Page 67 of Bone Deep
My jaw actually clicks when he pops the sucker back in, then uses his hands to push his chest together, shameless. “I mean,” he continues, voice teasing, “these are at least a C-cup, right? Why would I rob all the fine folks in this building of the view?” He gestures vaguely toward the office behind him. I glance past him, and, of course, Dita is turned fully around in her chair, smirking, undoubtedly enjoying the show.
Fantastic.
Fucking. Fantastic.
I round my desk quickly, putting distance between us, because proximity is a problem right now. A serious one. “And I thought we talked about the damn sucker, too, Parker,” I scold, dropping into my chair.He shrugs, completely unbothered, then leans forward, bracing his hands on my desk.
Too close.
Way too close.
His voice drops—low and suggestive. “You’re welcome to replace it with something bigger at any time, Mr. Stark.”
I snap. “That's enough, Parker.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “What did you come in here for?” He pauses, blinking like he’s genuinely considering it. Then he smirks, pulls the sucker out, and looks at it. Then, with deliberate slowness, he runs it along his tongue before closing his lips around it again.
Jesus Christ.
“I forgot,” he says lightly. “Got…distracted.” His grin widens. “I’ll come back ‘round when I remember.”
“No, you won’t. Not today,” I warn, and point to the door.
Parker shrugs, turning toward the door like it’s nothing. He takes a step, stops, shifts his weight, and pops his hip out to emphasize the curve of his ass. He glances back over his shoulder, dragging a hand slowly over his ass and squeezes like he’s checking a melon at the market.
“Out, Parker. Now.”
He gives me one last amused look before slipping out the door and closing it behind him. Silence crashes back into the room. I sink further into my chair, dragging both hands over my face, pressing into my eyes. That’s it. I can’t take anymore. I need to do something about this—this restless, sharp, consuming edge under my skin—it’s going to get me in trouble.
Jen and I are not going to be at this firm much longer, but I can’t afford to be cavalier with an intern. And even though he’s throwing himself at me, I would never feel right about the power dynamic. Plus, to my great annoyance, Parker is actually a really good intern. When he’s not actively trying to get in my pants.
I want him to come with us to Anthony’s firm, and that means he stays off limits. Non-negotiable. I drop my hands and stare up at the ceiling. I just need to get dick inside a firm, plump ass. Once. Maybe twice. Enough to take the edge off. Enough to clear my head. Enough to remind myself I don’t need Ryan Buterbaugh’s attention to function like a normal human being. Yes, that’s all this is. Just a problem that needs solving.
Nothing more.
I lean forward in my chair, elbows braced on the desk, and reach for my phone. Just after five. Plenty of time to line something up. Quick. Easy. Transactional. Exactly what I need. I swipe it open, tap into a folder labeledEntertainment, and find the DICK’D app. Profiles flick past as I scroll—torsos,angles, strategically cropped shots. The usual mix of confidence, horniness, and filtered perfection. After about a minute, I sigh. Nothing. There’s nothing.
Don’t get me wrong, Phoenix is rich with options. It’s practically a top’s playground. No shortage of willing bodies, eager energy, and guys who know exactly what they want. But none of them pique my interest. Not a single one. Sure, a lot of them are hot. Objectively. If one of them were standing right in front of me, looking up at me the way Parker just did—yeah, I’d fold. I’m a man in my twenties. I’m not dead.
The problem? None of them make mewantto put in effort. To leave my office. To engage. I’m about to close the app when something catches my eye. I pause and scroll back. It’s a photo, cropped just above the shoulders. No face. Anonymous. Not unusual. But the rest of it? My grip tightens slightly around my phone.
The guy’s lying on a bed, wearing a white jockstrap. The framing is…intentional. Confident. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need a face to sell the moment. There’s strength there, too—muscles visible even through the shirt he’s wearing. He’s solid, athletic, and his back arch game could make the devil weep. I glance at the headline on his profile.
Anonymous Bottom 4 Group Bang
My brow lifts sharply. Curious, I tap into the profile. The description loads, and I read through it slowly. By the time I reach the end, I’m nearly sweating. “Fuck,” I murmur under my breath. “Why does that sound so hot?” Groups have never really been my thing. I’ve been to a couple—like I said, that weekend in Palm Springs was wild. They were okay. Nothing groundbreaking. I find them too impersonal for my taste. I want the bottoms hopping off my dick to know they’ve just been fucked by Spencer Stark. I need control. Focus. Intensity.
But this? There’s something about the way it’s written. The edge to it. The fuckingneed.Maybe something a little reckless and impersonal is exactly what I need right now. Just something to burn this tension out of me. I hit the message button and start typing. The words come easier than they should—confident, deliberate, leaning into a version of myself I haven’t tapped into in weeks.
I read it once. Then again. My finger hesitates over the send button. Then I think about Ryan. About the distance. About the silence. About how much it’s gotten under my skin. I hit send. Hard. Locking my phone, I drop it back onto the desk, and lean back in my chair.
Fifteen seconds.
That’s all it takes before my phone buzzes. Chuckling, I reach for it again, unlocking the screen and opening the notification. Mr. perfect back arch has already replied. I read the message, a slow smile pulling at my mouth. The message is short, eager, and includes an address and a room number.
I type back, asking a couple of questions—more out of habit than hesitation. The responses come just as fast. Confident and unbothered. There’s something almost…disarming about it. “Yeah,” I mutter under my breath. “He’ll do.” I switch over to my photos, select an ab shot. Nothing too revealing, just enough to confirm if I match his type. And send it. Another response almost instantly.
Hot, bro. Eight o’clock. Hyatt. Room 311.
I stare at the screen for a beat, then type back my confirmation. When the conversation ends, I close the app and lean back in my chair again, staring up at the ceiling. “Fuck it,” I murmur. The hotel’s close. Practically around the corner. If I’m not feeling it, I leave. Simple as that. Hell, maybe a proxy jock bottom is the right medicine for Ryanitis.
