Page 38 of Kane

I panic, because what the fuck? I’ve been in a lot of scenarios, but this?

This is definitely not one of them.

I’m acutely aware that there are probably people upstairs, trying to catch this elevator, just like he did, and we’re holding them up, which makes me anxious and concerned, but also…

Strangely turned on, because did this man just stop an elevator for me?

Maybe he’s an axe murder and this is how I go.

I hope my dick goes down before that, though, otherwise this will be extremely awkward.

“Give me your phone,” he says, though his voice doesn’t sound murderous. Far from it.

There’s an edge to his voice; a darkness that feels more in line with his appearance than his usual jovial self I see when he comes in.

I glance up at his dark green eyes, searching them for something I’m not quite sure of. It’s not permission, I don’t think.

It’s something else.

Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

“Ryder.” He says my name low and smooth. Like black velvet.

My muscles turn to Jell-O, and heat overtakes me as I try to remember how to breathe. Because all I want to do at this moment, with Kane above me, looking at me like that, is fall to my fucking knees.

“Huh?” I blink, trying to remember how to speak coherently. But with the way Kane is looking at me, the heat between us, and the knowledge that we are literally stopping time itself right now here in this steel box, it’s harder than it should be.

“Give. Me. Your phone.”

I reach into my pocket with a shaking hand, which jostles my jeans enough to make me grimace.

Fuck I’m hard. I’m so hard it hurts, but I can’t draw attention to that. I don’t need Kane to think I’m some pervert who’s got a kink for elevators.

Panic laces through me as I fight the urge to touch myself, to adjust my cock in front of him.

I swallow hard, trying like hell to focus on handing him my phone and not on the faint bout of precum kissing the inside of my boxers.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I hand him my phone, two words on the tip of my tongue. I’ve said them so many times, to so many different men. But I’ve never wanted to say them so badly as I do now, and yet…

They get lodged in my throat.

Kane grasps my phone, his tattooed fingers grazing mine.

And then he says the words that melt my brain; the words I long to hear.

The words I crave.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and the moan escapes me because it’s too hard to keep inside. Not when I’m focusing all my attention on not coming in my pants handsfree in this elevator in front of Kane. My friend.

Though I’m fairly certain most friends do not do this, I could be wrong.

I doubt it, though.

I suck in a breath as I watch him tap my phone.

“You’re going to be late,” I say, my voice dark. Low. It sounds strange, even to me.