Bombora (19 page)

Phelan’s mouth gives an ugly twist as he straightens. He sets his shoulders in a tense, angry line that means business as much as the warning flash in his eyes. “What? Some way to make it better, Nate? Take back the lies and get my family speaking to me again? Change the fact that I’ve lost everything because of you?”

“Don’t you think I’d fix that if I could? Hell, I’d leave and go back to Ohio if that’s what you wanted. If it’d make things easier.” This isn’t what I’m ready for at all, but once the words are out, I realize I really would do that for him. Hugh wouldn’t understand, of course, but knowing Phel might be more at ease with me gone is worth my brother’s confusion and my own mileage. My own heartbreak, too, though that goes without saying. I’d move to freaking Antarctica for him. “I’ll go if you ask me to. Even though I might not be able to fix things myself, I won’t stick around and watch you hurting, not if leaving can change that.”

“Out of sight, out of mind, right?” he snaps.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Recognizing the muscle that tics in his jaw as disgruntled agreement, I give in to the desire to touch, pressing our bodies lightly together so he can feel I’m here. Last thing I want is for him to go off someplace else in his mind to escape the conversation. He shivers against me, hard enough that I feel it, and I dip my head to meet his gaze since he’s staring pointedly at the floor. The only way to snap Phel out of his withdrawn moods is to be direct, so there’s no way out of the conversation except through it. I don’t want a repeat of last time, and my face sure as hell would appreciate not getting punched again, but something about Phel makes me want to push and push until he shoves back—until he gives me some spark of anger, of the old, passionate him. But let the record show I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

“Phel. Do you want me to leave?” I repeat.

He looks at me again, finally, chewing the inside of his lip, then counters, “What do you want from
me
, Nate?”

Well, that’s simple enough, at least. “I don’t want to see you acting like some goddamn zombie all the time,” I say. “I’d like you to be happy again and not… this.”

“And what if that man doesn’t exist anymore? What if this is all there’s left?”

Shit, he looks ready to lose it, face pinched and upset in a way that could mean he’s about to go mental at me or just start bawling. Since I’ve never seen the latter and have no desire to, I’d happily settle for outrage if it gets us somewhere, gets me more of that Phel from the other day. Like I said, I’m in no hurry to get pummeled again, but I’ll take that over strained silence. Therapists always say anger is useful, right? That’s what I want. He can beat me to a bloody pulp in the name of progress. Not knowing what this new Phel is capable of, however, I don’t say that out loud.

“I don’t believe that,” I tell him. “But maybe you do, and that’s why I’m willing to do what I can to change it. Anything, Phel. If you want me to go, I’ll go. But if you want me to stay….” I let that hang there for a second, aching with hope, and dare to think his silence can be read as acceptance. “Tell me what you need, man.”

The request is pointless; we both know the answer already. Phel needs nothing less than what he took for himself on the beach that day, something hard and hungry and brutal, the desire to exact punishment for wrongs done to him. And hell, every part of me is willing to give it to him if it’ll help. From the way it made me feel, it might help me too. His fist made me feel like I was atoning for something unspoken.

“What motivation could you possibly have to stay?” he asks me, and one of his hands fists the fabric of my T-shirt before he reaches to touch the place where my lip is still a bit swollen, the cut fading. At first the pressure is tentative, distracted, but as I open my mouth in invitation, he presses harder, seemingly fascinated by what his fist left behind. It stings a little and I hiss.

“I’m not here to talk about me,” I remind him, fighting the impulse to lick at the pads of his fingers, or else take the digits into my mouth altogether.

He seems to anticipate what I want, eyes going stormy indigo with sudden heat, dark as angry thunderclouds. “You don’t particularly want to know what I want to do to you, Nate,” he spits. “I have never wanted to treat anyone that way, much less you, and I don’t like it. I don’t even want to talk about it with my therapist, and she’s paid to listen to that crap. It’s just that you make me so….”

“What?”

“
Angry
.” A quick shift occurs, too subtle for me to decipher, and I feel his other hand sneak out to curl around my hip. His fingers dig into the bone. This time there’s no hesitation—the sharp pressure is hard enough to leave a bruise. I push myself into it and watch with satisfaction as his nostrils flare. “Are you telling me that’s what you want?”

