EWB (Enemies With Benefits)

“What do you mean ‘a problem’?”

I was sure I knew what he was talking about and what it meant for us. I knew this had been too good to be true.

My good mood, my intent on buying us dinner, and making a night of it, seemed so foolish.

What was I thinking?

That we had something more than what it was?

Christ, Valentine. This is why you keep your walls up.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at him because of what he’d see in my eyes.

“Taka knows,” Marshall said. “About us.”

Well, I looked at him then. Shocked. “What? How?”

He put his hands up. “I dunno how. He . . . he put it together.” He shook his head, then ran his hand through his hair. “He said he knows me too well. He reckoned I was seeing someone, but he didn’t know who. I was leaving after our games and not getting drunk or picking fights. Then he said you came to our worksite and we talked. You smiled at me, whatever the fuck that means, and I swore at you and didn’t get fired.” Then he shrugged. “And then today I took out Burwood’s number four, and Taka knew he’d got a cheap shot on you last week—”

“You what?”

He stopped and squinted at me. “I what to which part? Out of everything I said, which—”

“You took out their number four?”

“You damn fucking right I did. From the kick off, the ball went straight to him. I lined him up and cracked him right in the nose.” He shrugged again. “I got sent off. Missed the whole game and will probably miss next week too. Which I realised after is against your team, and at first, I was pissed about that, but it’s probably a good thing now.”

“Why—”

“Because Taka knows! That’s why. And if I run out there against you, then—”

“Not that.” I cut him off. “Why did you hit their number four?”

“Because he deserved it. And I fucking told him too. When he was a puddle of blood on the field, I fucking told him it was for you. Because fuck him.”

I squinted my eyes shut and sighed. “Christ, Marshall. Did it occur to you that’s why Taka knows? Because you said that?”

“No one heard me,” he replied. “And fuckface won’t remember it. He was too busy being a groaning sack of miserable—”

“Marshall.”

“He fucking deserved it and I’m not sorry.”

I sighed again.

He shook his head, his jaw clenched. “He put a hit on you and no one fucking touches you but me.”

Oh.

Okay, wow.

His hands were fists and he turned away from me and growled. “Fuck! Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

I could see the torment on his face in the reflection of the wall of glass.

The truth was, I’d liked what he’d said.

I was just about to say something, walk over to him, I wasn’t sure, when he spun around. “You know what? I’m not fucking sorry about that either. I am the only one who can touch you, and if any fucker thinks they can hurt you, I’ll send them to hospital too. I don’t give a fuck. I protect what’s mine. That’s who I am and it’s what I do, and I won’t apologise for it. If you don’t like that, then . . . then fucking tell me now.” Then he ran his hand through his hair again and growled. “Fuck! I should go. I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

I protect what’s mine.

He said I was his.

He went to shoot past me, but I grabbed his arm. I didn’t even mean to, and I was as surprised as he was to find my hand on him.

He looked at me, his eyes burning fire into the side of my head, but I kept my eyes down.

“I dunno what I’m doing,” he said.

“I don’t either,” I admitted in a whisper. “What I’m doing, what this is. I don’t know.” I swallowed hard. “Just don’t go.”

Christ, Valentine, could you be any more pitiful?

When did you ever beg anyone for anything?

I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to silence the voice of reason.

He put his fingers to my chin and lifted my face. I didn’t want him to see my eyes, to see the honesty, the vulnerability. The real me. But he kept staring until I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

His brown eyes were so warm, searching mine. Eventually his gaze went to my eyebrow. “Your eye looks okay. Did you play today?”

“Half a game,” I murmured, surprised my voice actually worked at all. “The coach didn’t want me to play. He made me wear headgear.”

Marshall cracked half a smile. “Good.”

God, my heart was hammering.

I couldn’t take my eyes from his now, not even when I’d wanted to. His fingers still held my chin, but then he swiped his thumb along my bottom lip, and his gaze drew down to the movement and he let out a shaky breath.

He licked his own lips and moved in closer, and I knew he was going to kiss me.

We’d kissed before, but only during sex and usually when he was domineering and forceful. This was going to be neither of those things.

I couldn’t remember the last time someone had kissed me nicely.

