Prologue

PROLOGUE

ABI

SIX MONTHS AGO

I 've killed my fair share of men and women. In my profession, it comes with the territory. Murderers. Rapists. Far-right extremists. For the right price, I wipe out the worst of the worst, and when it's done, my conscience is clear.

Not this time.

We've been searching Scotty Levinson's apartment all day, trying to find clues to his whereabouts. Finding Scotty means finding Brody, and I'd search Heaven and Earth to locate my best friend. I was on a work trip-turned-romantic getaway with Fiona—Brody's wife and my girlfriend—when the text message came through telling us he'd fallen in love with the man he'd been hired to kill, and they were going on the run, leaving us to bear the brunt of our hitman-for-hire agency's wrath. With the bounty Scotty's father paid to have him killed, our agency will stop at nothing to locate their target. I do not want to think of what will happen to Fiona and me during the agency's hunt for intel.

Brody and Fiona's relationship has been on a downward spiral for the last few months, but I never expected him to throw her and—more importantly—me to the wolves for a piece of ass he's known less than a month.

Brody suggested we follow suit—packing up and running off like cowards—but Fiona's hell bent on finding Brody's new boyfriend and killing him. I'm not opposed to the idea, but she's not thinking of the big picture. Brody isn't going to allow us to kill Scotty Levinson. It would be a point-of-no-return moment for them, and for us. Either way, we will lose Brody. So, on the journey back to Texas, as she devised murder methods, I took to social media, combing through Scotty's profiles for clues. While I didn't find any answers, I did find him .

Tatum St. James.

The man is a mystery, wrapped in a magenta jockstrap. A small bundle of sassy status updates and shirtless selfies. His uploaded images go on and on, and during the trip home, I memorized each and every one. Tatum is a stunning sight. He's small in stature; perhaps five-three. Maybe five-four. He's shirtless in most of his pictures, each of them giving me an unobstructed view of paradise. The creamy skin that seems to go on for days. Blue eyes that stare into my soul from the other side of the screen. There are lifetimes in his eyes. Lifetimes I want to live.

More than his shirtless chest, he has a habit of flashing his ass to the camera. The man knows what he's working with, and he isn't ashamed to show it off. It's ripe and plump, ready to be devoured. My favorite image is one from three months ago. His back is to the camera, and he's peering over his shoulder, casting me a knowing smirk. In the photo, he's wearing next to nothing. No shirt. No shorts. Just a pair of trunks, wedged deeply between his cheeks. The smile on his face almost feels as if it's aimed at me. Like he knows I'll inevitably find him, and he's asking what's taking so long. The image is now my phone's background, much to Fiona's annoyance.

After cutting our trip short and returning to Texas, we made a quick stop by Brody and Fiona's home, unsurprised to find he was already gone. Right now, we've got time on our side, as Brody's contract to kill Scotty isn't due for another week. Fiona has access to his email, so she's been sending failed mission reports on his behalf. When those reports stop coming, they will come for us. Fiona's home will be the first place they look, and, wanting to give us as much time as possible, we've made the decision to stay at Scotty's apartment until we've gotten the information we need.

Before heading out, Fiona collected essentials—her dog, cash she'd hoarded for a rainy day, and clothing—and said goodbye to the suburban life they built like it was the easiest decision in the world. Then, we went to work.

After a fifteen-minute drive, we arrived at Scotty Levinson's apartment. Fiona insisted I locate Tatum and force him to tell me his friend's whereabouts by any means necessary. That is how I ended up at Manhole, the closest gay bar to Tallulah, Texas. One of Tatum's four boyfriends—Benito—owns the place. Tatum works full time as a makeup artist, per social media, but on the weekends, he dances at the bar, wearing nothing more than a jockstrap and a crop top. I'd like to see him wearing the ensemble more often. Perhaps on a permanent basis.

Thanks to a selfie Tatum had uploaded less than an hour earlier, I knew he was working. The images of Tatum at his go-go boy gig are some of my favorites. He wears the same, stunning uniform in each of them. Hot-pink crop top. Magenta jockstrap. A knowing smirk meant for me and me alone.

When I arrived at the bar, Tatum was finishing his routine, seductively rolling his hips while standing on top of a speaker box near the back of the room. His hips moved in dizzying motions, left to right, drawing my attention to them, almost hypnotically so. By the end of the song, my cock was fully erect and I had a wet patch in my jeans.

When the music died down, he'd shouted, "Alright, boys," his seductive voice drawing their attention like a siren luring drunken homosexuals to their watery graves. He pointed at himself, then at the crowd, and gave the audience a quick nod before lunging forward. He was airborne for only a moment, but in that time, he seemed to come alive, twirling mid-flight until his back was to the men below, and I was given my first in-person introduction to his spectacular ass.

He landed, allowing the men to carry him forward like he was floating in the sea, simply enjoying the ride. Hands touched Tatum in places they had no right touching. None of the men present had spent a two-day journey studying each of his photographs, reading every status update from the last six years, or hacking his email accounts just to get to know him better. They had put in no work, yet their hands were touching him everywhere. An animalistic urge to rip off the hands of all who touched his soft, creamy skin ripped through me, but I resisted, knowing it would make for a poor first impression.

When the men finally placed him on the floor at the other end of the bar, I clung to the walls like a shadow, eyeing him as he approached three men standing behind the bar. They were men I knew, thanks to Tatum's endless selfies with them. They've been dating for months. Touching him. Tasting places I wished to devour. As I crept closer toward them, Tatum's ass was fully visible, and a growl escaped my throat, startling a nearby butch lesbian, making her drop the drink she'd been holding. She eyed the drink on the floor, then me, her scowl never fading. After shoving a ten-dollar-bill in her hand I pushed past, desperate to see more of Tatum.

The men appeared to be in the midst of a domestic argument. As Tatum lamented the fact he was only meant to dance for an hour, but had somehow ended up there for ninety minutes without a break, the bar's owner and the newest addition to their polyamorous group, Benito Blankenship, was rinsing a glass behind the bar, barely paying Tatum any mind.

Tatum's so small in stature. Five foot five at best. I estimated I had at least a solid foot on him, and it brought out my protective instincts. More than anything, I wanted him wrapped around me, safe from whatever hurt he was experiencing.

"And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking shots from the other go-go boys each time they passed. That's coming out of your check," Benito shouted above the music.

