out my phone.

  “It’s okay, Tobias,” she says. “I don’t want you to—”

  “Then come back to bed.” It comes out of nowhere and as soon as I say it I realize what I’m doing. My offer to call Angus wasn’t brought on by some altruistic need to help save her from a walk of shame. I offered to call him as a stall tactic. To keep her here a while longer because no matter what my brain keeps insisting, I don’t want her to leave.

  Swiping my hand over my face I watch her, the way she chews on her bottom lip in consideration. The stiff set of her shoulders and back because I told her what to do and she doesn’t like it. “Come back to bed.” I say it again because I don’t care if she likes it or not.

  Please.

  The word is on my tongue, ready to be pushed out but she drops the dress on the ground and turns. “Only for a little while,” she tells me, crawling back in bed, headed for the opposite side of it. I reach out and snag her, wrapping my arm around her waist, turning her toward me to tuck her in tight against my side.

  “Okay,” I say softly, playing with the ends of her hair. “Only for a little while.”

  We lay here for a while, her head on my shoulder, her soft, warm body pressed against mine. Her breath on my neck. “What’s your middle name?” I say, aiming a look at the top of her head.

  She lifts her head, stacking her hands on my chest before resting her chin on top of them. “You first.”

  I give her a wry smile “James.”

  She tips her head from side to side, like she’s trying it out in her head. Satisfied, she smiles. “Mine’s Danielle. Your favorite color?”

  “You first,” I say, smiling while playing my fingertips up the length of her spine.

  “Red.”

  “Mine too,” I say, thinking about the dress, lying somewhere on my bedroom floor. “Tell me something else,” Holding the tips of her hair like a brush, I run them along the slope of her shoulder. “Something no one else knows.” I don’t know what I’m asking for. Why I’m asking for it. I don’t want to know. Don’t want to examine the last few hours of my life too carefully.

  “You first,” she says, the corner of her mouth lifting in challenge.

  I look away, watch as the ends of her thick black hair skim the soft skin of her shoulder. “My mother died on my birthday.”

  I feel the air between us change and I hate it. I didn’t mean to say it. Didn’
t mean to tell her something like that. I could’ve told her anything. That I’m allergic to coconut or that I’m ambidextrous. I could’ve told her that I hate this apartment or that I’ve been going to the same shoe shine guy in Grand Central Station for six-years now because I like the way he says my name with his funny Russian accent. Anything. I could’ve told her anything, but I had to tell her that.

  I had to tell her the truth.

  “The last thing she ever said to me was, Happy birthday, Toby. This is going to be the most important day of your life… and then she died.” I force myself to look at her, expecting questions and teary eyes. She’ll look at me like I’m damaged. Like I need fixing.

  But this woman keeps surprising me.

  As soon as I look at her she gives me a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Tobias.”

  That’s it. That’s all she says. No tears. No questions. No let me fix you.

  “It was a long time ago,” I say, pushing my grief aside and burying it so deep it vanishes in an instant. “Your turn.”

  “Okay...” She considers me for a few moments, like what she’s about to say is monumental, and I may not be worthy of such a prize. “I love pizza rolls.” The way she says it, in a quiet rush, tells me it’s something she considers blasphemous.

  Relief courses through me. “You love pizza rolls?” I say, tipping my chin a bit to get a look at her face. “That’s your big secret? You love pizza rolls.”

  She nods, giving me a sigh that’s half forlorn, half rapturous. Hearing it makes me smile. “And Twinkies. And frozen burritos. If it comes pre-packaged and contains enough preservatives to build a murder defense around, it’s probably in my kitchen.”

  “And that’s a problem because...”

  “Because—” She stops herself. I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. Whatever she says next, that’s the real secret. That’s the thing she’s never shared. The thing I want to know. “Because I want to own my own restaurant someday.”

  “And?” I laugh.

  “And who’s going to reserve a table at a restaurant, a year in advance, with pizza rolls and Twinkies on their menu?”

  I think she’s joking. I hope she’s joking, because I laugh even harder. “Are you laughing at me?” she says, eyes narrowed slightly.

  I lift my head off the pillow and look at her. She’s glaring at me but her mouth is held in a barely suppressed smile. “No,” I say shaking my head. “I would never.”

  “Good,” she says in a prim tone that reminds me of the way she crossed her legs at the ankle while she was sitting alone at Level earlier tonight. “Because I’m baring my soul here.”

  “Your soul made of pizza rolls?”

  “Asshole,” she says, laughing as she rears up to poke me in the ribs, giving me a perfect view of her full, soft breasts. Her dusky pink nipples. The shadowy cleft between her thighs. The way her long tumble of dark hair frames her perfectly. Having her in bed with me, I’ve been hard for hours now but catching a glimpse of her naked, makes me ache.

  “Guilty,” I say, reaching up to capture one of her breasts, holding it in my hand, skimming her nipple with the pad of my thumb, loving the way it tightens and swells at my touch. “I’m not a nice man, Argenta.” I say it softly, not wanting her to hear me but needing to say it anyway. Needing to warn her. “I don’t know what this is—what tonight is all about—but this isn’t me. I’m not this guy. I’m not—”

  “Shhh...” Kneeling over me she leans in to press her mouth against mine. “Whatever it is, don’t spoil it,” she says as her hand travels down the length of my torso, pushing past the sheets pooled at my waist to wrap around my cock.

