Page 90 of Newly Tied

“Yes, princess, I have it.”

“You’re so funny,” he said, quickly lifting the shower wand over the top of the stall and shooting water at me.

“That was helpful,” I deadpanned, drying myself all over again.

“Don’t be so lippy,” he warned, and I noted his hooded gaze as he stared.

“What?”

“I’ve decided that lying between your thighs is my new favorite thing in the world.”

I felt my face flush with heat from his sincere words and the fresh memories, and could not face him. I turned away fast.

“Hey,” he said, hitting me with the water again.

“Oh, for crissakes!” I yelled, spinning around. “We are never gettin’ outta here.”

“Like I care,” he said, his smile lazy and his voice like honey. “Come here.”

The man was incorrigible and sexy, and I was drawn like a magnet to steel, reaching the shower door as he rolled it open.

His wet hand wrapped around my throat fast as he leaned out and laid a kiss on me that had me clutching for the towel bar. Unfortunately, unlike his in his bathroom, mine could not take even a fraction of my weight. It collapsed right away, taking some crumbling dry wall with it to the floor, along with the towel he was supposed to use.

“Reason number 868 why my place is better,” he said flatly.

I only shook my head as he cackled.

We stopped for pizza because, for the most part, everybody liked pizza, and even if we were late, somebody would be later and need to eat. We also picked up a couple of bottles of a chianti Lang liked on the way.

Miro and Ian lived in Lincoln Park, which was a nice part of town, on a lovely tree-lined street, in a beautiful brownstone. A wrought-iron gate opened onto a walkway leading to steps to the front door, where at the moment, Eric Pazzi was standing doing a really good impersonation of a lawn ornament.

“What are you doin’?” I asked him, carrying three large pizza boxes, walking ahead of Lang, who had the wine.

“I was admiring the vintage architecture,” he told me, and I noticed he had a bottle of tequila with him.

“That’s smart,” I told him. “Tequila is always a better choice than beer.”

“Yes. Not as many calories.”

“Plus, you can do a lot more with tequila. Shots. Mix drinks. Good call.”

His smile transformed his face, and I returned it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lang grumbled. “I took a shower so I wouldn’t smell like sweat, so will you ring the damn doorbell?”

Pazzi hesitated.

“Give it a rest, Eric,” Lang said, using his first name like he never did. “If they didn’t like you, they didn’t have to invite you. We’re all on the same team. You just need to trust your instincts more.”

“Every time I trust my instincts, something horrible happens,” he replied, sounding terribly forlorn.

“Well, then trust Yamane’s until yours kick in,” I offered. “That’s what your partner is for—to be your backup. And he’s been a great one to you. Everybody says so.”

He nodded.

“You’ll be fine,” I told him. “Now ring the bell.”

“Yeah, but⁠—”