80. Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty
Jordan
The bravado I was feeling from getting Mac off drained nearly as soon as we hit the street.
But it’s at an all-time low as I sit across from the woman that raised him, at their favorite diner, with his hand on my knee hidden under the table, and her inquisitive glare aimed right at me.
As if this is some kind of meet the boyfriend thing and not just the two of them sharing a meal.
Oh, and I thought it was a great idea to agree to this for Sentry under the condition that Ian and I chat afterwards.
Which means my stomach is in knots and though my arm is on the back of Mac’s chair, I’m anxious as hell that I’m going to miss something. Put him in danger. Risk his mother.
How the hell did I do this before?
“Jordan, dear, what have you been up to?” Marie asks, pulling me from my thoughts and I swallow.
You mean other than being hung up on your son? Having an existential crisis every time I look at him? Hoping he doesn’t fall in love with anyone when I’m not around?
“Uh, the gym.”
Mac snorts and squeezes my knee.
It almost comforts me. At least until I realize my thought pattern has shifted once again to what I feel for Mac and how this time feels like so much more.
More . More. More .
Blowing out a breath, I break away from the stare down with the internal excuse of scanning the room.
“I bought the gym I run,” I amend. “It’s been a handful and a half to figure out and fix up, but I enjoy it.”
Marie nods and sips her mimosa. “So Ian requested you since Peach is on bedrest.”
She’s not asking, but I tip my chin in conformation anyway.
“And what about after that?”
I catch her glance sliding suggestively to her son who groans. “This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition, Mother.”
Their bickering begins to draw eyes from around us and I have to force myself to breathe. To focus.
Except all I see are Mac’s curls, mussed by my hands. All I smell is that sweet scent of his enveloping me. All I feel is him.
His grip flexes on my knee again and I nearly jolt out of my seat.
“Shit,” I mutter and avoid looking at his worried gaze. “Sorry.”
The server choses that moment to interrupt and I’m thankful for the reprieve, however temporary.
Plates are doled out, the heavy scent of greasy meat and sweet syrup wafts through the air, making my stomach flip over itself.
I’m starving but not for food.
Aching from the amount of restraint it’s taking to keep my hands to myself.
Mac. Mac. Mac.
As if hearing my inner monologue, his hand drifts higher along my thigh, his palm cupping my cock through the denim.
It takes everything in me to not react.
But that doesn’t stop me from leaning forward, pressing harder into his hand.
God, what is wrong with me?
Swallowing hard, I shovel back the egg whites in front of me with a level of frustration that makes no sense to me. It’s something I’ve never felt before, to be almost angry that it’s food and not Mac on a platter for me to devour.
I want his taste back.
I need to feel him. To see him bare and begging to come.
Fucking fuck, I want to feel him inside me.
“When’s your follow up?”
The question from his mother is like a douse of cold water to my supercharged libido.
“Two weeks,” I answer.
“Actually,” Mac starts with a wince when I throw him a look, “I moved it up. They said the earliest they were comfortable with was six days.”
My brows shoot up.
“That’s good news.” Marie nods. “But why not wait, Macaroni? Give yourself the time.”
“Have you met me, Ma? I can’t sit around for fucking two weeks when there’s nothing wrong. Remember when I was twelve and broke my arm?”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Beating on that damn drum two days later. With the cast .”
“You were so mad.”
They’re both laughing, and a smile is attempting to pull up the corners of my lips right along with them.
But … six days .
In six days, I’ll have Mac without restrictions.
No more going easy. Taking things slow. Making sure he’s not hurting or worse.
He’ll be free.
And for the first time in way too long, I think I might be able to breathe again.