Kicks’ face softened, and he couldn’t help but trace another collection of Jude’s freckles. “It’s still not the same,” he told him quietly, then leaned in and stole a kiss because in the moment, he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be greedy and hoard every single one Jude would let him have. “This is my family, you know? We’re ride or die—literally. And I trust them, because in the years I’ve been here with them, they’ve proven to me that it goes both ways.”
Jude let out a long, slow breath, then sagged forward and rested his cheek against the center of Kicks’ chest. The position was almost more intimate than the fucking, and it was unsettling, but he was desperate to hold on. “I understand. My faith doesn’t need proof.”
“I envy that,” Kicks admitted. He dug his fingers into Jude’s hair, letting his curls twist around his fingers. They were somewhere between coarse and soft and still a little damp from how hard he’d been sweating. “For me, it feels like I’m just waiting for everyone to prove me wrong. Like I got involved in this shit, just so they could show the world what a gullible asshole I am.”
Jude’s fingers danced up his back, tracing around his scars. “Because of this?”
“Nah. That was from me bein’ stupid enough to get wasted and flirt with some hick in a country bar in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.” He pulled back a little and pressed his thumb to Jude’s chin. When the man’s lips parted, he took another kiss—deep, possessive, messy. He didn’t want to talk about this, but Jude had a way of pulling the words out of him, of exposing all those tender, vulnerable parts he kept well hidden. “People just haven’t been all that nice to me over the years.”
Jude said nothing, and Kicks didn’t realize how grateful he was that the man understood just how much he didn’t want to hear another placation or that he deserved better.
The silence stretched between them.
Then, after a beat, Jude dug his hands into Kicks’ hair and kissed him again—with sharp teeth and clawing nails down his spine. His body heated up, and he rolled onto his back, and he let Jude give and take every single ounce of Kicks’ worth.
14
Jude was convinced he’d feel some sort of profound regret after spending the night in Emilio’s bed. It was bad enough he’d caved so quickly to his demand that Jude pack his things and leave the comfort of his little condo, and he’d been determined to keep space between them. But Emilio had come into the house and had looked so needy and just short of desperate, Jude had no defense against him.
He was coming to realize a little too quickly how his brother had fallen for a man like Aaron. There was danger—yes. More than he wanted to think about. His knee was a constant reminder that he’d gotten off lucky. And it wasn’t really the danger that made it seem enticing and forbidden—it was the way Emilio bent to his will.
It was the way he would drop to his knees—literal or metaphorical. It was how eager he was to give up his pride and his control and let Jude own him for those long, agonizingly hot moments. It was a rush, but it was something more than that too. It felt…right.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that, but for now, he could bask in what they were allowing themselves to keep between them. Jude had no illusions that Emilio was going to declare his love and ask for his hand or whatever rubbish happened in the romance novels he loved so much. But he was hoping he wouldn’t have to stay some dirty little secret either.
Whether that meant being together or falling apart—he’d never really fancied a stay in any closet.
He woke early, but the spot beside him was both empty and cold, though he wasn’t surprised. The fact that there was still a faint impression of Emilio in the sheets and on the pillow was proof enough that he’d at least stayed a while. Jude reached out and touched the spot the biker had been laying, and he wondered if he was holding any regrets.
With a breath, Jude pushed himself up to sit, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He could smell fresh coffee, and he could hear the faint sound of someone moving around. But his chest was feeling tight, and his head wasn’t really in it. It was easier to close his eyes, to breathe, to reach out.
He rarely spoke his own personal prayers aloud, but that morning, his lips and tongue curled over the Hebrew he didn’t get to use enough in his daily life. As much as his faith was part of him, so was his language. It was what always set him and Eliah apart at school—it was what grounded him in who he was.
And now, it offered him some comfort, even as he spoke to a silence that would never answer back.
“I just want guidance. I want to know that I can walk away, and it won’t have to mean that my past was worth nothing.”
His prayer felt selfish, but the hollow feeling in his chest was only growing as each day passed. His injury—and everything that happened the night he got it—was a distraction, but only sometimes. He’d been lost before Eliah called. He’d been searching before he opened his door to one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen in his life.
He wanted to know where it all fit—he wanted to know that he could fit. That he was in the right shape for the puzzle he belonged to.
His throat felt a little raw when he was finished, but the burden on his shoulders was a little bit lighter. His knee ached, but not as much as he feared it would after a vigorous night, and he only had to lean on his cane a little as he made his way to the guest bedroom he hadn’t yet touched.
His bag was half-open, so he rummaged for clothes. For a second, he considered a shower, but in the end, he pulled a t-shirt on over his sweats, then pinned his kippah on. He hadn’t worn it much since arriving in River Crest, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it—needed it—until he felt the pins clinging to his hair.
In a way, he was already so different from the bikers. And in a way, he’d been afraid of standing out more. But something about the way Emilio had talked about them the night before made him realize that maybe standing apart from them was what would hold him a little closer—if he really meant to choose this life.
The thought only added to the chaos swirling around his chest, and he pushed it aside as he limped into the kitchen and found Emilio at the sink. He was cupping a mug with both hands, his gaze fixed out the window, but he turned when Jude entered and offered him a smile.
He looked gorgeous—though Jude had yet to see him any other way. He was wearing jeans and a grease-stained t-shirt, and he hadn’t put his prosthetic back in, so his eyelid was drooping low. When Emilio lifted his chin a little, Jude fought down the urge to cross the distance and press his lips to the hollow of his throat, to see if his morning skin tasted anything like the skin he’d devoured the night before.
“There’s coffee if you want,” he said after a beat, his voice a little hoarse.
Jude cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you have black tea?”
Emilio gave a sort of sheepish laugh. “Put it on the list”—he jabbed his thumb toward a whiteboard on the fridge with two items listed: Oat Milk, Bread. “I gotta head out to the store so I have something to feed the kid when she gets here.”