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Her fingers drag through my hair, tugging at the short strands, and I groan against her skin.
“Thank you for the orgasm, Chef,” she whispers.
I pop off her tit and smirk at her. “You’re welcome, baby.”
Her hands drop to my pants, and she has them undone in an instant, grabbing my dick and pumping it like she’s the alpha. I love when she takes what she wants. She explores the implants with fascination, and my chest swells with pride.
“Did it hurt?” she asks, gazing down at my tattoos and dermals.
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Let me show you.” I place her hand around my shaft in just the right way, lining her fingers up with the tattooed ones, a perfect fit. The ridges are nestled between each digit. When I’d taken the impression of her hand holding her water bottle all those years ago, they’d been spaced apart, and I didn’t want the artist to draw just any hand. I’d wanted Quinn’s. That kiss we shared in secret all those years ago fucked me up, and at the time, the tattoos and dermals were the closest I ever thought I’d come to feeling her fingers around my cock.
“Oh,” she breathes, lifting her gaze to meet mine. “It’s beautiful.” Her gaze searches my face, and I know she sees it, knows that I spent years fantasizing about her kiss. “Will youfuck me, Chef?” Voice husky, she pouts her lip at me like I might deny her.
Never. I’ll always give her what she wants.
“Damn, baby,” I say with a laugh. “You’ll own me if you keep this up.”
She leans up, hand cupping my balls, and teases her lips over mine. “I thought I already did?”
With a growl, I claim her mouth and push her hand aside, lining my cock with her center and thrusting until she’s stretched around me and gasping into my mouth, struggling with the sudden intrusion.
I pull my hips back, and her hands fall to my ass, nails biting into my skin. She wants me deep? Slamming into her again, I bury myself inside of her and fuck her with deep thrusts until her walls quiver and tremble around me. I fuck her until she screamsChefand she steals my soul with those pretty blue eyes.
I’ve never been happier.
Fifty-Two
QUINN
The week leading up to our parents getting home is the sweetest sort of torture. Kisses, touches, caresses. Knots, snacks, cuddles. Nights cozied up in one big bed. Days filled with messages and texts.
And then the day arrives. Our parents got in around noon, and Austin picked them up from the airport, seeing as he’s currently in-between jobs. The spreadsheet I’ve been working on is taking far too long, but Calla doesn’t mention my distraction. She’s too busy worrying about a new client’s books that are missing around twenty grand. I don’t envy her having to dig into the business and ask probing questions to determine if something nefarious is afoot or if it’s just sloppy accounting.
My phone buzzes.
Austin
They want to do a family dinner tonight.
Brady
What about jet lag?
Austin
*shrugging emoji* Gwen insisted on it, since we’re all here. No one has mentioned anything about scents.
That’s because we aired out the house, especially my room, and brought in the maid service to de-scent the furniture and clean up any mess we might’ve missed. And my skin is coated in descenting lotion. The cakey film is uncomfortable. More noticeable than ever before. Had I always dealt with the discomfort? Or does it simply feel wrong to hide my scent now?
The biggest indication that something is up would be if I wasn’t using it.
So, it’s back under the guise of no scent I go.
I don’t know how I’ll be able to keep from making lovey-dovey eyes at the guys, but I’ve had plenty of practice hiding my feelings. Logically, it should be the same. It’s not, though. Not when the guys feel the same way, and I know we’ll all be dying to sleep in the same bed.
