Iwake up the following morning to six unread text messages, four unanswered calls, and an exhausted Regan wrapped around my body. Within twenty minutes of sending Brandon an outdated copy of the suspect’s photo, we identified her perp, but with his funeral occurring a mere nine months after Luca’s, we soon hit a snag.
Jaxson Kittson’s life oddly mimicked Luca’s. He was the popular jock with a beautiful girlfriend on his arm a majority of his senior year at high school before he scored a highly sought-after scholarship to play football. Unlike Luca, he came out his first month of college.
From what Brandon unearthed in the short window I gave him, Jaxson and Luca met at an LGBT support group at college. Although Jaxson encouraged Luca to reveal his sexual orientation in his own time frame, the exchange between Luca, Regan, and himself saw his stance drastically change. He was the one who leaked the recording of Regan and Luca arguing, hence making him partially responsible for Luca’s state of mind the night he died.
I thought this knowledge would ease Regan’s grief, but strangely, it had the opposite effect. At first, I thought her devastation came from discussing Luca and the secret she kept on his behalf for years, but as our conversation continued, I realized I had it all wrong. She wasn’t upset because I knew Luca’s secret; she was devastated she didn’t know his.
Luca never told her he was attending an LGBT support group. As far as she was aware, he had no intention of revealing his secret for years, if ever. She didn’t care about him wanting to live the life he was born to live. The fact he lost his faith in her broke her heart more than anything. She wanted to support him as I did her last night. Luca never gave her the chance.
After freeing one arm from being entangled around Regan’s naked frame, I attempt to snag her cell phone off the bedside table. I stretch with all my might, but it is just out of my reach. I’d have no trouble attaining it if I weren’t concerned about waking Regan, but after the night she had, she needs her sleep.
I want to pretend my chivalry stems from aiding Regan through her grief, but my ego isn’t willing to take a back seat. Some of her tiredness has nothing to do with Luca and everything to do with how we settled her heartache.
Regan is a sexually promiscuous being. She knows what she wants, and she uses all her strong points to get it. I love that about her. When she expresses herself without concern on how I will react, it frees me from worrying that I’m taking advantage of her. . . I won’t say vulnerability. Regan may be sleeping, but even a murmur of a word close to “vulnerable” would have me skinned.
I pull Regan in close to my chest before my eyes drift around my childhood bedroom. It’s pretty bland compared to the girlish palette of Regan’s room. I was one of those adventurous kids, the ones who rarely spend a moment of their time inside, so I guess that could explain its dull appearance. That and the fact this is more a hotel room than my actual bedroom.
With a husband constantly on the road and four children under the age of five, my mom took over The Manor from my great aunt. Everyone said she was crazy—I still think she’s a little nuts to this day—but I understand her need to keep her thoughts occupied. Regan was only out of my sight for eighteen hours, and I thought about her the entire time, so I can imagine how often my mom’s thoughts stray to my dad.
My parents have an odd relationship. What Regan said two nights ago was right: they’re smitten with each other, but it’s not in anall-encompassing, must spend every single waking moment with each otherway. The bouts of separation their relationship constantly face have strengthened them as individuals. They enjoy their alone time before coming together to relish the benefits of having someone at your side, fighting with you instead of against you.
I’m hoping to have a similar relationship with Regan. At times, the Bureau does me wrong. There have been many occasions I’ve wanted to hand in my badge. But, in reality, the good far outweighs the bad. Furthermore, being a federal agent is a big part of who I am. I trained for my position for years, way before I joined the academy. This life is in my blood as surely as Regan has burrowed herself into my heart. They are both there—permanently—never to be removed.
I’m just praying I can keep them both.
The quickest squeeze of my heart wakes Regan from her restless sleep. Her eyes dart around my room in confusion before she gingerly lifts her head off my chest. The beat of my heart returns to its normal rhythm when the panic on her face relaxes upon spotting me. She was hesitant to come here, but the more time she spends here, the less reluctant she is. I’d say my mom and sister have more to do with that than me, but I don’t mind claiming a small slice of the victory pie.
“Good morning.” Her usually smooth voice is groggy from just waking up. “Have you been awake long?”
I shake my head. “I just woke.” I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, hoping it will hide my lie.
The lazy smile on my face turns genuine when I spot the cause of her hair being stuck to her face. She has a smidge of icing smeared from her right ear to the little dip in her collarbone. The generous swell of her breasts must have distracted my tongue before I cleared all the evidence of the impromptu buffet I served on Regan’s gloriously naked body.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Regan purrs in a husky moan when I scoot down low so my tongue can fix the injustice it made last night. “Next time, feel free to help yourself before I wake up. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be woken by a man eating me for breakfast.”
Her voice jumps a few decibels at the end of her statement, her response a consequence of my teeth sinking into her sugary skin. “Switch that generic statement to one more specific to the individual standing before you, and I may consider testing out the theory tomorrow morning.”
As her eyes drop to mine, her legs scissor together. Even with her arousal slowly stirring, she slits her eyes to fake anger. “That means I’d have to wake up inyourbed tomorrow morning. I don’t recall this being a long-term arrangement. I thought we were having a bit of fun?”
“Oh, we’ll have fun alright.” Her stomach muscles tense when I drag my beard down them, only stopping when the scruff on my chin grazes her milky-white thighs. “We’re going to have so much fun, you’ll forget what day of the week it is.”
Before she can respond, my tongue lashes her glistening slit. I groan, loving the odd combination of sweet and tangy stimulating my taste buds. The frosting I slathered her in last night is invisible, but its super sweet flavor is still detectable.
“You taste like vanilla frosting,” I groan before my tongue completes a second long lick of her pussy.
When I suck her clit into my mouth, I expect her thighs to sweep open. Instead, I get them clamped around my head. “About the frosting. . .” Regan waits, huffs, then continues. “Last night was. . .”
“Fan-fucking-tastic. The best sex I’ve ever had,” I fill in when she pauses for the second time.
The honesty in my tone weakens her thighs grip on my head. “Yes, all of that, and. . .”
I peer up at her, catching a glimpse of her lustful eyes over the bountiful swell of her breasts. “And. . .?”
She seems torn. She’s clamped my head to ensure I can’t budge an inch from her intoxicatingly delicious pussy, but she also appears as if she doesn’t want me to touch her with a six-foot pole. How do I know this? She’s giving the same look I tried to force on my face the night I took her to my apartment. I can’t believe that was only last week. If feels like a lifetime has passed since then.
After a deep inhalation that inflates her chest, Regan pushes out, “Why do you have multiple tubs of frosting at your apartment? For how many tubs you have, you clearly have a purpose for them.”
I smile. It is a dick move for me to make, but you can’t hear the jealousy in her tone. She’s riled up, ready to pounce on any woman who dares get within an inch of me, and I fucking love it.
