Her thighs locked around my hips, then she dragged a fistful of my beard down and kissed me—slow, hot, as if she had a point to prove. When she came up for air, those brown eyes sparkled—rules loading. Instructions incoming.
Journey whispered a hard command wrapped in a soft kiss. “I want Montana Babineaux tonight. Not thatbuzzard, Big Country.”
This woman was out here snatching entire beards and making administrative decisions. My whole world narrowed to her addictive mouth.
Respond? Who? Me? Impossible. I couldn’t even spell my name.M … O … T …?
She pulled in a breath, lips still against mine, and squeezed my beard again. “And don’t play me, Montana. No ghosting me tomorrow. We’re still friends. And if my baby hits you with a dinosaur pop quiz?—”
I laughed right into her mouth, still kissing her between words. “Bébé, I’ma know every damn dino. Long necks, sharp teeth.” I caught her bottom lip between mine and lightly tugged while pushing her dress up her hips. “Now, c’mere.”
My palms dragged down her bare flesh, cupping, massaging, claiming what was mine for tonight. And deep in my gut? That damn word stung.Once. Not ready to let go of this silk-wrapped in temptation, I said, “Journey?—”
“Stop calling me J—” She cut us both off with a kiss.
I worked my way down the hollow of her throat, and her heart kicked against my lips, pounding fast. I smirked against her skin, thinking I’d done that. She was trembling for me.
Then her entire body went still.
Her fingers pressed flat against my chest. Not shoving. Not teasing. Bracing.
“Bébé?” I murmured, but she wasn’t looking at me anymore.
Her eyes slid past my shoulder.
Something in the way they went wide—quiet, controlled, but terrified—dropped the air in my restaurant twenty degrees.
“Montana,” she whispered. Not that breathy, sexy way she’d called my name seconds ago. This one had an edge. A tremor that didn’t belong nowhere near us.
The corner of my eye caught movement.
Journey clung to me, every muscle quivering for the wrong reason, as I turned.
Four dudes in black slid through the front entrance of my restaurant, quiet as death. Hoodies drawn tight, faces half hidden.
My stomach hardened into stone.
I didn’t wear a chain tonight. But that didn’t stop them from clocking me for their payday.
Journey had me in a chokehold that could win medals. I pried her away, tugged her to her feet.
zuri
. . .
My eyes locked onto a man strolling into our empty restaurant. Shadows danced across his eyes, the rest of him concealed beneath a tightened hoodie. Then another and another until I counted four. How could Montana fight them all?
I’d caused this! Rushing into the restaurant because I couldn’t wait to get home. Then a lapse in judgment had me ready to strip Montana bare.Bareinside these beautiful, exposed brick walls of the Hot Chicken & Peach Pit Maison! Never mind the classy Creole aesthetic! A sistah had needs. The New Year’s resolution (I’d just made up), to have fun once every decade, played double Dutch in my mind until my eyes landed on the man.
Now, Montana unlocked my clinging hold. “Get in the kitchen. Lock the door.”
Sinister chuckles followed me across the herringbone wood floors as I took off.
Inside the chrome room, after a few tries, the emerald-green door remained flush without swinging. My hand hesitated at the lock. Shouldn’t I help? I never learned to fight. Didn’t have a pop or an uncle to teach me.
Body plastered against the door, I twisted the deadbolt and glanced through the tiny circular glass.
Here I was, trembling behind a closed door, watching Montana fight through the glass panel. Like some kickboxing ESPN reel.
