Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
My lip trembles, so I press forward and wrap my arms around him. We sink into each other, and I lower my head to his shoulder.
I will my eyes to stay dry, but they don’t listen. Neither does my nose. When I sniff, Brady pulls back.
“Well, that’s the response I was hoping for. Brady Talon, bringing men to tears for being in their presence. It’s a talent.”
I huff a laugh, but it’s weak.
“Have you eaten?” Brady asks.
“Hey, that’s usually my line.”
“Not tonight. I’m here now, and it’s time someone looked after you for once. Lead me to your apartment.”
I let it happen. Brady follows closely behind me, picking up a duffle bag on the stoop on the way.
I lead him up the stairs to my third-floor apartment, and as soon as we enter, he heads for the kitchen.
He opens the fridge and then the cupboards.
“I don’t have—”
“How in the world do you live on this?”
“I haven’t been to the grocery store in a while.”
And he’s right. My kitchen is pretty barren.
“Okay, ordering in it is. What’s good around here?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Stop fighting me on this. Once Prescott’s back, you can go back into overprotective alpha mode. But not now. So sit down or take a shower, do whatever you need to. I’m here when you’re ready to talk. Or eat. Or need a blowjob to keep your mind off everything.”
My dick twitches. I’ll be down for that later. But a shower sounds amazing, and it will give me time to compose myself and not break down and cry in his arms again.
Maybe.
“How long are you staying for?” I ask.
“As long as you need me. I asked my uncle for the day off tomorrow, and I don’t work weekends unless I have to scout. So I’m yours.”
He means temporarily—only for the weekend—but I can’t help that wishful part of me that gets stuck on those two little words. I’m yours.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
brady
I don’t tell Kit that I’m also freaking the fuck out. For Kit to be this messed up, whatever’s happening with Prescott must be serious. I don’t let my concern about that show though.
Kit and Prescott haven’t seen this side of me—the caretaker, the problem solver. It’s because I’ve never needed to show them. They give me a break from that side of my personality, so I’m sure it’s a shock to Kit that I’m actually capable of ordering food or cooking or taking care of things, but I can do this shit in my sleep.
And I don’t even hate it. What I’ve liked about the dynamic between the three of us is that I haven’t had to tap into that. While I still love the escapism of responsibilities and adulthood when I’m with them, and no way will this be a permanent switch in our … semi-regular meetup sex relationship—whatever we want to call it—I don’t mind doing it for them. If Prescott needed help, I’d be the first—okay, well, no, the second—to offer behind Kit.
These men mean a lot to me, probably more than I do to them, but that’s not going to stop me caring about them and doing what I can for them.
The food comes while Kit’s in the shower, so instead of eating out of the Chinese takeout boxes, I dish out a bit of everything onto plates. I’ll even wash the dishes afterward.
I hope my take-charge attitude and showing up unannounced allows him to open up a bit. The way he was talking … I fear Prescott is either deployed or, worse, has been in some kind of accident, but I’m hoping Kit is overreacting.
Kit comes out dressed in sweatpants and nothing else, and I have to swallow my tongue so it’s not tempted to dart out and lick every inch of this man’s abs. Or attack the dick print that’s showing through the tight material.
He doesn’t notice me practically drooling though. He’s running a towel over his hair, even though there’s not much of it. He must have recently shaved the sides of his head, but leaving the military means the stuff on top is growing out. It’s kind of in an in-between stage where it’s too long to fit in with the short sides but not long enough to cover the shaved bits.
When he’s done, he turns and throws the towel back down the hallway toward the bathroom, but it doesn’t make it. He doesn’t care.
Considering how uptight he is about being neat, it’s another red flag. So I put on my I’m here for you face, take over a plate of food with the choice of using chopsticks or a fork, and then go pick up his towel and hang it on the towel rack in the bathroom.
I come back out, but Kit’s frozen, sitting on the couch, plate on his lap, and his fork halfway to his mouth.