Page 27 of Chasing Kit

It was hard to forget the moment I laid eyes on him. I’d watched the way he looked at me, his stare traveling from my feet up the length of my body. At the time, I thought it was because he couldn’t believe how big I was. It must have been more. Fuck. Had I been so blind? It had taken me years to see him as anything but Derek’s son.

“The night after I met you, I jacked off in the shower thinking about you.” His sweet mouth curled into a shy smile. “I imagined you throwing me around, fucking me into the bed.”

The vulgar words coming from his angelic lips provoked a reaction I didn’t expect. My cock was rock hard.

Kit grinned. He knew exactly what he was doing. My image of him—the quiet student, the good son—was a fantasy I’d built to keep myself at a distance. The man who fled his father, drank with bikers, and now stood here talking about jerking off to me was no fantasy. He was real, and he was a complication I was done resisting.

I smirked.

The last of my restraint shattered, and all that was left was him. He wanted my world and the darkness I lived in. Fine. I was going to give it to him. I was going to break him open and claim every piece.

8

KIT

The way War stared at me should’ve been illegal. Something about his eyes made it hard to think, like they were pulling my thoughts apart one by one. His broad shoulders felt extra huge in this room, but when he shifted to strip off his shirt, he seemed even bigger. How was that possible?

Swallowing hurt. My mouth filled with drool, yet it was also dry. I didn’t know how it could be two things at once, but it was, and if I died right now, I’d be the happiest man on Earth.

The moment War’s hairy chest came into view, my knees wobbled. I’d fantasized about this for years, but what I’d envisioned was nothing compared to the real thing. His pecs were huge, dark hair fanning across their width. His light brown nipples were peaked, and his abs were dense and ridged, each muscle sitting heavy under his sun-kissed skin. The scars that he’d been ashamed of were thin strips of puckered skin.

Holy shit on a cracker.

What would he say if I dropped to my knees right now and buried my face against his stomach to breathe him in?

But he wasn’t finished. No. The sexy asshole enjoyed torturing me.

He brushed his palm over his abs and down to his pants, flicking the button with an effortless grace that was like watching a magic trick. The zipper’s sound was loud in the otherwise quiet room, and my heart hammered against my ribs until I swore I heard them crack.

My gaze tracked south, finding his fingers yanking the zipper tag to the bottom. The moments that passed between us stretched in slow motion, even though I was sure everything was also happening at hyperspeed—or maybe that was just my pulse.

As soon as the button popped, he tugged down his pants. The jeans fell around his ankles, and my gaze shot to his crotch. He had on a pair of tight blue boxer briefs, the fabric straining against the hard outline beneath.

He stepped out of the denim, kicking it aside, and caught my chin in his hand. “See something you want?”

I didn’t answer. I reached out and hooked my thumbs under the waistband, pulling them down slowly. The elastic caught and released. He hissed through his teeth as I freed him by shoving the material down to his ankles, before my palm was sliding against hot, velvet skin. He stepped out of the briefs, while his hand fisted my hair. He didn’t pull the strands, but using his grip to anchor himself as I stroked him once, then twice, learning the weight and shape of him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Your hands are cold.”

“Warm them up, then.”

He groaned and pushed me back onto the bed. Following me down, his mouth found mine with a hunger that made my head spin. His thigh pressed between my legs, and I arched up, seeking friction. I was already aching. He broke the kiss and sat back, giving me a moment to appreciate him.

His chest was a topography of scars—a long jagged ridge sliced from his left shoulder toward his sternum, the raised pale tissue of a burn branded his ribs, and a constellation of smaller marks were scattered like stars across his pecs. His back, when he turned to look at the door to make sure it was locked, was no better. A web of silvery lines caught the lamplight, and the healed wounds were a legacy of a whip or a blade or something worse.

He caught me staring and went rigid, his arms half-raised as if to cover himself.

“Don’t,” he said, rough and warning, but his eyes held something afraid. He was waiting for rejection, as if that was an option. It wasn’t.

I sat up and placed my palm flat against the worst of it—the burn over his ribs. His skin jumped beneath my touch. “I see you.” I leaned in to press my mouth to the scar on his shoulder.

War shuddered and gripped my waist hard enough to bruise while making a sound like something inside him had cracked open. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to.” I flipped us over so he was lying on his back and I was on my knees.

I kissed my way down his chest, tasting salt and soap and feeling the faint texture of healed wounds beneath my lips. I didn’t hesitate. I took him into my mouth, and his head fell back, the muscles of his scarred abdomen tightening as he groaned my name.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and I didn’t know if he was begging me to stop or to continue, so I kept going until his thighs trembled and his fingers threaded through my hair with desperate reverence.