Chapter 27

The name on his lips was a bare, shattered thing. A plea. A confession. It hung in the air between them, soaked in blood and tears and the stark, humid truth of their bodies. Adam felt the hard ridge of his own arousal, a traitorous response to the broken man clinging to him, and he saw the answering flare in Carlos’s one good eye—not dominance, but a raw, starving need.

Adam’s hand, which had been stroking Carlos’s hair, stilled. His fingers tightened slightly, not in cruelty, but in possession. A decision, silent and seismic, clicked into place deep within him. He looked from Carlos’s ruined face up to Edward, who stood watching, a monument of conflicted fury and shock. Edward’s chest was still heaving, his knuckles raw and bloody. His gaze was locked on the intimate tableau on the floor, on his son cradling his tormentor.

Adam held his father’s stare, a new, unfamiliar authority settling in his own. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A claim.

Then he looked back down at Carlos. “You said you can’t let me go,” Adam murmured, his voice low and steadier than he felt. “So don’t.”

He shifted his weight, moving from a comforting cradle to a purposeful position. He hooked his fingers into the torn waistband of Carlos’s jeans. The denim was stiff with blood and sweat. Carlos flinched, a reflexive jerk of pain and surprise, but he didn’t resist. His eye was wide, fixed on Adam’s face, waiting.

“Lift your hips,” Adam commanded, the words soft but leaving no room for argument.

With a grunt of effort, Carlos obeyed. Adam wrestled the ruined jeans and the briefs beneath down his thick, muscular thighs, exposing him completely. The air in the cold room hit Carlos’s skin, and he shuddered. He was half-hard, his cock a dark, heavy curve against his thigh. The vulnerability was absolute, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating.

Adam’s own jeans were still pushed down from earlier. He spared a single, efficient hand to shove them further down his legs, freeing his own erection, which stood thick and eager. He positioned himself, his knees bracketing Carlos’s hips.

Carlos’s breath hitched. He understood. His hands came up, not to push away, but to grasp Adam’s biceps, his grip desperate, anchoring. “Adam...” he breathed again, the name a tremor of anticipation.

“You took what you wanted from me,” Adam said, his voice a husky whisper as he leaned over him. He spit into his own palm, a crude, efficient lubricant, and slicked his length. “Now you’re going to take what I give you.”