What Happens When Frogs Park Illegally?
Glennon
Triumph bundled her up into his arms and carried her up a flight of stairs. Navigating them herself probably would be impossible, so she showed her appreciation by curling her arms around his neck and nuzzling into the space between it and his shoulder.
Mmm. He smelled nice, too, like coffee and rain.
Soft lips touched her hairline. Not a kiss. Just a touch. A whisper floated across her. “Almost there, little spy. Then we’ll get you some food, and you can go back to sleep.”
She fell back into a hazy state similar to the one she’d been in for most of the ride today. Not quite awake, but not quite asleep. Murmurings from the men in the truck, as well as the voices over the radio, had drifted in and out of her consciousness.
At one point, when she’d floated up to the surface, the others had accused him of jealousy, and he’d denied it. Claimed he didn’t know her well enough to be jealous. While he wasn’t wrong, it stung her ego a bit.
But then reality set in. She was a cartel jefe’s whore.
No man would want that for a partner. Maybe it would be exciting initially, some sort of conquest, but not for the long term.
Hadn’t he said his relationships had been short-term in recent years?
Given he was into BDSM and had talked about contractual play, she had a guess how short those contracts were.
In her heart, she knew her thoughts about his feelings were unfair. It was childish and suggested avoidance. He’d been nothing but kind, helpful, and protective of her. He’d shared things with her that she doubted he’d vocalized to anyone else. If he had, he wouldn’t be in the pain that he was.
Assumptions like the ones she made said more about her wanting to avoid disappointment.
It was natural to want to protect her heart.
If she pushed him away, then it wouldn’t hurt when it was over.
What did that say about her that she attempted to push him away before things even got started between them?
No. If she wanted a chance of anything normal with him, or with anyone, for that matter, she needed to not think the worst. She needed to not push him away.
But it was so fucking hard not to. If that didn’t reek of damaged goods, she didn’t know what did.
Unwilling to hear any more of the discussion, she allowed sleep to pull her back under.
The click of a light woke her. Groggily, she attempted to focus on her surroundings.
The room was dim, save for the bedside lamp and the light from inside the bathroom.
The space held a bed with a handmade blanket, clean but coarse sheets, and a thin pillow.
A small kitchen-style table with two chairs sat in front of a sink and some cabinets, and a small television sat on a dresser across from the bed.
Triumph’s voice came from the direction of the bathroom. “It’s not a five-star hotel, but it suits our purposes.”
He looked freshly showered, his hair in its normal mussed state, but already drying and curling up at the ends.
Goddamn, he was so… beautiful. Not perfectly coiffed and styled like Guillermo.
Not rugged like what so many women seemed to go for these days, with the long beards and endless tattoos.
Not a military stud, all overly fit, clean-cut, and growly.
Instead, he had elements of all those types—an admitted love for the club scene, shaggy hair, cut abs, and forearm porn—combined with the alpha leanings toward protection, the little-boy charm from simple pleasures like bad jokes, and a caged dominance that made her insides melt, twist, and clench until she didn’t know which way was which, and that she desperately wanted him to set free on her.
In other words, he was uniquely Triumph.
“Are you hungry?”
His words cut through her musings, which was probably a good thing, or she’d drift down some fantasy-laden road of him bending her over every surface in this small room.
A deep inhale caused the scent of chicken and the earthy notes of guasca to stir her more pressing appetites.
“Jhon, the owner of the rooms, sent us some food. Chicken soup and empanadas.”
“Ajiaco,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows. “It’s one of my favorites since I’ve been here.”
“Smells good,” he admitted. “Steel saw the empanadas and nearly lost his shit. Demon said he makes really good ones, a recipe from when he lived in Argentina.” He chuckled.
“Man had the tray in one hand, empanada in the other, took a bite before going into their room, and I swear, his eyes rolled back in his head.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then rested. Even that little bit of movement took effort, but she improved every time she woke up.
He crossed to the bed. “Easy, there. Let me help you.”
Guiding one of her arms around his shoulders, he then slid his arms under her knees and around her back.
One swift motion, and she was being carried to the small table where the food sat on a tray, along with mismatched plates and silverware.
Wherever they were, lodging was serviceable rather than comfortable.
