Shattered Glass(97)
“What?” He laughed nervously.
“Ask me for money, Peter.” I grabbed his wrists and pushed him against the wall.
He looked everywhere but at me, no attempt to free himself. He was definitely stronger than I, but right that second I didn’t care if he was being patronizing. If it forced him to answer me, then patronizing I’d take.
“No,” he murmured.
“Ask me for money, goddamn you.” I punctuated it with a slam of his wrists, hard enough to jar, but not painful—I hoped. The next time my shirt wouldn’t be there to cushion it. I was that pissed.
“I have!” He spat back, easily extricating his hands and pushing me away. I grabbed his arm, turning him around.
“For Cai. For sex. Not for you. You’d rather go fuck a bunch of strangers—”
“I don’t fuck anyone but Darryl anymore,” he denied. “It’s just a show for a bunch of voyeurs. No one gets hurt.”
“I get hurt!”
“I don’t have any other way, Austin.”
“You have me. Ask me,” I said, hating the pleading sound in my voice.
“No.”
“Jesus Christ, why the fuck not?”
“Because I don’t want you to be a fucking trick!” The shout was so loud I felt the vibrations along my spine.
I had no time to process his admission. His lips crashed into mine, sending my back into the wall. Whether from the pain clawing up my spine from my injuries, or the pleasure from his heated lips, I moaned loudly, folding my hands into his hair.
Chapter Seventeen
My Ass!
This was what I’d been waiting for. Peter, stripped of emotional restraint, wildly tugging and biting, sucking at my mouth, fingers like claws in my back. I pulled him closer, my lips parting invitingly. He invaded my mouth with his tongue darting in time with his grinding hips. I hoped to God that his frantic hands weren’t going to move lower; the last thing I wanted was to interrupt this because I was screaming in pain. Thankfully, his grip eased, hands caressing instead of groping, mouth gentling against mine.
“We don’t have time for this,” I mumbled, curling my tongue along his upper lip.
In response, he dragged my bottom lip leisurely through his teeth before releasing it, leaving it throbbing with pleasure. “Then…stop kissing…me.”
“I don’t think I can.” I kissed his cheek, his jaw, his eyelids. His mouth. I leaned into him and lost myself in his taste.
My phone shrilled on the bureau next to us. I ignored it, focusing instead on the slide of stubble against my jaw, the rough hands trailing sun-like warmth over my ribs. I lifted my chin, directing his mouth to my neck, but he had something else in mind.
I was in too much of a hazy stupor to resist when he flipped me around. My hands flattened against the wall, heart racing as he resumed kissing my neck and skated his tongue down the center of my back. He cupped and squeezed my crotch, then unbuttoned my pants. They glided silently to my feet. I inhaled sharply as my boxers slid down just enough to expose my ass. I barely comprehended what position Peter was in, and what it could mean. My last functioning brain cell was consumed by my excitement.
The room was silent, save for my harsh, escalating breaths. Bracing against the wall, feeling his hands and lips at the base of my spine, I nervously complained, “My ass hurts.”
“You’ve been sticking the wrong things in it.” I sensed his lips twitch against my skin. “Use my cock next time,” he said, reaching around and snapping the elastic front of my boxers. “Hurts less.”
“Asshole,” I muttered.
“Was that a directive?” He bit the uninjured side of my ass, sending a trill of heat from his mouth straight to my cock.
”No,” I replied breathily. I heard the rustling of his clothes. My fists clenched as I looked over my shoulder. Something brushed lightly against my stitches. My hips bucked away. “Ow. Fuck!”
“Sorry. I’ll kiss it better.”
“About time you kissed my a—ah, Jesus, God!”
He flicked a tender spot near the stitches. “Don’t be a jerk.”
I ground out, “What are you doing?”
“Applying ointment because you were too stubborn or stupid to wait until I had put plastic over—” he flicked again, causing a string of expletives to explode out of me, “—your wound.”
“All right, already. Fucking-hell-shit-damn! You bastard!” My cell interrupted my tirade, playing an old NYC cop show theme. Luis’s persistence was a pain in my ass—a second pain in my ass. With gritted teeth, I stretched for the phone, punching the answer button while trying to ignore the fact that Peter was on his knees fondling my ass. “Glass— ah, mother-fucking-shit!” I muffled a groan when Peter began applying the cream, as unprepared for his touch this time as I was the first. Delicate or not, it fucking hurt.