Can’t do it. Only one condom in his jeans, and she didn’t have any. He hadn’t been prepared for this; he was over the moon to have gotten laid; wished he’d foreseen it so he could’ve planned on a more active morning.
Lack of preparation aside, her crawling under the covers was a pretty obvious shutdown. Not that he couldn’t change her mind in a matter of seconds. Was tempted to try, but it would be a stupid move on his part, considering he couldn’t finish inside her, and he only ever wanted to finish inside her from here on out.
The jolt was belated.
From here on out.What the fuck was he thinking?
Tired. He was tired. Shit night. Cock milked beautifully. He wasn’t thinking straight.
Best to beat a hasty retreat before he did something monumentally stupid.
What, he couldn’t guess, but he didn’t want to surprise himself.
He shifted onto his elbow and looked at her. Again, his chest clenched, and his stomach dropped. She was asleep, passed right on out in his arms, for as much as she protested her trust in him. He was tempted to lie back down, fall into sleep with her.
But no. Too intimate, too dangerous.
He eased away from her.
Grabbing up his jeans, he slipped them on, hitching them up as he padded across the floor, his bare feet silently taking him out of the room. He glanced back at her with affection and appreciation, a cocky and delighted smile on his face.
Damn, but she’d surprised him.
He rounded the corner and headed down the glass hallway, looking outside, zipping up his pants. He startled as his eyes landed on the shocked face of Marge, just now stepping onto the porch skirt with a cardboard flat of croissants. Mac’s grin expanded as he made a lazy show of buttoning his jeans, relaxing into a saunter toward the sliding door he’d left open.
Marge met him there, her expression now indignant.
He reached out and took a croissant. “Thanks, I’m starving.”
Hostility rolled off her. She opened her mouth, presumably to ask what he was doing there. Considering where he’d come from, that he smelled like sex and was grinning like he’d had the fuck of a lifetime—all which should look familiar to Marge, considering his romp in her store’s bathroom—she snapped her mouth shut. She wasn’t going to ask the obvious. Instead, her eyes darted down the hall.
“She’s sleeping.” He winked. “Long night. Might want to let her get her rest.”
“You wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Marge hissed. “She doesn’t need your sort messing with her.”
“My sort?” Mac asked as he sidled by her and stepped outside. On one hand, he ultimately agreed with Marge; they were both on the same side with that sentiment. On the other hand, well, he enjoyed riling Marge, and hereallyenjoyed fucking Cassidy, so…
“She’s experienced too much pain in her short life already. There’s no good can come of you.”
Mac smacked a hand on his bare chest over his heart. “You wound me.”
“Your intentions aren’t honorable.”
He chuckled. “No, ma’am, they are not. Never said they were.”
“And you’re too old for her.”
“Came for blood, Marge,” he said with affected surprise.
“Leave her alone.”
Mac made a sound of regret and offered a half shake of his head. “Between Day and me, old woman. But your disapproval is noted. Don’t care, but it’s noted.” He stepped off the porch, sticking the croissant in his mouth, casually walking away.
Chapter thirty-three
Cassidy
GRAND CENTRAL STATION