The question lodged in my mind like a splinter. What if he was thinking about someone else? Someone at the Acropolis? That fucking cowboy Judge with his ridiculous hat and those eyes that hadundressed Vincent right in front of me? My grin faded, replaced by a scowl. The thought of Vincent fantasizing about anyone else's hands on him made something dark and possessive unfurl in my chest.
Before I could think better of it, I was on my feet, moving silently toward the bedroom door. I had to know. Had to see his face, read the truth in his expression.
The door was already slightly ajar. I pushed it open just enough to see inside, careful not to make a sound. And there he was, sprawled on the bed, one hand moving steadily beneath the sheets, the other gripping the headboard. His eyes were closed, bottom lip caught between his teeth, face flushed.
He was beautiful. And he wasn't thinking about anyone else. I knew because of what whispered past his lips in a breathy moan.
"Luka..."
Every drop of blood in my body rushed south so fast my vision blurred at the edges. My cock throbbed painfully against my sweatpants, demanding attention. Holy shit. Vincent was touching himself while fantasizing about me.
I couldn't have stopped the smile spreading across my face if I'd tried. Without hesitation, I pushed the door open wider and leaned against the doorframe in my best "let me fuck you" pose.
"Need some help with that, gorgeous?" I drawled, my voice deliberately pitched low.
Vincent's eyes flew open, locking directly with mine. For one frozen moment, we just stared at each other, his hand still under the sheet, though now motionless.
"This is a boundary violation," he said. "Basic etiquette suggests knocking."
"Don't stop on my account," I said, pushing off from the doorframe and sauntering toward the bed. My own arousal was painfully obviousin my sweatpants, but I made no effort to hide it. Let him see exactly what he did to me. "I was enjoying the show."
"This isn't appropriate," Vincent stated, though he didn't yank the sheet up to his chin as expected. Instead, he remained still, observing my approach with the analytical gaze I'd come to recognize—part professional assessment, part barely contained desire.
I ignored him completely, instead easing myself onto the edge of the bed. The movement sent a twinge of pain through my healing wounds, but I barely noticed it through the haze of lust clouding my brain.
"You said my name," I pointed out, leaning closer. "Were you thinking about me, Vince? About my hands on you instead of your own?"
His pupils dilated further, but his clinical mask remained. "This is a bad idea.”
"I completely agree. You should never have to get yourself off when I'm right in the next room, more than willing to help."
Before he could respond, I swung a leg over his hips, straddling him through the sheet. The friction drew a hiss from both of us.
"What are you doing?" Vincent gasped, his hands flying to my hips.
"If you don't continue," I murmured, leaning down until our faces were inches apart, "I will."
I ground down slightly, feeling the unmistakable evidence that despite his protests, Vincent was still very much aroused. A strangled half gasp, half moan escaped him as he bit down hard on his lower lip, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of control. His pupils were blown wide, just a thin ring of brown visible around the black, and a flush had spread from his face down his neck to his chest.
"We shouldn't," he whispered, but his hands tightened on my hips, his body arching up into mine despite his words.
"Give me one good reason why not." I rolled my hips again and watched in fascination as his eyes fluttered shut momentarily.
Vincent swallowed hard. "You're injured."
"Not where it counts." I smirked, pressing more firmly against him.
"We haven't discussed boundaries."
"I'm an assassin, Vince. Boundaries are more like suggestions to me."
"This would complicate things."
"Things are already complicated."
For each protest, I had a counter delivered while slowly rocking against him through the sheet. I could feel him responding, his body betraying his desire even as his mind tried to maintain control.
His breath caught, eyes darkening as he stared up at me. I watched the internal struggle play across his face. The responsible therapist warred with the man who'd been touched only by violence for too long. His analytical mind was visibly cataloging risks, weighing consequences, processing implications.
