Page 68 of Bone Deep
Pushing up from my chair, I already feel a shift in my body. Less restless, more directed. A plan. I like plans.
I look down. My dick likes plans too, apparently.
Nineteen
Policy of Truth
Spencer
Stepping out of the rideshare and onto the polished curb, the evening air hits my face as the car pulls away behind me. The hotel is sleek, modern, and expensive. At least it's high-class debauchery. I roll my shoulders once, then head inside.
A quick nod to the front desk clerk. Another to the concierge. Nothing to see here. I'm definitely not going to a random stranger's room for illicit sex. I move straight to the bank of elevators, catching one just as a small group steps off. I slip inside, turn, and press the third-floor button more times than necessary. The doors finally slide shut, and I exhale through my nose, jaw tensed as the elevator hums upward.
This is fine. Simple. In. Out. Done.
Then why do I feel like I’m doing something bad?
The doors open to the third floor with a soft chime, and I step out, glancing at the directional sign before heading left. Room numbers tick by. 308. 309. 310. I stop in front of 311, take a breath, and tap lightly. But the door shifts under my knuckles. It's already ajar with the latch flipped to keep it from fully closing.
Pushing the door open, I take two steps inside. And then-I stop. Everything in me goes still.
Because Jesus Christ. The sight in front of me…
A man on the bed. On all fours. That same jockstrap. That same perfect, full ass I saw in the photo. Even better in person. Framed perfectly. There's a plug-pink, glittering, catching the light with every subtle shift of his body.
My mouth is suddenly dry and heat floods low in my gut, immediate and sharp. But beneath the immediate lust, there's something else. Something that's been there since I first read the profile. Familiarity. It claws up the back of my neck, raising the hairs there as I stare.
The guy shifts. Wiggles his hips slightly. That ass is really something. But those lower back dimples…
My breath catches.
No. No fucking way.
My eyes snap away, scanning the room, looking for proof I'm wrong. They land on the couch. On a bag. A gym bag I've seen dozens of times.
My stomach drops. “Ryan Michael Buterbaugh.”
The name rips out of me, sharp and disbelieving.
Chaos explodes. The suspect on the bed jerks, scrambling, completely disoriented. He stumbles off the mattress, hands flailing blindly as he tries to get his bearings. He hits a chair and curses, and stumbles again—straight into the curtains. There's a tangle of limbs and fabric, a muffled sound of frustration, and then he goes down. Hard. Somewhere in the mess, the plug dislodges, hitting the floor with a thud as he ends up sitting there, slumped and defeated.
I just stare. My brain is processing and trying to catch up.
A knock sounds behind me and I turn sharply. The door swings open further, and another guy steps in. He's all lean muscle, tattoos, undeniably attractive.
My mouth suddenly remembers how to function. “No.” I straighten, stepping into his path, my voice cutting through the room. “Leave.”
My tone leaves no room for interpretation. He pauses, reading the tone, then lifts his hands slightly and backs out without argument. The door shuts. I step forward, flip the latchproperly this time, and lock it. A heavy silence settles. I turn back.
Ryan is still on the floor. Still wearing that ridiculous ski mask. I cross the room in a few strides and grab it, yanking it off. And there's my confirmation. It's definitely him. Green eyes staring up at me—wide, bright, full of too many things at once. Fear. Defiance. Confusion. But also, something unsettling: shame.
My chest squeezes. No. That doesn't sit right. I can work with everything else in that look. But not that. He should never feel shame.
When I don't say anything right away, his gaze drops, falling to the floor. I exhale slowly, then crouch slightly, gripping his chin between my thumb and forefinger, lifting his face back up. “Hey.” My voice is quieter now. “What are you doing here, Ryan?”
He throws his arms out with dramatic flair. “I'm here for knitting club. What does it look like?”
A short breath escapes me—half laugh, half disbelief-as I release his chin. “Why?” I ask, more pointed this time. “Why are you here?”