The lowness of his voice sends a shiver up my spine. Shifting my weight forward, I press our chests together to show how much I’d welcome a glimpse inside his head right now, even if it’s something he’s afraid to let me see. I’m not afraid to go there, though maybe I should be—I don’t know. I keep thinking there’s got to be something simmering beneath the surface, waiting to boil over; something he’s done a bang-up job of hiding from Hugh and the people here at Palermo—even from himself. I want that part of him for my own, want all of that pain and resentment and whatever else lurks down there. If it’ll let
Phel
finally think he’s not the only one who’s hurt, so be it. He isn’t, and I could probably spend a few days unpacking every ugly thought that’s crossed my mind since he left, but I’m slowly starting to realize he won’t believe it unless he sees it for himself, feels like he’s giving back a little of what I did to him.

With a shiver, I realize I want that for him, no matter what it takes. It’s like that line about not knowing how deep the rabbit hole goes—I don’t think the point is that it’s deep, but that it’s impossible to resist finding out for yourself once you’ve been invited to look. Phel has already led me down pretty far, since I’d hardly be here if I hadn’t met him. Even if I’m starting to suspect we’re wandering into seriously uncharted fucking territory, I trust him all the same, like I wouldn’t trust anyone else.

“I want you.” My voice comes out hoarse, words cracking around everything I don’t know how to say out loud, but my hands are weirdly steady as I reach out to him, bracketing the edges of his slim hips with my hands. He’s breathing hard into me, a flush creeping up his neck to stain his cheeks, and I feel the length of his cock begin to harden against my leg. The loose sweatpants do nothing to disguise his growing arousal. Thing is, he doesn’t seem to give a shit if I notice. “I want to feel you kiss me again like you did at the beach,” I say. “Honestly, Phel, I don’t care what I have to do to get you to make me yours again, how fucking low I have to stoop. I’ll do anything, just… let me.”

To prove it, I slide down to my knees, wincing at the hard impact against the wood floor, and lean in to nuzzle his erection through the soft cotton until he gasps. As his hand creeps into my hair and tightens almost right away, I release the soft moan that’s been building since I walked in the door. I haven’t had a cock in my face since the last time I was with Phelan. I’m not ashamed to admit having both of these things in front of me is enough to make my mouth water. Meanwhile, the tight jeans that seemed such a great idea an hour ago are hot and constricting, trapping the boner that suddenly presses against the fly. I could unbutton myself—would be grateful for the relief, actually—but get the idea Phel might have something to say if I go off script now. Especially after I’ve all but offered myself to him in slavery or some shit.

He smells so unbelievably good, though, a combination of soap and the musky sleep scent I remember. It drives me wild, breath quickening, sweat springing up at my temples, heart beating hard against my chest. I press my face in closer, parting my lips to mouth at the head of his cock and the fabric growing damp with excitement. The sting of protest from my lip makes it better. A long glance at Phelan’s face shows him watching me with an expression gone slack, and his grip tugs a bit harder now, sending a sharp tingle through my scalp. The gesture would be rude if I didn’t want it so bad. I obey his hand and let him pull my mouth away so he can press against my lower lip with his thumb. This time I
do
flicker my tongue out to taste, and can’t hold back a deep groan of gratitude.

“Please,” I say. Phel murmurs assent and pets at my hair a little, absently, then draws back from my lips and slides the sweatpants down over his hips. His cock bobs toward me, thick and glorious as ever, and I chase after him to take his length onto my tongue.

The taste is hot and bitter and sweet all at once, and the low cry that escapes Phelan’s throat isn’t human enough to resemble language. He’s all need, shoving himself into my mouth insistently, so I give up trying to stroke along the vein that bisects the spine of his cock and hollow my cheeks, closing my lips around the crown as he fucks my face and keeps my head steady with that hand in my hair. I’m so turned on I can’t stop to think about the power I’m giving him here, something he’s never asked of me in this way.

