Manipulate (Deliver 6)

Hungry moans shivered the air. The wet sounds of greedy mouths. They writhed together, enclosed in their own world. A universe where they only needed each other and the fathomless love they shared.

“You won’t,” Ricky whispered, his chest tight.

Van was right. Ricky wouldn’t seek him out again. Not for sex.

What he truly wanted, what he needed, waited for him at home.Martin Lockwood released a slow breath at the sound of Ricky’s truck pulling into the driveway. It was anyone’s guess where he’d gone tonight. He’d sneaked out before Martin could ask.

Not that Ricky needed a keeper. He was a grown ass man and could do whatever or whomever he wanted.

“I can feel you tensing all the way over here.” Kate smiled at him from her cozy position on the couch. With her head on Tomas’ lap, she tucked her feet against Luke’s hip. “I bet Ricky would help you work out that stiffness.”

“Kate…” Martin dropped his voice in a warning tone and straightened in the recliner.

“She’s right.” Tomas absently played with her hair, his gaze glued to the basketball game on TV. “You’re glaring so hard I can hear it.”

They liked to tease him about harboring romantic feelings for Ricky. It was all in good fun and not even remotely true. He was sick of hearing it.

Luke released a soft snore from the couch, his red hair flopping over his brow with the loll of his head. A mechanic by trade, he’d spent the past twelve hours working on his motorcycle and running errands with Camila.

Camila’s voice floated from Tate’s bedroom down the hall. She and Tate, always hard at work, were ironing out a strategy to decimate the latest human sex trafficking ring in Austin.

Everyone in this house had a role in their small vigilante group. They had all put in a full day on the current mission and decided to stay in tonight.

Except Ricky. The man had an insatiable sex drive and particular tastes. He was always prowling. Always searching for something.

A key turned the deadbolt, and the front door opened.

Ricky stepped in, and those brown eyes unerringly found and held his.

Martin knew his best friend well enough to discern the meaning behind every expression and subtle movement. The soft look hooding Ricky’s eyes confessed he’d just gotten laid. The twitches in his biceps indicated challenge, bracing for whatever Martin might say about it.

Ricky’s chest lifted, stretching the tight t-shirt he’d deliberately worn to accentuate his muscled physique. His pretty-boy hairstyle had been disheveled by a night of restless yanking. Not by someone else’s hands, but his own. For whatever reason, he’d been nervous.

He was still nervous, yet the cause was different now. He seemed to have trouble holding Martin’s gaze.

He was hiding something.

“Hey.” He gave Martin a chin lift, smiled at Kate and Tomas, and shook his head at a snoring Luke. “I knew that guy would be passed out before I got home.”

“Where were you?” Martin asked casually.

“Out.” With a shrug, he headed down the hall.

Frustration curled Martin’s fingers against the armrests of the recliner.

Who had he fucked tonight? Where did he meet her? Or him?

Better not have been a him.

His heart rammed against the rungs of his ribs, a caged beast trying to escape.

“Three…” Tomas said from the couch. “Two…”

Martin glared at him.

“One.” Tomas arched a brow.

He launched from the chair and strode toward the hall, surrendering to his predictable nature with a middle finger in the air. “Happy, asshole?”

“Love you, man!” Tomas called after him, laughing.

He passed the bedroom Camila shared with Kate and paused at the second door, which led to Tate’s room. Camila was in there, her voice carrying through the walls as she argued with Tate about which strategy was less dangerous.

She took on more risk than any of them were comfortable with. Hell, they all did. But her mysterious connections made everyone uneasy.

Every time they killed a slave-trading shitbag, some unknown person helped her dispose of the body. Cartel was the most popular assumption, but she refused to confirm it. Tate couldn’t even pry the secret out of her.

She demanded they trust her. Which they did. Emphatically.

Martin continued down the hall, stalking through the massive, five-bedroom, ranch-style estate. Tate, Luke, and Tomas had their own rooms. Martin and Ricky shared the master suite.

One of them could’ve moved into the finished attic, but after being held captive in Van’s windowless hell, no one volunteered.

They sat on millions of dollars—the money Van had collected selling slaves. At any time, one of the Freedom Fighters could buy his or her own house.

No one was in a rush to do that. They were secure here. Happy and comfortable. Not because it was the nicest place any of them had ever lived. It was definitely that.

They loved this house because it kept them together. Close. Like a family.