Tris is the family do-gooder, the kid who was always saving wounded animals and looking out for the under dog growing up. Val is our rebel, blazing his own path without giving a good God damn what anyone else has to say about it.
And then there’s me, somewhere in the middle, torn between my heart and my head, my personal goals and my family obligations.
My dick and the sound knowledge that getting a stranger pregnant is a stupid idea under any circumstances, no matter how sad and beautiful a woman looks crying in the moonlight…
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Jillian
He squeezes my hand, and I tense, then give in to the momentary sensation of his big hand covering mine, reassuring me once more.
“And I’m all in with this, too.” He lets go of my hand, and I wish he’d touch me again, even though I can’t let my mind go there.
“This is a one hundred percent volunteer project,” I say, making sure he’s clear on the terms. “You’d be donating your time freely.”
“Puppies, Jillian. Puppies.”
I smile. “There will be kittens, too.”
“Meow,” he says, brandishing his hands as claws. His huge hands. My mind flickers briefly to how those hands would look wrapped around my waist. They’re so big, they’d cover me, hold me, dig into my hips. A ribbon of heat unfurls in my body, and I can feel my cheeks flush.
“You okay? You just thinking about me and all the pussycats?” he asks with a wink.
God, I’m thinking about him making me purr, and it’s filthy. It’s wanton. The way my body reacts to him is dangerous.
I need to keep my head in the game. “I am. I have some great shots planned. We’ll do them all in the Bay Area to support local rescues. It shouldn’t take up too much time. Probably a week or ten days, and it would end shortly before training camp begins.”
“Sounds perfect. I only have one stipulation.”
My heart sags. There’s always a catch. “Sure. What is it?”
“We need to take one of the pictures at the Miami Humane Society.”
“That’s in Florida,” I say, after a beat.
“It is?” he asks in mock surprise.
“Jones,” I chide.
“I had no idea where it was located. Are you sure it’s in Florida?”
“Ha ha.”
“Where is Florida? Is that all the way on the other side of the country?”
I sigh playfully and then hold up my hands in surrender. “Why do you want to—?” Then I remember. “Cletus is a hurricane dog.”
Last year, Jones helped one of the local rescues that had taken in animals evacuated from shelters during the big hurricane. He’d donated time then adopted a dog.
“His name would have been Irma if he’d been a girl. I’m glad he’s a boy, though, and it would mean a lot to me if we could support the shelter where he’s from.”