More by Sloan Parker (best ebook reader for chromebook .txt) 📕

in a slow move that always left me writhing and begging for more. I lifted my hips off the bed, arched to meet him, tugged at him with my legs, clutched at him with my hands.

I couldn't get close enough. I wanted to feel him everywhere. I wanted to breathe in his scent. Memorize every muscle, every hair on his body. Show him who he was to me.

His eyes met mine. I didn't have to show him anything. He already knew how important he was to me.

And I was the same for him.

He pulled back and thrust in again. His hips collided with my ass. The force wasn't meant to hurt me, but to get him as close to me as he could.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Tim. Don't stop."

"This will go on, Luke. I won't let it stop."

I opened my eyes at his words. Did he mean them the way they sounded? I didn't get a chance to ask.

The strong scent of a familiar cologne washed over me. At first, my brain couldn't reconcile the vision. It was in such contrast to what my body felt.

But there he was. My father stood next to the nightstand.

I retreated up the bed and dragged Tim with me.

Tim stared down at me, his face contorted in a mix of passion and confusion until he caught sight of my father. His dick slipped out of me, and he scrambled to my side.

My father whirled his arm upward. He jammed a cool, metal object against my face. A handgun. The barrel dug into the flesh of my cheek.

"Don't move, son."

I awoke an hour later, my father's long-ago words still ringing in my ears.

“You start living a decent life or I swear to God, I will track you down and take away every lover you ever have. I'll make them see who you are. I'll make them hate you. I'll make your life a living hell.”

Goose bumps formed at the base of my neck before I opened my eyes. I shot off the bed and didn't bother with clothes. I charged down the hall and lunged for the computer.

I entered the password three times before I hit the correct keys. My fingers tapped the edge of the desk as the video program opened. The playback started, and I clicked several times to advance the screens faster, scanning for any sign of my stalkers. The video playback caught up to the current time.

Nothing.

My breathing slowed. It was the first time I'd forgotten to check the tape on the door or the cameras.

The phone on the desk rang. I stared at it for four rings before I answered. No one had the number to my land line. Work had my cell number. The apartment wasn't in my name.

“Luke Moore?”

I straightened and pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Yes.”

“My name's Mark Summers. I'm a reporter with The Washington Times. I'm doing a story on your father and wondered if you'd be able to answer some questions.”

“How'd you get this number?”

“I'm looking to do a human interest piece— about the man, his family, that sort of thing. I'm not out for dirt.”

I banged a fist on the desk and hit the edge of the keyboard. Three keys popped off. They scattered and bounced on the floor. I watched as the letters M and N and B randomly surfaced over and over like the balls spinning around in a bingo cage. The tiny pieces of plastic clicked as they collided. They sounded like they were snickering at me.

I tried to keep my voice calm, neutral. “I asked you a question.”

“I'm not going to be the last call you'll get. At some point, you'll have to answer questions. No one knows about his family.”

“Why now?”

“Seriously? He's a big name these days. His energy bill saved a lot of jobs in this country. People want to know the man behind the name.”

“Trust me; you don't want to know him.” I slammed the phone down as I stood and kicked the flimsy chair backward, scraping a bare heel.

“Goddammit.”

I cradled the injured foot in my hands and hopped around naked. I tripped over the busted chair and plunged onto the couch. The springs jammed into my hip. Pain exploded down my leg and mixed with the throb in my foot.

The crumbled, destroyed chair lay sprawled on the floor, mocking me. A reminder the time to move again was close. I stood and hobbled to the bedroom.

One place would make me feel better.

I arrived at the Haven a few hours later— the earliest ever— dressed in leather pants, a burgundy dress shirt, and a cocky smirk on my face, determined to put all thoughts of my father, my past, and any other emotional crap behind me.

The Haven was my place to play. My place to feel better about my life and how I lived it.

I wanted to fuck the shit out of someone. I wanted to dominate, to take charge and possess someone, deny him an orgasm until I wanted him to come.

My expectations of what the night would entail affected my demeanor, and I stood taller. I eyed the room for a candidate before taking a seat. The hurried manner in which I went about the task would have bothered me on any other night. Not now. I had something to prove— to myself and to the voice of my father.

Yet, as I surveyed the room and sat on a bar stool, the image of one man assailed my thoughts— a grinning, licking, groaning Matthew.

Shit. I slammed a clenched fist on the bar.

“Something wrong, Luke?” the bartender asked.

“Uh, no. Nothing. Glass of water, please.”

I raised the water to my lips and kept swallowing until I sucked in air instead of the cool liquid. I shoved the glass aside with the back of my hand. The scratching in my throat continued with each gulp of air.

I closed my eyes, and the daydream of Matthew and me slid into view. Richard soon arrived. He pushed