My brain was screaming at me. Did I want this to happen? Was I going to let him kiss me?

God, I think I am. I want him to. I want him to kiss me.

My heart was squeezing to the point of pain. A pain I wasn’t sure how to fix, but needing to find out if Marshall knew the answer.

He closed the distance between us, his eyes fluttering closed, and he pressed his lips to mine. Soft and warm, slow and gentle. His lips parted and he kissed me again, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw as he angled us to deepen the kiss.

His tongue was teasing and forgiving and he hummed and sighed as he kept kissing me.

The sounds made my knees weak.

What the hell.

There was no rush, no push and pull, no fight for dominance. No rough hands, no demands.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to be kissed like this, how good it felt, how I needed more . . .

When I tried to deepen the kiss, he broke free, pressing his forehead to mine. We took a second to catch our breaths, to regain some control, and he put his forefinger to my lips.

“Goddammit, Valentine fucking Tye,” he murmured, then stepped back and shook his head. “I must be out of my damned mind.”

I put my hand to my forehead and let out a breath. “Same. Marshall fucking Wise.”

His eyes met mine and he laughed. “Christ.”

I felt marginally better knowing he seemed as conflicted as me about this.

He took a few steps backward to lean his arse against the back of the sofa. “What do we do about Taka?”

“I don’t know any hitmen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not funny.”

It kind of was. I almost smiled, anyway. “What did you tell him?”

“I denied it, of course. But he called me a terrible liar.” He put his hand to his chest. “I am a terrible liar. I can’t lie for shit, and I can’t lie to him.”

I nodded slowly. Taka was a nice guy. I didn’t know one person who had a bad word to say about him.

What they said about Marshall was a different story, but for all his faults, Marshall was honest. Most people didn’t like that trait in others, but personally, I loved it.

Honesty, no matter how brutal, was always better than a lie.

“He said he won’t tell anyone,” Marshall added. “Pretty sure he said something to the effect of ‘no one would believe me anyway’.”

“Then what can we do?” I asked. “I won’t come to your worksite anymore, though I deny the claim that I smiled at you.”

His eyes flashed to mine and he raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely did.”

“And if they believe I should have fired you for swearing at me, perhaps I could issue a first warning citation, if that would help.”

He snorted. “The fuck you will.”

I chuckled and turned to the table. “Are you hungry? I got us some Japanese food.”

He pushed off the back of the sofa and pulled out a chair at the table. “I can always eat.”

I pulled the containers out of the bag and then considered drinks. “Want a wine?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed the bottle of white from the fridge and two glasses, and Marshall had dished up some food from each container on two plates. I took my seat and poured us a glass each, and figured now was a good time as any to bring this up.

“Regarding Taka and him saying he won’t tell anyone, I, uh . . . my personal life has never been up for discussion. My father has reminded us that our public profile is to remain unscathed, I believe was the word he used.”

Marshall studied me for a moment. “Do you mean gay?”

God, I hated this.

“He doesn’t know. He can’t know,” I admitted quietly. This topic of conversation did very little for my appetite. God, even looking at food wasn’t good. “I’m not out as a gay man. Not even my sister knows. My father would . . .”

“Hey,” Marshall said. He put his fork down and slid his hand over mine. “Fuck your old man.”

I looked at him and snorted. “Thanks.”

“Taka won’t tell anyone. You have my word.” He waited until I met his gaze. “But Valentine, I mean it. Fuck your old man. And if he can’t stand the thought of having a gay kid, fuck him even more.”

“My father is . . .” I wasn’t sure I had the time or the energy to go through the list.

“A piece of shit,” he finished for me. “You’re a better person than he’ll ever be.”

I gave him a sad smile. “He’s not a nice man. That’s no secret. I could never tell him I was gay. Not ever. He’d never understand. And if he had the choice of me being out and happy or closeted and miserable, he’d choose miserable without hesitation. Part of me actually thinks he knows. He knows I’m gay and he sees my unhappiness as loyalty to him, I think.” I sighed. “I don’t know. It’s fucked up.”

“I’m sorry,” Marshall murmured. “It is fucked up and it’s not fair on you.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “God, I envied you in high school.”

