by J. Lynn
Jase walked up behind his wife, and looped his arms around her, his hands resting on her extended stomach. “Everything good?” he asked, kissing her cheek.
Closing her eyes, she nodded as she leaned back into him. I felt a tug at my chest, and lowered my gaze, feeling like I shouldn’t be gawking at them like a creeper. The love they felt for one another was palpable, the same with Avery and Cam. It was good to be surrounded by such happy couples, but sometimes it was hard not to be a wee bit jealous. I felt crappy for feeling that way, but it was hard to imagine myself where Teresa and Avery were. Well, I mean I could imagine it, but that was all it was. A fantasy at this point.
I peeked over at Brock. He was checking out his phone, his jaw clenched, and I felt my stomach take an Olympic dive. He’d been out of the office most of Thursday and today, in various meetings, so I hadn’t seen much of him since that afternoon in my office, when he made his promise—a promise I didn’t fully understand.
He’d picked me up this morning, using the same excuse he’d said before, and I was a bit nervous about the drive home. Hell, the drive anywhere at this point, because he hadn’t been very talkative this morning or the few times I’d seen him.
“Everything look good?” Brock asked, lowering his phone.
Teresa and Avery practically exploded into a chorus of enthusiastic yeses, and a small grin curved up the corner of Brock’s lips while both husbands smiled more broadly.
“Good.” Brock glanced over at me, his expression unreadable. “Then let’s hit the road.”
* * *
Staring at what I believed was my second shot of Jameson, I tried to figure out how I got to the point where my belly was full, the blood in my veins was warm, and all the muscles in my body were decidedly relaxed.
It had started with wine.
Squirreled away in the small restaurant-bar, we had commandeered a large booth in front of the glass windows, and Teresa who obviously couldn’t drink had somehow weaseled me into drinking for her. Something about living vicariously through me.
Now, I was typically a “one glass of wine and done” type of girl. Very rarely did I drink two . . . or four, and especially not around other people. The thing with getting buzzed, you tend to forget things about yourself, and while that could be awesome, I liked to be spatially aware of my surroundings . . . and my weird mouth.
But before I knew it, and through no fault of my own, I drank a couple of glasses of wine, and I think one shot, and I wasn’t thinking about my mouth or the scars, or the conversation Brock and I had had Wednesday, or the night Brock broke my heart and I ended up with said scars. I wasn’t really thinking about any of that nonsense, and it was wonderful.
I should drink more often.
Now I stared at the second shot, wondering how it had shown up in front of me. Buzzing, my gaze bounced from the amber-colored liquor to Jase. Wait. Was this the second one? Or the third?
I think it was the third.
“It wasn’t me.” He held his hands up.
Avery, who had also indulged a bit, giggled. Her face was so flushed, I could barely make out the freckles. Cam wasn’t drinking, so he was loading her up on drinks. Granted, she deserved to let loose. Raising kids had to . . . My thoughts trailed off, and then I remembered I was trying to figure out how the shot got in front of me.
I turned and looked at Brock.
He was sitting to my left, arms resting on the table. He shrugged a shoulder as he picked up his glass of water. “Thought you looked like you needed another one.”
I studied him for a moment. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Never.” He widened his eyes innocently. “I’m just trying to get you to relax.”
“I am relaxed.” I picked up the glass. “Totes relaxed,” I murmured.
“You’re normally as tense as a damn cobra,” he responded, and I had no idea if cobras were tense. I was going to have to take his word for it. “Drink up.”
I drank up.
The liquid burned my throat and watered my eyes. Gasping for air, I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my God, it burns.”
Brock chuckled and leaned into me, his entire right arm pressing against mine, and I liked it. A lot. “It’s the good kind of burn, though. Puts hair on your chest,” he teased.
“That’s hot,” I replied, my gaze dropping from his face to his chest. “You have a nice chest.”
Another laugh rumbled out of Brock. “Well, thank you.”
