Page 34 of The Break Down

Air too warm.

Tank’s snoring in the middle of the night could probably be weaponized.

But my mind wasn’t on the miles left to New Orleans.

Not on the hours.

Not on the cramped muscles or the chattering from the newer lads.

My thoughts were still stuck, looping, replaying last night in filthy, maddening detail.

Her.

Finley, panting against my hand, her soft whimpers in my ear, her slick heat wrapped around my fingers like she was made for me.

Fuck, I was hard just thinking about it.

“Heads!” someone shouted.

Luca Warden, one of the loud-mouthed American rookies, lobbed a ball toward the older guys in the back, totally ignoring the unspoken rule about keeping things chill during travel hours.

It bounced off a seat and went wide, missing Ogre by an inch.

Lucky bastard.

Ogre once dislocated a guy’s shoulder in a pub for bumping into him too hard during a post-match pint. They called it an accident. It wasn’t.

The ball hit the aisle and ricocheted toward me.

I snatched it out of the air, quick and hard, and fixed Luca with a death glare that could curdle milk.

I didn’t snarl, technically. But close enough.

The kid blanched and turned the hell around.

Smart choice.

Tank leaned over from the seat beside me, smirking like he had a secret.

“Damn, Brother. What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?” He gave me a look. “Figured you'd be in a better mood after last night.”

I freeze.

Completely, utterly still.

My pulse is slamming into my ears.

He couldn’t mean what I think he means.

No one saw us.

I was careful. I made sure.

But if someone had?

---