Page 31 of Hard to Judge

I rapid fire.

Don’t burn our dinner.

He shoots back.

I would never.

Attached is a selfie of him standing over the stove with his sleeves rolled up and his forearm pumped with veins from the sauce base he’s flipping in the skillet.

I type back.

My mouth is watering.

When he doesn’t respond, I know he’s either jerking himself off or making certain he’s not burning the sauce. Either or both are fine with me. I save the pic to my camera roll for my spank bank, not that I need it with Arlo around.

He is more than I could have ever imagined. In every way.

The traffic today is minimal and we make it to the pristine building that stretches high into the sky in no time. It’s almost as big as my smile when I see Hota shift from the devastatingly sexy lean he has going against the building.

Leonard doesn’t bother to get out for Hota. The two have gone round and round over the years and finally agree that Leo won’t open the door for Hota as long as Arlo isn’t in the car.

I lean forward and open it for him.

He braces his hand on the top of the car and leans down. “I can open my door, sunshine.”

Good Lord, this man is beautiful. His face is that of a legendary samurai warrior depicted on silk scrolls but in real life. His brows are thick, and his eyes are so deep they pull you in like tar. The cut of his jaw and cheekbones are model worthy, and the pout of his mouth could star in its very own porno.

He drapes himself across the open doorway, probably because I’ve yet to move out of his way. He’s relaxed like a large jungle cat, but I know he could strike without warning.

“And I can get myself off, pretty panther, but I’d rather you do it for me.”

Just as I expected, Hota moves without warning. He’s in the car and crowding me before I register it.

His hands brace my waist and move me farther into the car, but not to the other seat. He closes the door without taking his eyes or his hands off me. His fingers tighten around my middle.

“Don’t,” he whispers. It’s more ominous than any snarl. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

Hota’s stomach is close to my hip, heating me through his black-knitted sweater while his khaki trench envelops my arms, which have gone to his chest. I feel his heart kicking under my touch.

“I don’t,” I promise.

“Then your mouth is going to get us all in more trouble than we can handle,” he rumbles, staring directly at my lips.

“From what I can tell.” My breaths come in measured pants. “We’ve all handled more than our fair share of trouble.” I lift my chin, not backing down from his bravado for a second.

“I don’t know about you.” His hands go impossibly tighter on my waist. “I’ve had enough trouble to last three lifetimes. Arlo has had five times that.” His upper lips curl, and his teeth show. “Why beg for more?”

“Because you deserve more.”

“Trouble?” he spits.

“More of Arlo. More for yourself. More of the things you want most.”

Hota picks me up, moves me to the far edge of the seat, and then retreats to his side. He takes his warmth and sudden hostility with him.

His chest heaves with ragged breaths. He folds his arms over his thick pecs and seethes. The sinew of his jaw ticks with words he chews instead of speaks. His warm eyes stay forward and far away from me.

I let him stew for several blocks. Too many for my liking.

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