CHAPTER 20
DEVON
GETTING SEVEN ANIMALS out of a car and into an apartment building should not be this complicated. And yet.
"Grab Cheeto!" I yell as the orange menace makes a break for freedom the second I crack open the carrier.
Ace lunges, holding Candy with one arm, and somehow manages to scoop up the cat mid-dash with his free hand. "Got him!"
"Impressive."
Everything about this man is impressive, really.
Meanwhile, Taco's barking at a volume that might get us in trouble, while Sir Reginald stays silent but shoots me a look that clearly says ‘I'm judging you.’ Lulu and Boba are trembling, looking like they're having Vietnam flashbacks.
Smoke, the gray tabby, has somehow escaped and is currently sitting on the roof of Ace's car, watching us struggle with what I can only describe as smug satisfaction.
"There’s a cat on your car," I point out.
Ace looks up. "Smoke, get down here."
Smoke slow-blinks at him.
"Please?"
Another slow-blink. A cat's version of ‘fuck you.’
"I'll get him." I climb onto the hood, carefully, because this car probably costs more than my education, and reach for Smoke, who allows me to pick him up like he's doing me a favor.
"Thanks," I mutter to the cat.
Smoke hisses. Asshole.
Twenty minutes later, we finally make it into the building. The doorman looks at our procession—two guys, seven animals, various carriers and supplies—and doesn't even blink.
"Good evening, Mr. Jackson."
"Hey, Martin. Uh. Temporary pet-sitting situation."
"Of course, sir."
The elevator ride is its own special hell. Taco won't stop barking. Cheeto's trying to claw his way out of Ace's grip. Candy's the only one behaving, pressed trustingly against Ace's chest.
We finally reach Ace's floor, he unlocks the door, and pushes it open with his shoulder. I step inside and—
"Ohhh. So you're rich-rich."
The apartment is gorgeous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, the nighttime skyline glittering like someone scattered diamonds across black velvet.
Hardwood floors that look original. The furniture is that perfect mix of masculine and sophisticated—a leather couch that looks butter-soft, a coffee table that's definitely real wood, not particle board, abstract art on the walls that might actually be original pieces.
In the distance—a vast distance, mind you—the open kitchen gleams with marble countertops.
"It's not—" Ace starts, and his ears go pink. "I mean, yeah, I guess. The team pays well."
"This is more than 'pays well.' This is 'I could buy a small country' money."
"I can't buy a country."
I shrug as I continue shamelessly looking around. "A small one. Like Luxembourg."
He's full-on blushing now, and it's stupidly endearing. This massive hockey player who just gave me a massive orgasm in a car is embarrassed about his fancy apartment.
"It's nice," I add, softer. "Really nice."
"Thanks." He's still holding Candy, who's surveying her temporary domain with her clouded eyes, nose twitching as she takes in all the new smells. "Okay. Let's get everyone settled."
The spare bedroom (though it might as well be called a spare airport, with the size of it) becomes animal central.
We set up the carriers as little houses, arrange water bowls, scatter some toys Mama Paws sent with us.
Lulu and Boba claim one corner immediately, cuddling together in a pile of fluff. Sir Reginald finds a spot near the door and lies down like he's posing for a portrait. Taco's investigating everything, tiny legs moving at hummingbird speed.
The cats have claimed the bed like conquering generals, Cheeto sprawled out like he owns the place while Smoke surveys the surroundings from the highest point.
"This is madness," I observe, setting up another water bowl.
Ace chuckles while arranging the last carrier. "It's not that bad." Then, he straightens up and looks at Candy, who's been pressed against his chest this entire time. "Actually, you're not staying in here."
I look up and ask on her behalf, "She's not?"
"Nope. She gets the rest of the place. She can sleep in the master if she wants to. Hear that, girl?"
He presses a kiss to the top of her head. Aww.
I'm setting up the last water bowl when I trip over Sir Reginald, who's moved from his spot without warning, and water sloshes everywhere.
Including all over Ace, who half-turns at the last moment to shield Candy from my clumsiness.
"Shit! Sorry! Oh my god, I'm so sorry—"
Ace looks down at his soaked shirt, water dripping onto the hardwood floor, creating a small puddle around his feet. "It's fine."
"It's not fine, you're drenched—"
"Devon. It's water." He's smiling, but wincing at the same time, pulling the wet shirt away from his skin. "I'm gonna change. Be right back."
