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“Because you buy them for me when you’re working,” she says, making air quotes when she says working.
“Why are you making air quotes?”
“Because you order all those skimpy clothes for me online while you’re working.” Again with the damn air quotes. “When you should actually be doing stuff.”
“I am doing stuff!” I grouch loudly at her and twist the steering wheel to maneuver around some asshat barely moving along the damn street.
The thumping that sounds in the back of the car makes me want to groan.
She’s wrong. I’m totally working when I’m ordering those clothes. But sometimes I have downtime between the things I’m taking care of.
Downtime isn’t good for me these days. It gives my mind too much free time to think about her slightly swollen tummy and the thickening of her thighs. I think about the way her pussy clenches tight around my aching cock and the sound of her voice pleading with me to send her over the edge of oblivion.
Half the time I’m hard as a fucking rock when I’m away from her. And if I’m near her, it’s all but impossible not to throw her up on a counter, on the sofa, on the stairs, or fuck, just anywhere, and go straight down on her pussy with my tongue.
“Yeah, like what we’re doing right now?” she asks sarcastically. “This was supposed to be date night!”
Fuck.
There it is.
It was only a matter of time before she lost that happy-go-lucky attitude.
“Totally not my fault, and you know I wouldn’t have done this if I thought—” I argue before she cuts me off.
“Oh, I know. You wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t totally fucking important. You wouldn’t be doing this if the guy wasn’t someone the family really needs to talk to.”
She crosses her arms under her amazing breasts.
She’s pushing them up on purpose, I just know it.
“Baby,” I try to reason with her, “this is just a quick blip on date night. We’ll do a quick drop off then be back on our way for the start of the next movie.”
“Oh quick, hmmm.” She grins mischievously at me. “Just like three nights ago in bed.”
“You little…” Gripping the steering wheel, I rip around the next turn, barely touching the brake. “It… It wasn’t my fault. You know how it is!”
“Quit driving like a frat boy!” Sophia squeaks as she grabs the oh-shit handle.
Deep breaths.
Just take deep breaths.
A loud rumbling noise comes from the trunk, and I see Sophia looking at the backseat.
“I’m not driving like a frat boy,” I say with a grunt.
My mind already knows that’s a lie. I’m just fucking pissed ‘cause she’s right.
“I know how what is?” she asks sweetly.
Turning to face me, her eyes glimmer with laughter.
“If a guy groans out ‘oh fuck’ when he’s sliding into a chick, he’s not going to last long if the chick does what you did,” I explain.
And dear fucking hell below and heaven above does she know how to move those hips and grip me so well.
“Oh really?” she smirks.
Fuck.
I’m so fucked the next time we do anything. I can feel it in my bones.
Ha… yeah… in my bone.
“You know I’m going to bitch to your sister, right?” Sophia snickers the moment her words reach my brain.
Pulling up to a red light, I’m tempted to do all sorts of horrific things to her phone. “What? Why?”
“Because Simon sent us to do this on our date night!” she says and crosses her arms under her breasts again.
“Wait, wait, wait. I told you, baby, you’re not supposed to be with me.” I turn my head towards the back of the car. “This is a work thing.”
I’m being honest. She shouldn’t be here with me. I’ve just been so fucking swamped with work that I’ve been getting home late at night and leaving early in the morning.
It’s been awful for me, and even more awful for Sophia. She’s not in the mood to be alone right now, and I don’t blame her for being annoyed with me in the condition she’s in.
Ever since Jude got back from Kentucky and got his ass shot again, shit’s been work, work, work. No playtime at all.
Lucifer, my dear older brother, has been on a warpath. Every single fucking business and venture has been checked and triple checked. None have showed the slightest hitch or problem. Every single lead has been followed, every tip or rumor.
None of that means shit has been relaxed.
Whoever shot Jude was a pro, and as far as we can tell, she’s a fucking ghost in the wind.
But Lucifer knows, as well as we all do, we have to return to a somewhat normal baseline of operation. We can’t all hide in little holes in the wall until the storm passes.
The fuckface that’s stuffed in the trunk of my car is a possible source for finding Jude’s shooter. We can’t find where she is, but right now he’s our best bet at finding out how she got here.