"I don't even get a goddamn check."

"Tatum," one of his other boyfriends pleaded while shaking his head. I thought it was Bennet, but he and Benjamin looked so much alike, it was difficult to tell. "Please don't. You're gonna make him mad."

"Fine," Tatum shouted. "Fucking fine. You're all welcome to each other." Though Benito didn't seem to care about Tatum in the slightest, the two men at his side—Bennet and Benjamin—were shaking like leaves. They eyed each other nervously before giving Tatum pleading expressions.

"Tate?" the man I thought to be Bennet begged.

"No. Absolutely not. Don't give me those puppy-dog eyes. If he's who you want, you can fucking have him. I'm done. Maybe I'll find someone too. Maybe I'll grab the nearest man, drag him into the bathroom, and fuck him until the sun's high in the sky and I'm covered in cum." If the little man planned on his words having an emotional effect on Benito, he clearly misread the situation, because there was no reaction on Benito's part, and the other two stared at him with a confused expression. "I'll do it. Don't think I won't."

I would make it my life's mission to be that man.

When it became clear none of the three were going to object, Tatum whirled around and took a step forward, bumping into me. Taking a step back, his eyes traveled up and down my body, and there was a look in his eyes that made my heart flutter. His tongue extended from his mouth and traveled across his lips, making his bubblegum-pink mouth sparkle with saliva. He took a step to the left which I matched with a step to the right. When he moved to the other side, I did the same. His eyes narrowed. As much as I wanted to play with him more, he seemed to be getting flustered, and I didn't want his hideous-hearted boyfriends to see him upset, so I slid out of his way. He walked a few steps past me before looking over his shoulder. His cheeks flushed red when he caught me staring. Tatum looked as if he wanted to scold me, but he simply scowled and continued his journey, slamming his palm into the bathroom door, launching it open.

If he thought a bathroom door would be deterrent enough for me, he was incorrect in his assumption. When I entered the restroom, he was already at the urinal. I'm still not sure what possessed me to slowly approach, aim my phone at his cock, and film him urinating. Tatum did not seem terribly bothered. He turned his head and stared into my eyes, not saying a word as piss poured out like an unending waterfall. Once he was done, he remained silent. Then his fingers curled around his cock, and he gave it a leisurely stroke.

"You were watching me," he said matter-of-factly. "When I was dancing. After I was done."

"Da," I responded. That earned me a raised brow. "I could not look away."

He stared down at his cock, then back at me, the corner of his lips curling. "I hope you don't mind. I'm tipsy and horny and in the mood for a bit of revenge. Care to join me?"

"Revenge?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from his cock.

"Yeah. My boyfriends are assholes." His hand slowly tugged upward, and he did this adorable move where he twisted his wrist on the upstroke, whimpering when his fist slid over the head. "Your voice is really cute." When the words were out, his cock twitched.

"Your everything is cute." I sounded like a punch-drunk fool, and I think we both knew it. The hearts in my eyes. The grin on my face. It felt like I was meeting my celebrity idol. As I took a cautious step forward, he met it with one of his own. He's such a small man. Tiny is an understatement. He can't weigh more than one-ten, soaking wet. Even then, standing chest to chest, his eyes were barely level with my lips. "You're quite small, little one."

His breath ghosted against my neck when he nervously asked, "But I'm big where it counts, right?"

I stared at it for a moment before telling him honestly, "It is the most beautiful penis I have ever seen."

There was a song playing through the speakers. An old track by a man singing that their love was too good to be true, and how he couldn't take his eyes off of them. It felt right, in a way. Like the song had been written for this precise moment, shared between these two specific people. As the chorus played out, I leaned in, singing softly into his ear, " Oh, Pretty Baby. "

In less than five minutes, Tatum offered me a glimpse into a world I've known little about. I've always known I was bisexual, but up until then, I hadn't had the chance to fully explore my sexuality. Whether it was down to fear or just a lack of opportunity, I'm not entirely sure. The farthest I've gone was playing with married couples. During those encounters, it always felt like staring at the other men's cocks was strictly forbidden. Not with Tatum. Tatum's eyes told me he wanted me to watch. To see him come undone at the seams. It felt like an explosion. A black hole, drawing us in and swallowing us whole. It felt like many things, but most importantly, it felt right .

"What's your name?" he asked as he stroked his cock. My lips were ghosting his cheek, pulling out whines and whimpers each time we touched. To anyone else, I would have answered the way I always do. A formal offering of "Kincaid." The name Abi hurts too much to hear. That's why I surprised myself when I leaned closer and kissed his cheek, murmuring, "You may call me Abi, little one," into his ear. "Will you come for me, little one?" I lowered my hand in front of his cock, giving him a target to aim for. The hand not holding his cock reached behind me, fingers threading through my hair as he pulled me closer. Our foreheads touched, and I whispered, "Come for me." His head fell back, and he came with a whimper. I had to wrap an arm around him to keep him steady, and his eyes followed my cum-coated hand as I reached into my underwear and slathered his load into my dick like lotion. His mouth was hanging open, but he didn't object to the action. He had a bewildered look in his eyes like he couldn't believe what he was allowing himself to do in the presence of a stranger. It was as if his body was running on instinct and his mind was simply along for the ride.

I've never allowed anyone to use my first name. Not friends. Not the family I've found along the way. I've told myself it's due to trauma, and maybe that's true in its own way. Or maybe I just wished to keep one thing for myself, after everything I've had taken from me. With Tatum, I don't feel the urge to hide. In the bathroom, I wanted to share it with him. I wanted him to know it, and, for some reason, I wanted him to know me. The man I've kept hidden, even from myself.

I was born Abdulov Konstantin. My father's name. He was not a kind man. Shortly after my tenth birthday, my mother first noticed signs of my attraction to the same sex. Knowing what the future might hold for me in Russia, she stole me away and brought me to America. Once we were here, Abdulov Konstantin became Abi Kincaid. We spent months searching for safety, and my mother found that safety in her second husband. He took me in as his own, but I was never his. Not truly. Three years later, after my father tracked us down, I watched my mother and stepfather die. My name was the last thing my mother ever said. The fear in her eyes—fear of what my father would do to me once she slipped from this plane to the next—haunts me; never leaving, never fading in intensity.

It was the night I took my first life, and I rest easier knowing my father will never harm anyone again.

