Page 44 of Shared Obsession

I lurch forward, ready to storm the house, but Dean’s voice cuts through the panic—sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument. “Absolutely fucking not, Alex. If you barge in there right now, you’re going to get yourself and her killed. Sit the fuck down. Now.” It stuns me so hard I freeze; Dean never talks to me like this, but the command in his voice is real. I drop back beside him, pulse racing, hands shaking with adrenaline and helpless rage.

Dean’s focus never wavers as he works, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I’m searching through their files as we speak,” he mutters, the words clipped and intense. “I’m looking for data on their customers, their security—anything we can use. But look at the feed, Alex. There are at least three guys in the kitchen, all in black and armed with assault rifles. Not to mention, Nathan and Charles. This isn’t something we can just rush. One wrong move and they’ll kill her—and us.”

My voice cracks, desperate. “What do we do?” My eyes flick to the screen, to Ayla chained up. “She’s chained to the fucking floor, Dean!”

He doesn’t look up. “We’ll get her out, but you need to calm the fuck down and let me do my goddamn job, Alex.” The finality in his voice brooks no argument. I force myself to breathe, trusting Dean to do what he does best—even if it means waiting when every instinct in me is screaming to act.

Dean scans what appears to be a rotating security schedule on the screen, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Based on what I’m seeing here, the best shot is weekday mornings—early, when the guards change. During those windows, security is at its lowest, just two guys on shift. Any other time, it’s triple coverage and constant patrols.”

My heart sinks. “Dean, it’s Saturday.”

He glances at me, pain etched deep in his features. “I know. But if we go tonight or tomorrow, we’re up against a full team—at least three guards inside, plus Nathan and Charles. If we wait until Monday morning, we’ll have the smallest window. I know it’s asking a lot, but it’s our best chance to get in and out without a bloodbath.”

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to scream. “And just leave her chained in that fucking basement for two more days?” My voice is raw, barely more than a whisper, but heavy with fury.

Zayn steps in, voice steady but full of warning. “Alex, we want the same thing. But last time you acted on impulse, well, look where we are. We have to do this smart.”

He’s right, as much as it kills me to admit it. I force myself to breathe and turn to Dean. “Can you bring the security system access with us if we leave?”

Dean nods, his confidence returning as his fingers fly over the keyboard. “Yeah. Now that I’ve cracked their network, I can monitor cameras and alarms from anywhere. Their firewalls are basically Swiss cheese.”

We sit in tense silence, the plan forming between us—painful, but necessary. Every second we wait feels like a betrayal, but this time, we’re going to get it right.

The drive back to the loft on my bike is exactly what I need—wind howling in my ears, adrenaline still burning in my veins, every muscle coiled and tense from hours of watching, waiting, and wanting to break something. Even though it feels like the wrong direction—leaving Ayla behind, if only for two nights—I push the throttle harder, desperate to outrun my own frustration. I know I’ll beat Dean and Zayn back. When I finally pull in, I head straight upstairs and strip off my gear. By the time I step into the shower, I’m so tightly wound I can barely breathe. The hot water hits my skin, steam swirling around me, and I try to let it wash some of the tension away. I scrub my hair, run soap over my body with the loofah, but it’s not enough. I brace my hand on the tile, drop my head, and let the water run down my face—trying to breathe, to ground myself.

My hand drifts to my cock, instinct more than desire. This isn’t about pleasure—it’s about release. I start stroking, slow and mechanical, just trying to bleed off some of the edge, to quiet the storm inside me. It’s not sexy, not even close. It’s just something I need. I find a rough rhythm, chasing relief, when the bathroom door creaks open and Dean steps in, his eyes meeting mine through the haze of steam.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dean

I walk in to apologize to Alex for snapping earlier, nerves twisting in my gut. I know things have been brutal for him, and I was a dick earlier—necessary, maybe, but still out of line. I’m ready to say all of that, but the second I open the bathroom door, I freeze. Alex is in the shower, water streaming down his body, stroking his cock—hard, slick, and thick in his fist. Oh shit. The glass is fogged, but the sight is unmistakable. My pulse quickens, heat churning low in my stomach. I’ve seen Alex with women before, always confident, always in control, but this—this is different. Raw. Private. And, fuck, I can’t say I’ve never thought about it. What it would feel like to lick the barbells, and taste him.

I step closer, unable to look away. Alex doesn’t stop—he just slows, his gaze locking on mine through the haze of steam, daring me, almost pleading. “Hey. I’m sorry,” I manage, my voice rough, trying not to stare but failing miserably. He sees right through me—he always does. "I'm sorry, I know you don't—" I start, but my words dry up, nerves and want warring inside me. I turn away, almost bolting, but his voice snaps through the air—firm, sharp, a command I can’t ignore.

