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Suddenly, I catch sight of photos on the fridge. It appears to be two or three kids of varying ages. Unable to help myself, I shuffle into the kitchen. As I move, I tuck Story’s face deeper into my neck and rub her back, hoping she doesn’t see. I flick a weekly lunch calendar to the side and sure enough, another photo is slightly hidden. My jaw ticks. A man, a woman, and their three kids at a picnic, smiling for the camera. In the bottom right corner is a time stamp. Two months ago.
Motherfucking asshole, prickface, monkey dick.
Fifty billion bucks says the chode in the photo was her date tonight.
Tightening my hold on Story, I spin around, taking in the home with new awareness. The room she’d been in was basic, empty. A spare, no doubt. The rest of the home is fully decorated with soft colors. A nice couch is tucked in the corner of the living room, a large TV mounted on the wall across from it. Above it are wooden cutouts that say, “Live, Laugh, Love.”
I click my tongue. Poor bed bug. She should have known.
No man gives a shit about that stupid saying.
Spotting her purse on an entry table, I snag it and toss it over my shoulder. When I reach the front door, I kick the thing open, taking out my rage for this asshole the only way I can.
For now, a little voice croons, sounding a hell of a lot like my creepy father. I shudder, but it’s not wrong.
I keep having to heft her higher when she slips, my biceps burning with the weight of her. Doesn’t matter. She could weigh a million pounds, and I’d still carry her around. All it means is that I need to work out more. She doesn't need to change, ever. She’s perfect.
Story taps my shoulder. “I’m heavy. You can put me down.”
“No,” I say, scanning the street. Most of the first responders have left, but a few nosy neighbors are loitering. I adjust the sheet again, making sure she’s hidden. Fucking lurkers. “Where’s your car?”
My question seems to yank her from her daze, and she shoves at my shoulder. “Why are you asking about my car? And let me down.”
My jaw ticks. I don’t want to let her down. If I had things my way, I’d never let her go again.
Slow down, Fred. She’s been through something traumatic.
It’s only that subtle reminder that has me loosening my arms enough to meet her gaze. Her chocolate brown eyes are darker than before, rimmed with red halos. There’s a small scratch at the corner of an eye and I long to kiss the boo-boo away. The sight reminds me of a diagram I saw in medical school. Anal fissures. They’re a bitch to deal with, painful as hell, but hard to get rid of. They can withstand even the strongest of ointments.
They’re resilient.
Just like my bed bug.
“I don’t want to put you down,” I murmur. She blinks at me, her mouth gaping open. From this angle, I can see she doesn’t have any tonsils. Surgery, then. I knew she was a warrior. “The neighbors are watching and the grass is dry.”
Her mouth snaps shut, and her cute bushy brows bunch up. “Those two things are unrelated.”
“No, they aren’t. First, you’re barefoot, and I don’t want your feet to get hurt on the ground. The lawn has more weeds than grass. Second, you’re wearing a sheet, my shirt, and people are looking. I don’t want you to be embarrassed or exposed.” Without thinking, I kiss her cheek. “The common factor is, I want you safe.”
I shift her again, barely resisting the urge to rub her thick ass cheeks against my forearm. She groans as I adjust her, tightening her legs around my hip. I pause, watching her eyelids flutter. It takes a second for her reaction to register in my cloudy brain, but when it does, I’m back to business.
She’s hurt.
In pain.
Not turned on.
Unlike you, you sick fuck. I grimace.
Yeah, I’ve been turned on from the moment I saw her tonight. It only got worse when I caught a glimpse of her wide, birthing hips, luscious milk jugs, and pouty lips. And then I had to go and lick her sticky panties. They had an interesting taste. Slightly sour and tangy, but there was something else. Something I couldn’t quite identify.
Something addicting.
“Holy sheep dip,” she mutters. “That was so protective and heroic. You’re like a book boyfriend.”
I grin. “I don’t know what that means, but thank you. Now, where is your car?”
She shoves a thumb over her shoulder, still looking dazed. “It’s the red SUV down the street.”