For all the months I’ve been out of the game—it never seemed right to make it with another guy, not after what happened with Phel—my throat remembers how to take his girth. My gag reflex relaxes so he can slide all the way in, Phel easing up as I near the base so as not to choke me. I use my hands to cradle his balls and work his pants down the rest of the way until he can kick them right off. Needing to feel him around me, I nudge at his leg; he gets the hint and hooks his knee over my shoulder, heel bumping against my back and drawing me in closer. The soft hair on the inside of his thigh tickles my face while the coarser pubes around the base of his shaft brush my nose, little teases of sensation that make me suck harder out of frustration that I’m not also touching myself, despite my hands being busy. A quiet rustle of fabric from above lets me know Phel has stripped off his T-shirt, and I swallow another soft moan around his cock. Having him naked against me while I’m still fully clothed is all kinds of hot, like I could walk out of here right now and no one would be the wiser. Except maybe for the fact I’m so horny I could die.

“Nate.” A rough yank at my hair pulls me off him with an unexpected whine from my own throat, so plaintive it makes me blush in embarrassment. It soon fades when I see the state of him, flushed halfway down his chest and breathing like he just came off the biggest wave of his life. “I’m going to fuck you,” he informs me in that dark honey voice. “Stand up.”

I do, legs shaky, and I’m barely vertical before he drags my shirt up over my head. He attacks my belt next, working my jeans open with a look of determination on his face that’s almost venomous. As he crouches to shove them down my legs along with my briefs, he noses against my hipbone before he bites down, so hard I buck and holler obscenities into the quiet of his house. I feel his relentless nails scrape lines of fire down my torso, and then the fingers of one hand slide into the crease of my ass to press against my hole. It’s a miracle I don’t shove myself back onto them, I want it so bad. The smile he shoots me is raw with hunger and knowing at the way I push myself into his touch.

“This is what you want,” he says. It’s not a question. Off the jerk of my head, which I suppose passes for a nod, he draws himself back up to full height and takes a step back.

He hasn’t once touched my cock, which is so hard it judders, purple and leaking, against my stomach. The realization he isn’t going to hits hard. I don’t know why, but I can tell from the flintiness of his eyes I’m on my own for this one. Unsure how I feel about that, I start to take a small step away, but the slow stroke he gives his cock, mouth twitching at the look on my face, makes me shudder in anticipation. He was right: this isn’t a Phel I recognize, not one I’m used to, but I can neither figure out what he’s thinking nor walk away, since I’m the one who asked for it.

Recognizing the moment understanding dawns on me, he gestures to the couch. “If you want it so bad, go lie down and spread yourself open for me.”

The words make me gasp like I’ve been slapped across the face. My feet move of their own volition, carrying me to where he’s indicated. Kneeling tentatively on the soft leather, I look at him over my shoulder, suddenly unsure. “You got condoms and lube?”

He laughs at me. “Nate, you’re the last person I was with. Since you’re the one who was fucking around, tell me: do I need one?”

I could flinch in surprise at the words, but the answer is still no. Although I can think of nothing I’d like more than his naked cock sliding inside me, it seemed like too much to hope it was something I’d ever feel again. So I jerk my head once in the negative, and he stalks forward to snatch up a bottle of hand cream from the side table, then tosses it in my direction.

“Lie down,” he repeats.

I do, squirming at the brush of my nipples against the leather sofa, and a moment later I feel his broad, warm hand grip the flesh of one of my asscheeks, pulling me firmly apart. Squirming, I moan softly and he says, reproachfully, “Show me.”

It should be impossible to feel this naked around Phel, who has literally seen every inch of me up close, but spreading myself like this makes my face go hot, my mouth dry. I can only imagine what the hell I must look like, holding my ass open to him like a goddamned whore, but the want is so powerful I don’t so much as utter a sound of protest. I think he knows how badly I need it, because he strokes a finger over where I’ve exposed myself to him and makes a desperate noise of his own. “Let me see your face, Nate,” he murmurs, and when I glance over my shoulder at him, he looks as wrecked as I’ve ever seen him.

He fumbles with the lotion but holds my eyes as he presses his finger inside. Every ounce of me that wants to screw my face up and bury it in the cushions fights against my will to maintain eye contact. It feels important somehow. The latter wins out, and I’m rewarded with a glimpse of how Phel bites down on his bottom lip when he adds another digit, then another. I spread my legs wider and rock back against his hand despite the burn—after this long, it’s practically like getting drilled for the first time—and the gradual force with which he fucks into me makes my throat clench, a broken, keening noise emerging from me as if from a dying animal. Phel knows where and how deep to work his fingers, massaging my prostate on the first try, and he curls them against that spot again and again until the muscles in my legs shake in involuntary response.