“No,” Barrett firmly says. “No. You can’t second guess, and that’s all it is… second guessing. That’s not regret.”
“It is,” I state, refusing to back down. “I regret not giving that guy a chance to live.”
She takes in my words and the seriousness of my tone before she nods in acquiescence. Tilting her head, Barrett asks, “Is it awful? Feeling that?”
I shake my head with a smile. “Not too awful. I had just a fraction of a second to react. There were no good choices. I saved a life. So, I can regret what I did in hindsight, but it’s not torturing me or anything. I don’t let it weigh me down.”
“That’s good,” she says with a relieved smile. “Because you’re such a good man. You don’t deserve to have that bearing down on you. I know I’m eternally grateful for what you did, and I don’t have a moment’s sympathy for that man. He deserved what was done to him.”
“Probably,” I agree. “But you asked about regret, and there you have it. And for the record, Dr. Alexander, I’ve never shared that with anyone before. In fact, Kynan specifically asked me about it when he interviewed me and I out and out lied to his face about it. So, it’s our little secret, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She grins. “Our secret. I’ll take it to the grave.”
CHAPTER 15
Barrett
I love it when I’m in the middle of a good dream and the details are bright, the sensations are hyped, and I’m so deep under there’s no danger of awakening. Perhaps I’ve thought so much about how I woke up day before yesterday, with my body against Cruce’s and my hand on his stomach, that it led me to dream about the same thing.
Maybe it was the time we’ve been spending together. We floated in salty, clear blue water, talking about life and happenstance. When he would take a moment to scan the horizon, I was sneaking glances at his perfect chest and arms. Cruce didn’t try to be surreptitious. He just stared, not being gross but also not hiding his appreciation.
It could even have been last night, enjoying a quiet dinner on the outdoor balcony as we watched the sun set into the water. Cruce asked me about my research and the work I had left to do on my formula. He let me talk for over half an hour about it. I could tell he didn’t understand a damn thing I said, yet he was engaged and interested. While he couldn’t help me on the scientific side, he had plenty of direct encouragement to give me.
Whatever the reason, I’m now currently dreaming of being pressed against Cruce’s body again in one of the best dreams ever, and I’m not going to let it go. He smells so good, and his skin is warm. My hand flattens, touching as much of his belly as I can, then I rub my cheek on his shoulder.
I go still when Cruce shifts, and my heart starts beating so fast it feels like my chest might explode. But then I remember… dream.
I can act with impunity.
My lips curve upward in a sly smile that only I know is on my face. I slide my hand south, letting my fingers finally touch those crisp dark hairs known as a happy trail. They certainly make me happy as I follow them to the edge of the waistband of his cutoff sweats.
I frown, sad my dream isn’t more tailor made for me. Because he should have been completely naked in my dream, so I wouldn’t have to mess with clothing.
But whatever…
I dip my fingers under the waistband, immediately met with warm, silky skin stretched over what feels like granite.
I encircle his impressively sized shaft—dreams totally rock—and grip him without thought because it’s my dream and for me alone. He’s so thick my fingers can’t even wrap completely around him, and I give a hard squeeze.
When Cruce groans loudly, my smile goes wider. I give a stroke, all the way to the tip, and rub my thumb across the wetness there before gliding back down.
“Christ,” he mutters, and the words sound like he’s being tortured.
I jolt and snatch my hand away, forgetting all about taking what I want in my dream.
But then his large hand clasps onto my wrist, and he growls, “Don’t.”
And well… that feels way too real. The way he’s squeezing, the slight pain in my bones and his words seem to be louder and excruciatingly clear to my senses. Not a foggy dream at all.
My eyes pop open. Slowly, I tip my head up.
That’s when I realize I’m not dreaming at all. In fact, I’m not sure I ever had been.
Cruce’s face is harsh in the morning light. I can’t tell if he’s just irritated or angry.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, earnestly trying to pull my hand back.
Holding tightly, he speaks through gritted teeth. “Don’t,” he says again. When he adds, “Stop,” I almost don’t believe my ears.
Don’t. Stop.
My eyes widen at the implication. Before I can even hazard what it all means, he’s pushing my hand back down. My breath becomes nonexistent when he releases me, only to lift his hips and push his sweats down enough to release himself.
Once again, he grips my wrist, shoves it to his erection, and practically snarls, “Take it.”
I don’t need provocation, orders, or begging from him. Rolling, I shift up onto my elbow and take his cock in my free hand. He groans, lets his head flop to the pillow, and squeezes his eyes shut in what I’m hoping is full surrender.
My gaze slides down his body, which is lightly tanned from his time in the sun these last few days, and to the beauty straining against my hand. I start stroking, slowly at first, but then faster because I like drawing forth the wonderful variety of grunts and hissing sounds he makes. His hips thrust counter to my movements, his breathing ragged.
In my entire sexual life to date, I’ve never brought a man to completion this way. I’ve never been with someone satisfied by only that. They’ve either run out of patience and climbed on top, eager to thrust out an orgasm, or pushed my head into their lap.
Which… either is fine. I like both, but something about Cruce letting me do this to him—the most basic of sexual gratification—seems to imply his gratefulness for what little I’m offering.
He has no clue I’d offer him anything, but I’ll enjoy him exactly how I have him in this moment.
On an upstroke, I squeeze a little harder than usual.
Cruce hisses, “Fuck yes, Barrett. Just like that.”
So, I give it to him, just like that.
I jack him hard and fast, dragging my gaze from what I’m doing up to his face. It’s beautiful in the way it’s pinched and strained—as if he’s trying to hold off his orgasm, yet he’s desperately seeking it at the same time.
“Come for me, Cruce,” I murmur, and he snaps his eyes to mine. “Give it to me.”
“Fuck,” he barks as his back arches. Groaning, he starts to ejaculate all over my hand and his stomach. I stroke him through it, watching the milky white strands erupt as he moans out his release.
And damn… I may not have come, but I feel so fucking satisfied right now.
Cruce lets out a harsh breath as he lowers his hips to the mattress. I gently slide my hand up his still-hard length, then up so I can run my fingertips through the wetness on his stomach.
Should I cuddle with him? Put my head on his shoulder? Can I stroke his chest without him reading too much into the intimacy?