The triple threat.
I almost giggle but bite down on my lip until the urge passes.
War clearly notices. When my vision finally clears enough to take in his face, I notice he looks decidedly amused.
“Were you thinking about hot alien smut?” he asks.
“I was, but only because I thought you were so much better. You don’t need three dicks to be a god in the sack, War. My pussy is incredibly happy. She gives you five out of five stars. Would definitely sit on your sexy sausage again.”
We keep a straight face for all of point eight of a second before we both laugh.
“Should we shower? Get dressed? Watch a movie?” War asks, pushing my curls behind my ear and nibbling at the lobe.
“Yeah,” I respond lazily, arching into him and wriggling my ass temptingly. “Right after you wrestle me onto my back and show me just how much fun vanilla sex can be.”
Chapter seventeen
Warrick
You can’t just quit your job without expecting heavy fallout.
I sent my notice to HR like every other person in the world instead of going to my parents. My dad is the CEO, but because of the way my grandpa structured the company, no one gets to be a majority shareholder. Even if my dad was, I wouldn’t have given my notice to him and spat in the faces of everyone else there, letting them feel like they didn’t matter.
No one is going to change my mind, but instead of flipping the middle finger to a place that’s only ever been good to me, filled with people who work hard and are likable, I wanted to give two weeks so the company wasn’t scrambling, and my departure didn’t cause anyone undue stress.
You know, the mature thing to do.
Though, according to my mother, it’s the end of the world.
When she let herself into my house this morning—major note to self: Change the damn door pad code—I was expecting her. I gave my notice yesterday at five, right before most people in HRleave for the day. I figured it would take at least a few minutes for it to reach my father and that he’d have to work up his courage for a few days in order to tell my mom.
I was wrong. Apparently, he took all night.
It’s five-thirty in the morning, and I’m up early because I want to get a workout in before I shower and have breakfast with Amalphia.
We’ve been doing that every day for the past few weeks. I was never more than agrab a banana or an apple and a cup of coffee and hustle my ass out the door to get to the office early so already long days don’t turn into leaving the office at eight or ninekind of guy,but I’ve found that I’m actually a breakfast guy.
I can’t wait until my two weeks are up, and I’m free to set my own schedule. I want to have all the breakfasts with her.
I want to have her for breakfast.
I want to take my time.
Anyway, my mom launches straight into the tirade I was expecting, and she ticks all the items off the mom guilt list.
I’m an ungrateful son. (Untrue.)
I’m leaving them in the lurch, creating a hole that can’t be filled. (Untrue.)
I’m throwing my life away. (Untrue.)
I should have let them know first before I humiliated them like this. (Possibly true, but the end result would have been this conversation happening a few days ago instead of right now, playing out exactly the same way.)
It’s amazing that I can hear anything above my mother’s shrill ticking off of all my past, present, and future failings, but my ears pick up the gentle woosh of the sliding door opening and closing in the kitchen.
I thought Amalphia was asleep, but either she was up for the morning and was unexpectedly walking into a bomb blast, or she heard the screeching outside and came to rescue me.
I try to cut my mother off, but there’s no stopping her. Literally. She doesn’t even falter when I open my mouth.
