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“Look at me.”
She twisted her head and met a pair of menacingly dark eyes just as her releasewhippedthrough her very being like a lightning rod, striking her from the inside out.
He groaned, his cock swelling. “Those fucking tears.” He rammed harder into her pussy, bit into her shoulder, and exploded while her inner muscles milked him dry.
Finally, her orgasm faded, and she blinked away yet more tears as her breaths sawed in and out of her lungs. Jesus, he’d kill her one day.
“If I killed you, I wouldn’t be able to fuck you anymore. People tend to frown on stuff like that.”
Wynter snorted. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. “Since when do you care what people do or don’t frown upon?”
“Since never. But don’t worry, your corpse would be safe with me. Necrophilia isn’t my thing.”
“That is a comfort.”
“I had hoped it would be.”
She let out yet another snort.
Once they’d both cleaned up in the bathroom, he helped her slip on one of his shirts and began to button it for her. This had become a ‘thing.’ Unlike him, Wynter didn’t like to sleep naked. He didn’t complain purely because she didn’t fuss over his preference for her to wear either his tees or shirts for bed.
“Do you always insist on this?” she asked.
He briefly looked up from the button he was closing. “What?”
“That whoever sleeps in your bed also wears your stuff at the time?”
He drifted his gaze over her face. “No. I don’t usually fuck women in my chamber, let alone put them in my clothes.”
She blinked. “Oh.” She wanted to ask why she was the exception, but that felt too much like fishing for compliments. And he’d only expect the same honesty in return—Wynter often fumbled when it came to talking about ‘feelings.’ But she could give him something. “Well, um, I don’t usually sleep in other guys’ beds or wear their tees or shirts.”
Satisfaction glittered in his eyes. “So we’re even.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
Setting down her chopsticks, Wynter briefly squeezed her eyes shut, hoping none of the other patrons were paying any attention to their conversation. “Hattie, can we talk about this later? Or maybe, like, never?”
Hattie let out apfftsound. “Don’t be all prudish, just tell me what it means. If I’m going to get back in the saddle again, I should know these things.”
Xavier’s mouth slowly curved into a wicked grin. “George is gonna get lucky, is he?” he asked, referring to the old woman’s ‘gentleman caller.’
“At some point, yes.” Hattie notched up her chin, looking mighty pleased with herself. “He’s a very nice man, and he’s not past his prime yet. I don’t want to embarrass myself by looking confused when he makes suggestions in bed.”
Wynter massaged her temple. “I really don’t think he’ll suggest a spit roast.”
Hattie’s brow creased. “Why not?”
Jesus Christ, she was gonna have to say it, wasn’t she? “It would mean he’s also suggesting that you include a third party.”
“Oh, I see. So would be it two men and one woman, or one man and two women?”
Wynter took a swig from her glass of water. “The first.”
“I think I can guess where each man would position himself. Does the ‘spit’ part mean she’s not supposed to swallow? I don’t know why you’re groaning at me, Wynter, it’s a perfectly logical query.”
“I hate to interrupt yourwackedconversation but can we please leave soon?” Rubbing at her upper arms, Anabel glanced around the restaurant. Located on the surface of Devil’s Cradle, it served supremely good ethnic food and was highly popular. “There are too many people here.”
Hattie lifted her glass. “We said we’d come out and get some D, remember?”
