Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I wait until Iron rises and wraps his arms around his sister before I grab Clay’s hand and pull her to the end of the counter at the back of the restaurant.
I’m glad I still have one friend who stayed home for college.
“I need to tell you something.” I sit down, but she remains standing. “I’ve been dying to talk to someone.”
“As long as you’re not pregnant …” she says.
My face falls, and I just sit there, my mouth hanging open like I can’t bear to tell her.
Her blue eyes bug out. “Oh God. No.”
I snort. “I’m kidding.”
She sighs, relaxing. “Well, what is it, then?”
I glance around, making sure we’re not in earshot, and lower my voice, leaning in close. “I had sex with someone last night. Not Trace.”
She stares at me like she’s waiting for the rest. “Okay … Um, were you safe?”
“Well, the thing is—”
“Does Trace know?”
“It’s … not that kind of relationship.”
“Okay, so who was it?”
A lump gets caught in my throat. “Fuck, I have no idea.”
She gapes at me. “What?”
I can’t help but let out a little laugh. “It’s hard to explain, but with the darkness in the room and the angles and …”
“All right, okay.” She holds up her hand, stopping me. “So you just didn’t see his face? Like, seriously? Where was this?”
“In the Jaeger house.” I hesitate before finishing. “I know it was one of them. On the couch.” I watch her eyes go round again. “I was just so lost in what we were doing, I don’t know. Clay, it was the best thing I’ve ever felt. All of it. Every second.”
A gleam hits her eyes. “Really?” she teases. “Better than your showerhead?”
Oh God. I drop my face into my hand. I actually told her about that, didn’t I? A long time ago. She, Amy, and I were making margaritas. I overshared.
“I don’t know,” I whine. “Maybe I was just better with him? Or maybe I was on my game and he was on his game and it was just great that one time and would never be like that again; I have no idea, but shit, it was amazing.”
And it had almost nothing to do with the part where he was inside me. The hands, the arms, the heat from his mouth on my cheek—my hair—and how when he pressed himself into my back and wrapped himself around me, a part of me wasn’t missing anymore. That’s what it was supposed to feel like the first time. Every time.
God. A light sweat travels down my chest, and …
Clay shoves something in my face, and I blink, seeing her snap her fingers to get my attention.
I spaced off.
“And you’re sure it was one of the Jaegers?” she presses.
I nod. “He was wearing the bracelet, and I’ve been with Trace enough to know those weren’t his moves.”
He’s a possibility, but not a likely one.
“What do I do?” I ask her, lowering my voice again. “I mean, I’m not expecting round two, but I want to know who it was.”
“Ask them.”
“Oh, right. That’ll be hilarious. ‘Hey, guys. Which one of you left your handprint on my ass last night?’”
Some diners turn in my direction, and I shut up. Shit. I’m talking loudly again. I look over, spotting Iron and Army glancing in my direction.
Clay shakes with a laugh. “He left a handprint?”
I show her my neck and the reddish-purple busted blood vessels right above my collarbone. “He left marks everywhere,” I say. “Do you want to see the insides of my thighs?”
Liv stops right behind Clay and cocks an eyebrow at me.
I swallow. “You walked into that one out of context. Sorry, babe.”
She knows better anyway.
She steps up to Clay’s side, amusement in her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Do you really want to know?” Clay folds her smile between her teeth.
Liv heads behind the counter, toward the kitchen. “Probably not,” she mumbles. “I’ll get the pie.”
I smile after her, then look to Clay. “So, what do I do? How do I figure out which one it was?”
“Well, I’m guessing more of him than just his dick touched you last night, right?” she presses. “See which one starts acting familiar with you. Putting his hands on you. Looking at you differently. Being flirty.”
I look over at the guys’ table, Trace fitting together six packets of sugar, ripping them open in unison, and pouring them all in his iced tea at the same time.
“Any of them besides Trace doing that today?” she asks.
Iron chews his ice.
“Maybe,” I murmur. “I mean, we can probably rule out Dallas, right?”
“Did it feel like him?”
I look at Dallas’s back, a bad taste hitting my mouth. “Well, it wasn’t hate-fucking, but … it was aggressive, I guess.” I shoot her a look. “God, if it was him, I probably don’t want to know. It wouldn’t be him, right? He hates Saints.”