Page 31 of Won't Let Go
Well, damn…How am I supposed to respond to that?
“Thanks,” I mumble like a lame motherfucker.
Leaning closer, Bink lowers her voice. “I know you’re probably tired of hearing this, but we didn’t realize it was that bad for her. That she was in that much pain.”
“It’s okay,” I reply, to set her at ease. “Nobody did. We’re figuring it out now. Together.”
Together.
Yeah. That. In bed.
Now, if my cock and these wandering hands would get with the program, then that’d be aces. Waking up, cupping herthere.Fuck. That could have gone a million different ways. But her asking me to touch her sometime… I still can’t believe that happened.
Christ.
I jacked off in the shower after our workout, just thinking about it. Her in those tight black shorts, hugging all those curves, and that black tank top that left nothing to the imagination.Shhhiiiittt. I had a semi through half our reps. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice. Then she had to go and squat, and when she stood up, those shorts tucked right there, between those thick lips. I know it’s wrong to ogle a woman, especially when she’s working out, but… she’s Jade, and in my head, she’s mine and…. Fuck… she’s exquisite.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Bink comments.
“No. I’m lucky to have them.” I jerk my chin at the sweaty kid in ripped jeans and a stained white t-shirt. Pride knocks around in my chest, watching him do his thing. Hunter fits in here. He’s gonna make a fine brother when the time comes.
“That too.” Flashing me a smile, Bink bumps her shoulder into me just as Deke slams the hood of her car shut. Hunter wipes his dirty hands on the grease rag tucked in his pocket and drags his feet over to me as Bink and Deke lapse into a conversation about her vehicle.
Clasping my favorite kid on the shoulder, I squeeze him in hello before pulling him in for a quick hug. I may or may not kiss his gross forehead, but we act like it’s not a big deal. ‘Cause it’s not. We’re just two guys doin’ car stuff. It’s no biggie.
“How’s Mom?” Hunter asks, pitching his balled-up rag on top of a toolbox covered in stickers.
“She’s at work. Doin’ good. I convinced her to make mushrooms and brownies for dinner tonight. I’m grillin’ out. You wanna ride with me to pick out the steaks?”
Hunter turns to Deke and hitches his thumb to my bike parked out front. “Is it cool if I run with White Boy? I’ll be back in a bit.”
With a big, stupid smile, my blond brother waves him off. “Get outta here, kid.”
“Let me grab my backpack first.” Hunter turns and races toward the lounge where we store our shit, but stops short in the middle of the garage, spins to me, and gestures to his messyclothes. “I don’t wanna get you all dirty. I should probably change first.”
Rolling my eyes, I point to the lounge door. “Just grab your stuff. A little dirt never hurt anyone. But wash your hands.”
Hunter nods once and rushes to take care of business. He meets me at my bike when he’s through and grabs the helmet I offer him before climbing on. When I walk us to the street, he rests his hands on my shoulders.
“You ready?” I holler.
Hunter knocks the side of my helmet. “Hell yeah!”
Smiling at his enthusiasm, I rev the engine to put on a show I know Hunter loves, before aiming us toward town—the long way, so we get a little extra asphalt therapy. The sun is warm, the air sticky. There’s nothing sweeter than freedom and the rumble of power under your ass. This is the life.
When we park out front of the store, we make quick work of shopping. There’s no need to dilly-dally. Hunter snatches a few snacks for his room at the clubhouse, well, my room, and we select the best steaks—ribeye, for his mom.
In the baking aisle, Hunter pulls out his phone so we can piece together whatever shit Jade needs to make her brownies. A woman, around my age, smiles and giggles as she passes by with a basket.
“What kind of cocoa powder?” Hunter asks, flipping through a dozen online recipes.
Not knowing how to bake a damn thing, I throw three different types in the cart.
Hunter snorts and rolls his eyes. “Can’t you pick one?”
I arch a brow. “Why can’t you?”
“Fine.” He huffs, swiping through a long-ass recipe that’s more talky-talky than necessary. A million years later, he finally reaches the list of ingredients. “It just says sugar and flour. Whatkind of flour? Cake, regular, organic?” he rattles off, looking at the endless options.