Now, I've rewritten my existence, wiping away Abi until all that's left is Kincaid. I've always thought I was hiding that part of myself from the world. Now, I think I may have been saving it for him .

The sound of the pantry door swinging open pulls my attention away from Tatum's picture.

"If you could stop staring at the twink's profile long enough to help me form a plan, that would be swell," Fiona says, rooting through Scotty's cupboard for something to eat. She pulls out a pack of ramen and scowls. "Who the hell eats this shit? It's just empty carbs and toxic levels of sodium."

"People who can't afford anything else," I say, zooming in on his profile picture. God, he's beautiful. The platinum hair. His soft curved jawline. That ridiculous smirk reflecting back at me. I lick my lips at the sight of him, remembering the way his load felt in my hand. "Not everyone grew up in the lap of luxury, Fiona. People struggle."

She sighs. "Obviously, I know that. I'm just saying. We're stuck here until we can think of a way to find them. Excuse the fuck out of me for being annoyed that we're living off a diet of starch and dehydrated noodles until then."

I don't know how much longer I can deal with this. I like Fiona, as a friend and as a fuck buddy, but our bond has always been more physical than emotional. We get along well enough. We've traveled the world, but she's never journeyed into my heart. Now, with the looming threat of an untimely death, not even a quick midnight fuck can bring us back to the happy pair we once were. She complains, I shut down, and in the end, we both wind up with red faces and elevated blood pressure. I'm starting to think the only thing we have in common is Brody. Now he's gone, and I don't know who we are without him. I don't know who I am without him.

As much as I want to track down Brody and bring him home where he belongs, I think Fiona and I both know we're running a fool's errand. Even if we find him, there's no way Brody will allow us to kill Scotty. I can't blame him. I've only known of Tatum's existence for a few days, and the thought of anyone harming him fills me with rage.

God, this profile picture will be the death of me.

"There has to be something we're missing," Fee says, opening the ramen packet and snapping off a small section of dehydrated noodles. When she pops the noodle into her mouth, the crunching sound is both loud and unnecessary.

"There's nothing. We've searched every inch of this apartment."

Her eyes are narrow as she opens her mouth, probably to unleash more venom, but we both fall silent as the sound of footsteps echo through the dark hall leading to Scotty's apartment door. There are only two units on this floor, and from what I can tell, the other apartment is vacant. When I look up, Fiona is already moving, hiding inside the tiny pantry in Scotty's small kitchen. I hop off the sofa and rush for the bedroom door, directly beside the couch. Crouching, I hide behind Scotty's chest of drawers on the other side of the wall.

The door opens, then closes. I listen as footsteps grow closer, only to stall inches away from me. Scotty's sofa creaks, and a loud exhale escapes our mystery guest. On the bed, Fiona and Brody's dachshund, Daisy, is lying on her side, her sleepy eyes locked on mine. The day we arrived, she made Scotty's bed her home, probably smelling Brody's scent still on the sheets. I bring a finger to my mouth and shush her, and it almost looks like she nods, understanding the severity of the situation. With an extended yawn, she closes her eyes and falls back into a peaceful slumber.

On the other side of the wall, someone makes a call that rings once before being forwarded to voicemail. The automated voice drones out a phone number, alerting the intruder their friend is unavailable. Once it beeps, I hear the sweetest sound I've ever heard.

"Benji, it's me. "

The little one. My little one.

He's on the other side of the wall. So close I could punch a hole through the apartment's drywall and touch his cherubic cheek, should I so desire. And, believe me, my desire to touch him is stronger than anything I've ever felt.

"Benji, I'm sorry I'm calling so late. I just..." Tatum says before going silent again. And then, a sniffle. A sound that wrecks me on the inside. Why is he sad? Who has hurt this precious man? I want to find them and make them suffer. I want to snuff the life out of them. Instead, I remain crouched beside the chest of drawers, trying to keep my anger in check. "I know you're probably still upset with me from earlier at the bar, but I got a message from Scotty's stalker earlier, and I'm really scared. I think someone's after me. If you don't hear back from me, I just want you to know that I love you, and I'm sorry I wasn't enough. You deserve the world—you and Bennet—but you're not going to get it from him , so, I need you to do something for me, babes. I need you both to go out there and find whatever it was I couldn't give you because you fucking deserve it. I love you. Always."

The call ends and there's a loud, crashing sound before Tatum's sobs fill the silent apartment. It's a sound that shatters me from the inside out as his words reverberate in my mind. " Someone's after me. " He's spoken with Brody. There's no telling what he's told Tatum about us. The little one probably thinks we're trying to kill him. Sure, Fiona wouldn't blink an eye at taking his life, but I will not allow that to happen. Not after what he and I shared in the bar's bathroom earlier.

I'm not sure how long I sit in silence, waiting for him to make a move. It feels like minutes turn to days, then turn back into seconds. For a while, I worry what Fiona might do to him if she gets to Tatum first. I pull out my phone and shoot her a quick text telling her in no uncertain terms that if she touches him, she'll have to answer to me.

The pantry door creaks open, so I stand. I will not allow Fiona to frighten or harm Tatum. She'd be more than happy to torture what information he has out by force, but we don't need to sink to those depths. Not when I've still got thirty doses of our agency's serum left from my last assignment. I grab my small black satchel from where I left it on the chest of drawers earlier and take out a syringe. Uncapping the needle, I creep closer to the door. On the other side of the wall, there's a thud, and the pantry door closes again.

Fuck.

Has she harmed him? He hasn't even made a sound. I swear to God, if she's killed him, I don't know if I'll be able to control myself. I will not harm her, but I'm happy to drug her and leave her in Scotty's apartment to fend for herself.

No one touches him. No one.

Thankfully, Fee responds to my message with an eye roll emoji, so at least I know nothing's happened yet. I can't just sit here, though. When I creep around the corner, the apartment's layout works to my advantage. The sofa is on the other side of the wall I've been resting against. Tatum is sitting sideways, his back against the armrest, feet on the cushions, legs pulled to his chest. Across the room, I locate the source of the crashing sound from earlier. It appears Tatum hurled his phone against the wall, and it is now on the floor, facing upward, the screen shattered. Tatum is facing away from me, making this even easier. If he does not see the needle coming, I can be in and out in a flash. But then I see him. Truly see him.

