Roger had appeared at that moment, seemingly out of nowhere, with his lupine grin and an unsteady hand held out to help Wes down from the truck. Nuzzling against Wes’s neck, he reeked of alcohol and smoke, his hands rough and so unlike Nathan’s on his body that Wes wanted to cry. “Nice cologne,” his boyfriend had purred. “I don’t recognize it.”
It’s not mine.
The hell with eight months—he should’ve eased out of his boyfriend’s arms and followed Nathan into the house. But Tom’s judgmental eyes held him in place. “It’s new,” Wes whispered when Roger nipped at his jaw, catching the skin between his teeth in a possessive gesture he thought of as playful.
As they pulled to a stop in front of Wes’s apartment, that tiny spot on his jaw was still sore. Wes rubbed at it and opened the car doo
