His hips wiggled, desperate for friction, and I gripped him tightly, holding him in place as I ground him against me. My cock strained against the fabric of my pants, sliding between Jazz's clothed ass. The fabric refused to give, preventing me from getting as deep as I wanted. And with Jazz, I wouldn't be happy until he'd taken all of me.
Jazz's fingers dug into my shoulders. "Wait, wait," he gasped. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come in my pants."
As gratifying as that would be to my ego, if he came in his pants, I wouldn't get to watch his cock exploding with pleasure. I wouldn't be able to taste his sweet release. "I'll buy you new pants," I said before my nails sharpened and I sliced along the seam of his sweats. They fell from him like ribbons, his shirt following immediately after.
My breath hitched as I stared at his beautiful body. Soft where I was hard, rounded where I was sharp, he complimented me in every way. My dick was no exception. His body relaxed on my fingers, aided along by the pack of lube in my pocket.
He rested his cheek against my shoulder, mewling as my fingers slid, one, two, three, then four fingers deep. I looked up, catching our reflection in the mirrors ahead. I was clothed, save for my pants being open in the front for my dick.
Jazz's naked body trembled on top of mine, his back muscles rippling as he strained to drive more than my fingers inside him.
I cupped his cheek with my free hand. The pad of my thumb rubbed over his glistening lips, swollen from my kisses. "I fuck you, and you're mine."
Delicacy wasn't my strong suit, but I had to trust that my message was clear. I'd held back the first time, needing to be inside of him more than I'd needed anything else. That was still the case now, but it was what would happen after that I needed to warn him about.
"I'm already yours," he groaned, wiggling his hips in a desperate attempt to get me to move.
How was I supposed to resist that? I didn't.
I lifted my boy so his ass hung over my cock before plunging him down. His keening cry echoed over my shoulder as he buried his face into the crook of my neck, gasping and moaning when I began to move.
I stayed stationary, lifting and lowering Jazz as I wanted him.
"You're so fucking big," he wailed. "I can't breathe without feeling your dick in me."
My groaning growl shook the bench, and I let Jazz's weight fall, impaling him on my cock. Fully seated, I rolled my hips. My thrusts no longer brought me in and out of him, but the head of my cock rubbed against his secret spot, prodding the cluster over and over.
"I'm going to—" He threw his head back and screamed out his orgasm.
I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue to catch his sweet cream.
He slumped against me. A kinder man might've given him a moment to come down, for his sensitivity to wane. But I was not a kinder man. With the taste of his pleasure on my tongue, I took control of his hips again, plowing into him with a force that made the bench creak and lift from its legs.
Jazz moaned, his body shaking when my balls tightened and my orgasm shot out of me, enthusiastically filling Jazz with my seed.
I groaned, drawing the last of both our orgasms out while I continued to pump.
He sighed moments later, collapsing against me in a manner that could only be described as boneless.
"That was a good lesson," he mumbled as if in a daze. "We definitely should repeat that lesson every day."
I smiled, tucking Jazz against me as I looked around for something to cover him during the trip back to my room. I found a few towels that would do, as long as he stayed in my arms. He didn't seem to mind that aspect and lay sweetly while I carried him back to the room.
By the time I had the shower running, the water heating up so it wouldn't shock him, I realized Jazz had never done what I asked. The sneaky imp. He'd never promised to run.
Chapter Nine
Jazz
A seagull flew by, giving the wall of windows a double look. Could he see through to us inside? Or did he see his only his own reflection, and he was checking himself out?
The ocean brought a fresh breeze that blew in through the cracks in the boards whether the guys wanted it to or not. When the breeze was strong enough, it lifted the papers and photos the guys had spread out over every horizontal surface. Normally, they caught whatever had been blown before it got too far; they all had crazy fast reflexes. They didn't trip or bump into things. Other than that time I scared Huntley, I hadn't seen a one of them move in a way they hadn't absolutely intended.
Sometimes, when the hours would stretch and I'd been staring at the same three lines of the same police report, I'd take a break and watch the men. They didn't talk a lot, but they communicated just fine without words. The four of them—Diesel was still protesting my presence—grunted and gestured their points across. At times, it felt like they had entire conversations without saying a word. I never knew what they spoke about, but the air changed when it happened, shimmering with unspoken words.
I wasn't entirely sure Huntley and Jagger didn't share the same brain. They weren't identical, as I'd originally thought. They weren't even blood brothers, but their blood was the only different thing about them. Their blood and Jagger's scar. I wanted to know more about it, but that seemed like the sort of story you waited for, not asked for.
Knox silently held out his hand. Faust handed him a folder labeled Perimeter Report, and Knox grunted his thank you. All they had left of their home were these photos, reports, and the evidence they'd collected. The police had been called—destruction of that magnitude would've been impossible to conceal from authorities—but the attack was so far outside of the local police's investigating abilities, they hadn't been a lot of help. It had taken five years to get anyone to tell them what their biggest clue, the matter left over from the explosive itself, was most like.
To add insult to injury, the explosion had released some sort of chemical into the ground that had killed everything that had survived the blasts. No trees or bushes would grow in the once-fertile land they'd called home. Knox described the gardens they'd kept—supplying fresh food to a pack the size of a small village, but after the blast, it was all just rot and decay.
The wind whistled, lifting a single sheet from the stack in front of Faust.
"I got it." I jumped to my feet, eager for something more to do. I wanted to feel like I was helping, but so far, I was just staring. We all were. The only difference was, this was my first time seeing this; the others could probably sketch every crime scene photo from memory.
The sheet fell near the door, and I bent to pick it up. I brought it back to the table and bent over the top, searching for something that would work as a paperweight. Faust's chair creaked as he leaned in close before inhaling softly.
I looked at him from the corner of my eye, catching his expression the moment before he blinked away the shock. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
When I looked to Knox, he wasn't upset. He stared at us with an odd expression.
The gesture hadn't felt sexual. I didn't think Faust was making a pass, but it felt important in a way I couldn't put my finger on. My eyes fell to the table, dropping to a picture partially concealed. I slid it out from the pile: a picture from the aftermath, of a charred structure that might've been a home.