In the back of my head, I knew I was experiencing the worse case of word vomit, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself, or care. “Do you still have tattoos on your chest?”
His smile was wide as he stared at me. “Since I’m not willing to subject myself to hours of laser removal, yes, I still have tats on my chest, Jilly.”
I nodded, happy to hear this. “I really liked them. Especially the . . . the cross one. Yeah.” Pausing, I easily pictured it in my head. “It’s all Celtic and . . . shit.”
“Celtic and shit.” Jase laughed. “I like the way that sounds.”
“Me too.” I gave him the nod of approval I just knew he was waiting on.
“Look!” Teresa suddenly smacked Jase’s arm. “I am so glad I’m not the only pregnant person here.”
Jase chuckled. “It’s a restaurant and bar. Last time I checked, pregnant women were allowed to eat in places that served food.”
“Yeah, but it feels weird,” she replied. “I feel like everyone is looking at me, secretly judging me.”
“Fuck ’em. You don’t know them. They don’t know you,” I said and then my mouth dropped open. “Sorry. That whole ‘fuck ’em’ part was kind of rude. I’m a bit buzzed.”
Her eyes widened and then she grinned. “I like buzzy Jillian.”
Buzzy Jillian liked her too. I refocused on Brock. “You . . . you know what?”
He took a sip of his water and then was leaning into me again, and I really, really liked that. And I also liked that his dark eyes warmed when he looked me. “What?”
“You seem chill,” I lowered my voice.
“Chill?” He dipped his chin toward me, his dark eyes glittering. “When wasn’t I chill?”
I shrugged. My shoulder knocked into his. “You were all stone face earlier. You know, jaw clenched and quiet.”
“Stone face? That’s a new description.” His gaze flickered across the table before settling on me. “I was just dealing with some stuff.”
Oh. That sounded so dramatic. “What stuff?”
“Stuff,” he repeated, and somehow his mouth ended up closer to mine. So close, that I could feel his breath on my lips. “I’ll tell you about it later. Okay?”
I was staring at his mouth. “Okay.” I had no idea what I was agreeing to, but those lips were lush and curved up.
Brock chuckled again, the deep rich sound that made me feel giddy. Well, giddier than I already felt. Wait. Was giddier a word?
Avery leaned into Cam and tilted her head tilted back as she gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him down to whisper something. His eyes widened slightly and then a knowing grin stretched his lips.
“It’s time for us to leave.” Cam raised his hand, looking around for the waiter.
Teresa arched a brow as Avery giggled again, and all I could think was someone was definitely going to get laid tonight.
Lucky.
The waiter appeared and a couple of blurry minutes later, Avery and I were clinging to one another, saying goodbye, and I tried to hug Teresa, and then I was sitting in Brock’s car.
“Your car is so fancy,” I told him, reaching for the seatbelt. I missed it and reached for it again. “So fancy-smancy.”
Brock laughed as he shut my door. I managed to get myself buckled in by the time he was behind the wheel. “You doing okay over there?”
“I’m doing perfect.” I plopped my purse in my lap, cuddling it close. “Avery and Teresa are really excited about the space . . .” I spent the trip to my apartment going into de
tail about how excited they were. Brock listened, and whenever I looked over at him, he was grinning as he concentrated on the road. It seemed like it took only seconds to get to my apartment complex. I blinked, and we were in the parking lot, and I was staring up at my darkened window. Unease crowded the happy buzz in my veins. It was early, not even ten o’clock, and the only living thing in my apartment was Rhage, and it was a Friday night. Being alone on the weekends sucked, because everyone else was out there. I didn’t know where exactly, but they were there, and I was over here, doing nothing.
“I’m walking you up,” he announced, turning off the car. He twisted toward me. “You think you can manage those stairs?”
Offended, I swung my head around and nearly toppled over. “I can walk.”
Even in the dark interior I could see the amusement etched into his face. “Are you seriously going to sit there and act like you’re not drunk?”
