“So close,” she pants. “Please, Tommy. Please, please, please . . .”
Abby Haddock begging to come is the sweetest sound I will ever hear.
I run my palm up her spine, digging my fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her up. Because I want to be closer, need to feel her deeper.
My arm is a band across her stomach, holding her still as the pace of my hips quickens. Abby’s back presses against my chest and she turns her head, silently reaching for my mouth. I kiss her roughly and slide my hand between her legs, pressing two fingers to her clit. And then she’s stiffening in my arms and moaning down my throat as the bliss takes her. Her pussy clenches me, making my balls draw up and electricity race down my spine. I come hard, surging hot inside her as a string of curses falls from my lips.
For a bit, neither of us moves. We stay there still on our knees, pressed together and panting, with the same pulsing pleasure throbbing through our veins.
Then Abby opens those pretty green eyes and laughs.
“I swear it gets better every time.”
And she’s not even a little wrong.
A few minutes later, I’m buttoning my trousers getting ready to head for home and Abby’s in her gargantuan fluffy robe, heading for the bath.
“What’s your schedule tomorrow?” she asks, her hungry eyes on my abs as I pull my shirt over my head.
“I’ve got training with the new hires and a logistics review with a client’s security team. You?”
“Rounds, clinic, and an observation of a frontal craniotomy that will run late.”
“A brain surgery?” I lift an eyebrow. “I bet that turns you on.”
“It’s very exciting, yes.”
I nod. “Text me when you’re home no matter the time. I’ll come by and go down on you before you go to sleep.”
Even after what we just finished doing, and what we did before that—which involved a whole lot of her mouth and my dick—Abby blushes.
And it’s too damn adorable. I take her face in my hands and kiss her slow and soft. Then I reach around and slap her arse, just to keep her on her toes.
And that’s how it is with us. No tiresome talk about feelings or the future, no hard-on-deflating debates about where we stand or where this is going, or even worse, where it’s not, no annoying arguments about priorities or divided attention.
It’s just this simple. And easy.
Just this fantastically good.
* * *
Speaking of priorities—mine are obviously in full working order, as evidenced a few days later when I get an incoming text from Abby first thing in the morning. I’m at the S&S offices bright and early, and right in the middle of a tutorial from Stella and Amos on our new computer software that reports on the arrest and release records of local police departments around our security system clients’ homes.
Apple Blossom: My morning surgery’s been delayed. Can you come here?
Like the best sort of magic trick, my smirk—and my erection—appear instantaneously. Because while it might not seem like she means it in a dirty way, I know better.
Me: There, here, on your tits, your arse, against your lips—I can come lots of places.
I practically see her rolling her eyes on the other end of the phone. And it’s hot—my fondness for Abby’s eye-rolling is almost as perverse as my rabid fetish for her frown.
Apple Blossom: Meet me in 20?
Me: I’ll be there in 15.
Apple Blossom: Even better. 6th floor, end of the hall closet. Knock twice. I’ll be inside waiting.
I’d knew she’d be like this. Reckless and wild. Bordering on dangerous with the right man. No—fuck that—with me.
Me: Don’t start without me.
My cock twitches at the mental images of just what Abby starting without me would look like. And I rethink that statement.
Me: On second thought—do start without me. But only if you take photos.
I don’t think she’s ready for sexy selfies just yet . . . but it never hurts to try.
I slide my phone in my pocket and jerk my thumb over my shoulder, looking at Logan.
“Duty calls. I have to head out—something suddenly came up.”
And here’s where Lo’s serious side rears up to try and ruin all my fucking fun.
“We’re right in the middle of this. It’s important.”
I move backwards, holding up my hands like a lad sneaking out on chores to go and play. “You’re on top of it. You’re doing great. I have complete faith in you, mate.”
“Tommy—”
I make the sign of the cross in the air, blessing him—and then I’m jogging out the door, over to the Tube, because morning traffic is a mess and I don’t plan on wasting a minute.
Fifteen minutes later I stand outside the hall closet door at the hospital. No one gave me a second glance on my way up, because here’s a bodyguard trick: if you look like you know where you’re going and act like you belong there, rarely does anyone have the balls to question you about it.