25. Filthy Man

25

FILTHY MAN

OLIVER

"Do you know what would help me release some of this pent-up stress?" My eyes rake over Cannon's shoulders, wide, thick, and deliciously broad.

As fucked up as everything is right now, I know there's zero chance that Mazen would ever lay a finger on a woman, in a nonsexual or consensual way. As irate as he was, smoke blowing from his ears, he'd never ever hurt Sophia. I don't doubt him one bit. Forcing the situation with Mazen and Sophia to the side, I stuff it in a metaphorical box in my mind and close the lid, then give my other best friend my undivided attention.

Cannon's leaning against the back of the couch we're sitting on, side by side, his naked chest on full display, looking every bit a combination between a Viking and professional athlete. If it wasn't for the way his hands were constantly moving, creating a beat on every single surface he touched, you'd never guess he was a musician.

He's the perfect mixture of boyish charm, innocence, and thick masculinity. He smiles widely, and his impeccably straight white teeth—thanks to his two parents who gave a shit about his oral hygiene—are striking, a dazzling display, just adding to his overall appeal.

His maroon sweatpants dip far enough that I can see the top of the V that sweeps low below his pants. Our drummer's body is immaculate. There's not an ounce of fat on his large frame. Just thick thighs from the hundreds of squats he does, a nearly flawless bubble for an ass. I say nearly perfect because I'm not currently balls deep in it. Which makes the whole openly undressing him with my eyes a task I'm here to master.

He oozes sex appeal both on and off the stage. His body is as mouth watering as a rare steak. Suddenly, I'm feeling famished. Nothing in the kitchen will sate this feeling though. The chorus of Drake's "Best I Ever Had" booms in my head as I think about wanting what's in his sweatpants.

I've never really had to work to get laid. In the music industry, screwing around is as common as strumming your guitar. Cannon Rhodes is the exception. He makes me work for it. Clock me in for overtime because Sophia and I both hit the jackpot where he's concerned. Only a select few are privy to his kinks. It shouldn't excite me as much as it does, or maybe I'm bored or a little too wound up, stressing over the two members of our situationship who've gone rogue.

"A bath?" Cannon asks in his usual deep timbre.

His quick quip is enough to set my body in motion.

I settle on his lap. The position is new for me. I'm easily the smaller man—in height and weight—between the two of us. The slight tilt of Cannon's head, covered in his signature shoulder-length blond hair, has me feeling frisky. My movement shocks both myself and him. I use it to my advantage .

"Are you offering to take one with me?" I ask, looking into his ocean-blue eyes.

"If it'll help you chill out, sure."

"I'm as cool as a cucumber." My core grinds against his.

"Maybe as hard as one."

The thing about Cannon Rhodes that I both love and loathe is that his confidence only shows when he's one hundred percent comfortable. Even with his arm draped over the back of the couch, teeming with sexual prowess, his shoulders are tense. He keeps his eyes trained on mine, not once dipping lower to see the bulge already forming a tent in my pants. He feels it though; his commentary makes that crystal clear.

"Anyone here?" He confirms my suspicions as I grind once more, this time applying a little more pressure between us.

"I thought you liked an audience." My palms land on his washboard stomach. They roam upward on instinct.

Our bodies are so in tune. Even after the years of denying ourselves, we fit together more perfectly than a newly unboxed puzzle. We're like a glove and a surgeon's hand, a bubbling glass of champagne and a toast at a wedding, a bag of buttery popcorn and the cinemas.

"Only if her name is Sophia. Mazen fucking stole her."

"Such a filthy word for a filthy man." I can't help but notice the tingle of excitement that stirs in the front of his sweats, mirroring my own.

A nagging tinge of curiosity gets the better of me. My mouth speaks without any prompting from my brain. "Speaking of Mazen, do you ever think about what will happen when he caves and wants to really share her with us?"

Cannon's strong, rigid profile is a contrast to the wavy light-blond hair and crimson that begins to dance over his cheekbones. Is he embarrassed? Does the idea of the four of us all filling our girl at once turn him on? Or is it something else entirely?

"Do you?"

The question he shoots back at me hangs in the air, thick and firm, like his tree-trunk thighs. My mouth curves as if I know he's already asked himself this question a time or two. If we're being honest, I know I have. It's something I refuse to admit first though. Instead, I tilt my head forward and place a lingering kiss on his muscular chest.

On a shrug, I say, "It's all I've thought about."

My mouth now hovers over his ear. A beat passes when I realize he's not going to respond, and I take his lobe into my mouth and suck hard. His chest stills, holding in a breath.

"There're a lot of things I think about that I probably shouldn't. Things that have the power to implode our lives if it all goes south." My voice is low even though I know that we are indeed alone in the suite. Lacey is out with Vanna, and Jupiter is with Murphy in his suite, most likely taking a nap.

That gets his attention.

A primal sound burning with desire leaves his lips. "Talk."

One simple command has me all but dry-humping his leg. Fuck, our damn dog doesn't even do this juvenile shit, and it's quite literally in his nature. All it took was Cannon's husky voice drawing obedience, demanding me like I'm his to do with what he pleases, ready to kneel at his feet.

Kiss his feet. Foot fetish is my middle name.

