I loved every part of her, I wanted to worship her. She would be worshiped, it’s what she deserved. Peeled grapes and handcuffs. And an ice cube. And a feather. Maybe a blindfold. Definitely a spreader bar. When we got home, I was going to tie her up and kiss every inch of her body. I was going to use my fingers and tongue and the ice cube to make her squirm and beg.
Start now.
“Put what—ah!” She moaned again because I’d brushed the back of my fingers through the hair between her legs, teasing, giving her just a little friction but not enough.
“Please,” she cried, angling her hips for more.
I bent to trail kisses between her breasts, nipping at her shoulders and neck, parting her folds with my fingers but not touching her where she needed.
I growled against her neck. “You want it? Touch yourself.”
A shocked-sounding breath was quickly replaced by a hitching one as I laved my tongue into her ear, biting the lobe as I retreated.
Nonsensical words, part prayer, part praise, tumbled out of her, a litany of promises and pleases. Sliding a hand down her torso, to her hip, along her thigh, I hooked it behind her knee and brought it up, pushing deeper inside, harder. She whimpered, her reluctant fingers inching toward the inside of her leg.
I bowed my back, my attention on her hand hovering above her body. I needed a full view, so I straightened, bringing her other knee up and spreading her legs wider. The pretty pink nub revealed itself, wet, swollen, neglected. I bet it ached. My tongue darted out to moisten my lips. I wanted to lick it.
“Cletus?”
She’d asked for something new?
Threading our hands together, I brought her middle finger to where she needed, just a light tap, and instantly her body clamped around me, spasming. A cry building on a low moan became uncontrolled. She was gone, lost to her own bliss, and I was right behind her. Watching her fingers take over, touching and rubbing with no skill, clumsy, needful strokes. She squeezed around me, over and over. It was too much. Fire erupted at the base of my spine. I fell as I pushed and pushed until spent, my heart beating out of my chest, seeking hers.
God, she was lovely. Sexy. Spread out before me, all soft skin and sweetness, breathtaking, vulnerable and strong.
I still wanted to worship her. I wanted to get down on my knees and pledge troths and undying devotion and unending worship. Every time it was the same, the overwhelming sense that it could never get better than this.
But then, somehow, it always did.
Chapter Ten
*Jenn*
“Paranoid? Probably. But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there isn't an invisible demon about to eat your face.”
Jim Butcher, Storm Front
Cletus and I spent the night at the Winston place.
More specifically, we slept in the carriage house’s second bedroom, typically reserved for Roscoe on the weekends Jethro, Sienna, and Benjamin were in Green Valley. When Jethro and family were away, Billy stayed in the big house, keeping an eye on things. Otherwise, Billy opted for the master suite in the carriage house, a two-bedroom Victorian structure Jethro had remodeled a while back.
Originally, Jethro, Sienna, and their cute-as-pie baby had used the carriage house when they were in town. But with Duane and Jessica James off traveling the world, Roscoe in school, and everyone else—Beau, Ash, and Cletus—mostly cohabitating with their significant others, the Winston siblings only occupied their original rooms on the rare night here or there.
As much as Sienna encouraged Billy to stay in the main house all the time, it was clear that the second oldest Winston brother wanted to give the growing family their space and privacy. Plus, Benjamin hadn’t been a good sleeper, keeping anyone within a hallway’s distance up most of the night.
I suspected Billy enjoyed watching the aftereffects of Jethro’s sleepless nights from afar, but still be close enough to witness his brother’s suffering firsthand. Their relationship had been an interesting one to observe and gave me hope that, one day, Isaac and I might reconcile, settle into something similar despite the years and hurt feelings between us.
Point was, if Jethro Winston could repent and embrace a better life, anyone could.
Cletus and I did stop back by my place to grab a few items before heading over for the night, making a big show of talking about how much fun we’d had at the club, how it was just what we’d needed after the last few weeks. Of course Cletus used the opportunity to drop some innuendos—
“You should lie back and relax more often.”
“We should get a desk in here, they’re so useful.”
“Trying new things should always be a priority.”
“Do you think it’s too late for a shower before bed?”
And the worst, “It was a pleasure to see you get in touch with yourself.”
By the time we’d packed up and skedaddled for the homestead, my face was on fire. But we didn’t talk at all during the drive. I didn’t feel like we could speak freely, not yet, not until we knew for sure who’d put that camera in my house and the extent to which we’d been bugged.
Following Cletus’s lead, we both left our phones off and in the car. He’d sent a group message to Billy, Sienna, and Jet from the club’s office to expect us after midnight. Billy had texted back: 1) that the second bedroom in the carriage house was free since Roscoe hadn’t come home for the weekend, and 2) to please be quiet when we arrived as he had a big meeting in the morning.
Sure enough, all was quiet and dark when we arrived. Despite Cletus’s earlier innuendo, he passed out within minutes. Whereas I took a shower. A sleepy, lonely shower.
I slept better than I had in weeks. I figured this was because Cletus and I had finally talked freely. Perhaps I was paranoid, but I wondered if the carriage house had also been bugged. Maybe even the big house too. I worried we’d have to drive out of town to different clubs each time we wanted to talk.
I was awoken by my big man feathering my face with kisses and copping a feel over my pajamas. “Are you awake? Alex sent a drone,” he whispered.
I opened one eye. “A drone?”
“Yep.” He leaned away so his eyes could meet mine, no longer whispering. “Your house has cameras and listening devices and—get this—they’re DEA.”
“DEA?”
“Drug Enforcement Agency.”
I shook my head, uncertain I’d heard him right. Or maybe this was a dream. Am I asleep? “Why would the DEA want to bug my house? And how can Alex tell the difference between FBI and DEA surveillance equipment?”
“I don’t know the particulars, only that he does something with high frequency sound waves and can, uh, tap into government inventory systems undetected. The man is magical. And, furthermore, I have no idea why they’re interested in us, but we’ll find out. And your momma’s place has no cameras, but it does have bugs—not the cockroach kind—all FBI.”
“FBI?!” I opened the other eye. “Why would the FBI be interested in my mother? What is going on?”
“I have thoughts about that, but let’s save them for later. The best news is that the homestead has nothing.”
“Nothing?”