Page 138 of Twisted Little Game

“Mmm. These guys don’t even know how big your cock is, too.”

He shrugs. “Some of them might have an idea. We’ve lived in this house together for a while…”

I give him a little shove. “Show-off.”

“And proud. Why? You want to brag about me?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to help it sometimes.”

“I love you,” he tells me. “Don’t ever forget it.”

“I love you so much, Roman.”

He squeezes my ass from behind and we relax, watching the rest of the guys thrashing around in the pool.

I realize that I’ve never felt more at home in my life.

Roman’s possessive of me, protective, and loving in a way I didn’t know was possible. We get to choose the path of our lives now. A clean slate, side by side.

And I know that Roman is the best fucking choice I’ve ever made.

Epilogue

ROMAN, TWO MONTHS LATER

“Maks,” I shout from across the street, spotting my cousin past a thick line of taxis and traffic.

He waves at me and weaves through the cars, jogging over across the busy New York City street.

I wipe at the edge of my lips and see that my fingers come away with a streak of pink, and I can’t keep a smile off my face.

Tate hasn’t been able to stop kissing me all morning.

Even when his own lips have goddamn cherry syrup on them.

For the first time, I’m with a family that actually celebrates Thanksgiving. Maks just arrived in the city, and back inside the house behind me, I have someone who loves me, someone I love more than I ever knew I was capable of.

Miracles, all of them.

Maks finally makes it across the street, reaching out and giving me a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving. We’re matching.”

He’s in a white beanie and a black puffy jacket, just like mine.

“Glad you’re here. I was starting to forget who I am, around the Landrey family,” I tell Maks. “They’re so polite. It’s nothing like our family.”

Maks hums, lifting an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“It’s a fucking great thing. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

We walk up the short set of steps that leads into Luke Landrey’s slice of New York City, a historic brownstone that has been renovated in a classic style. The front doors open into an entryway that looks like it’s from a movie, with polished hardwood floors, a curving staircase leading to the upper levels, and beautiful fixtures on every surface.

I take Maks to the kitchen near the back of the first floor, which is large with a giant island at the center.

“Maks! You made it,” Tate says, putting down the pie crust he’s working on and bouncing over toward Maks to wrap his arms around him. “Are you a cherry pie guy, a pecan pie guy, or an apple pie guy?”

“Pumpkin,” Maks says.

“Oh, that’s a given. We have three of them already baked. We’re working on the second set of pies now.”