  I press into her grip when she starts to move her hand along the length of my shaft, my own hand following suit, moving lower until my fingertips brush against the top of her cleft. I look up at her, fingers teasing her, urging her to let me inside. Levering herself up on to her knees, she pushes them apart, opening herself up to me.

  My way eased by her arousal, I push myself deep inside her with a groan, penetrating her with my fingers. “Christ, you’re wet.” I stroke her, over and over, gathering her honey, slicking it over her most sensitive spot until she’s moaning and writhing against my hand, her own pumping up and down the desperate length of me, matching the rhythm I’ve set between her thighs.

  I can feel it building for us both. We’re going to come this way, together. But I want more.

  Need more.

  One moment, she’s kneeling beside me, riding the strokes and thrusts of my fingers inside her and the next, she’s under me, thighs spread wide by the press of my hips against hers, the blunt head of my bare cock pushing at the center of her.

  “Argenta.” I say her name, softly and only once. I’m not sure if I’m begging for permission or urging her to stop me. She’s looking up at me, her dark hair a wild tangle beneath her, eyes wide and nearly black with desire.

  I feel her hands slip down my shoulders, coasting along the length of my spine, lower and lower until her fingers stroke over the cheeks of my ass before digging in, urging me to take her. “Yes,” she moans, her knees coming up, tilting her pelvis toward me, offering herself to me, stroking the head of my shaft with her throbbing, wet core. “Please, Tobias.”

  And then I’m inside her, the hot, silky feel of her wrapped around me, so much better than I imagined.

  11

  Boston, Massachusetts, 2018

  Silver

  “Noah.” I sigh, leaning my head against the locked bathroom door. “Please let me in.”

  “No, thank you.”

  I close my eyes and pray for patience.

  I do it at least a hundred times a day.

  “Noah James Fiorella—” I put on my mom voice, hating the way it makes me sound. “Open this door right now or I’ll—” My mom tone is cut off by the sound of a flushing toilet and the sudden rush of water. Defeated, I step away from the door and wait for it to open.

  When it does I wrangle my face, pushing it into a frown and aim it downward. “You know better than to lock the door.”

  Noah just shrugs, looking up at me. “You know better than to walk into an occupied bathroom, but you still do it.”

  He’s four.

  I am in so much trouble.

  “It’s my bathroom,” I tell him, even as I remind myself not to get pulled into another debate with him. He loves to argue.

  He’s so totally my kid.

  “Aunt Lilah’s in mine,” he says, skirting around me on his way to the kitchen. “Can I have a Poptart for breakfast?”

  I follow him down the short hallway. “No.” Guilt lifts my hand to my mouth so I can brush away any residual crumbs. “They’re not good for you.”

  He looks at me as he climbs onto his stool at the breakfast bar, giving me a wry smile that lances straight through my gut. Causes my heart to twist in my chest like its being wrung dry.

  He looks just like his father when he smiles like that.

  “Then why do you buy them?”

  Because I’m a junk food junkie.

  Throwing a quick glance at the clock I see that, despite everything, we’re running ahead of schedule. “How about I make you some waffles,” I offer, ignoring his question completely.

  “With peaches and whipped cream?”

  “Strawberries,” I counter, taking mental stock of our refrigerator.

  “Can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “Aunt Lilah ate ‘em when she came home last night.”

  Son of a bitch.

  I don’t ask him how he knows. Mainly because I don’t want to know what he may have bared witness to. When it comes to my sister’s behavior, ignorance is definitely bliss. “Did she eat the blueberries too?”

  Noah shakes his head. “She didn’t get the chance. She started throwing up right after the strawberries.”

  So much for ignorance.

  On cue, retching sounds erupt from the guest bath down the hall.

  “Okay, waffles a
nd blueberries, then,” I say, pulling waffle mix from the cabinet while ignoring the sounds of my sister’s liver trying to make a break for it.

  “Compote?”

  “Noah.”

  “What?” His gray eyes go wide beneath his mop of dark hair. “Like it’s hard to make?”

  He may be my kid but he’s my father’s protégé.

  “Okay,” I say, pulling out a saucepan because he’s right. “Waffles with whipped cream and blueberry compote.”

  Noah wrinkles his nose and shrugs. “Rather have a Poptart.”

  Yup. My kid. Straight to the bone.

  Before I can break out my mom voice again, the toilet flushes down the hall. Seconds later, the door opens and Delilah emerges, weaving her way through the living room. She’s still drunk. Fantastic.

  “What’s for breakfast?” she says, sliding onto the stool next to Noah.

  “Not Poptarts,” Noah says, studying her. “You look bad.”

  Delilah shoves her mass of blonde hair out of her face to reveal raccoon eyes and what Noah lovingly refers to as clown mouth. “Yeah?” She narrows her eyes at him. “Well, you smell bad.”

  “Not as bad as you,” he tells her, leaning in to take a whiff. He jerks back, his face scrunched up in four-year-old disgust “You smell like you slept behind the dumpster at grandpa’s restaurant.”

  She swivels in her stool, almost falling off. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?” She looks at me, holding onto the breakfast bar in an attempt to keep herself upright.

  I look at Noah and sigh. “Apologize to your aunt.”

  “But it’s true.” He goggles his eyes at me. “She smells like old fish and throw-up.”

  “Noah James.”

  He scowls at me before turning in his seat to face her. “I’m sorry you smell like old fish and throw-up, Aunt Lilah.”