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And there she is, my best friend, my wife, the love of my life… giving me this faux innocent look that works almost as well as the words she’s been whispering. “That all?” I croak, fists balling in the sides of her fancy trousers.
She pauses. “And then, I want you to…”
She whispers the rest, Big Ben straining to hear the delicious filth coming out of her sweet mouth. When she pulls back to look at me, eyes a mix of delight, curiosity, and dirty intent, I crack, flipping her beneath me on the couch that is about to become the stuff of legend.
This fucker from the Ralph Lauren collection is going to be in pieces by the time I’m done making Lara come.
I’m trying to be careful with her shirt, because rules, but then she growls and rips mine. Whoa.
My heart is slamming so hard I swear they can hear it hammering across the street.
Only then I realize the hammering isn’t coming from my chest. It’s the front door. And it’s loud.
Lara and I freeze, eyes locked in silent communion… Can we ignore it?
But Zamboni, who’s made his way over to his matching doggie daybed, is now losing his ever-loving mind, racing to the door and springing around doing that broken squeak toy bark.
Lara pats my chest, and I climb off her, adjusting my junk as I walk to the front of the apartment. Whoever this is, they’re off the fucking island for good. Dead to me.
I swing open the door, ready to say just that, when Static— who I’d have sworn was in Chicago this morning —barges past me.
And my man looks rough.
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