“I am a . . . little tipsy.”
“I never would’ve guessed that,” he replied dryly.
“It’s your fault,” I grumbled, opening the door. I started to get out and then choked myself with the seatbelt. “Damn it.”
Brock laughed. “I’m not denying that.”
It took me a couple of moments to get out of the car. “But I can fully walk up those stairs.” I pointed at them just in case he had no idea what I was talking about. “I don’t need your help.”
Grinning, he slowly approached me. “Okay. You don’t need my help, but how about I offer it to you anyway?”
I stared up at him, eyes squinty. “When did you become such a gentleman?”
“I’m not a gentleman.” He took hold of my hand. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know about that.” I let him guide me across the parking lot. “Wait. You know what would be great? Ice cream.” Slipping my hand free, I wheeled around and started heading back to his fancy car. “We could go get ice cream.”
“Come back here,” he said, laughing. Circling an arm around my waist, he turned me back around. “Let’s wait on the ice cream. See if we want to eat that in a little bit.”
“Why?”
“Might make your stomach a bit upset after drinking the whiskey.”
“Hmmm. That sounds legit.” I stopped talking because I found we were in front of the steps and I needed to concentrate. They proved more difficult than anticipated.
At my door, I slipped my purse off my shoulder and found my keys where the hall swayed a bit. I pulled them out and promptly dropped them.
Brock swiped them off the floor, moving ninja-fast. “I got it.”
“Yes.” I watched him unlock my front door. “Yes. You do.”
Shaking his head, he opened the door. “Get in.”
I stumbled in, throwing out my hand and hitting the switch on the wall. Soft buttery light flooded the living room. My gaze immediately landed on Rhage. He was sitting on the coffee table and his little yellow cat eyes were full of judgment.
“Stop staring at me,” I muttered, trudging forward. Then I stopped, remembering that Brock was there. I turned. He was still standing in the doorway. “You coming in?”
“You want me to?” he asked.
“Yes.” Then I nodded, just in case he was confused.
Watching me with that grin on his face, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Then he walked over to the island and placed my keys on it. “You got water in the fridge?”
“I got water in the faucets, too.” I toed off my heels and kicked them against the wall. Sighing, I wiggled my toes.
Brock snorted as he walked to the fridge. “You got any pain relievers?”
“Why? You got a headache?” Feeling warm, too warm, I walked toward the window, about to open it when I realized that would require a lot of effort at the moment. I looked down at myself and remembered that I had a tank top on under the sweater-blouse.
Listening to cabinet doors open and close, I reached down and peeled the sweater up over my head, letting it drop on the floor. Cooler air washed over my arms. Feeling a million times better, I turned around.
Brock found the stash of pills in the cabinet near the fridge and was doling out aspirins into his palm. With the bottle of water in his other hand, he turned around and went rigid.
I started to say something, but forgot whatever it was as his gaze swept over my face and then dropped, traveling over the thin straps of my top. The tank was tight, like a second skin, and it was low cut, showing off the swells of my breasts. I knew this, because that was where he was looking.
Pleasant warmth replaced the almost suffocating heat from a few seconds ago, but I didn’t want to shed that feeling. Not when he was walking toward me, his eyes darker now, like a heated night sky.
Swallowing, I tipped my head back as he stopped in front of me. I don’t know why I said what I said next. It just came out of my mouth. “Grady never took me out to dinner.”
One brow rose.
“He had to reschedule, but he’s been busy with his grandparents’ farm and midterms and finals and . . .” I shrugged, and his gaze dropped again. “I don’t think I care.”
“Of course you don’t. Told you, you deserve better than him. Take these and drink the water,” he ordered. “You’ll be grateful that you did when you wake up.”
Knowing he had experience in these things, I did as I was told while he walked past me and picked up the remote. Rhage hopped down and pranced over to where Brock stood, winding his body around his ankles.
Traitorous asshole cat.
