Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
He smiles back, and I let out a little laugh, happy.
I hug him to me, rolling my hips and starting to work him again, his hands roaming my body. He’s so warm.
But then I raise my eyes and see it. The dark shadow through the window. Someone standing in the kitchen.
My heart skips a beat.
They take a drag of a cigarette, the end burning bright as they watch us, and I open my mouth to tell Iron we need to stop, but …
I close it again.
I go slow with Iron, feeling his tongue and both men’s eyes on me as I tilt my face up to the sky and rain glides down my body.
7
Krisjen
Dallas’s back rises and falls in the next bed.
He sleeps on his stomach, his mouth half-buried in his sheets, and I’m actually surprised.
He has sheets.
Milo’s were barely ever on his bed, and Trace learned quickly that I wouldn’t sleep over on just a mattress.
But Iron has sheets. And now Dallas? There must be some evolutionary leap for men beyond twenty years old. Can’t say for sure unless I see Army’s and Macon’s, too.
Dallas’s arm hangs over the side of the bed, his black hair nearly covering his eyelids, and I let my gaze glide down his naked back to where the gray sheet drapes just low enough past his hips for me to tell that he’s not wearing anything underneath. He literally came to bed after Iron put me in his and stripped himself naked with me in the room. I was already asleep, but … he wouldn’t sleep naked normally, would he? Not while sharing a room with his brother.
At least I’m dressed in Iron’s white T-shirt. He put me in a pair of his boxers, too, but then he woke up a couple of hours later and took them off again. He must not have gone back to sleep afterward, though, because I woke up alone a few minutes ago.
I pull the shirt, making sure it’s down, and then slide my hands between my legs, over my underwear. I close my fingers around myself, wincing. I feel like I’m bruised down there. It hurts a little.
Trace is a little bigger, but somehow, I’m sorer after Iron. I was sore after the couch, too. Iron goes harder. Deeper, maybe. I guess it was him after all.
The scent of coffee fills the room, drifting in from downstairs, and I close my eyes, rubbing myself just a little like it’ll soothe the ache. But I also don’t want the ache to go away, because it’ll be the one place he remains once he’s gone.
I open my eyes, about to get up, but there’s Dallas. Staring straight at me.
I freeze for a second. How long has he been awake?
I jerk my hands out from under the covers.
“You’re in pain,” he whispers. “It makes you prettier.”
What?
Then he turns his head, facing the wall and going back to sleep.
This house, I now realize, is about to get a lot less friendly without Iron around.
Pulling off the sheet, I pull on Iron’s boxer shorts and leave the room. Macon’s door, across from Liv’s, is still closed, as are Trace’s and Army’s. Soft blue light spills through windows, and I shiver as I head down the stairs. It’s probably about 6:00 a.m. By nine, I won’t be cold. The temperature outside always warms up quickly.
I hear water run in the pipes around me and feel my nostrils tingle as I inhale the frying bacon and the faint scent of butter. I take a left into the dark, empty living room, and stop at the entrance to the kitchen. Iron works at the stove, and I start to speak, but I stop, watching him.
The muscles in his back stretch and tense as he cooks, but his shoulders have relaxed, and every movement is fluid. Reaching for the salt, putting it back. Stirring something in the pan. The toast pops up, he grabs it. Everything one fluid pace. Calm, tranquil, serene.
Quiescent.
Stormless.
Fuck.
My mouth opens a little, feeling the lump of nausea rise. So many times I wished he would’ve calmed down, but now all I want is to see him fight. I want to know the spark in him is still there, undefeated.
He turns and sees me, smiling a little, and I plop down on a chair at the island. It hurts to breathe. Removing the glass lid of the cake dish, I swipe some chocolate frosting off one of the two pieces that remain from the dessert Mariette had me send over for Iron yesterday. I lick my finger, my mouth watering at the taste of the sugar.
I do it again, but a fork appears in front of my nose, and I laugh under my breath, taking it. He’s making breakfast for everyone, but I don’t want his breakfast. He doesn’t make breakfast. Army does. Iron making everyone a meal feels like an apology and a goodbye and defeat. He can make breakfast when he comes home.