Volume 2 of the Something in the Water series arrives Tuesday, January 30!

Chapter 10: Speakeasy [Slapshot!]

Chapter 10: Speakeasy [Slapshot!]

 Luke really should have known better, he knew. But the message was sitting there, tantalizing and tempting, and, in the moment, it seemed like the perfect solution. He knew even then, though, that he was going to regret it.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, before he hit send. He watched the rotating wheel as his phone tried to compute that command, sealing his fate when it finally delivered.

 

He knew he should have never texted Sean Flanagan back.

 

The message might have seemed innocent enough—a “hey, what’s up?”—but nothing was ever so simple with Sean. Their every meeting, every interaction was fraught with convolutions that Luke sometimes couldn’t even begin to fathom. It had been like that since Day One, of course. Luke had sworn to himself that he’d never interact with Flanny ever again—time and time again, but it had just kept happening. They kept bumping into each other, awkward smiles over cocktails, clearing their throats and adjusting their ties, glancing about nervously at crowds, and later, when the crowds were gone and lights were low, Flanny would smirk confidently and Luke would groan, low and long, deep into the night.

 

And then, three years ago, Luke had woken up by himself in a hotel room in New York—slapped with the bill and the dry cleaning bill for the mess they’d left behind them—and he’d sworn that was it. He’d never break like that again. He’d never yield to Sean like that.

 

And he hadn’t. But not because he was strong, not because he had willpower, but because Flanny had just stopped talking to him, seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Luke had no idea what the man was up to, no idea where he was. He’d broken, more than once, but his cloying, desperate texts had gone unanswered. Flanny had simply ghosted on him, before ghosting was even a thing people did.

 

Except now, now he was back, resurfacing after three long years. Luke still had no idea where he’d been, what he’d been doing all this time.

 

All he knew was that it seemed like providence that Flanny would turn up now, right when Luke was stewing about Mason and Linnea, trying to ignore their tryst. It was so perfectly convenient that Luke would have wondered if Mason and Sean hadn’t contrived it, so that he’d break and go running back to Sean. It wouldn’t have been all that far-fetched—Mason all but worshiped the ground Sean Flanagan walked on. Sean was easily one of the best players of his generation; Luke could remember the game announcer’s voice crackling over the television, shouting, “Flanagan shoots—he scores!” as the grainy picture showed the infamous Number 44 throwing his arms up in celebration.

 

Mason had worn 44 on his jersey for a long time, until they’d moved up to bantam and some other kid was wearing that number already. When he’d landed in LA, he couldn’t have it back—Sean Flanagan had still be wearing 44 on his back then.

 

Sean had been Mason’s captain in his rookie year, which had only cemented Mason’s fangirling of him. If Flanagan had been his idol before, he was a mentor and a god now; in Mason’s eyes, Sean Flanagan could do no wrong. There was only one thing Mason would ever fight with Sean about.

 

Luke didn’t like to be vain, but he knew Mason would fight Sean for him. The alpha in either of them wouldn’t let them back down, and Luke knew for a fact that, even if they weren’t in a relationship, even if Mason refused to mate him, even if Mason himself was cheating, Mason absolutely could not stand the idea of Luke sleeping with someone else. Luke had never told him about Jack and that horrible night for that reason—he didn’t want to be blamed.

 

Mason had shown his possessive side just yesterday; scenting Matt on Luke had incensed him. Even if he’d been calm and controlled, even if he’d seemed unaffected by it, he’d been pissed. Luke had felt that in every stroke of the spanking he’d received for his transgressions.

 

Luke had never really bothered to tell Mason that he was screwing around with Flanagan. Frankly, it wasn’t any of Mason’s business; if Mason wouldn’t mate him, then Luke was free to look for someone who would.

 

And Luke wasn’t proud of the fact he was sleeping with Flanny. It had always left him vaguely uneasy. He always felt used, a little abused, after they met up. It felt dirty, in some ways. Maybe it was because Sean tended to be manipulative; after all, he’d bedded Luke that first time on an ultimatum: if Luke didn’t play along, Mason—who had been passed out drunk nearby—was prime target. It was insidious, borderline illegal—and somewhat creepy.

 

But Sean had left Mason alone—any designs he might have had on his mentee after that point seemed to evaporate. Much as he was forceful, he never hurt Luke—and his intensity was the same as what he brought to the ice with him, a pure, unadulterated passion that consumed him violently and compelled him, until he completely overwhelmed his opponent.

 

Luke had likened it to gravity; he could try to fight it, but eventually Sean was going to push him back to the ground. Or the bed. Or the kitchen counter. Or whatever happened to be nearby.

 

But Sean was like a force of nature, and Luke had never been able to resist him very well, whether there were creepy ultimatums or no. After, he’d reasoned that it felt so strange because Sean was almost twice his age—his kids were only a couple of years younger than Luke. And it felt dirty, wrong, because Sean was still married, even if he took his wedding ring off when he spent the weekend with Luke.

 

But it had never been much more than sex, so Luke let it go. After all, Sean’s wife was beta, not omega. And, Sean argued, alphas had needs, needs that betas could never hope to satisfy.
Of course, that meant Sean tended to like Luke in heat when they were together, which rarely happened naturally. Sean always seemed to have a ready supply of inducers, though.

 

So Luke knew he shouldn’t have bothered answering. The guy wasn’t good for him, he knew; had cheated on his wife; had forced Luke into heat for his own pleasure; and then had fallen off the face of the earth for three fucking years, with no attempt to make contact, to say hey or sorry, until right then and there.

 

Beau had been right to warn him that Flanny was in Pittsburgh. But Beau didn’t even know the half of it.

 

But Luke was angry and sore and hurt and jealous. He needed to hurt Mason. And Sean was right there, lighting up his phone, saying, “Drinks? I’m in town.”

 

“Sure,” Luke replied easily, tossing his phone down on the nightstand. He shouldn’t, he knew, not when he’d already taken those pills. His fingers felt numb, clumsy as he dressed.

 

Another long, gasping groan, the girl all but screaming, “Mason!”

 

He had to get out of there, he thought, buttoning his shirt. Sean just happened to be handy. And if they did end up in some shady, nondescript motel …

 

Well, so be it.

 

He fussed with his collar, then pulled out a tie, knotting it just so. Sean didn’t screw around with these things; they’d go somewhere nice, he knew.

 

Sure enough, there was the order—an order, because it came from Sean; Luke had no option now but to obey—dictating a black-tie affair. Either nobody would know them there, or nobody would care.

 

He caught an Uber across town—no way he was taking the train dressed like he was, and no way he was taking his own vehicle—to the corner of Vermont and K Streets. Sean was already there, waiting outside for him.

 

“Hey,” Luke said, fighting the urge to duck. He felt shy almost instantly.

 

“I’m surprised you were free,” Sean said in his rolling baritone, “don’t you have playoffs?”

 

“Uh …”

 

Sean just smirked at him, landed a hand on his back and guided him toward the stairs. They headed into the building, up to the second floor. Sean held the door for him, gestured him in. Luke fought down a blush.

 

The bar was buzzing, even for a Tuesday night. They scarcely looked out of place at all; bureaucrats and diplomats and lobbyists were all schmoozing together, enjoying food and wine in some kind of bacchanal version of DC politics.

 

“This way,” Sean said, tapping him on the arm and pointing toward the back of the room. Luke followed Sean across the plush, red carpet—a deeper color from years of wear and tear, filth and ash being ground down into its fibers—under the warm, orange-yellow glow of the myriad chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.

 

They slid into a booth near the back of the lounge. The din of the crowd was dulled a little, the strains of jazz music mingling with peals of raucous laughter. A glass shattered.

 

A waiter stopped by, placing two martini glasses on the table with elegant, practiced ease. “Enjoy,” he said before whirling off again.

 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Sean said.

 

Luke did mind. He minded very, very much, but he took a sip of the drink instead, letting it burn a path down his throat, into his roiling stomach.

 

This was a terrible idea, and he knew it.

 

He noticed Sean was still watching him with those keen, cold eyes. He set the glass down and smacked his lips. “You know, I’m not really a fan of lemon,” he said.

 

Sean quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? This is all you were drinking—”

 

“—three years ago,” Luke said tartly. “Three years is a long time, Sean.”

 

The older man cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, uh.”

 

Luke toyed with the glass a little, watching the alcohol slosh around, nearly spilling over the side. “Three years. What brings you around now, after that long?”

 

Sean glanced about, then leaned forward. “This is strictly confidential,” he said. “You breathe a word of this, you will never play hockey again, I will break you that badly.”

 

Luke drummed his fingers on the tabletop, feigning disinterest as best he could.

 

“I’m talking to management,” Sean said after a moment of deliberation. “They’re going to bring me in as president of hockey ops.”

 

“What.” Luke’s hand thudded onto the table. Alcohol splashed everywhere. “Oh, shi—”

 

They started tossing down napkins, Luke grimacing and wiping frantically at the spill. He paused when Sean wrapped a hand around his wrist.

 

“Can’t take you anywhere,” the older man murmured, connecting his gaze to Luke’s. Then he ducked his head and lapped at the alcohol dripping off Luke’s hand, flicked his tongue against Luke’s wrist.

 

Luke’s breath hitched. Then he pulled his hand away, like he’d been burnt. “Do you mind?” he snapped, dropping his hands beneath the table. “We’re in public.”

 

Sean sat back, licking his lips. “Well,” he said, “I see some things don’t change.”

 

Luke flushed hotly.

 

“Anyway,” Flanny said, turning his attention to his drink, stirring it a little, “that’s why I’m in DC this week. Nothing’s final yet, though, and we can’t announce anything until the summer anyway.”

 

Luke tensed a little. Just what he didn’t need. Mason lurking about was bad enough, but Flanny too?

 

“All right,” he said, “that explains why you’re here now, but … where the hell have you been?”

 

“Let’s see … last week, I was in Pittsburgh, and the week before that—”

 

“I meant for the last three years, Sean. Seriously. I texted you. You fell off the map. Did you fall into a black hole or something?”

 

“Might as well have,” Flanny muttered, a sour look flashing across his visage. It was gone but a second later.

 

Luke waited.

 

Sean sighed and pushed himself back from the table, leaning back against the seat. “I got divorced,” he said at last.

 

“Oh,” Luke said, deflating a bit. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t feel half as angry suddenly.

 

Sean’s expression had softened a little; he seemed more melancholy. “Yeah,” he murmured, “not long after that week in New York, Megs and I separated. We finalized things about six months ago. Really nasty.”

 

“I’m … sorry?” Luke offered. He didn’t really know what to say; he didn’t really know many divorcees.

 

Sean shrugged, took a sip of his drink. “Doesn’t matter now,” he said, staring down at the glass, twirling it about in his hands.

 

Luke glanced about nervously. He hadn’t meant to pry, certainly hadn’t meant to bring up anything negative for Sean. He hadn’t known. How could he have known? He’d been cut off, cut out of the other man’s life for three whole years. He didn’t know where he’d been wounded over the last three years, didn’t know what had healed and what had festered.

 

“It’s for the best in the end,” Sean said. “I mean, it wasn’t amicable, not at all, but … I don’t really love her. Not any more, at least. Hadn’t for a while, if I think about it. I guess that’s why I was playing around.”

 

He met Luke’s gaze, held eye contact. “And that wasn’t fair,” he said. “Not to her. Not to you.”

 

Luke scoffed, looked away. “Like I care,” he muttered.

 

“Seems like you care,” the older man said thoughtfully. “I mean, I wasn’t the one sending you texts at three in the morning, begging, pleading for you to come see me, I was so lonely …”

 

Luke was fairly certain his cheeks were on fire. “Asshole,” he spat, “you read those, and just didn’t bother responding? I was drunk anyway—”

 

“I had my reasons,” Sean said coolly.

 

“Yeah, like what? You’re an asshole?”

 

Sean tossed back the rest of his drink, slammed the glass down on the table. “Like Megs was trying to drag you into our divorce proceedings?”

 

Luke blinked. “What?” he asked after a moment. He must have misheard. It was awfully loud in the bar. He glanced around. There was merriment all around them, people with bright red noses and shiny faces, all laughing and smiling, slurring their words together.

 

Another drink appeared on the table, the waiter an almost unseen hand placing it into Sean’s grasp, whisking the empty glass away. Another lemon drop appeared in front of Luke, making him frown. He’d been twenty-three the last time Sean saw him. Just because he’d just discovered some dumb drink then didn’t mean he was still into drinking it.

 

“Yeah,” Sean said, sipping on his newly acquired drink, “so, we were living in Massachusetts for a bit there, after I retired, and that’s when this whole thing really blew up, and will you believe, they have some pretty stupid, ancient laws on the books.”

 

“Really.” Luke eyed his own drink. Maybe, just maybe, some alcohol was better than no alcohol.

 

“Uh-huh,” Sean said, downing a little more. “Like this one, I have no idea how Megs found out about it, but basically, if a woman’s husband was found carrying on ‘relations’ with another omega, she could launch a suit against the husband’s lover, taking everything. Y’know, ‘cause back in the day, a husband was all a woman had. So if she divorced her husband because he was unfaithful, she lost her livelihood.”

 

Luke furrowed his brow. “So … they … pinned it all on the …”

 

“The mistress, or whatever. Megs was fully prepared to drag you through the mud if she could.”

 

Luke thought about that for a moment. Sean finished his drink. “She would have taken every penny, and outed you to the world as an omega, while simultaneously branding you as a home-wrecker and a slut.”

 

Luke gaped at him.

 

Sean glanced over his shoulder. He nodded slightly; he must have caught the waiter’s eye. “So, yeah. I didn’t think you really wanted to go down with the ship, so I couldn’t give her any evidence.”

 

Luke stared into his glass for a moment. He really didn’t know what Sean wanted him to say—thank you? Was that appropriate? He had no idea. He didn’t feel very thankful, more pissed that Sean could have potentially landed him in that much trouble. One wrong move …

 

“I didn’t realize you were married to such a psycho bitch,” he spat at last, then slammed back the rest of his first drink. He definitely needed more alcohol.

 

“’Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” Sean said, lifting his third drink from the waiter’s hand, a slight nod of his head the only acknowledgment he gave the man. “Seriously, I guess it’s what I get. I can’t really blame her—I mean, especially not knowing I was tooling around with you.”

 

Luke bristled a bit.

 

Sean held up his hands. “It’s a compliment! You were, what, twenty-three? Young. Fit. Virulent. And an omega. What does a fifty-five-year old woman who’s had three kids have to offer a guy who’s looking at eye candy like that?”

 

“Boobs, for one,” Luke said, then tipped back the rest of his drink.

 

“Not nearly as fun as everyone makes them out to be.”

 

“I dunno, I think they’re pretty decent.”

 

“Lucas, have you ever even touched a woman’s boobs in your life? And your mother does not count.”

 

“Oh, fuck you, Sean.” He was very glad another drink arrived right then and there. There was not enough alcohol in the world to deal with that kind of shit.

 

“My point is, it was pretty upsetting for her. Not, like, just because I was cheating. Because of who I was cheating with. Because of what you are. Because you made her inadequate in my eyes.”

 

Luke held up his hands. “Look, I did nothing. You were the one who decided that, hey, I looked like a good fuck.”

 

“Megs doesn’t know that,” Sean said. “And, you’re not totally innocent here, it takes two to tango.”

 

Luke sighed, rolled his eyes. “I’m saying, it’s not entirely my fault you even thought I was hot to begin with. Y’know? I can’t just walk into a room and make people think I’m attractive, I don’t have magic powers.”

 

“I beg to differ,” Sean said, the light glinting in his gray eyes. “If you don’t have magic powers, how’d you manage to put a spell on me?”

 

“Oh my god,” Luke spat, “I need another drink. I can’t handle this.”

 

“Waiter!”

 

Luke put his head down on the table, covered his ears with his hands. How? How did he always manage to hook up with the guys who were an absolute embarrassment?

 

He lifted his head a bit, looking at the drink that had arrived. He glowered at Flanny.

 

“In all seriousness,” the older man said, “I did want to talk to you tonight. I’m glad you were around.”

 

“Yeah, well, I figured this was better than sitting around listening to Mason bang some model in the spare room.” He took a deep draught of his drink. Shit. How many was that now?

 

Sean blinked a couple of times, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, what?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

“Mayday is …”

 

“Banging some model. In my house.”

 

Sean stared at him for a moment. “And you’re sitting here, having drinks with me.”

 

“Seems like the better option.”

 

“When you could have been involved in a threesome? With a model? And Mason?”

 

Luke choked on his drink, spit it back into the glass. He went on coughing and hacking as Sean said, “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t like that very much—I’m much happier that you decided to join me, but—are you even male?”

 

“I think you know!”

 

“I just …” Sean shook his head. “I wouldn’t have let him away with that. Unless …”

 

He paused, eyeing Luke warily, as though he were sizing him up. “Unless?” Luke prompted at last, growing impatient.

 

“Did you two break up?”

 

Luke started. “Break up? We were never together.”

 

Sean rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean—did you two stop screwing, or being fuck buddies, or whatever you kids are calling it these days.”

 

“I think so,” Luke replied. He was pretty sure of it. The second Mason had brought that stupid model into his condo was kind of a tipping point. There was a line that had definitely been crossed there.

