“I need to take a shower,” I announce, jumping out of bed. I don’t wait for her reply or look back to see her face. I can’t let this fucking happen.
Blasting the shower to cold, I punish my skin beneath its icy spray, but it does nothing to calm my raging hard-on, the veins pulsing violently. Gripping the base, I tug upwards. Stroking my thumb over the head, I groan from the contact. Willa’s body heat, the soft, supple touch of her flesh against mine, aids my hand. Picturing her biting that fat lip while I eat her pussy sends violent need surging through me. I want to come on those lips, tits, thighs. Fuck. I jerk faster, work my cock harder. Heat spreads up my spine, and my balls draw tight, pumping ribbons of come over the tiles. It doesn’t offer the relief I need, but it will have to fucking do.
Turning off the shower, I open the glass door and halt all movement. Willa is standing there, bottom lip tucked between her teeth, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. “You’re beautiful,” she murmurs. Fucking hell. This can’t fucking happen, Willa. I want her to know that—without me telling her. If she pushes even a little, I don’t think I can deny her.
“I’m making breakfast.” She grabs a towel and hands it to me. “Just eggs.” She smiles. “I can’t mess that up, right?”
“Depends on what type of eggs you plan on cooking.” I smirk to break the tension, wrapping myself in the towel to hide my still throbbing cock from view.
“There’s more than one type?” she gasps, feigning shock before leaving the room with a giggle. I’m fucked.
One of the walls in the living room is finished. It was dark when I got home last night, so I hadn’t noticed until now. Taking the seat opposite Willa, my stomach grumbles. Luckily, it looks like she can cook eggs.
“You’ve been painting?” I ask.
“I hope it’s okay. I just wanted to keep busy and help out.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s nothing in comparison to what you’ve done for me.” She pushes scrambled eggs around her plate. “Speaking of, with Milo being…”
She struggles to finish her sentence, and is saved from having to when my cell starts vibrating across the table. Jameson’s name flashes like a neon cock block.
“It’s fine. Take it,” she assures, grabbing my plate and filling it.
“What’s up?” I bark down the line.
“Heard back from Royal Bastards’ contacts. The shooting was logged as a rival gang. We’re in the clear.”
“That’s good news.”
“Yeah. I have some more to deliver in person. You home?”
“Yeah. Getting some work done on the house.”
“I’ll be over in thirty.”
I end the call, watching Willa move around my kitchen like she’s at home. “You want to help me paint some more?” I ask, my chest aching when a broad grin lights up her entire face.
“Sure! I’d love to.”
Fourteen
Willa
Gabe hums while he paints. I don’t know what song it is, but I love listening to him. We’ve covered every wall in the living room, and he’s just finishing off the ceiling. It feels good. Intimate. I think my emotions are all muddled from everything that’s happened. It’s insane to feel so strongly toward someone I’ve just met.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, pulling my head from the cloud it’s floating on.
“I think maybe a nice gray for the hallway,” I offer, hoping I’m not overstepping.
Smiling, he strokes his finger down my nose. “You have a little something on your…” The wet slide of paint from his finger coats my nose.
“You didn’t.” I gape, holding up my brush threatening.
“Don’t do it, Will,” he taunts, holding up the roller as his weapon. His shortened version of my name sends butterflies fluttering through my tummy.
“Am I interrupting?” Jameson asks from the doorway. God, how are they both built like tanks but move like mice? Lurk much?
“Your idea of thirty minutes is bullshit,” Gabe scoffs, dropping his roller and wiping his hands on his shirt. It’s covered in speckles of paint along with his hair and face. I dread to think about what I look like with a white line down my nose.
“Had to do school crap.” Jameson lifts a shoulder like it’s the norm. I remember Gabe mentioning Jameson having sisters. Maybe he helps out with them. Gabe hasn’t mentioned kids.
“Do you want a cup of coffee or tea?” I offer, trying to find more confidence around Gabe’s friend.
“Damn. Maybe she is a keeper.” He smirks to Gabe, who offers him his middle finger in response.
“Coffee would be great, darling. Thank you.”
Once we’re settled in the kitchen, Jameson drops a folder on the table.
“I had someone look into your family,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather. “Found your mother.”
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“What?” I choke on the salvia in my mouth. “That can’t be…she’s dead.”