So many reasons why this is a damn bad idea. Reasons I’ve repeated to myself over the years, weeks and days as I tried to convince myself I was pissed off at Jason, annoyed by him, suspicious of him.

Trying to avoid the truth: how much I want him.

But who cares about reasons when you have Jason Vega half-naked in your lap, sucking on your neck and telling you he’s lubed and ready for your cock? Every man has a breaking point, a weakness.

Mine is Jason.

Not only that, but he’s a man on a mission. Out to kill me, probably, if the way he’s rocking on top of my hard-on is any indication. I’m seconds away from coming in my pants, and when he does it again, I can’t fucking stand it anymore. My control snaps.

“Jase, fuck. Get on my dick right now.”

He hums on the skin of my neck, lifts his head, an emotion passing behind his eyes—amusement? calculation? fear?—then he’s climbing off me and shoving his pants down.

No underwear. So hot. His cock hangs down between his legs, long and beautiful, half-hard, the silver barbell peeking out on the sides. He’s so sexy with his upper body covered in ink, his fine face, the large, dark eyes.

Makes my heart ache. And damn, I’m so hard I could burst.

“Come here,” I whisper, my voice like gravel. He grabs his dick, gives it a few strokes. “Jason.”

Can’t wait any longer. I start unzipping my jeans, but I don’t get further than that when he kneels at my feet and takes over, removing my shoes, my socks, pulling my pants down. The tent in my black briefs is obscene. He gets up, a condom foil in his hand. He tears it with his teeth, and I swear, the sound of foil tearing goes straight to my dick.

At this point, I bet any sound would. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard in my life.

And tonight I’d planned to talk to him, really talk. Get that apology in. Tell him how I feel… how I want to do better. By him.

Damn.

He rolls the condom on my dick, and I grit my teeth and dig my nails into the armrests. If the condom feels so good, I can’t imagine his ass.

Yeah, I’ve fucked a guy before. Didn’t blow my mind. But Jason just might.

He tugs on the tip of the condom, then the base, making sure it’s snug, and trails his hand up my chest. He leans over me, eyes so serious and dark I can’t stop staring into them.

“Now lean back,” he says, his lips brushing over mine, scorching, “and let me ride you.”

His words are softly spoken, normal, everyday words, but I groan against his mouth, robbed of coherent thought.

Please, I think. Yeah, do it. Fuck yourself on me. Take what you need. What will give you pleasure.

I can’t put the thoughts into words, so I grab his face and kiss him hard, my tongue fucking his mouth, and I hope he gets the message.

He licks his lips when he pulls back, his gaze unfocused, and his dick is definitely firmer between us. “Raine…”

“I wanna see your face as you come,” I finally manage.

His brows knit. “No, it’s… I can’t, okay?”

Before I ask what he means, what he can’t do, he turns around and sits in my lap, his firm ass pressing against my dick.

I see stars. “What…?” Nope, can’t form sentences, or questions. “Ugh.”

He pulls his legs up on either side of me, braces his hands on the armrests and lifts up. His thighs ripple with muscle. His ass cheeks spread.

He positions himself over my dick. “Do it,” he says roughly. “Fuck me.”

My hand is shaking. I grip my dick, clench my jaw, and push into him. Hot. Tight. So fucking tight.

Then he sinks down, taking in my dick the rest of the way, and I moan, unable to help it, the pressure around my dick sending pulses of pain-pleasure to my balls and my ass so that everything clenches tight.

Ready to shoot.

Ah fuck.

“You’re so damn hard,” he breathes, and the faint whisper sets my blood on fire. He rises up, sinks back down, and I rock my hips up, slamming into him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. No, it wasn’t like this ever before. My hips rock up again, without any instructions from my conscious brain. I grip the armrest with one hand, Jason’s hip with the other, and just fuck into him, grunting a garbled version of his name in time to my thrusts.

Oh God. Pressure is condensing to a bright point as his body pulls on mine like a gravitational force. His ass clenches around my dick, his leg muscles tremble, his movements growing faster, sharper.

“Jase…” I’m gonna come so hard. Need him to come with me. I reach around him to jerk him off. “Damn…”

His movements slow down, his panting harsh. “Wait.”

I find his dick and grip it. He’s still half-hard. My brain grinds to a stop until I process this—the fact that he’s not enjoying it as I am. “Jason.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re not into it, dammit.”

“Damn you, Raine, just fuck me.” He glares at me over his shoulder, long dark lashes throwing shadows over his angular face. “Fuck me hard.”

This is fucked up. I shouldn’t. I should push him off me, demand we talk. Demand the truth, and no more of these veiled lies and pretenses.

But he lifts off me a little, sliding off my dick until only the head is inside him, cutting off my breath. His face is turned to the side so that I can see his beautiful profile, the full lips, the feathery lashes, the shiny spikes of his dark hair.

Then he sinks down, slowly, rocking those slim hips, his ass milking my dick, and my back arches off the armchair.

Hot damn, this is… off the charts good, I’m gonna come, oh shit… The pressure crests, my body jerks, and I shoot, the release so fucking strong it’s painful. I hold on to him as I ride it, jaw tense against a cry, the pleasure ripping me apart, turning me inside out.

Whoa. I slump back, aftershocks running through my body, small quakes of pleasure. Jason shifts, and I moan as his ass massages my spent dick.

Can’t move. Can’t talk. I mean, fuck, I can barely breathe, my muscles turned to jelly and my eyelids too heavy.

