I gesture at the space between my legs. “Your wish is my inevitable blue balls.”
She snorts a laugh, but clumsily scoots herself in front of me, settling between my bent knees. Even though I’d caught her drift about weed making her all touchable, I still wait a moment after resting my hands on her shoulders, anticipating her going stiff.
I knead my thumbs into the muscles, thankful for Carlton’s personal stash more than ever when she melts back into me instead. The curve of her jaw is loose and I can just barely make out the silhouette of her lips parting as I work the muscle. She’s got a lot of knots back here, carrying way more tension than she should. I take to the task just like I might to working on the Mustang. Methodical. Careful. Uncaring of time or space, just setting out to make something better.
She sinks back, her head finally falling on my shoulder, eyes dropping closed. “Oh my god, that feels good.” She makes this little moan that, as predicted, makes me hard as a rock. The others aren’t really paying attention beyond the occasional glance when something funny happens, gauging our reaction, so I start moving lower, digging my fingertips into her middle back. She writhes with the motion, feeling soft and serpentine against the cradle of my body. It’s reminding me of that night in the backseat of my car, and without really thinking about it, I move to her lower back, dipping beneath her jacket and shirt.
The fire is nice and toasty—Caroline always builds the best fires, and shit around here got a lot better when all the guys finally accepted it—but I can still feel Sugar’s shiver at the lick of cold wind across her back. I peel off my wool coat and drape it over her front, and for once, she doesn’t fight. She just curls her fingers in it and lets me make her feel good.
She doesn’t even resist when I wind my arms around her middle, arms warm against her narrow, bare waist. It’s nice, not having to worry about touching her as little as possible. She’s pliant like this, a soft, malleable thing in my arms. I watch her face, the way the fire cuts against her cheekbones, eyelashes fluttering above them, when I reach for her tits. I know she’d taken that bra off in the car. I caught more than a flash of glowing skin and dark nipple as she shed it.
They’re soft and heavy in my hands, warmer than the rest of her, and when her eyes blink open, catching mine, I’m expecting her to give me a little smile before saying something vaguely violent.
Instead, she just says, “Your hands are nice.”
I give her tits a little squeeze. “Yeah?”
“I always thought so.” She hums in response to my hands’ massaging. “When they’re not hurting, that is.”
I frown, ducking my head to press my lips to her temple. “I wouldn’t hurt you again.”
“I know.” She arches her back into my palms, seeming uncaring that I’m just sitting here playing with her tits in front of everyone, squeezing them together. “Vandy told me. She said you’ve been different.”
“Different?”
Her nipples are hard, but she doesn’t have that heavy-eyed, horny look. When her eyes meet mine, they’re just curious. “Because you aren’t always angling for a fight with other guys anymore.”
“Oh.” I stare thoughtfully into the fire as my hands work her over. “Yeah, I guess I haven’t been feeling that itch as much.”
“She thinks it’s because of me.”
I give her tits a little squeeze. “It is because of you.” At her confused look, I quietly elaborate, “It feels like… having a stuck throttle. I’m always trying to find a place to point the car, trying like hell to decelerate for a bit. I usually end up crashing, which technically works. The car stops, but it’s this split moment of chaos and twisted metal and destruction. But being with you is like having a wide open, uphill road.” I sweep my thumbs over her pebbled nipples, watching her closely. “Deceleration without the crash.”
That shit sounded like the deepest, most profound thing I’ve ever said.
For about five seconds.
Then I bury a laugh into her hair. “That sounded stupid as fuck. Ignore it.”
“No,” she just says, brows knitting together. “Is it weird that it actually made perfect sense?”
“Not if you’re as stoned as we are.”
She sends me the loosest, most beautiful smile. “I’m glad to be your uphill road, Sebastian Wilcox.”
I press a soft kiss into the skin beneath her ear. “Thank you.”
Mom’s having a good day.
I can tell when I walk into her rooms, package shoved beneath my arm. I’d come to drop off the Porsche and pick up the Shelby before heading over to the garage for the day. I’ve just about finished with the mechanical repairs on the Mustang and need to get started with the interior. I’ve already set up a date with the best upholsterer I know, fully prepared to pay out of pocket. There’s no avoiding it.
“Sebastian!” Mom says, rising to greet me. Her eyes are wide and clear, smile coming easy today. “I was hoping you’d drop by soon. Everything’s so quiet around here without you kids kicking around.”
“Feeling good today?” I ask, pleasantly surprised.
“Fantastic,” she replies, patting my cheeks. “Here on business?”
“Just swapping cars. And I wanted to give you something.” It’d been propped against my door this morning, no note.
Mom looks appropriately surprised when I hand it to her, turning it over in her hands. “Oh, I hope you didn’t buy me anything. You know I have enough—”
“It didn’t cost a single dime,” I assure, dropping onto the sofa. “It was actually a gift from someone else.”
She opens the paper with a curious expression that instantly softens when she sees the contents. “Sebastian, it’s lovely! Is this…?”
“Abbadon,” I explain. “Might finally get to catch her soon.”
“My word, look at this!” She holds up the framed photograph. “It’s such a good picture. So professional-looking!”
I was worried at first it might make her sad. Abby is a hungry, pregnant, scared stray. But the photo really is that good. It perfectly captures her warrior spirit, the strength and survival. “It was taken by an actual photographer,” I explain.
“You know where this would go perfectly? The bedroom.” Mom has a whole wall full of black and white photographs in there, which is exactly what I was thinking of when I saw it. “How are the other ferals doing? Has this one had her litter yet?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But I suspect it’ll be pretty soon. Sugar and I are checking on them every day.”
“Sugar?”
I point to the frame. “The girl who took the photo. She feeds them too.”
“And her name is Sugar?” Her smile is bright and delighted. “What a beautifully unique name.”
“It fits the owner,” I offer.
Mom tilts her head, studying me for a moment. I do my best to keep my expression noncommittal. I hate it, but no one in this house needs to know about Sugar. My conversation with Hamilton confirmed that last night.
“And how are you doing?” she asks as she sits on the loveseat in the sun. A stack of paperbacks and an ashtray sit on the end table. She reaches for her pack of cigarettes. “How are your classes? Your last report card looked good.”