Crawl to him like he's my master. Hold my knee pads; they're not even required .

Suck his cock. Call me Dyson, baby.

Lick his puckered hole. Tossing salad is my favorite pastime.

As someone who clings to control like a second skin, I won't lie; the thought of handing the reins over to him right now is more appealing than arriving at a hotel after a week crammed on our tour bus, a home-cooked meal after days of eating out, turning the light off after hours of recording in the studio. If he asked me for anything right now, I'd give it to him. I'd wrangle the moon, cowboy-style, dressed like a damn astronaut.

I'm in that deep.

It's not even the look he offers that seems to burn through me, eyes brimmed with dominance and passion that has my body and heart going ablaze. Nor the smirk that curves up his mouth mischievously.

No, I come unglued, bones turning into putty in his hands. Cannon pushes his large, calloused palms under my T-shirt and slowly runs them in a tantalizing path up my back. His large palms cup my shoulders as he gathers me against him, holding my body in place. I give myself freely over to him in this moment, and he knows it.

"Tell me what makes your dick hard, Ollie," his mouth demands before he leans forward, pressing it against my own firmly, sealing his words with his lips. In a hard, drugging kiss, his tongue explores my mouth with punishment, like it's the first time he's been invited in, and he wants to make damn sure I don't forget him.

A heartbeat later, Cannon pulls back, breaking our kiss. "I want to know what you're so ashamed to voice, to ask for."

Unnerved, I hold my breath, thinking of how I should reply, deciding what hand I want to play. I asked for this, for him to show this side of himself. I crawled onto his lap obediently, all but put the idea into his beautiful blond head. It's one thing for me to admit that I'm interested in seeing what all the fuss about bottoming is; it's a whole other thing to confess that I've thought—longer than I'd like to admit—about seeing the man I love getting railed by our other best friend.

The notion alone leaves me more turned on than shaken. That in turn leads me to feel insanely fucked up.

"It's not like you to back down from a challenge." He scoffs.

"Is that what this is? A challenge?"

The hunger in his cobalt eyes is so electric that I fear a live wire is feeding right into them. The submission he's coaxing, pulling from the very depths of my soul, smolders behind his irises.

"Label it what you will." He moves his hands to my waistline.

"You just called me out, saying it was a challenge."

Lifting his chin, he nods unconvincingly. "Looks like you're failing it then."

My brows rise as high as my forehead will allow. The amused contempt sprawled across my face must be noticeable because Cannon's jaw clamps shut, mouth twisted with a threat. He's goading me. He wants me to lose my control before I willingly offer it over to him.

"You want to know what makes my cock thicken? What makes it throb until it's so hard that it physically hurts?" A half smile crosses my face, my stare now boring into his. Two can play this game, I think before answering him as honestly as I can. Rising up to his challenge, I say, "I think about you holding me down so hard with my face planted against your mattress that I have to fight for air."

Cannon's expression stills. It's his turn for all the air to leave his lungs, deflated, dazed. His smile vanishes. The immature taunts we had lingering between us a moment before are gone. There's a thickening desire to dominate one another that burns like a Roman candle between us, flickering unsteadily before sparking back up brighter and wilder than before.

I take a deep breath, adjusting my smile into one that's subtle, offering just a hint of satisfaction that he was right—I've never backed down from a challenge. Choosing this moment to finish my sentence, I continue, "I think about your rock-hard cock and that fucking piercing wrecking me in the best way possible. You feeding yourself into my hole with zero remorse for how bad it hurts. I want you to lose yourself in me. That's what I think about, Cannon. Giving you the gift of owning me. Body, mind, soul. It's yours for the taking. If you want it."

A couple of things happen all at once.

Cannon's knees lock when he stands. He's holding me against him like I'm a damn koala. His linebacker physique is nothing more than an illusion because he moves through the hotel with the grace of a gazelle, even with me perched in his arms like I weigh no more than a feather. If I wasn't high on the idea of my best friend owning me in the spiciest of ways, I might feel emasculated by how quickly he moves with me in his tight embrace.

As the door slams, a picture hanging on the wall trembles. I bite back my agreement with the shuddering artwork. I feel ya. I'm as giddy as a pimple-faced adolescent boy about to get a BJ for the first time from the badass flute-playing girl in my third-period music class.

The last thing to happen is what takes the cake. Both figuratively and literally .

He yanks my pants down before pushing me onto the bed on my stomach, then hovers over me. That large palm of his presses down in the center of my back, holding me hostage, giving me the desire I finally voice.

"Spread those cheeks. Show me what you've been holding out on."

Apparently, I'm more obedient than I have ever given myself credit for because before he finishes his sentence, both my hands are full of flesh, my fingertips digging into my round cheeks.

"Spit on my hole," I say, looking over my shoulder as I manage to fight through the current of desire.

The hand that Cannon has pressed into my back starts to trail down the length of my spine. I can feel each gloriously earned callous from years of holding his wooden drumsticks as his hand tenderly dances over my skin. My back muscles tense as his finger makes contact with an area that has never been breached.

"I'm going to do much more than just spit on it. That okay with you?"

At least he's considerate enough to ask.

I clutch his bedding in my palms. "Take me in whatever way you want. I'm all yours. I always have been."