Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Lot
Nice & Slow
Ipull up to Dice’s house. I could have walked—it’s that close—but not in these foot traps. And there was no way I could lug Queenie and all her stuff two blocks.
As I was leaving Rayne’s, she let out a yowl like her tail was on fire and latched on to the back of my coat, claws dug in. I spun in circles trying to shake her off. Rayne tried to help, but Queenie wasn’t having it. She hissed in full demon mode.
The other times I’ve had to go out, I’d been able to lure her into the crate with a treat and Spider-Man. But now she’s wise to me. I couldn’t dump her on Rayne like that, and I didn’t want to cancel, so here we are.
“You’re not a toddler,” I grouch, tucking her under one arm, purse slung over my shoulder, her bed gripped in my other hand. “You’re a cat. Start acting like one.”
“Meow.” She blinks up at me with those big green eyes.
I swear I see a spark of victory in them.
Before I can knock, Dice opens the door the second my heels hit the porch like he’d been listening for me.
His eyes drop to Queenie. “Chaperone?”
“You don’t even want to know.”
He takes the bed and my purse, stepping aside to let me in.
“She was losing her mind. Hope it’s okay.”
“You’re here, Lot. That’s all that matters.”
He looks at Queenie again. She stares back and lets out a low growl. More tiger than house cat.
“It’s not you,” I tell him. “It’s everyone.”
“Except you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I do.” He grins. “Think I can take your coat without losing an eye?”
“Let me put her down. Her stuff’s in the car. I’ll go—”
“I got it.”
“This already feels like too much.”
“It’s not. Gimme your keys.”
I hand them over and set Queenie down. “If you ruin my night,” I warn once the door closes behind him, “I will leave you at the shelter, no matter how much you act a fool. Don’t mess with me, ho.”
“Meow.” She licks my hand sweetly. Fake as hell.
Dice returns with the bag and litter box. He fills it and gets her a bowl of water while I set up her bed on the couch with Spider-Man.
“You’re kidding me,” he balks, seeing her curled up with the plushie.
“She likes it.”
“Yeah, and I still can’t get no love.” He feigns a wounded look. “Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me… times two.”
“Think you can handle it?”
That cocky grin says more than capable.
Now that Queenie’s settled, all my focus lands on him. Relaxed jeans, black button-up shirt, untucked and open just enough to display the wings of his eagle tattoo. Casual and sexy.
He helps me out of my coat, making an appreciative noise. “Damn. You could’ve warned me.” His gaze lingers on my legs. “You’re killing me in that dress and those shoes.”
“More like these shoes are killing me. Rayne made me wear them.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her. But I want you comfortable.” Before I can respond, he crouches in front of me, his palm sliding down my bare calf to my ankle, slow and deliberate, lighting a fuse under my skin.
I place my hand on his shoulder, steadying myself as he slips one heel off, then the other.
“That feels better.” I wiggle my toes.
He rises, all citrus heat and temptation, towering over me. “Can I make you a drink?”
“Sure.”
With loose-limbered confidence, he leads me into the kitchen and drops my coat over a chair. The cabinets are oak, the countertops black granite, holding nothing but an espresso machine. A space that looks like it’s still waiting to be used.
I slide onto the stool and watch him grab a cocktail shaker.
“What are you making?”
“Cherry Bourbon Sour.”
“You remembered.”
“As if I could forget the first drink I ever made you for your twenty-first birthday.” He grins, pouring a generous shot of whiskey, squeezing in lime, and adding splashes of cherry syrup. He shakes it up with practiced precision, then strains it over ice, topping it with a Luxardo cherry.
“Thanks,” I say as he hands me the tumbler.
Grabbing a beer for himself, he clinks the bottle to my glass. “Cheers, Web.”
“Cheers.” I take a deep sip. “Mmm. You still make it good and strong. Just the way I like it.”
“That’s what I was going for.” He leans against the counter, watching me bring the cocktail to my lips again.
“So is the kitchen still the test lab for your cocktails?” I ask. “Or do you actually cook in here now?”
“Cooking’s still not my lane. Too much hassle.”
“Some things are worth the hassle.”
“You cook now?”
“Yeah.” I enjoy another sip—that hint of sweet against tart and the whiskey burn warming my belly. “New York’s expensive, so it was a matter of affordability at first. I started with the basics my mom taught me, then added my own flair. When I’m in the mood, cooking feels like creating art.”
Something flickers across his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he answers too quickly, then brushes it off with a grin. “So, you gonna show me those new culinary skills next time?”
“Depends on how tonight goes.” I drain the last of my drink and pluck the cherry from my glass. Flirting with danger, I drag it across my tongue before biting it clean off the stem.
His groan is low, primal. “You testing me, Web?”
