Page 35 of Big Dill

“Are you talking about Jam… like the fruit spread you put on toast?”

I grin and a quiver goes through her and she moves our fingers lower. Fuck. “I like that too. I guess you could say… jam is kind of my jam.” Her laugh fills the quiet clinic. “What’s your middle name?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Just do.”

She lifts her hips, a moan catching in her throat. “Fine, it’s Robin. Like the red breasted bird.”

“Does anyone call you that?”

“Just my parents when they’re mad,” she breathes out. “They use my full name. Jami Robin Grant.”

“Robin huh? I pause to consider that. “I think it fits you.” She cocks her head. “Small but resilient. Independent. Spirited. But I’m not going to call you something your parents do when they’re mad. Instead, you’re going to be my little birdie.”

“Birdie,” she whispers like she’s warming to the nickname.

I suddenly remember the airport—our first, or rather second—meeting. That’s when something niggles loose in the back of my brain. “Did you call me Big Dill?” I ask.

Our fingers surreptitiously dip beneath the band of her jeans and she sucks in a breath.

What happened to the barrier you knew better than to breach, dude?

Oh, it’s just that my brain has quit functioning.

A streak of pink flushes her face and she bites her bottom lip as she admits, “Yes.”

I can’t help it. Laughter spills out of me, echoing around the room. Her body shakes with mine, for numerous reasons. “Why did you call me that?”

My dick presses against my zipper as she slightly turns toward me, the waistband of her jeans loosening in this new position.

“You told me you played pickleball, Broderick.”

The heat between us curls around our bodies, the tension almost too much to bear.

“I did,” I admit, our fingers brushing over a place that makes her pulse quicken. “Is that the real reason?”

Our fingers are so close to that needy spot that made her swell beneath my tongue.

“There could be others,” she says, the needy moan in her throat sending heat through my body.

“Do you remember what you told me at the hotel?” I whisper near her ear, my restraint thinning.

“Okay fine,” she breathes. “I lied about my name too.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Brody,” she moans, her body needy now and I press my forehead to hers, practically panting with want.

“I want to touch you, Jami. I want my mouth on you again.”

She wiggles, and I press down on her, restricting her movement and a keening cry catches in her throat. “I…I want that too,” she admits, her body trembling.

Seconds before I’m about to follow through, about to rip into her button and tug her pants off, laughing fills the hallway just outside my door and my body tenses. My synapses refire, smacking some sense back into me. “Fuck…we can’t.”

I meet her gaze, and her lids close briefly. When they open, she’s with me. Eyes full of understanding and agreement. I pull our hands from her waistband, and settle hers on her stomach.

“Man of your word,” is all she says.