Tatum's shoulders are shaking as if he's scared, and he's making all of these terrible, horrible sounds. Sobs and cries like he's lost everything and it's taking all his strength to hold himself together. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him he has nothing to fear. I'll keep him safe, should he allow it.

Something catches my eye. Fee's phone, resting on the sofa cushion in front of him, showing our text exchange. I'm given no chance to process what I'm seeing, because he suddenly whirls around and something slams into my stomach. A cracking sound fills the room, and it isn't until I'm on my back, staring at the ceiling as pain spreads through my chest that I realize he's cracked—if not broken—my ribs. Then he's on top of me, pressing something against my throat, cutting off my oxygen.

"Surprise, asshole," he hisses into my face. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

The room is shrouded in darkness, so it takes him a moment to realize who I am. A man he met mere hours ago in a dirty gay bar bathroom. The moment it registers, his mouth drops open, and his eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. He almost looks hurt, like me being here is a betrayal. Perhaps it is. Perhaps he felt the same connection I did at the bar, and by realizing I'm the one underneath him, I've extinguished what little hope he had.

Hope for me? For us?

"How—I mean, why..." He blinks slowly, still trying to process my presence. "Abi?" I can't stand to see the look of betrayal on his face. "I got a text saying someone was coming for me. It's you?" He shakes his head, dazed. "It can't be you." His eyebrows draw together. "It isn't supposed to be you." The cracks of hurt in his voice are unbearable because I do not wish to hurt him.

"Hello, little one," I whisper, trying to ignore the pain spreading through my chest. My pain means nothing right now. I need him to calm down, so I do the only thing I can. I open myself up in a way I've never done before. "I've missed you," I wheeze, my voice cracked and broken. His grip eases, allowing me to breathe easier, but he doesn't move the object away from my throat. Tatum is half the size of me, and I could easily push him away if I wanted, but I do not want to. The pain I'm feeling doesn't come close to the warmth spreading through me due to our physical contact.

He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and studies me. It takes him a moment to collect himself, but when he does, I'm rewarded with more of his sass. He scrunches his nose up at me and snarls, "Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you want?"

"You," I answer without hesitation. "I am here for you, Tatum."

His eyes widen, but he pushes any fear he may be feeling down into a tiny little ball, tucking it away for later. "So, you're ... what? Here to kill me? To torture me?"

I chuckle, but it just makes my chest hurt more. "I'll only torture you if you ask me to."

He rolls his eyes. "Why would I want you to torture me? Jesus, Abi. I'm hardly going to ask you to hurt me." A smirk twists in his mouth. "But if you're dead set on killing me, why don't you call for your partner. See if they can hold me down while you stab or strangle me. Go on. I'll give you the advantage." I smirk right back at him, and there's a strange sense of pride rushing through me as I stare at him.

"I could do that," I say with a nod. "But we both know there is no use. The pantry door opened, there was a thud, and you now have my partner's phone. You've clearly incapacitated her, and now I am at your mercy." His mouth hangs open in surprise. Clearly, he hasn't expected me to piece all of this together, but I've trained for this for years. It's in my DNA. Still, the effortless way he was able to eliminate Fiona as a threat tells me I may have met my match. Good. "Well done. I'm proud of you."

He scowls. "Why the hell would you be proud of me? Your partner could be dead right now, and you could be next." I tickle his ribs because he looks adorable on top of me, but he slaps my hand away. "Stop it. Answer the question." I tickle him again, and this time he slaps me in the face, making my cock swell. He must feel it against his ass, because his eyes widen. I could use the distraction to pry whatever weapon he's choking me with from his hand, but I'm enjoying our game of cat and mouse, so I allow him this win.

"I just am," I finally answer. He puts a bit of weight against my throat, and I try to gasp, but no air comes. That's fine. I have tactics of my own. His eyes flicker down to my hand as it creeps up his thigh, and he presses the bar even tighter against my throat. I have to choke the words out as I say, "I'm very proud of you for getting the upper hand."

"Stop that."

My nails dance lightly against his skin. Tight doesn't begin to describe the pink shorts he's wearing. They cling to him, accenting the nooks and crooks of his groin. His gaze lingers as I trail my fingertips closer to his waist. He probably thinks I'm going to grab his hip, but I've got my eyes on a bigger prize. When I cup his bulge, Tatum's entire body shudders, and I feel him lengthen in my hand.

"There you are," I choke out, giving his package a gentle squeeze. His grip eases, and I'm able to breathe again, but I don't waste my breath on oxygen. Instead, I give it to him. I'm pretty sure I'd give him anything he wanted. "Did you miss me?"

"I don't even fucking know you."

"You knew me well enough earlier. You came for me." I run my hand up and down the underside of his shaft, making him moan. "Would you like to come for me again?"

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You're trying to kill me."

"Never." I wrap my hand around his cloth-covered shaft and stroke him slowly. He's fully erect now, and pride courses through me. I'm the reason for his erection. Me. Not his boyfriends. "I am not trying to kill you. I am trying to make you come."

"Don't you dare," he warns me, his breaths coming in quick. "Don't wanna come. Wanna render you unconscious."

I love this. The way I've taken him to the edge so soon, making speech almost impossible. "Come for me, Tatum. You know you want to." I bring both hands to his hips and allow my fingertips to slip under the elastic band of his shorts. "I would like you to remove these, then I want you to fuck yourself against me. Will you do that for me? "

He shakes his head, but his body is working against him. He sets whatever object he's been using to choke me with on the floor before standing and shimmying out of his shorts. Wonderstruck, I drink in the vision of his hard cock bouncing free, slapping his stomach. Tatum lowers himself back onto me, but he doesn't grab his weapon this time, just leans forward, his cock wedged firmly between us. Guiding him, I roll his hips, trying to get him to follow my lead. Thankfully, any resistance he may have felt falls by the wayside, and he rocks against me without instruction.

"Fuck," he groans, grinding harder. The pain in my chest is nothing compared to the lust in my heart. I'm just as hard as he is, but this isn't about me. He can worship my cock soon enough. Tonight, I praise him.

"There you are. Let yourself have this. You've earned it."

"Why?" he asks, his hips moving faster.

"Because you have been neglected far too long. I've seen it. Your social media, your boyfriends' social media. They post nothing about you, yet your profiles are devoted to them. They do not realize what they have."

