I look up. Gabe’s watching me, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark. We don’t say a word. We can’t.
The air is thick with what we’ve done.
And nothing will ever be the same.
“I need a minute,” he growls, and before I can ask if he is okay, he’s out the door.
My chest is heaving. My hands are shaking. My cock is still hard, straining against the front of my pants like the last twenty minutes didn’t happen. Except it did. Christ, it did.
I stumble into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. The click is too loud. Too final. My reflection stares back from the mirror—glasses fogged, shirt half-untucked, jaw clenched. I look like a man I don’t recognize.
I grip the sink with both hands, bowing my head. “Fuck,” I whisper. The word scratches my throat raw.
I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this. And still—my hand drops, yanks my zipper down, and I fist myself like a starving man stealing bread. My cock is thick and aching, wet already from the precome that’s been leaking since she begged me to kiss her.
I spit into my hand and pump, slow at first, then faster. My head tips back against the mirror. I keep my jaw clenched, teeth grinding, desperate not to make a sound. I can’t let her hear me. I can’t let Gabe hear me if he’s still pacing outside.
Images I should bury forever rip through me instead. Sadie, writhing on the bed, begging for more. The look in her eyes whenshe pulled my hand to her lips and kissed my palm. The sound she made when Gabe’s tongue was on her. The way her thighs shook, the way her skin flushed.
My pace turns brutal. I brace one hand against the counter, the other working my cock hard and merciless. I try to think of anything else—Camilla’s face, books on a shelf—but nothing sticks. It’s only Sadie. Only her voice, her scent, her need.
I bite my wrist to muffle the groan that breaks out of me. My hips jerk. My balls draw tight. And then I’m coming, hard, spilling across my fist and the porcelain sink in thick white ropes. My knees damn near buckle.
I choke on a breath, forcing myself to stay quiet as the orgasm rips through me. Hot, shameful, endless. I pump until there’s nothing left, just the sting of overstimulation and the echo of my own guilt.
I collapse forward, palms braced on the sink, cock still twitching in my fist. My breathing is ragged, sweat dripping down my temple. I stare at the mess I’ve made, disgust curling in my gut even as the last aftershocks pulse through me.
I should clean up. I should pull myself together. But before I can even grab a towel, I hear it.
Shouting.
It cuts sharp through the apartment. One voice first—low, furious. Then another, louder, angrier.
My blood runs cold.
I drag my pants back up, tucking myself away, fumbling with the zipper as the voices escalate. Furniture scrapes. A thud rattles the floorboards. Someone snarls something I can’t make out, but the tone is unmistakable. Rage.
I don’t even wash my hands. I shove the bathroom door open and follow the noise, heart hammering harder than it has all night.
When I round the corner into the living room, the sight hits me like a blow.
Boone. Finally here, face wild, fists flying. Gabe, just as feral, meeting him blow for blow. Both men snarling like wolves, years of tension and resentment boiling over in one brutal fight.
“Enough!” I shout, but neither of them hears me.
They’re too far gone, fists cracking against jaws, bodies slamming into walls. Boone’s eyes are fire, Gabe’s jaw set like stone. Every hit is a question and an answer, all of it unspoken.
And under it all, I know the truth.
They’re fighting because of her.
Because of what just happened in that room.
Because of we all crossed a line we can’t uncross.
CHAPTER 28
Boone
