Page 92 of The Triangle

“I guess we will,” I say. Because aside from some condiments and baking supplies, that’s all that’s on the shelf.

He backs away, walks over to the Sub-Zero fridge-freezer, and opens the stainless-steel doors. “Well, shit.”

I almost laugh. “I guess we’re hitchhiking?”

“We could go out to eat. Might be nice to get out of the house.”

“We’ve only been here a day. You already itching to move on?”

He sighs. “We could go grocery shopping. Planning a grocery list feels very domestic.”

“Maybe we should just find the nearest Super Target? That way we can eat hot dogs and Slurpees at the snack bar and pick up some clothes too.”

He shoots me with his finger. “Yes, we should. Target is so… provincial. I’ll have to go outside to get a signal and find the closest one, but—why are you laughing at me?”

“Because you’re so stupid.” He leans against the fridge and scrunches up his eyebrows. I lean against the stove opposite him and cross my arms over my chest. “We’re not playing house here. People are after us.”

And, I don’t add, Brasil is probably out of his mind pissed off that I’ve disappeared. He’s probably got people looking for me.

Alec doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at me. Which gives me ample time to study him. It’s been a while since I took a good long look at Alec van den Berg.

He’s tall. Lean. Ropey. He’s well-muscled, but he’s not yoked, ya know? Not like I am.

“We’re safe here.”

“Are we?” I ask.

Alec takes a step forward, a sly grin creeping up his face. I get this weird feeling in my gut as he crosses the few feet between us, unbuttoning his shirt and discarding it as he approaches, and then slides his hand along the muscles of my waist.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He leans in, his hand sliding behind my back in a gesture I find possessive. Like I might try to duck out of this encounter and he’s thinking three steps ahead. “We’re safe,” he says, breathing the words into my neck as he begins to kiss me.

I have about six million conflicting thoughts, but first and foremost, should he be touching me without Christine?

“Stop,” I say, pushing him back. But even I have to admit, my rebuke is half-hearted. So I’m not the least bit surprised when he pays absolutely no attention to my command.

“You have to make a choice,” he says, his other hand sliding across my stomach.

I grit my teeth. Because I can’t help it. I respond to his touch. I don’t turn my head and kiss him back or anything. But that feeling in my gut has sunk down to my cock and… yeah. That’s how I respond.

“I want you as much as I want her, Danny.”

I hold my breath for a moment. And this is so stupid, but the way he says my name… “Fuck,” I say.

“And I’d like to know,” he says, still kissing my neck, “if you feel the same.”

“Of course,” I say, my breath heavier now. My eyes slightly closed.

“You say that like it’s obvious. And it’s not.”

“Jesus, Alec. What do you want? A fucking ring? How many carats does it take to make you feel special?”

“Seven,” he whispers.

I turn my head to look at him. Because my comment was just a way to get his hand around my dick so we can stop all the talk about how I’m feeling. But now… now I feel like we’ve jumped worlds and his response was an accusation. “What’s that mean?”

He backs up. Not a lot. Not enough to make that feeling in my gut go away. Just a few inches of space. “Means whatever you want it to mean.”