Page 76 of Corrupt

He made a sound, half breath, half groan, as I kissed along his jaw, then caught his mouth with mine. He looked drunk from it. Not chemically. Emotionally. As if the closeness was its own intoxicant.

Then Razor slid a broad hand behind my head, dragging me closer, and kissed me harder. He pushed into me, guiding me back onto the mattress, the polystyrene containers of food dropping to the floor, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, hauling him down with me as if I needed his weight to keep from floating apart. As if he could sink into me and I’d hold him there.

His anchor. His landing place. His mattress.

We moved like that for a while. Heat, breath, mouths catching, his need sharpening with every shift of my hips. Until he was inside me again. Whether it was leftover lube, tzatziki slick on his fingers, I didn’t care. All I knew was the slow slide of him pushing all the way in, his forehead lowering to mine, bodies locked together in a way neither of us had planned for, was a feeling I would continue to beg for.

Then he whispered it again. Rough. Quiet. Reverent. “Fuck. You feel so good.” He kissed me. “You’re far too good for me.”

Maybe I was.

But I didn’t care.

And maybe this was doomed.

But I couldn’t muster any part of me to believe it was.

Because I wanted Richie.

All of him. Everything he tried to bury under Razor, everything he didn’t know how to give, everything he thought no one should want.

The man he’d just shown me he could be.

chapter sixteen

Razor

I’d never had a day like that in my life.

Lazy. Filthy.

Soft in a way that should’ve put fear in my bones.

We barely left the bed.

Vulnerability clawed at my ribs. That tight, quiet need for him not to leave. For this not to end. For him to stay exactly where he was now: stretched under me, skin warm, fingers drifting across my back as if mapping out a body he already knew. It was bliss.

And it was fucking dangerous.

Most of Saturday blurred. Half-dressed cuddling that should have felt wrong but didn’t, talking shit about nothing, me scrounging in the kitchen for whatever could pass as food. And when he’d said he should go, when the flat had sunk into that humid July darkness and everything felt too intimate, too still…I’d grabbed his wrist and tugged him back into the sheets.

“Stay.”

Same word he’d once thrown at me. Only I reckon I meant it more.

And he smiled that quiet, wrecking smile and curled back into me.

We slept.

Or slept until the sun cut straight through the apartment at five a.m., because I’d forgotten to shut the blinds. The light didn’t warm anything. It stripped it bare. Picked out the mess of us in sharp, unforgiving detail. Sweat-damp sheets, his hair flattened against the pillow, the way he was still turned towards me even in sleep.

So, naturally, I fucked him again.

Not frantic. Not gentle either. Hungrier. Needier. As if I could grind the feeling out of my system if I moved hard enough. I drove into him until he came with a broken shudder, digging his fingers into my shoulders, and when I pulled out, I spilt over his chest and cleaned him with my tongue.

Filthy. Thoughtless. Exactly what I was good at.

“I really have to go home at some point today.” Tristan didn’t sound convinced. Especially not while crushed beneath me, breath warm against my shoulder, roaming his hands over my back with no urgency to leave.