"What do they have?"

"Everything," I answer, licking my lips. He's fucking against me with abandon now, his pre-cum soaking through my shirt. I want to feel him on me, so I remove a hand from his hip, enjoying the needy whine that escapes at the loss of contact. I sit up long enough to remove my shirt, wanting to give him an unobstructed view of what's on offer. His eyes lock on the quickly spreading bruise over my cracked rib, and he looks like he might cry. His hips are no longer moving, which doesn't work for me. I want him to have this. I want to be responsible for every orgasm he has from here on out.

"Are you okay? That looks really painful."

"I am fine," I assure him. "I love it, Tatum. Use me. Fucking abuse me. As long as I get to see you like this, you can do whatever you want. I have a high threshold for pain." I kiss the tip of my thumb before brushing it against his brow. "I promise, I am okay. Go on, now. I want you to come on my chest. Mark me."

"Don't wanna."

"I think you do. I think there is something you need. Something they cannot give you. I can, though. I will, if you will allow it."

"What?" His hips roll, but he's trying to be sneaky about it, looking around the room as if he's searching for something. "What do I need?"

My hand slides around his hip, and I let it rest on his ass. Fuck. It's the softest ass I've ever held. It's like it's calling out to me. Begging me to reach deeper. To touch his most intimate places. "You need someone who will worship the ground you walk on. Someone who will take care of you. Treasure you. You need a Daddy, Tatum."

His eyes roll back in his head, and a moan escapes him. "Fuck off. I've got a father."

"Correct. Nate St. James. Sexologist and bowling league champion." I slide my fingers further back until they're resting above his crack. "I know everything about you, sweetheart."

He whimpers as his hips rock forward again. "You've been stalking me?"

"Little one?" When our eyes meet, I give him a clipped nod. "I will always stalk you. Now, come for me. Let yourself have this."

"Fine," he says, his voice firm, as if the request offends him to his very core. He grinds harder than before, sending spikes of pain through my chest. But I ignore it. I push it down until it doesn't exist. I lock my eyes on him until the only thing left in this world are his rolling hips and throbbing cock. Wanting to guide him on his way, I slide a finger between his cheeks and stroke his hole. He's breathing heavily when he opens his eyes, our faces only inches apart. "Is my cum still all over your cock?"

"It is. When I left the bar, I masturbated in my car so I could feel us together. I apologize, I could not wipe you away. I wanted you with me."

"Oh, God," he groans as his eyes roll back in his head.

"You feel so good on me. I don't ever want to wash you off," I admit. He's grinding harder now, trying to find release. Wanting to push him over the edge, I dig my nails into his hip. "That's it. Fuck my stomach, sweetheart. Let it all out." I lean in and wrap my lips around his nipple, nibbling softly. "Would you like me to fuck you one day? All you have to do is ask. I will make it so good for you." I place pressure on the entrance, not wanting to breach his rim, just wanting him to know I'm here. "This is where I belong. We both know it." He slows his movement, biting his bottom lip. Then I feel it. He arches his back, pressing firmly against my finger.

"Do it," he whispers.

I tap his entrance. "Knock, knock." Pre-cum pours out, landing on my stomach. It's all the invitation I need. Sliding my finger in slowly, I let the warmth envelope my skin. He feels so good against me. He feels right . "This is where my finger belongs, isn't it?"

He nods emphatically. "Yeah."

"Is that right?" I crook my finger and his entire body shudders. I believe I've just found his prostate. "Because I think this is where I should keep it." He rolls his hips, and I have to harden my expression to hide the pain from him. "Will you let me keep it here forever?"

"Always," he pants, thrusting faster.

"I can just carry you around, sliding my finger in and out of you, fucking you endlessly for the rest of your life."

"Fuck, yeah!" he shouts. His cock swells one final time, and warm, sticky cum flies from his cock, painting me. Branding me. Fucking consuming me. I grab him by the back of the head and pull, slamming our mouths together. His tongue snakes into my mouth and duels for dominance, but I will not let him take control. He needs me to guide him because I am the strong one. I am the protector, and I will protect him until I'm no longer able. Around us, the world is aflame, and we're simply letting it burn down to nothing—because that's what it is. Nothing. Anything that isn't Tatum St. James or Abi Kincaid no longer matters.

I am his. He is mine.

His body shivers against mine, and he maintains the kiss long after his orgasm has faded. I don't know what will happen when we tear our mouths apart, but for one moment—for this moment—he's content.

His breath is warm and tastes of bubblegum. I swallow the flavor and each of the small, aching sounds he makes. I take all he gives, and I take it gladly. Proudly.

When he finally pulls away, there's a look of pure joy pouring out of him, but it does not last long. When reality hits and he sees the evidence of his pleasure painted on my chest, panic sets in. His arm rears back and he slaps me with all his might.

"What the fuck was that?" he shouts, gasping for air as he repeatedly slaps my shoulder. "Seriously, what the hell?" I tighten the hold I have on him, but he's squirming like crazy, trying to get away from me. Reluctantly, I ease my finger from his hole and lift him off my lap, setting him on the floor in front of me.

"I wanted you to come. You came. I'm not sure where the confusion lies, my love," I say. He slaps me again, but there's no removing the smile from my face. Not after what we've just shared.

"Stop calling me weird stuff like love and pretty baby. It's fucking creepy."

"What's creepy about—" Before I can finish my sentence, the pantry door swings open, and Tatum's body goes stiff in my arms.

"If you've finished, I'd really like to get this show on the road," Fee deadpans, her feet clacking against Scotty's hardwood floors. "I've been in that damn closet for fifteen minutes listening to you two. I'm not sticking around for round two." When she reaches us, she nudges me with her shoe. "You okay?"

I nod. "Just a cracked rib. Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious?" Fee flings her hands in the air as she walks around the room. "Just a cracked rib, he says. You're going to be useless for the next month. I'll have to carry your dead weight." She points a finger at Tatum. "You hit me in the head. Prick."

I watch as Tatum slowly reaches for whatever he's been using to tame me into submission. When he grabs it, he quickly holds it above his head threateningly. "Back the fuck away from me," he says to Fee. To my surprise, he does not stand and scurry away, just scoots closer until he's in my lap again, seeking protection. Even as he clings to me like a second skin, his eyes are glaring at Fiona as if he has the upper hand.

