Chapter 11

The musky, masculine scent of Carlos’s armpit fills my lungs, a primal, intoxicating perfume that screams of his power, his sweat, and his absolute dominance over me. My tongue moves through the thick, dark curls, tasting the salty, uniquely him flavor. It’s a control tactic, I know it is, but my body doesn’t care. My cock, soft and spent just moments ago, begins to stir again against his hip.

“You like that, don’t you, baby?” He rasps, his voice a low vibration against my ear. His fingers tighten in my hair, holding me right there. “You like the way I taste.”

“Yes,” I moan, the word muffled against his skin. I love it. I crave it. It’s the scent of the motel room, of our sex, of him—all concentrated into this one intimate space. I am his creature, and this is my worship.

He allows me another moment before gently guiding my head away. He looks down at me, his dark eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction. “Good boy.” His gaze flicks over my shoulder. “Now show her.”

My heart stutters. Her. I’d almost forgotten. I turn my head on his chest and see her standing just inside the motel room door, which is now closed. Karen. My mother. Her peach silk robe is tied tight around her waist, but her eyes are wide, dark pools of shock and ... something else. A hungry fascination. She’s been watching.

Carlos’s hand slides from my hair down to the nape of my neck, a reassuring, commanding weight. “You heard me, Adam. Show your mother what you’ve learned. Show her who you belong to.”

My face burns, but the embarrassment is a weak, distant thing, utterly overpowered by the thrum of arousal Carlos’s order sends through me. I push myself up on one elbow, turning to face her fully. I am naked, covered in the evidence of him, and I don’t try to cover myself. I meet her gaze.

“Mom,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel.