There was a dull, persistent pain that had wrapped itself tightly around my head, like a turban. I wondered if I was experiencing my first hangover. My eyes fluttered against the rays of sunlight pouring through the naked windows of Bane’s houseboat. Reality came in like a flickering light. On, off. On, off.

Shadow was dead. We’d buried him yesterday. Then we’d driven back to Bane’s place—“Where is your Harley?” “Don’t worry about it, Snowflake”— and I’d told him everything was dead, which was an On the Road reference that he picked up immediately, because Roman Protsenko was both well-spoken and well-read. Probably the most well-read man I knew, save for my father. Roman told me it was time for a beer and a joint, and one beer turned into three. I hardly ever drank alcohol before The Incident, and definitely not after, so it had hit me hard.

Now I was no longer drunk. I was sober and heavy with sorrow. I stirred in his bed that smelled like his cinnamon breath and heady skin.

I flung my arm over Roman’s shoulder. It was hard as stone, and I loved how he felt like he’d been carved from the most resilient material in the world. The tough to my fragile. The sturdy to my frail. He groaned, and I peered at the clock beside him. It was eight o’clock. He’d skipped on his surfing session, no doubt for me, and I had a shift I was already kind of late to.

“You think my boss will be mad if I’m late for work?” I hugged his midsection, trailing kisses up from his shoulder to his jaw. His skin was warm. Downy, almost. I’d been such a sour thing yesterday. Yes, I’d had my reasons, but I hadn’t even acknowledged how amazing Roman had been. He whirled around and grabbed me by the waist, slamming me into his morning wood.

“Depending on what your excuse is. He seems like a reasonable dude.”

Yesterday, he’d said he had spoken to Kacey and Ryan, and they were going to land in San Diego this evening. I wanted to be there when they arrived, but dreaded to guess what method Roman had used to make them drop everything and jump on the first flight home.

“The excuse is me sleeping with said boss.” I quirked an eyebrow. He smiled and brushed my hair out of my face.

“Hope that fucker gets slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit by evening. How are we feeling this morning?”

“Torn.” I kissed his lips. “Whole.” I kissed his forehead. “Mostly, I’m just grateful to have someone to lean on.”

I dragged my lips down to his neck, whispering, “I love you, Roman ‘Bane’ Protsenko. Not because you take away my loneliness, but because you give me strength.”

I didn’t wait for him to say it back. I kissed a wet path down his torso, flipping his blanket out of the way, and stopped when the metal of his cock ring touched my lips. I smiled up at him. His face was blank, hard, and unimpressed. I was momentarily confused, but not enough to pull away.

“We need to talk.” He scrubbed his face with his big palms, looking pained.

I popped his shaft into my mouth and gave it a hungry suck. His head fell to his pillow, his forearm hitting his eyes. “Fuuuuck.”

I licked him like a lollipop for a few minutes before he grabbed onto my hair and angled my head up to meet my gaze.

“If you want to suck me off, you’ll need to do it my way.”

I nodded silently.

“My way is not the kind of way you read in your books.” He lowered his voice and chin, searching my eyes for signs of distress. There weren’t any.

“You haven’t read my books.” I arched an eyebrow. “Don’t make false assumptions.”

He smirked like the cocky bastard that he was, grabbing my head, angling it back to his cock. “Your safe word is antiestablishment.”

“I’ll never be able to say that word around your cock.” My eyes widened.

His smirked broadened. “Good.”

He pushed the back of my head, his shaft smashing into the back of my throat at once, and I wrapped my lips around it, sucking as hard as I could while controlling my gag reflex. I was hungry for it, and that confused me. I’d never wanted to do that to anyone else.

Slowly, he began to thrust into me with his pelvis, fucking my mouth rather than allowing me to set the tone. His strokes became faster, deeper, and more frantic, and I felt him growing in my mouth, his hand fisting my hair tighter.

“Shit. Your mouth is like a fist.” His voice was husky with sleep and sex.

Two minutes later, I felt him jerk and twitch inside my mouth. He lifted my head up, his eyes dreamingly heavy-lidded. “Yes or no?”