Liam’s body was no longer his own. It belonged to the paint, the c*m, the man who had broken him open and rebuilt him in fire. He lay pressed against Nick’s chest, their skin fused by layers of dried color, sweat, and endless releases.
The penthouse reeked of s*x, musk, linseed oil, and raw masculinity. His hole pulsed constantly, a living reminder of every brutal thrust, every thick load pumped deep inside him. He ached. He throbbed. And still, he wanted more.
Nick’s arms tightened around him like iron bands. The CEO’s usual arrogant smirk had vanished, replaced by something feral and exposed. His dark eyes burned as he stared down at the wrecked, painted man in his bed.
"You’re shaking," Nick murmured, voice hoarse from hours of growling commands. He rolled them so Liam was straddled