He's precious this way. All bark, little bite. Try as I might, I can't hide my smile. He's adorable, thinking he's in control. He must see the way I snicker, because his eyes narrow and lock on mine.

"What the hell are you laughing at?"

"You," I answer, pointing at his hand. "You threatened my life with a rolling pin?"

He shrugs before carefully popping me on the elbow with his weapon of choice. It stings a bit, but I push past the pain. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Yes, but . . . a rolling pin?"

"It was on the counter, so I grabbed it. It doesn't matter why I have it—all that matters is it'll split your skull wide open."

As fun as this game is, Fee's right. We really need to get this show on the road. The quicker we learn Scotty's whereabouts, the quicker we can leave. With little effort, I stand, and Tatum wraps his legs around my waist, holding on for the ride. My ribs burn and ache, but I tuck the pain into a tiny ball and swallow it down, not wanting him to see me as weak. Once I'm up, I cock an eyebrow. "Remind me why you believe you have the upper hand." He hits me on the shoulder with his rolling pin, but I simply blink at him for emphasis.

"Are you made of solid fucking steel?"

"I have twelve inches of steel, if you'd like to see."

His eyes bulge and his mouth hangs open. "You're lying."

"If you want proof, I'm happy to show you."

He shakes his head, looking dazed. "No one has a penis that large." He gasps as I reach beneath his shorts and run my finger down his crack. My finger finds his hole and slides in with ease, like he's been form-fitted for me. His eyes widen at the intrusion, but then the corner of his lips curl up.

"He's not lying," Fee says, flopping down on the sofa and pulling out her phone. "He made me measure it in front of my husband once as part of a sex bet. Just over twelve inches. I'm honestly surprised my cervix is still intact." I don't know what she's looking for on her phone, but her eyes are glued to it, determined. When I look at Tatum, there's an expression I can't quite read. Sadness? Anger? Disappointment? I am not sure. Tatum is in my arms, right against my chest, but it feels like he is a million miles away.

I slide my finger in as deep as it will go. "What's wrong?"

He startles as if I've just woken him from a dream. "Huh?"

"Your face. You look sad. What happened?"

His eyes dart to Fee, then to me. "You two are together?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you jealous?"

"Obviously not," he quickly adds, but his cheeks are growing redder by the second. "I don't even know you."

"Well, I know you." I lean in, playfully nipping his chin with my teeth. "Like the back of my hand, I know you."

"How? And, why?" When I refuse to answer, his eyes narrow. "Answer the question, Abi."

Fee sucks in a sharp breath, and when our gazes lock, her mouth hangs open. "You let him call you Abi?—"

"Do not say that name," I growl, not taking my eyes away from Tatum. The name sounds wrong coming from her. It isn't hers to say. With anyone else, it feels like nails piercing my eardrums. It brings back memories of my mother's lifeless eyes. Of my father staring down at me in disgust. The twist of the blade as I took his life. An eye for an eye.

I cannot wallow in the past, not when I've got the future resting in my arms. Though it pains me to do so, I set him down on his feet and remove my finger from his hole. He clenches his cheeks to keep me in, and I realize, whether he knows or not, his body is already treating my finger like it's an extension of himself. It's as if it knows I belong inside him, and it will do whatever it takes to keep me there. I slide back into him, slowly gliding back and forth as he falls against my chest and writhes in my arms. Seconds tick by before he finally takes a step away from me.

There's a recliner in the corner of Scotty's apartment, and I point to it. "Would you like to sit on my lap?"

"Why the hell would I want to sit in your lap?" he asks, shaking his head. The question must bring him back to reality, because gone is the love-drunk man from moments before. "Stop trying to distract me with sexy games and that ridiculous accent. No, I don't want to sit on your lap. What I would like is for you to die. If you're unwilling to do so, I'd like for you to explain what's going on. I've already told you I don't know where they went."

Fee rolls her eyes. "Do it, Kincaid."

I know what she's asking of me, but I cannot. I do not want to take pieces of this man unless he gives them willingly. The syringe is there, on the floor. All I would have to do is bend over and pick it up, and we'd have the answers we need... but I won't. There's a connection forming between us, and I don't want to ruin the progress we've made by drugging him with our agency's version of truth serum. Granted, it's simply diphenhydramine mixed with a few rare herbs, but I will not drug him without his consent.

"Sit with me, Tatum," I suggest instead, taking his hand and guiding him to the recliner. Once I'm seated, I tug until he's in my lap, and I wrap a protective arm around his waist. In my lap, Tatum shifts, trying to get comfortable. The action makes my dick swell, and he must feel it, because his eyes blow wide.

"Is that . . . ?"

I flash a smile, slowly rocking my hips, grinding against him. "That is my cock. He is very happy to make your acquaintance."

He makes a sound like he's choking before quickly darting his eyes away. "Liar. That's way too big to be a penis."

I grind against him again, wanting him to feel every centimeter of my manhood. "As I said, it's twelve inches. Do you think you can take it?"

"Fuck off, liar." His cheeks are crimson, and he's looking everywhere in the room except at me. It isn't lost on me how he arches back as if he wants to feel more of me. Changing the subject, he darts his eyes between Fee and myself. "What was she talking about? What does she want you to do to me?"

"I'm in the room, you know. You could just ask me directly."

His eyes remain locked on mine. "Answer the question, Abi."

My professional career relies on half-truths and omissions, but I cannot do that with him. I refuse. "I gather you already know the man who took Scotty is a hitman, correct?" I start. Though Tatum doesn't answer, he does nod. Good. I'm glad he's being somewhat forthcoming. "His name is Brody. He's Fiona's husband and my best friend. We're coworkers. He was hired to kill your friend, but they ran off instead. The people who want Scotty dead aren't happy. Our lives are in danger, and the only way out of this is to bring Brody home." I don't tell him his friend's death will be necessary for this to work in our favor, though I'm sure the implication is there.

"So, you're just friends?" he asks, pointing at Fee, then at me. Funny this is where his mind goes. I've just told him I'm a trained assassin on the hunt for his best friend. My girlfriend has told him she plans to hurt that friend. Instead of worrying over Scotty's fate, he concerns himself with my love life. Interesting .

I swallow, shaking my head. "We are something of an item. Brody and Fiona have an open marriage." Not wanting to dwell on that fact, I try to shift his focus to the matter at hand. "I am only asking you to tell me what you know. Fiona would like me to drug you, but I do not wish to do that. I just need to know if you have any idea where they might be."

