“Hobbies other than yer biting,” Rory grunts when she snatches a grape from his hand.
“Let’s see…” Briella muses, her eyes drifting to Raphael at the head of the table. She tugs down her newsboy cap, the one article of clothing Rory didn’t mind her having. She looks even more adorable and tempting with it holding back her curls.
With her gaze moving back to Seth, she presses her lips into a sneaky smile and goes on, “I’m an escapee from an insane asylum. I love to collect all sorts of plants. I also love to harvest the bones of men from my local swamp and brew theminto potions in my cauldron. And my favorite color is red. You know…like the color of your ear when I bit it off, Rory.” She turns back to him.
“Careful, Lass.” He taps her nose. “Ye have to wait for me to feed you. Nothing says I must comply.”
“Oh, good, because the bargain also doesn’t say I have to waitonlyfor you. “ She grins, sticking her pert nose up in the air. “Seth, baby?”
Good fucking night! Seth scrambles to his feet, knocking over the chair until Rory bangs his fist on the table. “Sit the fuck back down, lumber lad.”
I shove a hearty bite of pancakes into my mouth and turn to Raphael. “What’s on the agenda for the day?”
“New clothes for Briella,” he says without missing a beat, monitoring us all. Her reaction, most.
“Really?” she snaps her head to him. “Can I go?”
“No.” Raphael finishes cleaning his plate with a solemn shake of his head.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Briella narrows her eyes. “Look, I have seventeen plants at home who all depend on me, and don’t even get me started on how persnickety the ferns are. So, if you wouldn’t mind…”
Fuck, I scrub a hand down my face. With her plump tits jiggling like that from her annoyed breaths, it’s taking everything to resist hauling her into my arms and sitting her on my lap, straddling me, waiting formeto feed her.
Raphael looks at me. “Vincent, you and Seth will get her clothes…and her plants.”
Briella lifts her brows in surprise. Seth smiles and offers his hand in salute.
“I need to feed the goats,” I tell Raphael in a subtle form of protest.
“Briella will feed the goats and handle anything else along with Jude.”
She practically beams at the doctor, who nods at her and says, “I’ll show you the hoop house, and you can give us some tips for improvements.”
“Briella,” Raphael summons her, gesturing toward me. “Give Vincent the address.”
She tilts her head. “You have GPS?”
I shake my head since all we have is an old pickup truck for any longer trips. And a couple of old burner phones. Nothing that can be traced back to us. Too risky. Instead, I stand up, dump my plate in the sink quickly, then open the kitchen drawer nearest the fridge, pulling out the only thing we really need. “It’s called a map, Girly. Official GPS for thousands of years.”
Rory’s itching his crotch through the kilt, moaning and groaning from the inflammation, when Briella rises and wanders into the kitchen. Still gloriously naked and unashamed. Love how those purple curls wisp along her waist.
“Got a pen, Tats?” She trails a finger along my bare arm, tracing some of my flame ink. My biceps flex beneath her touch.
I like Vinny more, but I also appreciate how she uses it more when we’re alone. Without taking my eyes off her, I open the drawer on my side and grab a pen for her. My cock throbs with heat when she takes my hand and writes the address on my palm.
The second she’s done, I don’t let her escape. I sweep a hand around her waist, pull her to me, and kiss her slow and hard, kneading her full breast with my other hand until she shudders…and whimpers. Can feel her heartbeat pounding against my lower chest. Can feel her growing hot and flushed. If I lower my hand to her pussy, I’ll be done. I won’t leave this kitchen until she’s screaming from my hand….or mouth.
Briella may hate us for what we did to her—and she’s more than justified—but she’s also a dirty slut for us. A gorgeous dirty slut. But a slut nonetheless.
I tear myself away from her and follow Seth down the hall to the front door of the cabin. But when Jude lifts his head, I meet his eyes. It’s rare for any of us to leave our cabin complex. I read the concern in his expression. My muscles flex on instinct, and I chalk it up to our complicated past, a bond of physiological trauma. We share a firm, mechanical nod.
So, why do I still grab my hoodie when it still reads Briella’s handiwork? ‘Vinny “heart” Jude’.
34
Jude
“I HAD TO LOSE A PART OF MYSELF AND BECOME…SOMETHING ELSE.”
