22. Marcus #2
Preston Armstrong is the toughest fucking thing I’ve ever dealt with.
I just keep allowing him leeway despite myself.
I’ll say I have clear boundaries, but then he looks at me with that vulnerability, and all of my objections just vanish.
After I turn off the water, I follow him into my room where I find him sliding into his sweater, having already put on his jeans.
The cashmere fabric outlines his muscles like a map I’m dying to get lost in, lick every inch, mark every ridge.
He uses the towel to dry his hair as he checks his phone, then types at supersonic speed.
And I observe his every move, his easing expression and the tilt at the corner of his lips, coupled with the dimples.
At least he looks more like himself now instead of the ghost from the bathroom.
I lean against the doorway, my arms crossed. “Who are you texting?”
“Jude,” he says without looking at me, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Jude again.
It’s always Jude buzzing around him like an annoying fucking wasp.
“Why are you texting Jude at two in the morning?”
“Why wouldn’t I? We live together.” He’s still focused on the phone, completely oblivious to the fire his words have ignited.
Sure, I know they cohabitate—which I’ve always disliked, for the record—but this is the first time I’ve loathed that fact with enough passion, I’m burning with it.
I stride toward him and snatch the phone from his hand, holding it out of reach.
Preston glares at me. “What do you think you’re doing? Give me back my phone.”
“Eat first.”
“What?”
“You haven’t had dinner, even though you were hungry.”
His lips part, but he clears his throat. “That’s fine, I’ll grab something to eat with Jude.”
“I already prepared food.” I try to speak calmly, although my tone lowers, betraying my complete annoyance at fucking Jude. “Eat before you go.”
I place his phone in my pocket and make my way to the kitchen, not waiting to see if he’ll follow.
He does, grumbling about not really being hungry.
Preston sits at the kitchen table, surveying the space as I pull out the mix I made earlier.
He looks kind of different here. At first, I think it’s because he doesn’t belong in a place like this, but it’s not.
There’s just something unguarded about him now.
His damp hair falls in haphazard strands on his forehead, some getting in his eyes. It must be annoying, but he’s not pushing them away.
He sits taller, craning his head to look at me. “Do you always cook?”
“Most of the time, yes. I cook dinner that Mom can reheat for lunch.”
“Your mom works night shifts all the time?”
“Mostly, yes.” I pour the mix onto the tortilla. “When I was younger, she chose night shifts because they pay well and she’d have time to take care of me during the day, but it’s become a habit now.”
“Who…” He clears his throat when his voice gets scratchy. “Who did you stay with at night?”
“Mrs. Rodriguez next door. She used to be the principal of my elementary school.” I smile as the sizzle of the tortilla hitting the pan echoes in the air. “She also taught me to make Mexican food the right way.”
“And it was okay?”
“Learning to cook? Yeah. It’s really all about the correct seasoning.”
“No, I mean staying with strangers at night.”
“Mrs. Rodriguez isn’t a stranger. She’s Mom’s best friend, who treated me like her own son.” I flip the tortilla with one hand, and he watches me like a starving cat, almost drooling.
I suppress a smile.
“Why would she?” He meets my gaze. “You’re not her son.”
“Yeah, well, there’s this little concept that rich people like you don’t understand, but we stick up for each other around here.”
“Is that before or after dealing drugs and bodies and eventually being locked up?”
“Your people deal drugs and bodies, too. They just have enough money and power to never get locked up for it.”
“My people?” He narrows his eyes. “You said you’re one of us, too, remember?”
“No. I wasn’t brought up in your rotten world.”
He flinches, and I pause, then place the plate of chicken quesadilla in front of him.
Preston tries to deflect by grabbing the quesadilla and taking a bite, but I saw it.
The flinch.
Why?
Is it because of something I said or did? I don’t think I approached him too suddenly. Or did I?
It truly makes my skin crawl to see someone who’s so unapologetically himself flinch.
What the fuck happened to you, my fairy prince?
I bring over the salsa and a glass of water, then sit across from him.
Preston makes a noise as he swallows the bite, then stops and glares at me. “You did not make this.”
“I just did, right in front of you. Why? Not to your liking?”
“It’s perfectly crispy and melty and savory.” He frowns. “How the hell are you a good cook on top of everything else?”
A wide grin tilts my lips. “What’s everything else?”
“Shut up,” he says after swallowing another bite. “This is truly amazing. Kane has some tough competition.”
“Kane?”
“He cooks for Jude and me after we annoy him.”
“Huh.” First Jude and now Kane.
I don’t suppose there’s a way to get rid of them without Preston finding out or losing sleep over it?
“Ugh, seriously, this is like food porn.” He swallows one bite after another, nearly cleaning the plate in record time.
“Wrong. Food porn is me fucking you while you eat.” I slide my foot over his shin under the table. “Which can be arranged, by the way. With or without food.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, but he doesn’t pull his leg away. “Why do you assume I’d let you fuck me?”
“You will…eventually.”
“Don’t lose sleep over it.”
“Won’t be necessary. You’ll come around.”
His lips twist to one side, the dimples on display as he chews a bite. “You’ll be waiting for a long time. My brain rejects the very notion of being fucked by a man, even if my body…well, you know.”
“Craves it?”