Chapter 66
Brett wasn't asleep.
He was pretending. Lying perfectly still in the black silk sheets of Richard's penthouse bed, curled on his side in the oversized black t-shirt that smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent, his wet blonde hair damp against the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut.
He'd been pretending for twenty minutes, ever since Richard had slid in behind him after the second shower and pulled him back against his chest, one heavy arm draped possessive over Brett's waist, his hand flat and warm over Brett's stomach.
Sleep, pet, Richard had whispered.
Brett had tried. God, he'd tried. His body was exhausted, wrung out from hours of crying and confusion and pleasure and shame. His mind was a wreck, spinning with thoughts he didn't want to have — about Lance, about hormones, about the fact that he hadn't missed his husband once in the last six hours.
But he couldn't sleep. Not with Richard's body curled around his like this. Not with the heat of him seeping through the thin cotton t-shirt. Not with the white satin choker still tight around his throat, the words slutty tramp pressing into his skin every time he swallowed.
And then he felt it.
At first Brett thought he imagined it — a slow, unmistakable hardness pressing against the small of his back, against his hip, through Richard's boxers and the thin t-shirt. Richard was getting hard.
Brett's breath caught in his throat. His whole body went rigid, then flushed hot from his scalp to his toes.
He should move away. He should pretend to roll over. He should do anything but lie here and feel it.
He didn't move.
Richard shifted slightly behind him, his hips pressing forward just a fraction, his arm tightening around Brett's waist, his lips brushing the back of Brett's neck, right above the choker.
Brett's eyes flew open in the dark, staring at the blackout curtains, his heart hammering so hard he was sure Richard could feel it through his back.
He's hard, Brett thought, the realization hitting him like a wave of ice water and fire at the same time. Richard is hard. For me.
And the most terrifying part wasn't that Richard wanted him.
It was that Brett's body was reacting.
Without permission, without thought, without the estrogen that used to make everything soft and pretty and female, Brett felt his own blood rush low and hot, felt his own body answer the pressure at his back with a slow, involuntary arch.
His hips pressed back — just a tiny movement, barely a twitch — but it was enough. Enough to fit himself more firmly against Richard, enough to feel the full length of Richard's arousal against him through the thin layers of cotton.
Brett bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, his hands fisting in the black silk sheets.
No. No no no. Stop it. Stop reacting. You're supposed to be asleep. You're supposed to hate this.
But his body didn't care about supposed to. His body, free of hormones for six weeks, free of the tuck, free of the push-up bra and the pretense, was remembering what it felt like to be a man being held by another man.
Richard's hand slid lower on Brett's stomach, his thumb stroking slow circles just under the hem of the t-shirt, his breath warm against Brett's ear.
"You awake, pet?" Richard murmured, his voice thick with sleep and arousal and something dark and possessive.
Brett squeezed his eyes shut again, his breathing shallow and fast. He didn't answer. He pretended. He prayed Richard would believe it.
Richard chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through Brett's back. "Liar."
His hips rolled forward again, deliberate this time, pressing hard against Brett, and Brett couldn't stop the small, broken gasp that escaped him, couldn't stop his own hips from pushing back, just once, just for a second.
Oh God.
Richard's hand slid up, not down — up, over Brett's ribs, over his chest, cupping Brett's breast through the t-shirt, the breast Brett had been so ashamed of, the "girl part" that felt foreign without estrogen.
He didn't grope. He just held it, his palm warm and steady, his thumb stroking over Brett's nipple through the cotton.
Brett whimpered, his back arching, his body a live wire of confusion.
And then Richard turned Brett's face gently with his other hand and kissed him.
It was slow. Deep. Unhurried. Nothing like the punishing kisses in the limo, nothing like the claiming kisses on the bed. This was... soft. Intimate. The kiss of a lover, not an owner.
Richard's tongue slid against Brett's, tasting him, coaxing him, and Brett — God help him — kissed back.
For a second, just a second, Brett forgot whose mouth this was. Forgot the penthouse, forgot the choker, forgot the five million dollars and the twenty-one hours left.
He just felt the kiss.
He is a pretty good kisser, Brett thought, dazed and floating and horrified at himself. Oh my God, he's a really good kisser.
Richard pulled back just enough to whisper against Brett's lips, his forehead pressed to Brett's, his arousal still hard and insistent against Brett's hip.
"There you are," Richard murmured, his voice soft and victorious. "There's the boy my son married."
Brett's eyes flew open, tears instantly spilling down his temples into his hair.
"What?" Brett whispered, his voice cracking, low and male and terrified. "What... what's happening?"
Richard smiled in the dark, his hand still cupping Brett's breast, his hips still pressed tight to Brett's back.
"You're waking up, pet," Richard said simply. "Without the drugs, without the dress-up, without the lie. You're waking up."
He rolled his hips again, slow and deliberate, and Brett gasped, his own body betraying him with a rush of heat that had nothing to do with Brielle and everything to do with Brett.
"And I'm going to be right here," Richard whispered, kissing the corner of Brett's mouth, his jaw, his throat above the choker, "for every single second of it."
Brett lay in Richard's arms, hard and shaking and spooned against his father-in-law's body, pretending to be asleep no more, and wondered in full, horrified panic —
Oh my God. What IS happening to me?
Twenty-one hours left.…