“Stop.” The word hits me like a physical force. He turns off the water, stepping out onto the towel, water dripping from every hard line of muscle. “I know what I’ve said,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine, and suddenly I’m not sure if I should stay or go—except I know I don’t want to leave.

My heart is pounding, adrenaline buzzing under my skin. I want to keep my distance, keep things safe, but the heat between us is electric, impossible to ignore. Alex’s voice drops, thick and raw with something that sounds like need and confession tangled together. "I know what I’ve said, Dean, but honestly? I don’t care anymore. I’m fucking aching." The words hang between us, crackling with urgency and something vulnerable—a plea and a challenge. I stand frozen, gaze flicking down to his cock, hard and slick in his hand, then back up to his face. He meets my eyes, and there’s so much heat there it almost makes me dizzy. He strokes himself again, slower, a deliberate dare.

"Dean…" he murmurs, his tone dark and rough—a warning and an invitation at once. Water beads on his skin, his black hair clings to his face, every muscle wound tight. He starts moving faster, finding a rough, relentless rhythm as he braces one hand against the top of the shower door, every line of his body tense, waiting for me to make the call. Then his eyes lock on mine, pupils blown wide, and his voice comes out low and commanding: "Dean, come here."

That’s all it takes. My resolve breaks. I step forward, heart racing, and when Alex points to the floor, I sink to my knees in front of him—utterly willing, every nerve alight with want and tension. The air between us is charged, humming with everything we’ve been holding back, the kind of anticipation that feels like it could snap the world in half.

I lean in and flick my tongue over the bead of precum at the tip, savoring the salty taste. Alex lets out a deep, guttural groan—a sound I’ve heard a hundred times but never for me, never like this. I wrap my lips around the swollen head, circling the first barbell with my tongue, exploring the hard steel and sensitive skin. His hand slides into my hair, firm but not rough, guiding me down further. There’s trust between us—he knows I want this, and I know exactly what I’m doing. He’s different than Zayn, but the challenge only fuels me.

I hollow my cheeks, sucking him deeper, and Alex groans again—a raw, desperate sound that shoots straight through me. I moan around him, letting the vibrations ripple along his cock, and he shudders, his grip tightening in my hair. He starts to move, setting a quick, urgent rhythm, hips rocking forward as I match him stroke for stroke. My hand wraps around the base, working in perfect sync with my mouth, sliding up and down in a slick, relentless pace. Every time he thrusts, I let my throat open for him, letting him take what he needs, loving every second of his loss of control. I can feel him starting to tense, muscles tight and body straining, and I know he’s close—his pleasure written in every line of his body, every sound that breaks from his lips.

"Oh fuck, goddamnit, Dean," Alex growls, voice rough and breathless, his abs tensing as pleasure overtakes him. I keep up the suction, hollowing my cheeks, feeling every shudder and twitch in his thighs as his orgasm builds. His hand tightens in my hair, holding me in place as his hips start to stutter, desperate and uncontrolled. "Fuck, Dean, I'm gonna—" The warning is barely a gasp before he spills hot and thick down my throat, the taste salty and sharp. I don’t let up, milking every last spasm from him, swallowing greedily, savoring the way his body jerks with every pulse. His muscles flex and strain, the room filled with the sound of his ragged breathing. I draw back slowly, letting his cock slip from my mouth with a wet, satisfied pop, licking my lips as I look up at him—my own chest heaving, heart racing with the thrill of it all.

Alex’s chest rises and falls, sweat glistening along the lines of his abs and the dark hair that trails down toward his hips. For a split second, he just stares at me—eyes wild, lips parted, pupils blown so wide they’re almost black. Then, as the intensity ebbs, a slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, softening the sharp lines of him. "No wonder Zayn fucking loves you," he says, a low, almost reverent laugh rumbling in his chest. The tension between us breaks, replaced by something gentle and a little awed.

I can’t help but grin, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth, still tasting him. “Speaking of Zayn, I’m gonna go find him," I say, heading for the door, feeling loose and light, every nerve humming with release.

Alex meets my eyes, and for a second, there’s something raw and grateful there—something I didn’t expect to see. “Thanks, Dean.” He doesn’t have to say anything else; the weight of those words is enough. I know exactly what he means. Whatever just happened between us, it mattered—a moment of real connection, a kind of release we both needed, whether it ever happens again or not. I give him a small, genuine smile. “Goodnight, Alex.” The air between us feels lighter than it did when I first walked in—like we’ve both set something down, at least for tonight.

Zayn

I watch Dean slip out of the bathroom, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, still catching his breath. He hesitates when he sees me in the hall, shoving his hands in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched. “Hey,” he says, voice a little shaky, not quite meeting my eyes—like he’s not sure what I saw or what I’m thinking. I can see it all over him: nerves, confusion, maybe even guilt. It’s so un-Dean that for a second, I almost laugh, but I bite it back. Honestly, it’s kind of cute, this big, tough guy looking like he just got caught sneaking out after curfew.