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Like the long hair spread over his pillow, the short wiry hairs nestling his dick were still damp from his shower. He brushed his fingers over his dick that had thickened at the thought of meeting up with Chelle. Of being inside her like the other night.
Of her clenching around his dick and soaking it when she came.
His phone binged and he held his phone above his face again, looking at the screen and giving the order, “Read my text messages.”
The computer-like voice read Chelle’s answering text. Yes. You’re not. The voice paused before asking, “Do you want to reply?”
“Yes,” he answered the program. No. Can’t sleep. Can you get out?
The next text message came a lot quicker than the last. And go where?
To meet me, he dictated. His dick was getting harder by the second at the thought of her being willing.
Where? came her next text.
He blew out a breath. He had no fucking clue where. There was no fucking way he was bringing her back to the bunkhouse and he couldn’t go to her house if her girls were home.
This was probably what it was like for teenagers trying to get laid. What the fuck did they do?
Fuck in a vehicle, right?
He had caught Saylor and Ry one night when he’d come back to the farm around three a.m. They’d been in the backseat of Ry’s cage parked in the tree line edging one of the fields.
His sled’s high beam had bounced off the rear reflectors on the vehicle and he investigated, worried it might be the Shirleys staking out the farm.
It wasn’t.
What it was, was trouble.
Trouble for the two eighteen-year-olds with both Judge and Rev.
Not only that, if Rev killed Ry, Judge would kill Rev. Then it would be the Originals all over again.
Shade decided Ry getting his rocks off wasn’t worth the club imploding, so he’d approached. Once he did, he wished he hadn’t and decided right then and there, if the club fell apart because of two horny teenagers, then so fucking be it.
But Ry managed to leave for college in one piece. And Saylor was... Saylor.
Neither Judge or Rev ever discovered the kids were humping like rabbits while everyone else was passed out or sleeping.
Shade wished that was something he could forget, too.
You there? came the flat female voice from his phone. Name the time and place.
Now, he answered. But where? At the crematorium.
Address? she asked. You came to the house for Pumpkin, I didn’t come to you. Remember?
How could he forget? But, for fuck’s sake, he didn’t know the address.
Before he could come up with another location or admit he didn’t know the address where he fucking worked, another text from her came through. Never mind. I Googled it.
Of course she did.
He rolled out of bed, pulled the first T-shirt he could find over his head and searched for his jeans. In ten?
He found his jeans and was yanking them up when his phone dinged again and the voice said, That won’t give me time to shave. Just an FYI.
His answer? Don’t give a fuck about hairy legs.
I wasn’t talking about my legs.
He snorted and snagged his wristband off the table before hitting the button on his phone and trying not to chuckle when he answered, Don’t give a fuck about that, either. He quickly covered the scar on his wrist with the wide leather.
See you in ten, the computer voice read.
He might have to convince her to use voice messages instead of texts. He’d rather hear her voice announcing her pussy wasn’t clean shaven instead of a damn computer.
Or, hell, he could just call her. A primitive method that worked well way before text messages.
He shook his head. No matter how they exchanged messages, the fact was he was as hard as a goddamn rock now. He’d zipped up his jeans just in time. He double-checked to make sure he replaced the wrap in his wallet after using the last one behind the shed, then shoved in a second one, just in case.
As he reached for his cut hanging on the back of the door, he paused and stared at it. He probably shouldn’t wear it. He would need to take it off before getting into her cage, anyway.
Fuck, he didn’t know what she drove.
If she drove one of those Smart Cars, they were screwed because they wouldn’t have enough room to screw.
They could always use the back of the crematorium van, but that was kind of...
No.
He did have the key to the crematorium. But if they fucked in there, he’d never be able to concentrate while at work again. He’d always be thinking about bending Chelle over the desk. Or having her against the wall.
Or having her straddle his lap in Cassie’s leather office chair.
Yeah, no.
They could head over to The Grove Inn. Maybe Ozzy had an empty room. The only problem with that was, once he got Chelle in a bed, he might not let her back out. At least not until morning. Maybe not even then.