The food, however? With the first spoonful of soup, her eyes closed with a moan. So good! When she opened them, eager to get another spoonful, she caught Triumph staring at her.
“What?” she asked. Was something wrong with her? She’d been sleeping forever in a moving vehicle. Did she have scary bed head? She checked her clothing, but everything appeared to be covered, and she hadn’t spilled soup on herself.
“I’ve just…” He swallowed hard and licked his lips. He cleared his throat, and when he finished the thought, his voice was tight, like he was trying to hold back his reaction. “That was quite the reaction to soup.”
“Have you tried it yet? Trust me. Someone here is an amazing cook. You’ll understand why Steel’s eyes rolled back in his head when you do.”
He shrugged. “Food is food, for the most part. Some of it tastes better than others, and I certainly have favorites, but nothing has ever made me make sex noises over it.”
One eyebrow lifted, and she smiled across the table at him. “Sex noises? Really?” Shaking her head, she lifted her spoon toward him. “Here. Try it.”
His nostrils flared just the tiniest bit. His eyes widened a fraction, and he sucked in his lip, then quickly released it. Ever so slowly, he leaned in to close his lips around the spoon and swallow it down.
Eyes never leaving hers, his mouth released the spoon, but he remained leaning on the table just as he was, arms folded on the tabletop beneath his chest, still as close to her as when she’d fed him.
Holy… wow. Just wow. Her insides burst into flames. Spontaneous combustion was not a myth because it just happened to her.
“Now the empanada,” she urged. The normal rasp in her throat stuck there, coming out even huskier than usual.
Based on the shrinking of his irises, he felt the heat too.
Again, without breaking the hold he had on her eyes, he reached down to the plate in the center of the table, picked up one of the flaky pastries, and bit into it.
He didn’t rush. Each individual rise and fall of his teeth, chewing the chicken and spices, was a deliberate act simulating what other things he would savor with her.
Without her permission, her hand reached out to brush away a piece of the pastry that caught at the corner of his lip.
He turned his head just in time to slip his tongue out and lick at the spot she touched, catching the side of her finger.
“You’re right,” he said. “Best food I’ve ever tasted.”
Oh yeah. He was not talking about the food. It took everything in her not to beg him to clear the table with one swoop of his arm, lay her down on it, and feast on her like that. That mouth would destroy her.
An irrational moment of panic caused her to snatch her hand back and place it in her lap, her eyes dropping to her plate. She was so fucked. Inappropriate timing or not, she wanted this man, and it scared her.
She grabbed her braid, brushing it against her lips.
“Hey,” he murmured.
When she didn’t look up, his hand reached across the table, palm up toward her.
Looking at it, her vision tunneled, and she felt her chest tighten. Air. She couldn’t get any air.
“Little spy.”
She heard him, but the sound was muted, as if underwater.
“Glennon.”
His voice sharpened, causing her head to snap up, her vision to clear, and the film over his voice to disappear.
“There you are.” He extended his hand closer to her.
The next thing she knew, her hand was in his.
“You’re okay,” he assured her. “This. Between us. You’re not imagining it, and it’s not just you. Denying it is impossible. It’s okay to want this. We do need to talk about it, but I promise, I’ve got you.”
Words refused to come out of her mouth.
“C’mon.” He picked up her spoon from the table and traded it for his hand, although he did clasp her fingers around it and held on, as if afraid she’d drop it. “Eat. Breathe. You’ve got this.”
After a choppy nod, she forced herself through the motions of finishing the bowl of soup and one of the empanadas, but she barely tasted it.
Together, they cleared the dishes after they were done, rinsing them off in the sink, and Triumph placed them on the tray outside the door.
She stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure of what happened next.
He met her where she stood, his hands reaching up to run through her hair on either side of her head, lightly rubbing at her scalp. “You want to take a shower? Water pressure sucks, but it gets pretty hot, and it might make you feel better.”
She stared.
“Alone,” he emphasized. “This time.”
A combination of regret and relief flooded her. While the vision of naked, wet Triumph under the spray from the showerhead, with her licking up the droplets as they rolled down his body, was raising her heart rate, it probably wasn’t the first thing they should do together.
“Sounds like heaven. I feel like I have about eight inches of dirt on me. Can I get my stitches wet though?”