He rasped out a growl as he returned to my cleavage. "I haven't forgotten how much you liked the dickandthe dickhead, Bam. You haven't forgotten either."
"You know what? I don't need this." I scooted forward to get off the table, but JJ fisted the hem of my sweater, held me in place. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but I don't need you for this."
"You wouldn't be here if that was true." He twisted my sweater around his hands until it tightened against my body. "I'm not mocking you and I'm not taking your shit either. I want your tits in my mouth and I'll debate some fuckin' mermaids with you while I do it if that's what you need to make it work in your head." He turned his hands once more, banding the cashmere under my bra like a tourniquet. He leaned close, his short beard tickling my neck, and pressed his lips to my jaw. "But if your ass isn't waiting for me at my house within thirty minutes, don't think you'll ever play this game with me again, Bam."
A gasp shuddered out of me as he tightened the sweater once more and kissed my cheek, right at the corner of my lips. Then he was gone, the door swinging behind him.
My fingers pressed to my not-quite-kissed lips, glanced down at the wrinkled, stretched-out mess he'd made of my sweater. "Look what you've done now."
Chapter Fourteen
JJ
Compound Interest: interest paid on previously earned interest as well as principal.
"You're closing up, kid,"I called to Nate as I blew into the bar.
I'd spent twenty minutes pacing the short length of the walk-in refrigerator. I'd solved all of jack shit in there. I stepped up to the point of sale system as I adjusted the unflagging bulge behind my zipper, but that didn't escape the notice of my bar hand.
"Did you hear me? You're closing."
He eyed me up and down before saying, "This seems like the type of situation where I should advise you to run far and fast in the opposite direction."
"From Brooke?" I asked, hooking a thumb over my shoulder toward the storeroom of ill-repute. "Nah, I've tried that. Doesn't help. She's the kind of storm you ride out."
"You're sure about me closing? I'm allowed to do that?"
I tapped the screen to run a day-end report. He'd been on the job more than six months now and I'd learned enough about him in that time to know he could handle more than his history of guilty pleas and rehab stays suggested. His humor was dark and his work ethic was mile-long, and he hadn't slipped up once since leaving his treatment program. "Why the hell not?"
Nate continued unpacking a crate of freshly washed glassware. "Would you like that in brief form or bullet points? Chronological order or degree of severity? My parents prefer chronological, if you were wondering."
I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbed my thumb across my brow. I knew everyone had their limits, but I couldn't understand why Nate's parents insisted on persecuting him for his mistakes while he worked his ass off turning his life around. It was a fine thing that they'd stopped coming in here, because that shit wasn't helping anyone. "This isn't the time to be self-deprecating. Just tell me whether you can handle the close-up checklist."
"Yeah. I have this under control." He glanced between me and the door. "I'd thank you for trusting me with the responsibility, but I don't think this decision has anything to do with me."
I closed my hands around the edge of the countertop, dropped my head between my shoulders. My entire body throbbed. Every last inch of me. This fuckinghurtand I was the only one to blame. I could've stripped off Brooke's clothes and given us what we needed right there in the back room. All I needed was five minutes to finish her off and send her on her way.
But the same part of me throbbing from nothing more than her skin under my lips couldn't accept five minutes in a storage room. It'd taken me months to admit it to myself, but I wanted her naked between my sheets, mouthing off about everything, taking her sweet time as she struggled on my cock.
And I fucking hated that.
My life was too busy and my head too full to add the complication of Brooke-Ashley Markham. I had a tavern to manage, a distillery to open, a business partner obsessed with pirates and hard seltzers, a foster child bar hand trying to find his sea legs, and now that months had passed without her looking me in the eye once, Brooke was back and starved for attention. That was all she wanted from me—attention. Sex was part of it, sure, but not the entirety.
"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't ask," I said to Nate. "This is your last chance, kid. Tell me if you're prepared to close."
He swung his gaze from side to side, a frown deepening as he scanned the tavern. "Can I call you if there's a problem?"
I didn't need the complications that came with Brooke. I didn't need the distraction or the drama, or the months-long sexual hangover that followed a night with her. But needs and wants were two separate, distinct creatures.
I folded my arms over my chest, gave a quick shake of my head. "There's not a chance in hell I'm answering my phone after I leave here."
Nate stared at the door to the back room, narrowed his eyes. "Is she still in there?"
"Probably not," I replied. "There's a delivery bay, an exit to the alley, and four windows. I'm sure she went through one of them. She's crafty."
"That's—well, okay." His brows arched up his forehead. "Yeah, all right. I can do this."
"You're a good man, Nathan." I clapped him on the back. "If everything goes wrong, just lock the doors behind you. Try not to start any fires or floods."
