Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
“I do know it.” He turns his back to me, walks to his closet—which is the size of a fucking bedroom—and disappears inside. “But I’m warning you,” he says from the depths of the closet. “If you fuck this up—”
“I’m not gonna fuck anything up. I’m invested. You know that.”
Mercer appears in the closet doorway sans shirt. He is a fastidious manscaper. His chest hairs are dark, but very short. He doesn’t shave them, he… I dunno. I don’t even have a word for it. I just know I like it. So I take my time appreciating his upper body. He’s cut. Hard, lean muscles. He’s like a fucking god, or something.
It’s not really fair. I mean, I’m handsome. I know this. People love to look at me. But Mercer is something else. He’s riding the edge of perfect. And he’s always been this way. Charmed. Fortunate. One might even go so far as to call him blessed.
His belt jingles and then he’s unbuttoning his pants. He steps out of them, carefully, then takes them back inside the closet to hang them up. I study his ass underneath those black boxer briefs until he disappears and have to take a deep breath to stop the hard-on.
He knows he does this to me.
But in all fairness, I’m a rather easy man to excite.
I smile into my drink as I take another sip of bourbon.
The next time he comes out of the closet he’s wearing nothing.
He’s not hard. He’s just… Mercer. Walking around like a naked god.
I used to tease him when we were teenagers because he was always walking around naked. I’ve never met anyone so comfortable in his own skin. But then again, I’ve never met anyone quite like Mercer.
This is why I will never leave him.
There is no one to replace Mercer.
He stops in front of me. “What are you doing, Locke?” It’s a matter-of-fact question. One that implies he’s looking for an explanation about my recent behavior with Nova.
But I’m not really in the mood to talk about Nova. So I just set my glass down, stand up, and slip my t-shirt over my head.
He watches me too. Just like I watch him.
I wish I could be in his head when I take my clothes off because I’m dying to hear his internal monologue. His eyes study my naked body, unashamed. And when they migrate up to meet my gaze, the fight is over.
He reaches for me. His hands come up to my face. And then he’s kissing me. It’s the most perfect kiss. He’s the one who taught me how to kiss. He’s who I emulate when I kiss anyone else. Olsen, or Nova, or anyone else.
When I’m kissing someone, they are all Mercer.
He has ruined me in this life.
I will never get over him.
His hand slides down my chest, then grabs my hand and rubs it against his dick. He’s not fully erect, but he’s getting there. We’ve done this so many times, so I don’t need any more encouragement. I grab him. Fist him. Jerk him off. And we just keep kissing.
It’s long, and slow, and all we do is stand there in the middle of his bedroom and kiss while I hold his cock in my palm until he sucks in a breath, breaks away from my mouth, and comes in my hand.
We stand there for a moment. Breathing heavy. Him satisfied, me not.
He pulls back, his dick slipping from my hand, and then he walks over to the bed and gets under the covers.
And it occurs to me that I’m the sick asshole here. Not him.
Because I do this same thing to other people now.
Nova was easy compared to Olsen.
Olsen made me work for it. And unlike me, he was not going to put up with the lack of satisfaction. He wanted all kinds of things in return.
Some I agreed to.
Some I did not.
Olsen was a constant negotiation that first year. There was a lot of back and forth. But it was good for me. It taught me a lot.
He taught me how to take.
So when Nova came, I took. And I made sure that I was the first one to do it.
And now look at her. One month in and she’s mine. I don’t care that she spends her days, and most of her nights, with Mercer. I don’t care if Mercer takes her on trips. I don’t even care if he fucks her. He won’t, but if he did, I would not care.
She is mine.
I wash my hands in the bathroom, flick the light off, walk around to my side of the bed, then slip under the covers. Mercer reaches for me immediately. He pushes his chest up to my back, face buried in the back of my neck. No hesitation. He will not jerk me off or ever fuck me. But he will kiss me like I’m his long-lost lover and he will hold me like I’m his dying soulmate.