Page 51 of Parting Shot

“What the hell are you⁠—”

“Not Max, you stupid ass.”

Aaron.

And Aaron in apparently great need, as evidenced by the hard groin shoved against my ass, the hands tearing at my clothes, and the knee wedged between my thighs.

“Get off me,” I ordered weakly.

“Fuck no.”

He sounded frustrated and mad, and God, it was sexy.

I flattened my hands on the exposed brick and dropped my head forward, struggling to stay still and not turn and ravage him. He tugged my shirt out of my pants and lifted it, along with the T-shirt underneath, up between my shoulder blades.

“What are you—Aaron,” I croaked out because his mouth was on my skin, open and wet, sucking, tasting, and kissing, and it was all I could do not to beg him for anything and everything, all at the same time.

“I want you,” he said flatly, his front pressed all along my back, arms suddenly tight around my abdomen, lips at the nape of my neck. “And I know you want me.”

“Oh yes,” I agreed, my cock already painfully hard, even before his hands slid down my stomach, dropping lower to my belt buckle. His intent was deliberate, and everything was unzipped and loosened, the whole works dragged to my ankles at once.

When one strong, long-fingered hand wrapped around my shaft, I jerked back against him, shuddering just from the feel of him, of the possessiveness and dominance.

“Hurry.”

“Who have you slept with since me?”

It would sound like I had been waiting, but I couldn’t help that. “No one.”

“No one?” he repeated, stroking my leaking dick with his right hand, the other going under my shirt to my nipple. When he pulled first gently, then harder, rolling my sensitive skin between his fingers, I let my head fall back onto his shoulder. “In five months?”

“No. Can’t you tell?” I ground out—because just the reaction, the welling lust and need, should have told him I was telling the truth.

“I can,” he assured me, his teeth tracing down the cord on the side of my neck, making my knees wobble. “And so you know, no one else for me either.”

I cricked my head to look him in the eye. “That says something, doesn’t it?”

“It says everything,” he promised, pulling back, letting me go.

I spun and had my back against the wall I’d clung to, which abraded my shirt, but I didn’t care that it’d snagged.

We stood there, staring at each other.

“What the fuck was Nick McCall doing in front of your place?”

“It’s about work.”

He was furious with me, and it was there on his face, the anger and jealousy.

“I wasn’t gonna fuck him.”

“No?” he challenged, advancing on me, brows furrowed, jaw clenched.

“I put him in the cab. Weren’t you watching?”

“I was watching,” he said, staring at me with raw, wounded eyes.

It hurt to see him like that, vulnerable and aching, simmering with rage, all at the same time. I wouldn’t let him stand there alone, and so I reached for him.