Brock turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels, settling on what appeared to be a Jason Statham movie where Jason Statham was playing . . . Jason Statham.
Placing the remote on the end table, Brock walked over and turned off the light, and then he sat down—no, he laid down on his side. Apparently I’d missed the moment he’d taken off his shoes and socks. He propped his head on his fist and looked over at me. “Come here.”
I didn’t move for a second. In the back of my mind there was a small voice that was starting to pick up in volume that was warning me not to go to him—to ask him to leave and then go face-plant the bed, but I told that voice to shut the hell up, and I went to him.
Brock extended his hand, and feeling dizzy, I placed mine in his. “Watch this movie with me? Then I’ll leave.”
Watch a movie with him? I . . . I could do that.
He tugged me down so I was lying stretched out on the couch beside him. He’d let go of my hand, so I was facing the TV. My back was against his front and there was the tiniest space between us.
It reminded me of other days, days long ago, when we’d lie like this at home. Touching but not. Several moments passed, and I felt his hand settle on my hip. I jerked at the touch and then bit down on my lip.
My heart pounded in rhythm with the gunfire echoing on the TV. His hand didn’t move, but his thumb did. It glided back and forth. My body zeroed in on it as I stared at the TV, not seeing what was on it. I started to move.
“Jillian,” he groaned, his hand flattening on my hip. “Lay still and watch the movie.”
Pouting, I exhaled heavily. I didn’t want to lay still. Not when he was here. Not when his body was long and warm and hard so near mine.
“Brock?” I turned my head so I could hear him.
“What, babe?”
I stared at the ceiling. “Is this . . . is this weird that we’re here, right now?”
“Weird?” I felt him shift, and then suddenly he was staring down at me. The flicker of the TV cast shadows over his face. “There’s nothing weird about this. If anything, it’s right.”
Right.
This was right.
My eyes searched his. “Did you . . . did you miss me this whole time?” I drew in a shallow breath. “I missed you.”
Brock’s gaze held mine. “Missed you every fucking day, Jillian, with every ounce of who I am.”
Chapter 17
I awoke to a dream.
/> That was the only explanation to why I was nestled up against a warm, male body—a body that I instinctively knew was Brock. It was his hand that was under the back of my top, flat against my lower back. It was his chest that my cheek was resting against, and his thick leg that was cradled under mine.
I awoke to a fire.
My body was overheated and lava had replaced the blood in my veins. The slow, sluggish pulse picked up, and my hips shifted, pressing the most intimate part of me against him. The friction was nearly immediate, like it was when I touched myself and thought of him. I moved against him, seeking release as my fingers curled into the material of his shirt.
I’d been dreaming of him—of his large body moving over mine and then in me, kissing and nipping at my naked flesh. The dream felt like now, and in the fog clouding my thoughts, I couldn’t make sense of what was then and what was now.
But now he tensed against me, his hand spasming against my back. “Jillian?”
His voice . . . it sounded so real that I moaned and I lifted my upper body. There was a flash of his face and then I was moving my hand from his chest to the rough line of his jaw. I kissed him—I kissed him as I rocked against him, seeking and searching.
The arm around my waist tightened and then he was kissing me back—hard and wet, and there was nothing artful or slow about it. Our teeth gnashed together. Our tongues tangled, and this—it’s not a dream, not a dream—didn’t feel real.
His mouth moved over mine as I twisted my hips against his leg. The tension was coiling into a knot, but it wasn’t enough, this wasn’t enough. I whimpered into his mouth, my movements becoming more frantic.
Brock seemed to know what I needed.
“I got you.” He pulled back, speaking in that deep, husky voice.
In a flurry of movement, he reached between us as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin under my ear, his nimble fingers catching the button on my pants, unhooking it. He worked the zipper down, loosening them. Not a dream. Not a dream. I was out of breath and my heart was pounding all over the place as his large, hot hand slipped into the opening of my pants and under the band of my panties.