“It was fine,” I tell her.
She nods and folds her arms over her chest, pushing those round, large tits together. I put my hands behind my back, forcing them to remain still, so I don’t grab her shirt and tear it down to give me a look at her cleavage.
My dick is in pain, my need for her is so great.
The tip tingles and my seed writhes up and down my hard length, roaring at me to push myself into her soaked slit right this second.
“I guess I’m not the best at making small talk, Mr. Tanner.”
“Call me Trent,” I snarl.
It’s fucking absurd, the woman of my dreams – the future mother of my children – calling me by my surname.
“Okay, Trent.”
She smiles and our eyes meet.
I have to look away before the desire to claim those pouty, full lips overwhelms me.
“So how have you been?” I ask, which is an absurd question to be directing toward my woman.
We should be discussing how many children we’re going to have together, how she’s going to juggle her photography career as well as raising our kids. A camera sits on the sparkling counter – this place is impressively clean – and I remember, in snippets, how obsessed Tess was with photography when she was a kid.
“Not too bad,” she says.
She’s still hugging her arms across her middle, drawing my eye relentlessly, making it impossible for me to turn away. My fingers twitch with the need to magnetize to her large, suck-me-now tits.
“How specific,” I smirk. “What have you been doing since high school?”
Her face drops and she stares at the floor.
Guilt spirals into me.
I want to tell her I’m sorry, which is damn strange because I rarely tell people that. But I want to roar it, to make whatever she’s feeling go away, so she never has to experience pain or heartache again.
“Tess, what’s wrong—”
“Dad,” Angela says, striding up behind me. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”
I turn to my daughter and open my arms, love, and guilt twisted up in my chest. This was supposed to be a solely happy occasion, returning home to spend more quality time with my daughter than I have in years.
But now, as I pull Angela into a hug and squeeze her tight, I can’t stop thinking about my woman, about the way her expression shifted when I asked her what she’d been up to.
“What do you think of this place?” Angela says, once our embrace is over.
I look around the diner.
“It’s empty,” I say.
“No.” She glares. “I mean—yes, it is. But not that.”
I chuckle. “Oh, it’s clean. Very clean. You’ve done an amazing job.”
She beams and throws a significant look at my woman, at her best friend, not my woman.
For fuck’s sake, what the hell is wrong with me?
“How long until you close up?” I ask.
“About ten minutes. Do you want a coffee while you wait?”
“Sure.”
I walk over to the nearest booth and drop down, glad for an obstacle between my groin and my woman. My manhood has started to behave now, but I can’t trust myself not to get carried away as I drink in the sight of Tess again.
“I’ll get it,” Tess says, striding away from us.
That skirt she’s wearing hugs tightly onto the round bulbs of her ass, screaming at me to upend the table and sprint over to her, grab her thick flesh and massage and squeeze until she’s gasping and begging for more, more, more.
I ache with the need for it.
“So how does it feel, Dad, being back in Youngstone?”
I aim my best attempt of a smile at my daughter, which is hard at the best of times. I’ve never been much of a smiler. But now, with my features trying not to constrict into beastly snarls and lust-filled grunts, it’s doubly difficult.
“I’m happy to be home, with you,” I tell her. “I know I’ve been away a lot, maybe too much. But my men needed me.”
She nods, as she always does when we discuss my time with the SEALs. Unless a person has served, they will never understand how loyal we are, how loyal we need to be. It’s the difference between a funeral and your next birthday.
“But I’m excited,” I go on. “I’ve got my pension… which makes me feel damn old, but still.”
“Old?” Angela laughs, sliding into the seat opposite me. “Forty-two is hardly ancient. And you’re fitter than most men our age, isn’t he, Tess?”
There’s a loud crashing noise as Tess drops a mug.
“Darn” she grunts. “Ah, sorry. Where’s that dustpan and brush? Don’t tell Kayleigh, Angela. She’ll take it out of my wages.”
I stare across the diner at her, as the tension moves across her features. The idea of her being worried about the cost of a mug drives a stake of rage into my skull. My woman shouldn’t have to worry about such petty things.