Fee stands, her eyes locked on something on the floor. At first, I assume she's going to give us a moment alone so I might find out what he knows. It's a hypothesis that proves incorrect when she bends over, grabs the discarded syringe, approaches, and jams the needle into Tatum's neck.

"Fiona!" I scream, only stopping myself when I see the fear in Tatum's eyes.

"Oh, my God," he whispers. "Abi?"

Rage doesn't even begin to describe my feelings. He looks so fucking terrified right now. "Oh, Pretty Baby. No. Don't be afraid. You're going to be fine. I promise."

"She stabbed me," he says in disbelief, reaching for his neck. I watch as Fee plunges the cocktail into his bloodstream, and I know whatever fear he's feeling at this moment is about to increase tenfold. I've only felt the serum's effects once, but once was enough to last me a lifetime. "She's just stabbed me."

"She hasn't," I insist. "She only gave you a shot."

This does nothing to ease his worry. "She drugged me? You let her fucking drug me? What was in it? Is it cyanide? Have I been poisoned?" His grip around me tightens as he clings to me for dear life. I swear to God, if it wasn't for my personal code of honor, I would kill Fee right now. Tatum is terrified. "I don't want to die."

I touch his cheek and force the warmest smile I can manage. "You aren't dying, I swear. She's injected you with a truth serum, for lack of a better word. It's a way of easing out the things you want to keep hidden. I want you to look at me, alright?" I wait for him to focus on me and nod. He's shaking, and I can't stand to see him this way. So I do the only thing I can think of to put him at ease. I dip my fingers past his crack and gently slide my finger into his hole, thrusting it back and forth slowly.

"Scared," he whispers. Now that the serum is in his blood, he can no longer lie to me. He's the type to hoard his feelings, saving them for a rainy day. With that no longer being an option, he's left at my mercy. His life is essentially in my hands, and he's frightened.

"You're safe," I assure him. "This is what's going to happen to you. In a moment, you're going to feel warm all over. It's a lovely feeling. Enjoy it." Our agency has multiple variations of this serum, though they all have the same primary function—to lower inhibitions until the truth slips out. A few versions of the drug render its recipient unconscious within minutes. Some sooner, some later. The batch I have creeps upon its target slowly, prying out admissions over time rather than all at once. I lean in and offer him a quick peck on the mouth to put him at ease. When I pull away, I trace the curve of his lower lip and smile widely at him. "Once it fades, you'll feel fearful, but I promise, you have nothing to be scared of. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Why?" he whimpers.

I want to tell him he needn't worry because he's mine now. I've obsessed over him for days. I've masturbated to his profile picture more times than I can count. I've always pictured myself with a woman in the end, but now I know that won't happen. Not as long as Tatum St. James is breathing. There's no retreat—only surrender.

"Once the fear settles, you will not be able to lie to me." His eyes widen, and, again, I try to ease his mind. "I won't ask you anything that doesn't pertain to your friend. I won't use it against you."

"I will," Fee interjects.

"You will do no such thing," I say without taking my eyes off him. "You will go into the other room, and you will let me handle it. I have this." My finger continues fucking him slowly, and I can tell it must be reassuring, because he doesn't look as frightened as before.

Fee exhales heavily but she finally relents, grabbing her burner phone and heading into Scotty's bedroom. And now, I'm alone with him. God. Why does it feel so right? Why does he feel so right?

When the door closes and I'm sure it's just him and me, I lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. To my surprise, he doesn't fight against me. He doesn't slap me, though I would happily welcome it. I like the way he tries to rough me up. He's such a little man, it's not as if he can do much damage.

His eyes close, then open, much slower than before. "Abi," he says, and it almost sounds like a prayer. His fingers crinkle against my stubble like he's scratching an unscratchable itch on my behalf. "I feel warm." I watch as his hips roll, rocking back and forth against my finger. He doesn't seem to be doing it for sexual release; it's almost like my finger is a security blanket of sorts.

"I know, baby. I said you would feel warm all over. Remember?" I place my hand on his stomach and rub my palm in slow circles. Leaning in, I kiss his forehead. He doesn't back away. "Tatum?"

His breathing is slow and heavy. Little bursts of bubblegum that invade and intoxicate my senses. "Yeah?"

"Will you tell me what you know about Scotty?"

He lifts his hand to my face and traces my eyebrows. "You have really pretty eyebrows."

"Thank you," I say with a laugh, but his expression remains serious.

"No, I mean it. I'm a makeup artist. I know these things. You can tell you spend a lot of time on them." His fingers trail down to my cheekbone. "And these things? They're fucking statuesque." He sighs, but it's one that's filled with affection. "You must have had work done. No one has cheekbones like this. It's just ..." His eyes close, and he kisses the air. The action is both silly and seductive, and I have to resist the urge to lean in and place my lips on top of his. "Perfection," he whispers. "Can I ask you a question?"

I'm the one who should be asking questions. He's already failed to answer the most important one I can ask, but I can't bring myself to ask it again. Tatum wants to know about me. There's a question he needs an answer to, and I'm more than happy to oblige.

"Anything," I say.

"Are you going to kill Scotty when you find him?"

I say nothing at first, because I don't wish to lie to him. In all honesty, I don't know what we'll do to his friend when we find him. I know Brody better than I know myself. He protects those he loves with ferocity. If he truly loves Scotty Levinson, he won't allow us to kill him. There are other options, of course. Perilous paths we could take. I don't wish to spend time worrying about those now, though. Not when Tatum is resting in my lap, hoping for me to put him at ease.

"I'll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn't happen. I promise."

He nods, but he doesn't seem that convinced. "I don't know where he is. Before he left, we weren't exactly on the best of terms. I told him over and over that your friend was trying to kill him, but he was a real jerk about it. Kicked me out of his apartment and everything." His fingers are on me, rubbing up my chest, letting the hair spike between his fingers. His eyes are focused on my porcelain skin like my body is a work of art. I wonder if he likes the view. Other lovers have endlessly rained down praise on my appearance, but it's never felt as if the entire trajectory of my life rests on one person's opinion.

"I love your hair," he says, combing his fingers through my short dark-brown hair. His fingers feather down the side of my face. "Your eyes are beautiful. Big brown bundles of sunshine." He closes his eyes and exhales. "Actual perfection."

