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Bypassing the sisters, I head into the kitchen and grab the first rag in the drawer. It’s got ridiculously bright hearts and flowers on it. I use the thing to wipe the sweat from my face and body. A damp, stinky mess ain’t attractive to anyone. I don’t need my lady thinkin’ I’m some slob when I just got her home safe, under our roof.
Now that that’s handled, Mrs. Doc better get her ass in gear. She’s got ten more minutes before I’m pullin’ the plug on this whole up-inside my woman’s vagina visit.
But before that, I’ve got one last thing I wanna discuss with Debbie.
With a half-assed toss, the damp rag meets the empty sink, before I rejoin the sisters for a little chat before they leave.
Nine minutes and counting.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
KIT
Dressed in a fresh pair of pajamas, well, Gunz’s clothes, I make the bed, pick his bedding off the floor, and return the blanket to the closet where it belongs. His pillow rests beside mine on the mattress. I can’t believe he slept on the floor when there was plenty of room next to me. I know, he’s too considerate to assume I’d want him there after all that’s happened. But I do. He’s safe. I want safe. I want him. Plus, his nightmares kept waking me. Every hour, his tossing and turning became violent. Once, he kicked the bed frame so hard I was worried he’d broken a foot. Seems we are both experiencing, for lack of a better term, stuff. Stuff we should wade through today, ya know, if he has time.
My new gynecologist left a little bit ago. The examination was your standard fare—a peek inside, a swab, and a blood draw from my forearm. No frills. No real discomfort. No flashbacks or triggers. It’s still weird to me that the Sacred Sinners have an actual gynecologist on their payroll, and she does house calls like it’s the 1800s. It was nice, though. She was nice. Accommodating. Informative. With far better bedside manner than most physicians.
Collecting Gunz’s Sacred Sinner ring from the nightstand, I pocket it for safekeeping and exit the bedroom. The place is still. Peaceful. In the living room, I find the man I was hoping to see seated on the couch, his elbows perched on his knees, palms cupping either side of his skull as he leans forward, brooding. Or so it seems by the tension radiating from his bare, heavily inked shoulders and bestial grumbles he emits to himself.
Hands stuffed in the pockets of my oversized pajama pants, I pause at the arm of the sofa, not wanting to invade his space. “Gunz?” I whisper, hoping not to spook him.
The handsome man looks up slowly and blinks as if he’s surprised to see me.“Love?” Lines accentuate his eyes as they rake my form from head to toe, assessing every inch.
Butterflies wreak havoc in my middle at his… attention.
Unsure how to respond, I force a smile that looks more constipated than genuine and deliver a shy, two-finger wave. “Hi.” My greeting’s too high-pitched and awkward even to my ears. Heat singes my cheeks in embarrassment, but I refuse to look away.
“Hi back.” The shirtless man sits up and once again does a full once-over of my body. “You look…”
Growing even more uncomfortable by the second, I reach up and tug the edge of my beanie down to further cover my head.
“Sexy as fuck,” he finishes with a low, flattering whistle.
Oh.
Wow.
That’s not what I was expecting.
A deeper blush suffuses my checks at the flattery.
Worried he was gonna say something else, like how tired I look, or the weight I’ve lost, or how visible my bruises still are, I inwardly sigh in relief. This is far better. This is open, no-holds-barred attraction, like it’s the first time he’s seeing me, the real me, no makeup, no bullshit, no frills, and he’s savoring it.
More butterflies take flight, losing their minds.
I press a palm there to calm them.
Giving zero fucks, those intense blues continue their perusal as Gunz pats the seat beside him. Right. Next. I glance at the spot I curled up in yesterday when Adam visited and back to him. Like a hawk, he watches my every move. Noticing everything. Missing nothing. Again, he pats the cushion inches from his thigh—slow and deliberate, coaxing. Okay. I can do this. Going along for the ride, I follow his lead. If I’m uncomfortable, I can always move.
Wordlessly, I lower myself into the seat, hands on my knees, heart pounding a million miles an hour, like I’m some nerdy lovestruck teenager, and he’s my mega-hot high school crush. Sheesh, this is pathetic.
Ever the gentleman, Gunz snatches the same blanket I had yesterday from the back of the couch and drapes it over my lap with practiced ease, his muscles flexing with every movement. Then he gets close. You know the kind—where you can smell his cologne, sense the radiant warmth, and see every intricate line on his forearm tattoo as he relaxes back into the cushions. Acutely aware of my own reaction to his proximity, I note his too—his labored breathing. Out of my periphery, I catch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. He’s frowning. Not the angry sort, but in concentration. He adjusts something in his pants. It’s long and massive. You get what I’m referring to. If I had the gall to say it aloud, I would, but I’m a chicken shit.
Hands folded into my lap primly and far too proper, we sit like this for what feels like ages. I fix the blanket over my legs. He fidgets. I mimic his discomfort with a brand of my own. I’m not sure why this is so difficult. It’s not like we haven’t kissed before. I’ve had his tongue in my mouth. I bore his child. Obviously, we fucked, decades ago, but it still counts. There is no reason for this skin-prickling hyperawareness.
Staring straight ahead, to not focus on him any more than I already am, I watch a black television screen. When that becomes too monotonous, my gaze wanders to the picture on the wall beside the television—of a younger Gunz and his club brothers standing beside a shiny row of bikes, their arms spread wide, as the giant of a man, Bink calls hers, stands front and center, pointing to the president patch on his chest. It’s sweet. A real snapshot of their life and the joy being part of this family brings.
Before I get a chance to ask about the photo, Gunz breaks the pregnant silence with a string of colorful under-breath expletives that ends in a grumbled, “I’m sorry.”