He stared. “You what?”

“I envied you. You were out and proud and didn’t give one fuck what people thought. That took more courage than I’ll ever have. God, I wanted to be you.”

“Well, I dunno about out and proud. I got caught checking guys out and I got teased and called names.” He made a face. “So I punched the shit out of them and broke a few noses and said they could tell everyone they got beat up by a gay guy.”

I gave him a sad smile. “What is it with you and breaking noses?”

“Only if they deserve it.” He stabbed some beef and rice noodle with his fork and I expected him to eat it, but he put it to my mouth. “Eat.”

I rolled my eyes and opened my mouth. I hated that he did this, that he played the let’s-feed-Valentine game, but damn, part of me loved it too.

Then he ate some, then he fed me some more, and by the time we were done having alternating forkfuls, our plates were almost empty.

He kept his hand on my thigh, and he did a fair bit of smiling, which did concerning things to my heart.

I hated that he could do that to me.

I hated that I let him. That I liked it.

He lightly pressed his finger between my eyebrows. “You get a line here when your mind goes somewhere you don’t want it to. What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, brushing off his ability to read me as pure luck. “Nothing. I—”

“Bullshit.”

Great.

See, the problem with letting people in is that then they get to know you.

Yes, Valentine. That’s generally how it works. But it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?

I sighed. “I, uh . . . I’m not sure . . .”

He slid his palm further up my thigh. “I think I know. You want to know what this means for our agreement. That if I can sit here and be all sweet with you, then that means I can’t throw you down and fuck you hard. But, rest assured Valentine, I can do both.”

My pulse kicked up a notch and I smiled despite myself. “Am I that easy for you to read?”

He chuckled. “Pretty much. You can be a steel trap when you want to be. But I think I got you figured out.”

Oh god.

Why did that scare me so much? “You do, huh?”

His smile faded and he put his hand to my jaw and searched my eyes.

Never had I felt so scrutinised, so vulnerable.

He dropped his hand to my lap and squeezed my hand instead. “You need rough sex. That’s how you like it, and I gotta be honest with ya, I like giving it to you. It’s hot as hell, and fucking you bareback and coming inside you is the hottest thing I’ve ever done.” He let out a breath and shook his head. “Not gonna lie, I think it’s a primal, knuckle-dragging thing, and damn, my dick’s been hard pretty much non-stop since we started this thing.”

Oh, okay then. He was just going to say this stuff out loud.

“But you also need me to be sweet sometimes,” he added. “It’s nothing crazy or personal, it just is what it is. What it means to be human.”

I didn’t like where this was going.

I didn’t like it at all.

“You mean it’s something you need.”

He glowered at me. “No. It’s something everyone needs. You want me to throw you down and fuck you hard every single time, so be it. Only too happy to oblige. But don’t tell me you don’t like this.” He waved between us, then at the empty plates. “Because you stopped me from leaving before. Whether you like it or not, something inside you didn’t want me to leave. And yeah, it’s confusing and a total mindfuck, because I spent my whole life hating you, and yet here I am. It is confusing. But for some fucked-up reason, I find myself needing to soften the barbs a little. Fucked if I know why. And I think you need me to.”

I blinked a few times. My mouth was far too dry. I wanted to object and tell him he was wrong on all fronts about every single thing.

But he wasn’t.

I was suddenly not feeling too well. I had the palpable urge to stand up and ask him to leave. To tell him maybe this whole thing was a bad idea.

He shook his head. “Don’t do that,” he said, half stern, half sorry. “I can see you retreating in your head and putting your defences up. You get this terrified look in your eyes. Christ, Valentine. I’m not asking you to come out or go public. Christ, I would never. I know how hard that is. You don’t ever have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing.” He sighed. “All I’m saying is you don’t need to put your walls up around me. You don’t need to be on the defensive with me. Not anymore. You can just be yourself around me. No pretences, no bullshit.”

I didn’t know what to say. All I could do was shake my head. Because I was more myself with him than I’d ever been with anyone else.

Marshall shrugged. “I’m not asking you for anything more than what we have now.”

“What we have now?”