I snicker. "You think so? "

"Know so," he says. His eyes journey down to my hand, and his smile fades. "Put it back."

"Put what back?"

Rather than answer, he grabs my hand and leads it back to his ass. "You said it's where you belong." If this is what he wants, my finger is his for the taking. He's loosened up a bit already, so I'm able to slide in with ease. As I slowly fuck his hole with the digit, I focus on the pleasure spreading across his face. Honestly, I don't think he's even doing this for sexual release. He just enjoys having me inside as a reminder.

"I'm mad at him," Tatum says as his thumb brushes against my nipple, making me shiver. "But I don't want him dead. So don't kill him, okay?"

I place my hand on top of his and squeeze. "Like I said, I'll do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen."

He nods, but he seems a million miles away. "Good. Yeah, that's great. Thanks, Abi."

I lift his hand to my lips and give him a kiss. "You're welcome."

"I don't know where he is. I wasn't lying about that. All he has left is his dad, and his dad hates him. I don't know where they could have gone. Maybe your boyfriend has family or friends they're visiting."

"He isn't my boyfriend," I say. "Brody and I are purely platonic. He's been my best friend for years. We met at school. After my mother died, his parents took me in." I turn my head, because I can feel wetness forming in my eyes. Tatum's hand touches my cheek, and he slowly pulls me back to him.

"Are you lonely? You look lonely," he asks. I have no reason to be lonely. I have Fiona. We've got Daisy, her dachshund. Once all of this is over, we might even have Brody again. Still, there's something in his question that hits a nerve. When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper at all. "Because I've been lonely for a really long time. Ever since the Bens brought Benito into the mix, he's been icing me out of my own relationship. "

Since Tatum is drugged, he is unable to hide facts from me. That's why I don't flat-out ask him to elaborate. Instead, I try to word my request in a way in which he can still say no. There's a strand of hair dangling in front of his face, and I reach up and brush it away, kissing his forehead.

"What I said earlier, about your boyfriends neglecting you, I meant it. You've been neglected too long, haven't you?"

He's got a sad expression on his face as he nods. "He's not a nice guy. When we started seeing each other, he told me he wanted all of us the same amount. He said I was going to be part of it too. That lasted all of five minutes. He moved into the apartment I shared with my boyfriends—Benji, Bennet, and Austin—and right off the bat, he took over. We're all bottoms, and the Bens like to be bossed around, but I don't. He hates me because I don't blindly follow his orders, so stuff's gotten bad between us." He looks up at me, his bottom lip trembling. "He makes me watch when they fuck, but I'm not allowed to touch any of them. Not allowed to touch myself, either, but I still do." The corner of his lips twists up into a sly smirk. "I do it a lot."

"Good for you." Leaning closer, I kiss the side of his face, letting my hand slide down his side until it's resting on his hip. "You deserve to come as often as you want. If you were mine, I would bring you to release anytime you asked."

"Yeah?" he asks, sounding breathless.

"Yeah."

He presses his face against my chest. "I hate him, you know. I wish we'd never met him. He stole my boyfriends. My apartment. He took everything I ever loved, and he gloated the whole time."

"Would you like me to kill him?"

His eyes widen and he quickly shifts his focus back to my chest, running his finger through the fur. "No. That would make Bennet and Benji sad. I don't like Nito, but I love them, and I don't want them to be sad. Please don't kill him."

"Alright. I do not agree with your decision, but you have my word. If you change your mind, let me know, and I will be happy to handle it."

He's quiet for a while. At one point, he leans in, presses his face against my chest, and inhales deeply. It's the single most erotic moment of my life. I comb my fingers through his hair and hold him closer, trembling when his mouth parts and he introduces his tongue to the mix.

"Fuck. Tatum," I breathe.

He looks up at me as he takes my nipple into his mouth and nibbles. His tongue twirls around the peaked nub, flickering back and forth. When he bats his lashes at me, I know he's doing it for a reason—I just don't know what he wants. He pulls away and stares at me, not saying a word.

"What's wrong, love?"

His lips pucker and he kisses my chest before hoisting his leg over my lap and straddling me. "If I lie against you, is it going to hurt your ribs?"

"Not at all. I would love for you to lie against me," I say. He gives me a nod, and then he leans forward, wrapping his arms around my back. He shifts his weight to the left, probably to avoid hurting my already aching chest.

"What happens to me when you leave to find them? Are you going to kill me?"

I tickle his side, making him giggle like a child. "How could I ever kill someone this charming?" I twinkle my fingers as I tiptoe them up his chest until my hand is cupping his face. "Would you like to come with us?"

His eyes widen, but he still has that dazed look about him. "You're gonna kidnap me?" I frown, because that's not what I've said at all. I made no insinuations of kidnapping or taking him hostage. "I won't fight you because you'll probably kill me if I do."

I arch an eyebrow at him. "I've already told you I have no plans on killing you."

His eyes narrow, and he's got that same bratty look on his face he wore when he choked me earlier. "I said, you'll probably try to kill me if I try to run. So, you have to kidnap me, right? You're going to take me against my will?"

It seems more like a plea than a question, and for once, I'm at a loss. I cannot take him with me. It would be madness. Not only would his life be in danger, but his presence would put all our lives in jeopardy as well. Tatum knows nothing about living off the grid. Taking him means keeping him comfortable, and I do not believe he will be comfortable roughing it.

"I do not kidnap," I finally say, stroking his cheek. "I'm sorry, little one."

He rests his head against my shoulder and shakes his head, his eyelids drooping. "It's already done. I've been abducted by a bisexual Russian and his girlfriend who wears ugly maroon lipstick for reasons I don't understand." He bats his lashes, giving me his saddest expression. "I'm your prisoner now?"

"Would you like to be my prisoner?" I ask, regretting it as soon as the question is out. His mouth opens and closes several times, and I can tell he's trying to hold the admission inside, but the drug is ripping it out of him. I don't want to see him this way—struggling to hide the parts he's not yet ready to share—so, I quickly course correct. I pull him closer, tightening my grip. "Yes, Tatum. You are my prisoner."

His smile is the only assurance I need. As he drifts into a peaceful sleep, Fee's voice calls out from the bedroom. "Motherfucking boom, bitch! Found him."