Page 60 of Too Safe

“Go get cleaned up,” he says, tilting his head toward the bathroom.

I start toward the en suite without a second thought. Bizarrely, his dominance doesn’t grate on my nerves the way Decker’s does. Maybe because I never expected him to be so bossy—orvocal—in the bedroom, or in this case, against the door.

Bottom lip pulled between my teeth, I offer him a coquettish smirk over my shoulder.Did we really just do that?

“Jo,” he scolds, running one hand through his hair and tugging on the ends. “Don’t look at me like that.” He puffs out his cheeks and blows out a long breath, pulling out his phone from his back pocket to check the time. “We really do have to go.”

“Take this,” he tells me, holding out the vibrator. “I’ve got to go change my pants.”

A surprised huff escapes me as my focus drops to his crotch.

Holy shit. Yep, he does. I didn’t realize he’d come, too. But there it is. Literally.

“Be downstairs in two minutes,” he instructs, lunging forward. He kisses me once more before unlocking the door and taking off toward the staircase at the end of the hall.

Chapter 23

Kylian

Mydadalwaysmadepancakes on Sunday mornings.

Fluffy monstrosities with crisped edges, smeared with butter and doused in syrup.

I’d sit at the kitchen table and watch the way he warmed the skillet, waiting until the butter was sizzling to spoon out the batter.

He was a patient man every day of the week, but he was different on the weekends. Relaxed. More playful.

Easy like Sunday morning, he’d say.

Mom would sleep in, eventually joining us when the smells from the kitchen overwhelmed the house. Sometimes it was a good smell. Sometimes it wasn’t. Dad usually burned at least one batch of pancakes.

I guess not everything was easy on Sunday morning.

She’d shuffle into the kitchen, wrapped in her robe, and tousle my hair before she sauntered toward my father.

He’d wrap her in his arms, and they’d stand in front of the stove, rocking back and forth in an awkward dance as Dad sang a song from the 1980s under his breath.

The references to sorcery were off-putting enough. But then there were the words.

I’d pull up the lyrics on my tablet, repulsed by the glaringly bad grammatical error in the middle of the chorus.

Clocking in at 161 beats per minute, the time signature was expectantly peppy. It wasn’t a bad song, per se. Fine, even. But the words.

References to magic and arousal. Seductive lyrics paired with a seemingly innocent beat. I didn’t get it. I didn’t like it. I didn’t understand any of it: the lyrics of a love song, or the impractical, sickly sweet Sunday morning ritual between my parents.

As a child, I watched my parents often. Observing them, studying how they interacted. Pondering what, exactly, was so appealing about cohabitation, compromise, and all the other complications that came along with a relationship.

None of it made sense back then. It wasn’t black and white.

I would scowl at those song lyrics, desperate to derive meaning from the words my dad recited to my mom every weekend like a solemn vow.

I didn’t understand any of it until this moment. Untilher.

Over the top rim of my glasses, I catch sight of Jo just as she stretches her arms overhead, inadvertently pushing against the stretchy black fabric of her tank top.

Fuck. She has great tits. I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time savoring her this afternoon.

Shaking my head, I tear my attention away and scan the boat, stopping on Decker, who’s watching me from the bench seat opposite mine.

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