“Yeah. Whatever this is. This agreement. Whatever the fuck it is. Nothing has to change.”

“But it has changed.”

“To include what? Dinner? Yeah, because like I said, if I’m going to fuck you like you want me to, I need to know you’re up for it. That this isn’t some downward spiral of self-destruction and you don’t care what happens to your body. I happen to like using your body as a fuck-toy, and I need it in good working order. Christ.” He let his head fall back with a frustrated sigh.

And I found myself smiling. “A fuck-toy? In good working order.”

His head shot up and his eyes met mine. He sighed again when he saw me smiling, and the corner of his mouth lifted upward.

“Christ, Valentine. I don’t know what I’m doing. I know outside of whatever this is, it can’t be anything more. And that’s fine. But inside whatever this is, maybe we can order takeout and not get weird about it. It’s just food. If you really want me to do nothing but turn up, fuck you, and leave, then tell me right now.”

Is that what I wanted?

It was in the beginning. It was all I had the emotional currency for. But now . . . well, now I wasn’t sure . . .

My phone rang in that moment with either the best or worst timing, possibly both. I took my phone from my pocket and saw Father on the screen. Marshall saw it too.

I groaned because my father was the last person on the planet I wanted to speak to right now.

“Answer it,” Marshall said.

Knowing if I ignored my father it would only make matters worse, I took a deep breath and answered. “Hello.”

“The Melbourne integration is moving forward faster than expected and you’ll be overseeing the project this week. Your flight leaves tomorrow at one o’clock, returning on the seven o’clock flight, Thursday night. Camilla will forward you the flight details.”

I stood up and walked to the back of the sofa. “What? I thought you were in Melbourne for the integration this week.”

“I was. Now I’m in Taiwan sorting out a supplier issue.”

“I can’t just up and leave. I have a busy week—”

“If your team cannot handle your absence for four days, you’ve failed as a manager.”

Marshall’s hand on my back surprised me, but I welcomed the touch. Warm and strong. His workman-hands, calloused and rough, were masters of touch. He massaged my shoulders and worked his way down, stepping in close behind me while my father droned on in my ear about my shortcomings as a successor to his empire.

Then Marshall’s hands slid around to my front and unbuttoned my jeans. I tried to turn around to tell him no—because I was on the phone to my father!—but he held me still and pushed my hips against the back of the sofa.

My father started on about how industry dominance required a level of cruelty, how his success was because of his savage acumen. Meanwhile, Marshall slowly unzipped my fly, pulled my jeans down, then bent me over the back of the sofa.

I thought he was going to try and fuck me without lube, and there was no way I could remain quiet during that, but then I felt his warm breath before his tongue licked over my hole.

“Oh,” I said.

My father stopped mid-sentence. I hadn’t been listening anyway. “What was that?”

“Sorry, I dropped something,” I managed to say.

“What are you doing?” my father barked. “Are you even listening?”

“I’m . . . eating,” I said. “Dinner.”

Marshall chuckled as his tongue flicked across my sensitive skin and poked it inside me.

I mean, I’d showered after rugby, but I hadn’t been expecting this. I worried I might not have been clean enough . . . but then he began to fuck me with his tongue. I sucked back a breath and tried to not make a sound on the exhale.

“Valentine,” my father barked.

Good fucking god.

“Sorry. It’s hot. Dinner, I mean,” I said, my voice tight. “Melbourne tomorrow. Got it. Bye.”

I clicked off the call, knowing my father would be pissed, but in that moment, I didn’t care.

“Fuck, Marshall.”

He laughed, his breath hot on my skin, his tongue wet and probing . . .

Sweet heavens above, what was he doing to me?

He stood up and pulled me upright by the back of my shirt, his lips pressed against my ear. “Every time your father calls you, I’m gonna eat your arse, because fuck him.” He pressed his erection against my arse crack. “I would fuck you while you speak to him, but you make the most obscene noises.”

I whined, and he laughed before tightening his hold on my shirt. It pulled against my throat, and he drove my hips against the back of the sofa with his body, the hard-on in his jeans making me moan.

“Look at your reflection,” he ordered, giving my shirt a little tug on my throat. “Look at how fucking hot you are.”

