Nope, you were too busy letting your brothers’ best friend finger you in your kitchen to eat. Jiminy taps his foot at me. Nice to see he’s still there, because he was super silent while the other crazies recounted the events from earlier.
If he’s going to channel the Italian side of my bloodline and take me on a guilt trip, I’m definitely going to need sustenance.
Untangling myself from the sheets, I notice my dog is missing. For someone who is typically my shadow, I’ve seen less of him this week than I have his whole life.
Making my way downstairs, I find my fur baby gnawing on a bone at Dex’s feet, and the sight makes my heart do a funny little flip.
“Feeling better, Tink?”
I’m struck dumb by the appearance of those twin parentheses that bracket his mouth whenever he lets loose one of his full-on smiles. They’ve always made me want to kiss him.
What’s stopping you now? You’ve kissed him twice in less than twenty-four hours. Might as well go for the hat trick.
Shit. *slashes hand across throat* Don’t speak in hockey references.
Yeah, don’t make her think of Ryan. You know it only gets her all up in her head, and then Jiminy will come in and be the fun police.
Where’s the “This” GIF when you need it? Because if that happens then she will get too Debbie Downer to jump on Dex’s disco stick, and I really, really want her to jump on his disco stick.
Oh, Sammy would be so proud of that Lady Gaga reference.
*bows with a flourish* Thank you.
“Should I take offense to how often you zone out on me?” Dex says in my ear.
When did he get up? Shit, I guess I was zoned out.
“I need food,” I say instead.
“I bet.” He turns and pulls my bowl from earlier out of the fridge. “I put this away for you.”
My cheeks heat at the reminder of why I didn’t eat. Nowhere near being in the proper headspace to process anything, least of all…that, I ignore and evade, heating up Gemma’s egg bake.
“Did you eat dinner yet, baby?” I lean across the island so I can see my pup, and I think I hear Dex groan behind me but can’t be sure over the noise of the microwave.
“Yeah, I fed him. He was my dinner date.”
I’m pretty sure I’m developing a heart condition. It’s really the only thing to explain what the hell has been happening within my rib cage.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The microwave saves me from having to analyze my feelings, and I dig into my food right there at the counter. Bite after bite, I shovel it in, barely even tasting the food. It’s a crime, really, because Gemma’s food is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.
That’s only because you haven’t had Dex in your mouth yet.
A strong hand beats between my shoulder blades as egg slides down the wrong pipe at that particular thought.
Note to self: Hey self, don’t ever end a writing session in the middle of a sex scene. Your characters tend to be a little more out of control when they have blue balls.
Speaking of…
I slide my gaze to Dex, eyeing him out of the corner of my eye. If he were a full-time member of book club, I’m sure his boys would be doing their best to channel their inner Rimmel and Ivy from Cambria Hebert’s Hashtag series and cheer “Smurf balls!” after earlier.
Yeah, bitch. You left him hanging. That’s not nice.
Ooo, ooo. *insert Stephanie Tanner “How rude” GIF*
Dex is up five nothing on you.
Five? I may not be the best at math, but I only counted three orgasms.
It’s five because he kissed the stuffing out of her twice too.
Oh, good point.
Look at him. *points repeatedly at Dex* He’s so sexy.
True. No one wears a t-shirt like he does.
That’s high praise considering who we hang out with on the reg.
OH MY GOD! I shout at the voices in my head. I am killing you all off because you are the least helpful people ever!
Pfft. You would never. You love us too much.
Done with them, my meal—everything—I place my bowl in the sink and reach into my wine cooler for a bottle of Moscato. Drinking might not be the best decision, but I need something to help me deal.
“I’ll be on the top deck in the hot tub if you need me.” I grab the stone bottle chiller from the freezer and a silicone wine glass from the cabinet then head upstairs to change.
Once inside the safety of my bedroom, I pull out the first bathing suit I get my hands on—a white string bikini—adjusting the tiny triangles of the top so they hold my boobs in place enough that I’m not Girls Gone Wild-ing it.
After securing the ties on my hips, I gather the last of my survival kit—waterproof Kindle and phone already loaded with my chillax playlist—and use the French doors of my room to exit and climb the stairs to my rooftop deck.
Folding back the cover to the hot tub, I heft it to the side, press the buttons to raise the temperature, start the jets, and let the underwater lights provide all the illumination I’ll need.
Twisting off the top of the wine bottle, thanking the geniuses who came up with twist tops instead of corks, I pour a glass, select Carrie Underwood’s “Drinking Alone” on my playlist, set my Kindle aside, pull my hair into a messy bun, and slip into the warm water.
Shutting my eyes, I let the pulsing beat of the jets at my back work the tension from my body.
God…was it only days ago that I thought my karmic to-do list was out of hand? If I didn’t know any better, I would think the universe was messaging my editor, because she loves to up the angst in my manuscripts.
I came to terms with Dex living in my house. To be honest, I think I more than earned a pat on the back for not fighting him—much—when I learned of his plans. But now this? How am I supposed to handle this?
Dex kissed me.
Fingered me in my kitchen.
Promised to take me to sexual planes I haven’t experienced before.
Brought me so much pleasure I literally passed out from it.
Fine. I’m an adult, a grown woman—I can handle sexual encounters with the best of them. Don’t even start with me about my lack of them lately; that’s not the point here.
No, the point is I’m mature enough that I should be able to take Tucker’s advice—though if you try to tell him I said so, I’ll deny it—and have some uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, friends-with-bennies sex with a man I trust. Because at the end of the day, there are very few people I trust more than Dexter Stone.
But can I trust him with my heart?
The thought is enough to have me jolting up in my seat, water sloshing up the side of the tub from the violent movement.
My heart?
Who said anything about my heart?
Then again…
Dex claimed me, said I was his.
What did it mean?
What was he thinking when he said the word “mine”?
And what the hell am I supposed to do with how that four-letter word made me feel?
The rush of wetness to my panties? That’s easy enough to process. There’s the whole forbidden factor of him being my brothers’ best friend. Damn me and my love for tropes.
The way my being settled? Yeah, that’s the part I’m having an issue with. Maybe I can blame that on a trope too. I’ve long since gotten over my childish dream of us being a friends-to-lovers story, but the familiarity of years of friendship is the only explanation I can come up with.