Page 64 of Hard to Judge

“God-fucking-dammit,” he bellows. “You’d let me take you like this. No lube. No prep.”

It’s not a question so much as an awed statement.

“Yes, I would.” I nod, my cheek smooshed against the wall. “I’d let you have me any way, anytime, anywhere.”

It’s true. I know he doesn’t believe me, and it sucks. All I can do is prove myself to him over and over until he trusts me.

Until I trust myself.

“Fuck.” He releases my ass, tugs the pants up my legs, and tries to get them over my ass. My full cock is in the way. He curses in Japanese, tips my cock up, and finishes the job of covering me.

He presses his forehead against my nape and draws a deep breath. “We need to talk. I know that.”

“I shouldn’t have thrown all this on you so fast.” Still facing the wall, I grab his hand and thread his fingers through mine.

“So fast.” He laughs. There’s little humor in it. “I’ve been waiting for you for decades, asshole.”

“I’m sorry, Hota. Sorry for so much.”

“It’s about time you quit being sorry.” He turns me back around and kisses my forehead.

“We can talk whenever you’re ready. No rush.” I pull him toward his kitchen, where we find Hailey with her hair in a wild knot and smoke billowing from the oven.

“That was delicious. Thank you,” Hota says as he places the last of the dishes into the dishwasher and wipes down the counter.

My cheeks go hot. “Don’t thank me for breakfast. Thank me for not burning down your kitchen.”

His laughter is rich.

“It wasn’t even a close call,” Arlo reassures me with a hand on my bare shoulder.

The sweatshirt I’d pulled on from Hota’s closet is the whole reason I almost turned this condo into a bonfire in the first place.

I’d rolled the sleeves so many times, it made a lump at my forearms that I wasn’t accustomed to working with. When I placed the muffin tin into the oven, my new forearm roll bumped my boob, sloshing just a bit of batter into the bottom of the fancy appliance.

How was I supposed to know it would catch on fire?

Hota’s gaze zeros in on me, and his head shakes.

“What?” I cover the lower half of my face with my hands, embarrassed.

“It’s just amazing to me that you’re all flushed over a minor kitchen incident, yet you don’t blink when faced with some really kinky shit.” He dries his hands with the dish towel, making the muscles in his chest do all kinds of amazing things.

And his tattoos.

My mouth waters.

They are works of art. All fine lines in black ink, similar to mine. The content is wholly different. Discordant ribbons wrap around his right shoulder, snake across his chest, and hug his opposite hip. A knot ties them together across his sternum. Each ribbon hosts a different scene. One is cherry blossoms. Another is a detailed samurai battle. The other is a cloud scene with one long dragon weaving through the sky.

A frightening godlike man wraps around his left shoulder and nestles over his heart. Both his arms are free real estate.

Yesterday, I saw two massive cranes flying at each other across his back with an orange moon between them and a vast ocean full of rolling waves underneath.

“I’m not a really good cook. I guess it’s an insecurity.” I shrug.

“You havemanyother talents.” Hota’s eyes flame, and his lips twitch. “Besides.” He points at Arlo, who sits next to me at the island top. “He loves cooking and is really good at it. I don’t think you need to worry. He’ll keep you fed.”

“What about you?” I hike a brow.

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