I turned my head to the wall of glass, to the full-length reflection of us. To my jeans under my arse, to him pressed against me, my back arched because of the shirt pulling on my throat.

To his muscular body, his strong arms.

His complete control over me.

“Want me to fuck you right here so you can watch?”

My knees almost gave out. “Yes, please.”

Please?

Did I just say please?

He chuckled. “Go get the lube.”

He let go of me and I almost wobbled on my feet, and I tried to walk slowly to my room, as if I was the one calling the shots here, but it was a concerted fucking effort not to run.

I came back and he’d cleared the table, putting the leftovers in the fridge. I put the lube on the back of the couch and began to pull my jeans off.

“Stop,” he ordered, standing there with that impressive bulge in his jeans. God, I didn’t know how it even fit in his pants.

I didn’t know how it even fit in me.

But I did stop.

“I never said to undress,” he murmured. He held my chin and turned my head to face our reflection. “I want you to watch.”

Oh god.

He knew damn well what he was doing. My heart raced, and I tried to catch my breath. “I’ll be away this week. No sex on Wednesday, so you better make this good.”

He ran his nose up the column of my throat and smiled as he sucked on my Adam’s apple. Then he ripped my shirt open, buttons popping and scattering to the floor, making me gasp.

He turned me around and bent me over the back of the sofa again. He took a fistful of my hair and made me look at our reflection, at him bending over me, pressing against me. Dominating me. Owning me.

“Watch me fuck you.”

I didn’t dare look away.

He poured lube down my arse crack and thumbed it inside me, setting my insides on fire. “How sore do you want to be tomorrow?” he asked, unbuttoning his own fly. He pulled his dick out, pumping the thick shaft. “Want to feel me every day you’re gone?”

I spread my legs. “Please.”

He pressed against me, into me, slow and to the hilt. I gripped the seat of the sofa and moaned into a cushion, almost falling forward. But he kept hold of my hips, keeping me right where I was. He was relentless and perfect, and our reflection was mesmerising.

His jeans were around his thighs, his hands on my hips, and he bent me over the back of the couch. The perfect height. The perfect fit.

His hips meeting my arse, his monster cock filling me completely, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I’d definitely be feeling him every day I was gone. Wasn’t that what he wanted? To remind me of whose cock owns me?

Fuck yes.

His rhythm got faster, his fingernails bit into my hips and his cock was impossibly harder, bigger, and with a raspy roar, he came inside me. I felt every pulse, every spurt.

I felt everything.

He dropped his forehead to the middle of my back, his breaths ragged, and he slowly pulled out of me. “Oh fuck, that was hot,” he panted. He kept his hand on my lower back, keeping me bent over the sofa, and in our reflection, I watched as he inspected his handiwork.

“That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. “Christ, look at you.” He pulled me up to my feet, helping me stand, keeping his arms around me and his mouth on the back of my neck, kissing and humming. My eyes met his in the reflection. “You’re such a slut for it, aren’t you? Look at how sexy you are?” Then he pulled my hair, tilting my head so he could kiss my neck. “Full of my come. God, I wanna fuck you all night.”

I moaned and my cock twitched, which he saw in the reflection.

He grinned and kissed the spot where my shoulder met my neck and I shivered. “I’ll have you in the shower next, I think,” he decided. “Any requests, Valentine?”

God, the way he said my name.

It shouldn’t sound like that coming from him.

I shook my head. “Whatever you want to do to me.”

He chuckled and nipped at my shoulder, sliding his hands around to my dick. He began to stroke me. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to me.”

I smiled as I dropped the back of my head onto his shoulder and leaned into him, letting him jerk me off. His spent cock pressing against my arse. One of his hands snaked up to my pec and he squeezed my nipple. “All night,” he murmured. “All fucking night.”

I boarded my flight to Melbourne the next afternoon on almost no sleep and with the sorest arse I think I’d ever had.

Ignoring that blooming warmth in my chest at him cooking me breakfast, ignoring the unfamiliar thump of my heart when I thought of his smile, and relishing the ache and painful twinge in my arse.

I hadn’t stopped smiling yet.