He disappears down the hallway with Candy still in his arms, and I'm left with six remaining animals who are all staring at me like I've failed them somehow.
"It was an accident," I tell Sir Reginald.
He sniffs disdainfully.
"You moved! You weren't there a second ago!"
Sir Reginald turns his back on me. I've been dismissed.
I'm still defending myself to a Pomeranian when Ace returns, and—
Oh, hello there.
He's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that clings to his chest in a way words can't cover, and his hair's slightly damp.
He looks so casually hot I want to bite him.
But also…
"Those should be gray," I say, pointing at his sweatpants.
Ace looks down. "What?"
"The sweatpants. They should be gray."
"I don't—" He looks genuinely confused. "What's wrong with black?"
I just grin, and yes, I'm enjoying this immensely.
"Devon. Why should they be gray?"
"Google it."
"Google what?"
"'Gray sweatpants.' Go ahead. I'll wait."
He shoots me a skeptical look, but pulls out his phone and types. I watch his face as he reads whatever comes up—probably Urban Dictionary or some thirst tweets—and the exact moment understanding hits.
His eyes widen. He looks up at me, then back at his phone, then at me again.
"Are you—" He clears his throat. "You serious?"
"Deadly serious. Gray sweatpants are a cultural phenomenon. A gift to humanity."
"They're just pants."
I huff at the blasphemy. "They're not just pants. They're a religious experience. They're art. They're—"
"You're insane."
"And you're hot. We've established both these facts already."
He's shaking his head but he's smiling, and I'm grinning like an idiot, and for a second we just stand there in his spare airport surrounded by pets, looking at each other.
Then suddenly, Ace's expression shifts. Something darker slides across his face, something I've never seen on him before.
And I like that.
He takes a step closer.
Oh boy, do I like that.
Another step.
"Devon." He's close now.
"Yeah?"
Very close. "I've been thinking."
"You have?"
He leans in, lowering his head, his lips so close to my ear I can feel the brush of air on my earlobe as he says, "I think I owe you something."
I swallow, trying not to shake as my cock twitches hello, apparently very fucking interested in Ace's thoughts. "I thought you'd never ask."
His hand slides around the back of my neck, pulling me in. Our mouths meet and he kisses me deeply, slowly. Like he's taking his time, learning me.
His other hand finds my hip, thumb pressing into the bone through my jeans, and I press closer, feeling the solid warmth of him.
"Bedroom?" he mutters against my mouth.
I don't trust my voice, so I just nod.
We stumble down the hallway, mouths attached, hands everywhere.
The apartment's dark except for the city lights filtering through those massive windows, casting everything in shades of blue and gold.
Ace's back hits a wall and I press into him, feeling his cock hard against my hip through the sweatpants.
He spins us and suddenly I'm the one against the wall, his body pinning me there, and oh, I like this. I like this a lot.
His mouth moves to my neck, sucking hard, leaving marks, and my hips jerk forward involuntarily.
"Bedroom," I gasp. "Now. Unless you want to fuck me against this wall, which—I'm not against, but—"
He pulls back, eyes dark. "Bed."
We make it to his room. Barely. The door's half-open and we fall through it, stumbling like we're drunk on each other.
I get a brief impression of a king-sized bed with charcoal gray sheets that look elegant and soft, more of those floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the glittering skyline.
There's a faint scent in the air: clean laundry and the man himself.
Then Ace is kissing me again and I stop cataloging interior design.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft cotton, and I yank it up. He breaks the kiss long enough for me to pull it over his head, his arms lifting to help me, and then he's bare from the waist up and I just…freeze. "Damn."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just—" My hands move on their own accord, palms sliding over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the definition of muscle under smooth skin.
His pecs are firm under my touch, and I trace the subtle valley between them before moving to his shoulders, which are impossibly broad, carved from what must be years of training.
My fingers trail down the defined ridges of his abs, counting each one.
"You're built like a fucking Greek god and it's unfair. "
He laughs, breathy and a little self-conscious. "Says you."
"I'm pocket-sized. You're—" I gesture at all of him, at the sheer size of his frame, the way he takes up space without trying. "You're massive."
"Is that a complaint?"
"Fuck no."
His hands go to my shirt and I help him, because he's being too slow and I'm impatient. It joins his on the floor. Then my hands are on his waistband, fingers hooking into the elastic of those sweatpants, feeling the heat radiating from his body. "These are coming off."
"Yeah, they are."