Page 17 of Tracked By Hound

Shit, I should have realized it was a sore subject when he shut down earlier when I asked him if he had any plans of getting married and having kids. It’s the bubbles, they’ve clouded my mind.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” I hurry to say, closing a hand over his large forearm. “You don’t have to talk about them—”

“I don’t mind.” His rough tone says otherwise, but I don’t comment on it, choosing instead to run a soothing hand over his wet skin. “My parents spent a lot of time in and out of jail. Petty crimes that ranged from shoplifting to disorderly conduct and multiple visits from children services for child neglect. They made it abundantly clear that they never wanted me, reminded me every day so I never forgot.”

I shudder at his words; they’re cold, and his tone carries a deep-seated hatred. Is it any wonder he chose the profession he did? A man raised in a cold home grew into a cold, unfeeling man. One who doesn’t seem terrified by the thought of pulling a trigger. He was probably seeking the family he never had when he joined the Steel Rebels.

“I’m sorry,” I offer.

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice distant. Almost as if he’s re-living his childhood over again. “They were arrested for armed robbery when I was fifteen, and I decided I wouldn’t be there when they came back from jail. Packed my shit and left before children services could put me in a group home. I lived with an uncle for a couple of years and then left when I turned eighteen. Joined the military because I had nowhere to go, and later, the Rebels.”

There are questions I have, but with the mood suddenly so dark, I figure this isn’t the right time. I search my mind for what to say to chase off the dark cloud looming over us, but come up blank.

“I love gardening,” I blurt out when nothing else comes to mind. It’s so off topic that I feel Hound’s confusion frombehind me. “Nonna, my grandma in the nursing home, used to own this beautiful garden at her house in the suburbs. It had tomatoes and herbs like rosemary and sweet basil. One time, she and I were harvesting the tomatoes to make some sauce when I spotted this heart-shaped tomato. My grandma told me that if I placed the tomato on my nightstand and wished very hard on it at night, like one does a wishing star, then I would be visited by prince charming.”

“I assume you were not so easily fooled,” he says, his voice much lighter than it was a few seconds ago.

“In my defense, I was six,” I argue. “And I trusted my grandmother implicitly, so I took the heart-shaped tomato and wished on it every night, but the thing about tomatoes on nightstands is that they have a short lifespan.”

“Of course,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, well, let’s just say my prince charming never showed up.” I sigh, trailing a finger up his arm. “For all the wishing I did, I was rewarded by a swarm of ants. Someone tossed it in the garbage when I wasn’t looking.”

“My guess, you learned from that experience.”

“Hmm, not quite,” I muse, turning slightly to trail my hand over his firm pecs, loving the feel of his muscles under my fingertips. He hisses when I absentmindedly graze his nipple with my nail, so I do it again. “Nonna was great at weaving stories; I fell for so many of them.” I lay my hand flat on his pec, smiling when it shifts under my palm. “I’d bet you fifty bucks that she’s selling tall tales to all the little old ladies at the nursing home.”

“Fuck,” he hisses when I tweak his nipple playfully.

“I want to get back into gardening,” I say, sliding my hand down his chest to the firm ridges of his stomach, pretending not to notice the effect my touch has on him, though it’s heady. “The feeling of dirt under my fingertips and the smell of fresh herbs and vegetables was my favorite thing.” His stomach contracts under my touch as I count the ridges, wondering how much work he has to do to get his body this firm. “I don’t hate my job at the retail store, although the customers can be a bit much, but… If I had to pick, I would garden my entire life. Not much space for it here in the city, though.”

“Chelsea—”

“I can just see it,” I muse, dragging my nails softly over his skin as I picture myself on my knees in a small garden, sowing some tomato seedlings into the earth. “There was this one cute pair of brown overalls with sunflowers painted all over them. I used to wear them whenever we gardened. I wonder if I can find a similar pair. It was so long ago—”

Hound’s hand grabs my wrist and yanks me back from my fantasy. My brows draw in confusion at the move, so I look down at where our hands are joined. Heat climbs up my neck and brightens my cheeks when I realize my hand is inches away from his manhood—his very erect manhood.

“Oh,” I gasp, the sound breathy and uneven. “I… Sorry, I was so carried away that I didn’t notice.”

His eyes are hooded when I look up to meet them. “You got me all worked up, kitten,” he says, voice thick and husky. “I’m this close to bending you over this tub and fucking you senseless.”

“Oh!”

“I’m not going to do that, though. You’re sore,” he says, raggedly, releasing my hand, and I know I should pull back,apologize, and stop teasing the man when he looks like he’s in pain, but I don’t.

“Is there something I can do?” I ask, my eyes locked on his jutting cock, fascinated by the size. I bite my lip as I look up at him once more, all thoughts of mischievous grandmothers and gardening gone. “Maybe you can show me…teach me how to please you?”

“Teach you?”

“Yes.” I nod, wrapping my hand around his stiff cock. “Show me what you like, and I’ll do it.”

He studies me for a long moment, and I think he’s not going to say anything, so I experimentally stroke his heavy shaft. He groans, and I watch in fascination as those dark eyes glaze over. I realize that I haven’t seen him like this. He’s always the one pleasuring me, and now, I get to watch his reaction.

“You’re killing me, kitten.”

“Show me what you like,” I plead, my own sex pulsing with need, but I keep my focus on him. He starts to speak, but it morphs into a hiss when my fingers accidentally brush the crown of his shaft. My eyes widen in alarm, and I rush to apologize at the pained look on his face. “I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

“The opposite,” he chokes out, those gorgeous stormy gray eyes darkening further with what I’ve come to recognize as arousal. “Use both hands… Fuck, yes, like that.”

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