“You can go, you know,” I say to him, and for some reason, I’m hoping for a reaction. I’m hoping for hurt or disgust or something. Why? Why does a person want to be a jerk to another person? And even with my complete self-awareness about what a jerk I’m being, the other side of me refuses to stop. Say it before they can and all that. It’s worked for me so far.
Hasn’t it?
“I ain’t going anywhere.”
I roll my eyes. “Ain’t isn’t a word.”
“Anything’s a word if you say it.”
With my eyes narrowed, I stare him down because, really, what do I say to that? You can’t argue with stupid.
Only… I really don’t think he’s stupid. Hell, like I’d know anyway. Look at my track record; I’m the fucking stupidest smart woman ever when it comes to relationships. A bachelor’s and a master’s, and I pick partners like a freaking dickhead.
His man bun is messy but in that stupid, hot windswept way, like he’s been riding a bike against sun all day. I want to roll my eyes, but they’re hooked on the silver hoop in his nose.
A moment passes where I know I’ve been caught studying his features like a complete creep, but I meet his eyes with my chin up. “You can go if you have somewhere else you’d rather be. I’m letting you off the hook, okay?” There. That was nice.
He rolls his eyes. He rolled his eyes at me! Unbelievable.
“Hey, I just let you off the hook. Don’t roll your eyes at me!” How rude can one man be? I don’t know; maybe he should write a handbook. He seems to be the master.
“I’m on the hook, and you ain’t the one lettin’ me off.” He smooths one of those things he calls a hand over the top of his head, making the flyaways lay down. I’ll bet his hand has that power. “I like Jett.”
Even though it crashed earlier, my heart twitches at the comment. I can’t help that. It’s an evolutionary trait built into all women, I swear. I’m supposed to tingle and pulse at the sight of a man with a child to make me want to bear children. It has to be built into us to like this, or men annoy us endlessly and we’d never procreate.
It’s not my choice that his face softening at the mention of Jett makes me feel warm between my legs. Wet, too.
“Fine. He has to eat. He’s already getting tired. Do you want to help feed him?” I ask.
He rises and outstretches his arms, but I pull my shoulder back, taking Jett with me. “No, you can go in the kitchen and watchmefeed him, but you’re not feeding him.”
His perfect length and width lips (not that I’m cataloging his looks or anything) curl up in a slow, nipple-hardening manner. Seriously, my tits actuallyachewhen a sinister grin takes over his usually stoic expression. “I like watching.”
I roll my eyes, despite the fact I’m a little shocked at his comment. So thereisa personality in there, hiding behind the grease. “Come on.”
He follows me in, and I swear when he walks past me, I’m freaking Flinstone-era clubbed with the smell of motor oil, heat-dampened skin, gravel-coated work boots, and… something musky. That last hit of Atticus makes my brain tingle a little strangely as my temples grow warm and my cheeks start to burn. That last note…
It’s the musky scent of a hard-working man. The type of man who, when you’re his, grabs you by the waist and fucks you while he sinks his fingertips into your throat, holding you possessively. The type of man who fights other men for even looking your way a second too long. The type of man who spits in your open mouth while he fucks you and makes you admit that you’re his property before he lets you cum.
I can fucking feel it.
Okay, maybe my track record with men proves Ican’tfeel it. In fact, everything I feel isn’tit. It’s the wrongit.
I snap Jett into his high chair and wipe his hands with a damp paper towel. He’s already nursed and been bathed, so he’s getting sleepy quickly. I’ll be lucky if I can get even half of this food in him.
Atticus sits down in that same pussy drenching spread knee position he was in before, only this time, he stacks his arms across his chest. After preparing Jett’s food, I sit in front of the tray and begin pushing pieces off.
“Feed it to him, don’t just push it onto the tray,” Atticus says after seriously, like, five seconds.
Twisting to face him, I glare. I think my nostrils may have flared once, too. “I didn’t ask for your input.”
He explores my cleavage before shamelessly coming to my eyes, not a single fuck on his face. “I don’t care.”
I turn back around and slide more cut-up sweet potato off the tray. Jett is taking handfuls and eating just fine. I feel the need to press this point, so I turn back around and find Atticus’s eyes hovering over the top of my jeans. When he meets my eyes, I roll mine. “He’s eating fine,” I say, not calling him out because he didn’t call me out earlier when I was clearly memorizing his entire face so I could masturbate to the idea of him eating me out later.
Kidding. Ish.
“Meals ain’t about eating. It’s about the experience.”