Familiar in the way that you remember when you’ve dragged your nails over a man’s tattoo-covered biceps for hours on end. The same way you might when a man like that hovers over you, telling all the ways he wants to make you come before the night is out. And when that same guy later wraps an arm around your body and hauls you upright, sinking inside you from behind, in one hard thrust? You absolutely remember that.
When he finally turns around, my body understands what’s happening before my brain does. Heat runs through me in a rush, making parts of me blush, while other part ache.
JT’s eyes take me in, slowly and deliberately. His gaze is exactly what it was in my hotel room: potent, powerful, and heated. But there’s something else there, too.
Disbelief mixed with panic. And, trust me, I get it.
Because I’m not sure if I want to laugh, or cry.
5
JT
Whatever this hallucination is, it’s Chris’s fault. It has to be.
Because Chris is the one who was in charge of our team’s punishing workout this afternoon. And by the time we completed the two hours of conditioning that Chris had apparently designed when he was temporarily insane, I was on the verge of either passing out or puking. Then I left the gym feeling sated and sweaty, looking forward to a cool shower as my reward for surviving Chris’s specific brand of savagery.
But I guess I didn’t give the workout its due. Not entirely. Because now I’m hallucinating.
I’ll admit that I’ve thought about Anya nonstop in the thirty hours since I left her hotel room, though, so that may be part of the reason I’m conjuring up this specific hallucination. That included the hours when our team raided an abandoned warehouse in pursuit of the parole-violating rapist we’ve been tracking for the last two weeks. A tip on that guy’s location is what called me into work at dawn yesterday, stumbling into the office while still a little sex-drunk. I know better than to go into a tactical scenario without my head on straight but the situation was what it was, and I’m just thankful that I didn’t get my ass handed to me by some worthless deadbeat while we were out there.
So maybe this isn’t a hallucination. Maybe this is my punishment for half-assing it on the job. That might better explain why I’m seeing Anya standing across the street, dressed in a white lace tank top and a matching skirt, looking totally touchable and gorgeous. There’s no other good reason why my insanely hot one-night stand would be over there chatting up the neighbors.
And my parents.
But either way, there she is. Twenty feet away, looking at me like she isn’t sure if I’m a hallucination.
Christ, I need a drink. Something ice cold and chock-full of caffeine, electrolytes, and a double dose of B12. Basically, I need a Red Bull cocktailed with a Gatorade, and an IV vitamin drip as a chaser.
Either that or I need to ignore this figment of my imagination and go inside, strip off my clothes, then get a shower. That way I can see if jerking myself roughly to the memory of Anya wrapped tight and wet around my cock will help crush whatever this fixation is. That’s the same approach I used last night and this morning, though, and without any luck. But hell, maybe this time it will do the trick.
My mom calls me over again, this time in the no-bullshit-but-still-polite tone I recognize from when I was a kid. I mutter a few cuss words under my breath. If I don’t get my ass in gear and walk over there, this weird situation might actually get worse. Especially if I end up getting grounded, right in front of my hot hookup, at thirty-two years old.
This is so screwed up. What did I do to deserve this? I pay my taxes, donate to charity, and generally try not to be an asshole. You would think that karma might throw me a bone here. But apparently karma has other plans—plans that include Anya finding out I’m a pathetic loser who currently lives with my parents.
My legs still feel like jelly from the workout, but I manage to avoid stumbling when I walk across the street. Halfway there, my mom starts in on a round of pointless introductions.
“Jericho, this is Anya. She’s going to house-sit for the Greenes while they’re away this summer. Anya, this is my son, Jericho.”
A little smirk crosses Anya’s face. I can only assume that some of her expression has to do with hearing my given name. At least my mom didn’t use my full name. Because Jericho Truman Seamus Roan Maxwell is a fucking mouthful. By the time you get to the end of it, most people have already forgotten the first half. My name is what happens when a pregnant southern belle becomes determined to pay homage to her ancestors, and decides to do so by naming her son after all of her great-grandfathers. This is also why, to everyone other than my mom, I’m just JT.
I wait to see what Anya will do next, searching her face for a clue as to how she wants to play this situation. Does she want to keep up the charade that we’re strangers? Act like I didn’t tease my tongue across her nipples until they were so taut and aching she moaned like a porn star for me to fuck her? Or does she want to stand right here next to the Greenes’ cutesy mailbox that has stenciled sunflowers painted on it, and tell everyone that no introductions are needed because she and her nipples are already well acquainted with me and my tongue?
I hold my breath until Anya’s smirk eases into a relaxed grin.
“Hi there. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Anya.”
I release a slow exhale. Thank you, karma—and thank you, Anya. Both are apparently okay with leaving our very personal history where it belongs.
Nonchalantly, I return her greeting. After a few more minutes of idle small talk, my dad persuades Mom that they need to get going on their afternoon walk, and the Greenes amble off to finish loading up their SUV, claiming they want to get on the road before dark.
Once we’re alone—or as alone as is ever possible in the suburbs—Anya starts to grin like a cute little Cheshire cat. Immediately, all I want to do is drag her somewhere truly private, lick her luscious body from knees to neck, and then see how quickly we can make each other come.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says, lifting a brow, “Jericho.”
I groan. “My mom is the only one who calls me that. I’d like to keep it that way. Everybody else calls me JT.”
Anya narrows her eyes, searching my face as if her bullshit detector is turned on high. For some reason, the scrutiny makes me want to tell her everything—from my full name to all the reasons why I’m living with my parents. Her gaze is like a spotlight on everything about my life that I’m not proud of, and it feels like the only way to make it stop would be to own my every failure.
Instead, I fidget a little and run a hand through my hair, just to keep from opening my mouth. Anya’s attention settles on my arm, drifting from my wrist up to my bicep. I feel it like a physical touch, one I’m fucking desperate for. It’s all I can do to drag my own gaze to the ground, because if I let her look at me like that for too long, I’ll start getting hard, right here in the middle of the street.
Unfortunately, when I look down all I can see are the gold sandals she’s wearing, complete with ties that wind up and around her toned calves. Now all I can think about is running my hands up the inside of her legs, from her ankles to her thighs. I entertain that thought for longer than I should, right up until I remember the reality of what’s going on here. I scratch the back of my neck and cut her a side-glance.