 

“Mm,” Flanny said, but he sounded unconvinced. He glanced at his watch. “So, how long do you wanna stay out?”

 

“As long as possible,” Luke murmured, glancing about. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to stay awake, actually, but he knew he didn’t want to go back to his place just yet. It was unlikely that Mason was going to be done—Luke knew there was usually at least two rounds with that guy.

 

“Do you want to keep drinking, or …”

 

Luke shook his head.

 

“What do you want to do?”

 

“Dunno,” Luke murmured. He could scarcely keep his eyes open; his lids felt so heavy.

 

“We could … probably catch a movie,” Sean said. “Or … head to a club. Or a karaoke bar or something like that.”

 

Luke shook his head again. “’m kinda tired,” he said.

 

“I noticed,” was the dry reply. Sean twisted about in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. “Do you want to just … go … sleep?”

 

“Maybe,” Luke yawned, putting his head down on the table. The pills had finally decided to kick in, he supposed, mixing with the alcohol and forming a potent sleeping potion.

 

Sean glanced at him again, then flagged down the waiter. He paid the bill rather hurriedly, then forced Luke to stand up. A couple of people were looking at them now, especially as Luke teetered back and forth. He stifled another yawn.

 

“I don’t remember you being this much of a lightweight,” Sean murmured as they headed for the exit. His grip on Luke’s bicep tightened as they started down the stairs.

 

“’m not usually. But I took some pills before I came out, ‘cause I was tryin’ t’ sleep an’—”

 

Sean stopped up short, yanking on Luke’s arm. “You did what?”

 

Luke forced his eyes open. “I took a coupla pills, ‘cause I wanted to sleep. And not listen to Mason and his stupid girlfriend.”

 

“What did you take?”

 

Luke tried to pull away, nearly stumbled down the stairs. He clutched at the wall. “Um, a … coupla oxy, I guess.”

 

Sean looked angry, like he was gonna deck Luke. “How many did you take,” he snapped, forcing Luke upright again, prodding him to the sidewalk below.

 

“I dunno,” Luke all but whined, “like … three? I guess. I don’t know. Four.”

 

Flanny’s exasperation was tangible. “Luke …”

 

“Shut up, I know.”

 

“You had five drinks, how are you still standing? You know you shouldn’t mix those—did anyone tell you that?”

 

“I know,” Luke retorted.

 

Flanny was hailing a cab. Luke leaned heavily against him. “Should … should we take you to the hospital?” Sean asked after a moment.

 

“I dunno,” Luke said, letting his eyes slip shut.

 

Sean sighed, then helped him into the cab. He slammed the door shut, then handed the cabbie a card, presumably with an address written on it. “Do you think you’re gonna be okay?”

 

“Mm, yeah,” Luke mumbled, laying his head on the older man’s shoulder. “’m just sleepy.”

 

“That’s the problem.”

 

“’sss fine,” Luke slurred, wondering when his face had become so numb. The tingling was back in his fingers.

 

Sean was silent, watching him. Luke didn’t mind, letting his eyes fall closed again.

 

The streetlights flickered over them, flashing through the car as the cabbie navigated DC streets, still busy even at this hour. Luke tried to pry his eyes back open, tried to pay attention to what was going on. He couldn’t.

 

He felt like a little kid again, falling asleep in the back of the car; like a teen again, falling asleep on the bus ride back from a game, through the frozen wasteland of wintertime Ontario, so tired he could scarcely keep his eyes open.

 

Sean helped him stumbled out of the car, gave him a push toward the entrance of one of the downtown hotels. Luke stumbled, then slumped against the wall, desperately trying to stay awake as Sean paid the cabbie.

 

Sean turned back to him at last, touched a hand to his shoulder. He pointed to the door. “Come on.”

 

Luke wasn’t aware that he was walking; he might as well have been floating for all the connection he had to the ground, the sensation of his feet smacking into the floor strangely absent. Sean steered him to the elevators, forced him into the car. Luke slumped against the wall as Flanny directed them up.

 

“You’re staying here?” Luke slurred, glancing about the car, lavishly decorated with dark wood panels and faux gold ornamentation. He shut his eyes again.

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind,” he murmured.

 

“Just stop talking,” the alpha instructed, then guided him out of the elevator as the doors slid open. Luke hadn’t even felt the car come to a stop.

 

He floated down the hall beside Sean, his head lolling from side to side, his eyes falling shut over and over again. Sean had a tight grip on his arm, the only thing keeping him upright, the only thing he could even feel. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to get some sensation back in his face.

