Page 57 of Cherry Picking

“I’m assessing.” I drag a palm down the center of him, from sternum to navel, watching his stomach tighten under my touch. “Hold still.”

I take his cock in my fist, and Briggs stops breathing.

He’s heavy, thicker than I anticipated, with a curve that arcs up toward his stomach. Something about that shape short-circuits me. I stroke him slowly, thumb sliding through the wetness at the tip.

His hips lift off the mattress like he can’t help the reflex. “Evie.”

“Mmm.”

“You keep that up and I’m not going to be much use to you.”

“I’ve had three.” I lean down and lick a slow line up the underside of him. “You can afford one more.”

His hand fists in the sheets. Then I climb back up over him and settle, wet and open, along the hard length of him. There’s no barrier between us, just skin dragging over skin, and we both make a whimpering sound.

I roll my hips. He grips my thighs nearly hard enough to bruise. His mouth finds my collarbone and stays. All I know is the delicious slide of him against me, his breath going ragged in my ear, my own coming shorter.

I’m one minor adjustment away from taking him fully inside me. Then a phone starts buzzing somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor. Mine’s on silent, so it must be Briggs’s.

“Ignore it,” I murmur against his mouth.

The vibration lasts exactly two seconds before it cuts out, only to be replaced by the frantic trill of a marimba. The shift in Briggs is instantaneous. I can feel the looseness leave his frame, replaced by a sudden, rigid focus.

“Twice in a row.” He’s already untangling himself from me, reaching for the jeans he discarded on the floor. A quick glance at the screen confirms the suspicion. “It’s my father’s ringtone.”

He answers on the third ring. “Dad?”

“Briggs.” Murphy’s voice is a thin, breathy rasp that carries through the receiver, the words dragging with an unfamiliar weight. “Where’d you go?”

Briggs meets my eyes, his brow furrowing. “What happened?”

“Been shouting for you.” Briggs tilts the phone, allowing me to catch the muffled sound of his father’s voice. “Didn’t realize you’d left until I managed to crawl to your side of the hallway.”

A cold weight settles behind my ribs. Briggs is off the bed before the sentence is finished, phone pinned between his shoulder and ear as he hunts for his boxers. I sit up, my palms out in a silent question—what is it, what’s going on—and he taps the speaker button.

“I went down,” Murphy says before either of us can speak. “I’m okay. Mostly. But I’m stuck, and I—” The silence on the line is a physical thing, and I know the exact price of his next words. “I could use a hand, son.”

“Twenty minutes,” Briggs says, already half-clothed. “Don’t move, Dad. Stay exactly where you are. Did you hit your head on anything?”

“No. Landed on the ankle. The bad side.” He lets out a dry, humorless wheeze. “Floor’s cold, so you know.”

“I’m on my way. Keep the line open.”

We dress in a frantic, uncoordinated blur. I locate my jeans beneath the bed and shove my feet into boots, foregoing socks. He’s already got his keys in his hand before I can reach for my coat.

Five minutes ago, the only thing in the world was the feel of his hands in my hair. Now we’re moving through my apartment like a crew clearing a room.

In the rental SUV, he drives with his hands fisted on the wheel and the phone glowing in the cup holder. Murphy’s heavy, labored breathing fills the cab.

“Dad. You still there?”

“Not much choice in the matter.”

“You warm enough?”

“And what’s your plan if I’m not?”

“Fair point. Nothing, I guess.” A beat. “Just keep talking to me.”