Chapter 14
“Drink. You need it,” I say, extending a glass of water to her. I love how comfortable she is in my kitchen, bare ass on the granite.
“You’re kinda sweet,” she says before taking a sip. I tilt the glass with my finger, encouraging her to drink all of it. And she does.
“One more orgasm before you have a big decision to make.” I kiss her neck, anticipating a bratty response.
“I’m not sucking your dick.”
“I can’t wait to call you a liar.” A sassy look immediately spreads across her face.
I like this girl. I shouldn’t like her this much. It has me wanting to learn more about her.
“You know …” she says, pulling me in by the hips. “This is going better than anticipated. I wasn’t thinking this would be, like …”
“About you?”
“Right.”
I lean down, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck and pulling her in for a kiss. “I want you to want it. I want my cock to be more than a tool to get you off.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous? You know, for me to actually want it?” she asks quietly, breaking our gaze.
I grab her chin, bringing her focus back to me. “Why?”
“Because then I’ll want it after tonight.”
“Stay the night so you can get it in the morning,” I say, not wanting this to be over just yet as she huffs a laugh and wraps her arms around my neck. “I don’t think you’re going to be satisfied after the next orgasm. So, stay with me. There’s more fun to be negotiated.”
“Negotiated?”
I’ve been enjoying every give and every take.
“We’ve been negotiating since the moment we met.”
She nods, seeming deep in thought.
“You feel cold.” I pick her up and carry her back to the couch, setting her on the dry area. Lifting the ottoman, I grab a blanket. “I wish I wasn’t so curious about you,” I admit, wrapping it around her.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be sad when you leave.”
She huffs a laugh. “You are not going to be sad when I leave.”
“I already know I will be.” I’ll be thinking about her, wondering what if.
She nudges her shoulder into me, and I wrap my arm around her, squeezing her into my side. “Answer this: What’s the significance of the scorpion tattoo?”
“That I’m a bad bitch who’s used to fending for herself.”
I hum, sad she has to wear that mask. “What’s it protecting?” I ask, pulling her onto my lap, repositioning the blanket around her shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
“The scars. Why do you have them?”
“No.” She tries to squirm out of my embrace. “I’m not talking about that.”
I cup her face with both my hands. “I want to know,” I say earnestly. She scrunches her face. “I’m a stranger. You can tell me without considering anyone else but yourself in how you talk about it.”
“Confession kink is a new one for me.”
“Baby girl,” I scold, lightly swatting her ass.
She shakes her head.
This guarded reaction only has me more curious. So, I decide to be vulnerable for a moment.
“My son has scars like that,” I share, staring into her eyes. “Because he didn’t want to live anymore, and I … I’ve never understood that.”
“I wasn’t trying to die. That was never the intention.”
My son was. Not wanting to turn sixteen. My first reaction was wrong. That I’d spoiled him. That he’d lost touch with reality. It took me too long to realize the pain he was in—from losing his mother, from not feeling seen. Still, I don’t understand why he thought death was the best option.
“I was trying to …” She trails off, and I pull her into my chest, hugging her tight. “I don’t know … control the pain.”
I pull her by the back of the neck, dragging her face closer to me so I can kiss her forehead. “Tell me who to kill,” I say after she leans back, assuming the worst, ready to call Jan with whoever’s name comes out of her mouth.
She huffs a laugh. “It’s not like that. My dad died when I was fourteen, then my mom got remarried way too fast, and I fucking hate my stepdad.”
“Tell me to kill him,” I whisper, wanting to make it better.
“Why would you kill for me?”
“Why wouldn’t I kill for you?”
She practically snorts. “Because you don’t know my name.”
“And you don’t know mine. Plenty of plausible deniability.”
Her eyes close as a smirk grows. “I’ll pass. For whatever fucking reason, my mom really likes the guy, and I don’t want her to go through another loss.”
“Good to know you give a shit about at least one person.” She pokes my chest, and I pull her down, crashing my lips to hers.
Tinsel. Tinsel. Tinsel.
Kissing her, I’m too intrigued, too invested in this naked girl straddling me. No one has ever taken care of her, and all I can think about is how I want to.
Pulling away from our kiss, she asks, “Your son. Have you ever talked to him about it?”
“That ship has sailed. He’s done with me.”
She squints at me. “Have you tried?”
“I’ve tried.”
“Recently?”
I shrug. “We parted ways, very officially, a few years ago. I’ll never see him again.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is, but … I’m proud of him. He made the best of everything. He’s better off without me.”
“What about your other son?”
“His demons got the best of him.”
Sorin. He was a lost cause the moment I met him. He never had a chance. I wish his mother would have told me about him from the start, but she didn’t want him in “the life”—not that the life she gave him was better.
“Oh …”
“Two years ago. Bad drugs,” I share, and then my lips keep moving. “My grandson. It’s poetic in a fucked way. My son died before he was born. It felt like a second chance, to raise a boy right in a way I never got to.”
Tinsel’s face conveys she wants to ask more questions, and I’m grateful she’s not. My ringtone blares with a very specific sound. I need to answer it. It’s Jan. He wouldn’t be calling unless it was important.
“I have to take this,” I say, squeezing her leg. Standing, I follow the ringtone sound. Tinsel has me distracted. I don't even remember where I set my phone down. I pick it up from the table in my garage entryway and answer.
“Sorry to bother you. You know me, a dog with a bone. I have a full dossier at this point about her.”
In Polish, I interrupt, “You’re still researching her?”
“You two left so fast. Made me nervous.”
I step back into the living room, seeing her look more relaxed than she has been all night. Soft eyes. Beautiful.
Curious, though, I continue in Polish, leaning on the wall, smiling at her. “Give me a high-level overview of what you’ve learned.”
“Morgan Smith. Twenty-nine. Grew up in Delavan, Wisconsin. She lives in the Old Town neighborhood of Chicago and works for a data engineering company, where she was recently promoted to Vice President.”
I chuckle, knowing why. She raises her brows at me, curious about this call.
“She went to DePaul University, graduated with two bachelor’s degrees, one in computer science, the other in mathematics.”
She and my son Declan have a lot in common: computers, math, death of a parent, how they’ve dealt with things. In another life, Declan could have gotten those degrees.
Continuing in Polish, I ask, “Can you get the word over to Declan that I wish him and his girl a Merry Christmas?”
“Of course, boss.”
“All is well with my little man?” I ask, checking in about my grandson.
“Security log says he was tucked in about an hour ago, and his mom also went to bed.”
“Good,” I say in English, but then I switch to Polish. “And bring M—her car here. She’ll be staying the night.”