Chspter 37
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
The elevator doors in the penthouse had barely whispered shut behind them before Lance had Brett pressed against the mirrored wall, his tuxedo jacket gone, his bow tie hanging loose, his big hands fisted in the midnight blue silk of Brett's gown.
Brett was shaking — not from the cold of the air conditioning, but from the aftershock of the ballroom, from the way every eye had watched them dance, from the way Lance's thigh had pressed between his legs through the slit in his dress, from the way he'd begged take me home in front of everyone.
"Lance," Brett gasped, his berry-stained lips parted, his big blue eyes blown black with want, his long honey blonde hair half-fallen from its updo, tendrils sticking to his damp neck. "Lance, please—"
"Say it again," Lance growled against his throat, his mouth hot and open on Brett's pulse, his hands sliding down to grip Brett's bare thighs where the slit had ridden up, his fingers digging into soft skin above the silver strappy heels. "Say what you said on the dance floor."
Brett's head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud, his D cup breasts heaving in the tight strapless bodice, his whole 129-pound body arching into Lance's touch.
"Take me to bed," Brett whispered, his soft alto breaking completely, his voice wrecked and wanting and utterly unafraid. "Take me to bed, handsome. Now."
Lance made a sound low in his chest, something feral and possessive and completely undone, and in one smooth motion he bent and scooped Brett up into his arms — bridal style, like he weighed nothing, like he was precious.
Brett gasped and clutched at Lance's shoulders, his silver heels dangling, his midnight silk pooling around them, his arms winding tight around Lance's neck as Lance carried him through the dark penthouse, past the glittering Singapore skyline, past the kitchen island where the invitation from Eleanor still sat, straight to the master bedroom.
He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The city lit them both in silver.
Lance laid him down on the white sheets like an offering, like a prayer, and stood over him for a moment just looking — at Brett in that sinful dress, his leg exposed to the hip through the slit, his chest rising and falling fast, his berry mouth swollen from kissing in the elevator, his blue eyes wet and trusting and full of love.
"You're shaking," Lance murmured, his voice rough, as he knelt on the bed and toed off his shoes, as he shrugged out of his tuxedo shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the dark hair that trailed down.
"I'm not scared," Brett whispered, reaching up with trembling pink nails — he'd repainted them berry to match his lips in the car — and tracing the line of Lance's jaw, his throat, his collarbone. "I'm just... I need you. After today. After your mom, after your dad looking at me like that, after dancing with everyone watching... I need you to make it just us again."
Lance caught Brett's hand and pressed a hard kiss to his palm, right over the diamond that flashed even in the dark.
"It's just us," Lance promised fiercely, his blue eyes locked on Brett's. "It's always just us."
Then his hands were on the zipper at Brett's back, slow and reverent, drawing it down inch by inch, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of Brett's spine, making Brett shiver and arch.
The midnight blue silk sighed as it loosened, as Lance peeled the strapless bodice down, baring Brett's shoulders, the tops of his soft D cup breasts, the delicate gold chain with the single diamond that still lay between them.
Brett lifted his hips, and Lance drew the dress down over them, over the curve of his ass, down his long golden legs, past the silver heels that Brett hadn't even bothered to kick off, until Brett lay in just his tiny nude thong and the strappy shoes, his body pale and perfect in the city light.
Lance stared, his breath coming hard, his hands hovering like he didn't know where to touch first.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his voice breaking. "Brielle, you undo me."
Brett reached for him, his hands shaking, and pulled Lance down on top of him, the weight of him perfect and grounding and safe, the heat of his skin searing through the thin fabric of Brett's thong.
Their mouths met — not the teasing brush from the dance floor, not the frantic press in the elevator. This was deep and slow and claiming, Brett's berry lips parting on a moan as Lance kissed him like he had all the time in the world, like he was memorizing him.
Brett's hands were in Lance's dark hair, on his broad back, sliding down to grip his ass and pull him closer, rolling his hips up to meet Lance's, feeling the hard, hot length of him through his tuxedo pants, making them both groan into the kiss.
"Lance," Brett whimpered, breaking the kiss to gasp for air, his head thrown back, his throat exposed, his breasts pressing up against Lance's chest. "Please—"
"I've got you," Lance whispered against his skin, his mouth trailing down Brett's jaw, down his neck, to the hollow of his throat, to the swell of his breast above the edge of nothing, kissing, tasting, worshipping. "I've got you, baby. Let go."
And Brett did.
He let go of the fear from tea with Eleanor, let go of the oily feeling of Richard's eyes on him in the office, let go of the performance of the dove-grey dress and the midnight gown and the perfect fiancée.
He was just Brett, in Lance's bed, in Lance's arms, his long legs wrapping around Lance's waist, his silver heels finally falling to the floor with a soft thud, his hands clutching at Lance's shoulders as Lance moved over him, with him, for him.
The city glittered outside the windows, uncaring and endless, but in that bed, in that moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet, broken whispers of love between kisses.
"You're mine," Lance breathed against Brett's mouth, his forehead pressed to Brett's, their bodies moving together slow and deep and perfect.
"Yours," Brett sobbed, his blue eyes overflowing, his arms tight around Lance's neck, his whole body trembling with emotion, with relief, with a joy so big it hurt. "Always yours, Lance. Always."
Lance kissed the tears from Brett's cheeks, kissed his berry-stained lips, kissed his eyelids, and held him through it, through the aftershocks, through the quiet, through the way Brett clung to him like he never wanted to let go.
Long after, when they were tangled in white sheets, Brett's honey blonde hair spread across Lance's chest, Lance's big hand stroking slow circles on Brett's bare back, Brett whispered into the dark:
"Thank you for taking me to bed."
Lance laughed, soft and sleepy and full of love, and pressed a kiss to the top of Brett's head.
"Baby," he murmured, "I'm never letting you out of it."…