“I don’t promise seconds unless the first hits just right.”
“I aim to please.”
“Well, the drink impressed me. What else you got?”
“Music.”
Not what I expected. After days of pent-up lust and years of yearning, I figure he’d already have me up against the nearest wall by now. I even skipped the panties and bra to make it easier.
Instead, he takes my hand and leads me into the living room. Queenie’s snoring softly, looking sweet and innocent.
Dice picks from his vinyl collection and places the record onto the turntable. Dropping the needle, Usher’s smooth vocals fill the room. Nice & Slow.
He pulls me in, wrapping his arms around my waist, hands resting on the shelf between the dip of my lower back and the pop of my booty.
I curl my arms around his shoulders, exploring the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
He sways with me. Our first slow dance is sensual.
My body reacts from the drink, the song choice, the sheer gravity of him.
Lyrics rich with patience and longing float around us. All the pieces I thought I was holding together start to unravel. I cup the nape of his neck. Our eyes meet—charged and unguarded—right before I pull his mouth to mine.
The second our lips touch, his arms crush me in a tight squeeze, stealing my breath with a kiss that was an eternity in the making. No letdown. No hesitation. Nothing but raw, explosive hunger.
His breath is rough against mine as his fingers find the zipper at my back. He lowers it in one fluid pull. I break the kiss to let the dress slither down my body and pool at my feet.
“Damn, Lot.” He exhales in a rush, taking in every bare inch of me. “You’re more perfect than I even imagined.” His hands skim my spine. “I need you in my bed.”
“Take me there.”
He sweeps me up like I weigh nothing, striding across the living room and down the hall. No man has ever carried me to bed before. I wrap around him, my mouth greedy on his.
The bedroom is shadows and partial light. I catch glimpses of tan and beige. His bed hastily made. He lays me on top of the covers, then stands back, stripping piece by piece.
Finally seeing all of him in the flesh fries my brain. “You are one fine man, Jones.”
“Glad you like what you see.”
“I love it. And I fucking want it.”
He climbs onto the bed in a ripple of muscles and ink, crawling forward with graceful power. His broad shoulders roll with each move, his cock, thick and hard, jutting out proudly.
I reach for him, and we collide with force.
Years of restraint snapping at once. Our kiss is all tongue and heat as we roll across the mattress in a tangle of limbs.
Skin slapping, hands gripping, like we can’t get close enough.
I rake my nails along his back, scissoring my legs, trying to flip him. But he doesn’t budge.
“Dice—”
“Uh-uh. I’m driving this round.”
His mouth streaks down my neck, hands kneading my breasts, lips catching my nipple before sucking it deep.
I cry out, the hot tugs unleashing a torrent of liquid desire between my thighs.
His beard rasps against my skin as he licks and nibbles his way across to the other breast, down my torso to my stomach, rimming my navel with the tip of his tongue. The width of his shoulders spreads my legs wide, opening me up to him, exposing my desire to his scorching gaze.
“Lot,” he groans and buries his face in my pussy, inhaling my scent like it’s oxygen.
I gasp, my back bowing, fists twisting the sheets, seduced by his dark head between my legs and his mouth savoring me so intimately.
His tongue teases my opening. Shallow plunges, tasting, sampling, driving me insane without getting me off.
“Dice,” I grit out, raw and trembling. “Stop playing and make me come.”
“Mmm.” His hum vibrates through me. “You taste too good to rush.”
My mind frays, patience shredded, I clutch the back of his head.
“Beg me,” he taunts.
“I don’t beg.”
“Okay.” He dives back in, wicked with restraint, tormenting me until I can’t take it anymore. Until I break.
“Dice.” Damn him. “Please… let me come. Please. I need it so bad.”
He lifts his head, teeth flashing in a satisfied grin. “I got you, Web.”
He grabs my ass then and devours me. His tongue is ravenous, thrusting, circling, lashing my throbbing clit in a ruthless rhythm.
My hips buck wildly, toes curling, lungs heaving. The first spasm hits and an avalanche follows, crashing down, shaking me apart. I scream his name, my body jerking as I come hard against his face.
“Don’t stop,” I sob, and he doesn’t.
Two fingers slide inside me, curling, finding that sweet spot, fucking me deep while his tongue laps me through it and keeps going.
I come again, this one all the more keening and intense, leaving me breathless.
And so tender and primed that another flick of his tongue takes me over again.
I squeeze my thighs around him, completely undone. Wiped out.
When the last of the tremors finally ease, I collapse against the bed.
He slides up beside me, his hand warm on my thigh. Soothing. Gentling me.
My body hums. My eyes close.
He murmurs something.
But I’m already drifting.
I feel him press a kiss to my shoulder.
And that’s the last thing I remember.