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Vin chuckled and nodded at Duncan. “By the look of your face, shit got intense with you pretty recently.”
Duncan brushed his wounded cheek. Phoebe hadn’t yet noticed—or, at least, hadn’t bothered to mention it. “Yeah. It did.” He shook off the memories of his father lying bleeding at his feet, of those fucking drums of dissolving bodies—and fuck, the smell of them. “Anyway, I won’t say prickly and moody is easy, but it is familiar. It won’t scare me off.”
“Good.” Vin went back to rinsing dishes. “Because I like you, Duncan. I like you for our girl. You have a talent for being around when she needs someone.” He handed Duncan a plate to dry and added, in a smoothly conversational tone, “But don’t think I won’t break you apart like a wishbone if you hurt her.”
Duncan laughed. He didn’t take that last bit as a threat so much as a declaration of loyalty. Either way, he could appreciate it. “Noted.”
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~oOo~
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When he stepped into the living room, where Margot and Phoebe were watching television with Gremlin and four cats, Phoebe stood at once.
“You ready to go?” she asked as she walked to him.
He was not; he’d planned to stay the night. His imagination had created an entirely different reunion from the one he was getting. “Do you want me to go?”
She stared up at him, expressionless, and didn’t answer.
“No, she does not,” Margot answered from the sofa. Putting on a fake voice that was nothing like Phoebe’s, she went on, “Hey, Duncan, wanna go upstairs and mess around?”
Phoebe turned and gave her friend a look Duncan couldn’t see, but could vividly picture anyway.
He brushed a hand down her arm. “I’ll go if you want.”
“You can stay,” she said, turning her head halfway so she spoke to her own shoulder.
As seduction scenes went, this one was still a rough draft. Taking heart from her friends’ obvious support, he weaved his fingers with hers. “Then let’s go upstairs.”
Nodding, she turned and led him to the stairs.
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~oOo~
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When they got to her bedroom, she closed and locked the door, then turned and grabbed him by the hoodie. She yanked him close, rose up onto her toes, and slammed her mouth on his, already fighting to pull the hoodie up.
Duncan was a fan of enthusiastic sex, but he didn’t really do rough. He felt guilty pushing a woman around, even if she said she wanted it. He’d pull hair if she wanted—actually, that was damn hot—and move her around, take charge, that kind of thing. That was all great, if the woman thought so, too. And he was also very good with a woman taking charge.
But Phoebe was vibing today, and he didn’t ever nudge up against the line where play became hurt. He pushed her back. “We are not matching energies here, babe. What’s goin’ on?”
“I don’t want to talk. I want to fuck.”
Ah. She was trying to keep him from using the opportunity of their privacy to bring up the trouble with the ranch.
He pulled off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them away. Clasping her arms firmly, he pulled her close. “We don’t have to talk.”
When he kissed her, again she dived in deep right away. Her mouth moved wildly against his, and her hands dug into his hair, pulling where it was long enough to catch hold of, her fingernails digging into his scalp. Every touch, every pull, every scratch tautened his need until he was nearly at the breaking point.
Nearly at it. “I’m not gonna be rough,” he warned, whispering against her mouth, into it.
“Just turn off my head,” she whispered back, nipping at his lips. “Fuck me until I forget my own name again.”
Wow, he hated the way she’d said that.
