King Hunt (Boys of Brisley 1)

He shrugged, then kissed the corner of my mouth. “I need to at least offer. It’s time to stop running.”

“I know this is random, but speaking of Ollie, did he really have a green card marriage?”

“Oh. Yes, he did. Some Canadian girl reeled him in and convinced him they were soulmates. I tried to warn him and he called me a ... what was it? Oh, yeah. A heartless twat who wouldn’t know love if it ate my ass while giving me a reach-around.”

I laughed, I couldn’t help it. “What a visual ... and I can see him saying exactly that.” I rested my chin on his chest and watched him. “I love you, Sterling. Nothing about you is heartless.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. And I love your very selective memory,” he said lightly. “It bodes well for our future that you only choose to remember the good things.”

I could feel my brat simmering under the surface. “Well ... I didn’t say you weren’t a twat ... just that you weren’t heartless.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, gutturally low, making me close my eyes quickly like I could hide from him in my sleep.

I failed miserably, especially when I couldn’t stop smiling. “So sleepy, night.”

“Oh, no,” he growled. He had me on my stomach in a single movement with his clothed erection pressing against my ass. “I’m going to fuck you and you’re not going to come, and tomorrow night, I’ll give you a chance to take that back. Color?”

“Green!” I gasped, pushing back against him with a moan. “Sorry, Sir ... y-you’re a handsome twat, at least.”

I should’ve known that little joke would cost me, but the way Sterling took me apart and made me beg for a release he ultimately denied me was almost an art form. No, it was an art form, and I fell asleep that night in his arms knowing this particular canvas was only half finished.

And it was going to be a masterpiece.

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Sterling

EDGING ZEPPELIN WASharder than I expected when what I truly needed was to feel her come undone below me, but I enjoyed our game as much as she did. And having that control, that utter assurance that she was mine to do with as I pleased was about the only thing that gave me the courage to do what she’d suggested.

I’d chickened out of telling my father where we were going right away, but when we headed toward the outskirts of Brisley and he started asking questions, I knew it was time to come clean.

“I’m taking you home, Dad.”

“Home? You mean—” He watched me closely, his expression filled with shock and heartache.

“Home?” Ollie’s voice cut in. “The only place I’ve ever called home?”

I felt like a dickhead for doing this to them, and I knew somehow I was still making all the wrong moves. “Yes. I never sold the house. I couldn’t. So we’re going home. There’s a picnic lunch in the trunk and we’re going to eat in the living room and I’m going to stop keeping secrets. I’m sorry.”

Silence answered me as my family processed that news, but I didn’t miss the small, grounding hand on my shoulder from the back seat. Zeppelin was there, and I knew she’d help me smooth over whatever damage I was doing by revealing a secret I should’ve never kept.

“I haven’t been inside,” I admitted. “Only the porch. But I pay someone to go in once a month and clean the dust up, so we shouldn’t have to worry about that.”

“Sterling,” my dad whispered, and when I glanced over at him I knew he was talking to himself.

“Charlie,” Zeppelin said softly. “I brought the record player. We can listen to some music while we eat.”

God, the things I’ve put on this woman. Now she has to make sure my dad doesn’t hate me by the end of the day.

I kept my mouth shut the rest of the drive, and when I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, I parked and went straight to the trunk instead of helping my father out of the car. I knew he needed a moment to take this in without seeing my face, so I hung back as Ollie and Zeppelin helped him up the old wooden steps to the front door.

“You ready, Dad?” Ollie asked, and I whistled for him quietly before tossing him the key.

The second the door creaked open, Zeppelin took my hand and brought it up to her lips, then helped me find my footing as we stepped inside.

I couldn’t stand the stale air. Other than that, the place looked exactly as it had the day I’d found her. Same couches, same carpet, same tile in the same kitchen with the same island that had killed her. The vases my mother had collected over the years still stood sentry in the curio cabinets lining the dining room walls. The afghan she’d made by hand was still draped over her favorite recliner.

And it still felt like home.