La petite mort…that’s what the French call an orgasm. Little death. Fucking hell…have I never actually had one before?
No, that’s ridiculous.
“I knew it.” I shake my head at Parker’s words, not quite sure what kind of conversation she’s having with herself. It could be anything from the length of the beach to the distance between each planet or whether Almond Joy is better than Snickers.
Spoiler alert, Snickers wins, always. If it doesn’t have nuts, it’s not worth it.
“What’s that, darlin’?” I put her down, then, just because I can and I want to, I kiss her, licking the seam of her mouth and sucking on her bottom lip before letting her go.
“You’re a good fuck.”
My smirk is genuine pride. I know I’ve got skills. After all, practice makes perfect. But coming from her…it means something.
“Well, that’s convenient for you, then, since I’ll be the last man you ever fuck.”
Yeah, I said that out loud and I’m not even freaking out about it.
Parker West is mine.
And soon, Spence will be too.
I will it so.
Chapter Twenty
Spencer
Is this how addicts feel?
I’ve never done more than smoke a joint and that was half a life ago, before I decided to work for the city as an EMT. Because of frequent and random drug tests, I decided early on that keeping my job was more important than zoning out. Not to mention eating everything out of my fridge or pantry. Definitely the pantry because who doesn’t have the munchies for those incredibly unhealthy orange corn puffs? Nobody, that’s who.
Grinder’s my Cheeto. There, I said it. I have the munchies and the only thing I can think about is licking him off my fingers.
Good God, I’m driving my rig and I’m hard just thinking about it. It needs to stop. There are more important things happening that need my immediate attention and thinking about Grinder and my tongue in the same sentence won’t get my priorities straight.
For two weeks, I’ve been avoiding that damn clubhouse because I’m on a bad boy diet. That being said, I won’t deny my body’s reaction to him every time he steps into a room or evenjust the thought that we’re about to be close enough for me to inhale the scent of him.
This whole time apart, I’ve had to sneak around with Kincaid for her visits and so far, it’s been a success. Nobody’s seen me at the compound and word about Kincaid’s cancer hasn’t reached anyone’s ears.
So much drama and pain, it’s exhausting. However, I made a promise to be there for Kincaid and as tired as I feel, I’m a man of my word.
Being at work is the only reprieve I get and Salem is the perfect distraction for my problems. Although, with the misery and broken lives that I see every day, it’s selfish of me to consider my situation as a problem. It’s more of a conundrum. As for Kincaid, it’s a fallacy. Someone as strong and private as she is should be immune to any and all diseases. Unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way.
“Shift’s over in an hour, hopefully we won’t get any more calls.” Salem has been quiet all night so her comment startles me. Not to mention that I’ve been deep inside my own head, as well. She’s barely talked, which is odd considering she’s a chatter box if I’ve ever seen—or heard—one.
“Fingers crossed.” I make the gesture just in case she doesn’t know what crossing fingers looks like. I’m smooth like that. “Oh, I heard Bryson is making a paella.” I look over at Salem, who usually wakes right up at even the hint of good food. I won’t be staying for dinner since I’ll be heading straight to oncology after my shift.
“That sounds delicious. But isn’t that your thing?” Her enthusiasm is about as compelling as a fifteen year old going to school at seven thirty in the morning.
“All right. Enough. I haven’t said anything because I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you’d tell me, but we can’t work well together if you’re shutting me out the entire shift.” I keepglancing over at her during my rant, but I’m also trying not to run a red light without our siren on. “Also, I don’t own paella night. If Bryson wants to make one, he’s welcome to do so.” His ego will probably take a hit, though. Mine is the best and there’s nothing he can do to change that.
Salem’s just old enough to drink by two birthdays, and when she groans and throws her head back, I’m reminded of our age difference.
“I thought getting a steady job”—she turns and points an accusing finger at me—“with overtime, would mean financial freedom. I love my parents, but holy shit, I’m ready to get my own apartment. Except I can’t find anything I can afford. The only hit I got was a three bedroom on College Rd. with two other guys as roommates. No thank you, I’d rather live in a cave with a bear.”
Nodding at her wise decision, I can’t help but wonder how a parent would react to their young daughter, albeit an adult, living with two men she doesn’t know. Then, for some inexplicable reason, my mind wanders off to Grinder, creating a mental image of him as a father.
My first reaction is to veer off my lane but I correct the trajectory quickly enough to avoid an accident. After that, I just frown and force myself to be present in this conversation without making everything about Grinder.