 

“Stop that,” Flanny admonished, shoving open the door to the room, dragging him inside. “You’ll hurt yourself—you can’t feel that right now, can you?”

 

Luke shook his head, bit his tongue instead. He still couldn’t feel anything. It was freaky, but he couldn’t find the willpower to worry about it.

 

Sean pried his mouth open. “Stop that,” he repeated. “Or do we have to get something to put in your mouth?”

 

“Please,” Luke drawled, glancing down.

 

“Oh for the love of—No. You’re high as fuck.”

 

“Never stopped you before,” Luke muttered darkly, sitting down on the sofa.

 

“Because you consented before you got high—and you had a controlled dose. You’re a mess right now. I’m not screwing you.”

 

Luke bit his lip, then licked blood from the wound. Sean glowered at him. Luke lapped at the wound again.

 

“My god, you’re a jerk,” Sean muttered, then disappeared into the bedroom. Luke kept prodding the bleeding wound with his tongue, raised a hand to his face. He felt nothing at all.

 

Sean returned with a small, black ball with leather straps—an item Luke knew intimately. He glanced up at Sean hopefully. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna fuck me,” he said, hoping that fluttering his lashes made him look desirable, not drunk. It was probably the latter, he thought. He didn’t even know how to bat his lashes.

 

“I have to put something in your mouth, and I’d rather you bite down on this than my cock, thanks. Open wide.”

 

Luke fell back on the sofa, parting his legs. Flanny gritted his teeth. “Not like that, Macks.”

 

“Well,” Luke said, “you should say what you mean.”

 

“Open that stupid mouth of yours,” Sean demanded, his voice dropping a notch. Luke glanced up at him from under his lashes again, ran his fingers across his lips, smearing blood and saliva across his skin.

 

Sean straddled his legs, pinning him down. “You are such a tease,” he growled, pushing the gag past Luke’s parted lips, securing the straps roughly. He was frustrated; he wanted Luke, but he didn’t want Luke like this.

 

Luke thought he was an idiot for it—after all, Luke had come to him. Wasn’t that consent enough for him? Luke had never objected before, and the fact he came when Sean called would be enough for most courts if he ever decided to press charges. He’d consented. If he didn’t want to, he should have never met Sean. Shouldn’t have even texted him back.

 

Sean sat back, his gaze locked with Luke’s, his eyes searching. If Luke could have, he would have smirked. As it was, he simply reached down, letting his fingers circle a nipple, before pinching, arching up into his own ministrations.

 

Sean made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “I hate you so much,” he growled. “You’re such a filthy little boy.”

 

He grabbed Luke’s wrist, dragged his hand away. Luke rocked up, hoping to press his point home. For once, he wished they were mated, that he could simply telegraph his thoughts to Flanny through a bond. It would make being gagged so much simpler. Instead, he was reduced to body language, physical cues to show Sean what he wanted.

 

It was bold; it wasn’t something that an omega should have done. But Luke wrapped his hand around Flanny’s, then guided him down.

 

“You’re not even hard,” Sean told him flatly, but rubbed him through his slacks nonetheless. Luke squirmed; he really wasn’t sure he could get hard right then and there, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t horny. He knew what he wanted.

 

He wanted to make Mason jealous, wanted to make him burn with envy. Wanted Mason angry, just like he was angry. He wanted Sean to throw him down and fuck him raw, mark him, bruise him, so that Mason couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t deny it. So that when he went home tomorrow, Mason wouldn’t be able to deny that Luke was Sean’s, that Luke was a sated omega who had gone out and gotten what he wanted from another alpha.

 

Sean met his gaze again. “So, how pissed are you at Mayday?” he asked, and if Luke had any kind of startle reaction left, he would have kicked Sean off him right then and there.

 

Instead, he tilted his head to the side inquisitively, then shook it. Sean scoffed. “Right. You’re not mad, and I’m the queen of England.”

 

Luke shook his head again and ground up against Sean’s hand; he hadn’t denied his touch yet. He wrapped his arms about Sean’s neck, dragged himself toward him. Sean pulled back. “Then you won’t mind if I say we’re not doing this.”

 

“Mmphhff!” Luke protested around the gag, but Sean pulled his hand away, dumped Luke back on the sofa.

 

“You’re high and you’re going to sleep it off. Understand?”

 

There was no room for argument in his voice. Luke nodded minutely.

 

Within minutes, he was out like a light.

 

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