Jason shifts again, and grunts something. I blink at him. He puts his hand over mine where it’s resting on his hip.

Well, not resting. More like gripping. And he’s trying to pry it off.

My fingers are cramped. I unclench them one by one, lift them off him, and I find red fingerprints underneath.

They mingle with older, yellowing bruises, and suddenly, I feel cold and sick.

What the hell have I done?

The question won’t leave me in peace as I pull on some old sweats and stumble into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face, struggling to gather my thoughts, to ground myself, when he appears in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, propping an arm on the doorjamb, frowning at me. He’s pulled his pants back on, too, and he’s standing there, dripping sexy bad-boy attitude, looking none the worse for wear from our armchair sex wrestle.

Still.

“I fucking hurt you. Bruised you.” It comes out as a hiss. “And you didn’t even enjoy the sex. I fucked up.”

He sighs but meets my gaze dead on. “I wanted it.”

“The fuck you did. Stop lying to me.” I grab the hand towel and dry my face, then throw it on the sink. “You need the fucking money. I’d have given it to you anyway.”

His brows go up. “What?”

Fuck, is it a mistake, opening myself like this to him? Showing him how much I want him, the things I’d do for him. He could take advantage of my weakness for him.

I steel myself.

“Fuck this.” He bows his head. “Look… I really wanted it, okay? Sure, I need the money, not gonna lie. But I don’t… I don’t normally want it. The sex, I mean.”

I stare. Is he telling the truth? There’s a glitter to his eyes, that telltale flush in his cheekbones. “You didn’t even get fully hard.”

“Stop… trying to understand my mind. We’re not the same.” He looks up. “I told you, normally I don’t get it up at all. This, today, was… good.”

He seems to have trouble getting out the words. A good sign, one more sign he’s telling the truth, or something else?

I stare at him, and he turns his face into his arm for a moment, hiding it. He looks so vulnerable like this.

“I don’t get it,” I mutter.

“What?”

“If you don’t enjoy sex, why the piercings?”

He lifts his head off his arm, blinks at me as if he didn’t quite expect this question.

Good. If I catch him off guard again and again, maybe he won’t be able to hide anymore from me. I need to see the truth of him. The whole truth, good or bad.

He looks away again, avoiding my gaze, and shrugs. “Pain,” he says.

I process that. “You like pain?”

He huffs a laugh. Shoots me an amused glance and damn, it shouldn’t be so hot, and it shouldn’t get me hard right on the heels of the most intense orgasm of my life, but it does. Jason Vega laughing, smiling… it’s beautiful.

He’s beautiful.

“I didn’t say I like it,” he says softly. “But I can take it. I understand pain.” He shrugs again. “And it’s something. Gotta feel something, or else…”

A chill goes through me. “That’s fucked up.”

And of course I’m running my mouth without connection to my brain.

He blinks as if he’s just realized what he’s said, and what I replied. A scowl tightens his features. “Fuck you, Raine. Like you know anything about it.”

He turns around and goes, leaving the doorway empty.

Hell. I don’t move from the spot, trying to process everything. Because he seemed painfully honest, and what he’s saying is…

Pain. He’d rather feel pain than nothing. But he doesn’t like pain, he likes… pleasure, like that’s any fucking wonder. He’s used to pain, but that doesn’t mean he wants it.

And he said… that he gets off with me. Okay, not really, but… he likes it? He wanted me to fuck him, and shit, now I’m so hard I have to give my dick a squeeze to relieve some of the pressure.

Shit, what’s he doing to me? His words, the expressions on his face, the shadows in his eyes… I don’t know why they speak to me like that, straight to the heart, why they turn me on and twist me up inside. He’s so broken I don’t even know where to begin picking up the pieces. And I shouldn’t fucking care.

But the problem is, I do.

Too damn much.

I find him holding his jacket like he doesn’t know what it is. I pry it gently from his hands, and he lets me.

“Come sit with me.”

“I should be on my way.” But he doesn’t move to take his jacket back and leave.

It gives me hope. “I meant what I said about sleeping here. Did you know it’s a sofa-bed? I’ve never opened it, but it’s supposed to be comfortable.”

He scowls at it, then at me. “Raine—”

“I’ll put a sign on it. JASON’S. If it makes you feel more comfortable.”

“More—” He huffs another laugh, and it seems to catch him by surprise. The expression on his face is priceless. “No.”

“Okay.” God, I love these soft, huffed laughs that mean he’s forgotten to be defensive for a moment. “No sign. But it will be free for you every night. You can bring your stuff, wash your clothes, use the shower.”

“Why?”

“You like that word, don’t you?” My mouth is pulling into a smile without my permission. Just as well.

“Not really.” He glares at the sofa so hard I’m afraid he’ll set it on fire. “I just never get any answers.”

Here we go, that twisty, achy feeling returning to my chest. This guy will be the end of me. “The sofa is yours to sleep on for as long as you need it. As to why, it’s because…” I think again of all the things I’ve wanted to tell him, my apology, my insistence that he’s worth it. That I like him. “Because you shouldn’t have to ask why.”

I expect him to scoff, or snap at me for being vague, for evading his question like everyone else. But he just turns and stares at me with huge eyes.

I grab his hand, lead him to the sofa, and when I sit down and tug on his hand, he sits down with me. Still staring as if he’s looking for a different answer on my face. Another explanation.

But I think he understood what I meant, and didn’t run from it, and that, my friends, is the biggest win of all today.