But I owe her answers.
“Dove…” I slow the kiss, despite her sounds of protest.“Sweetheart…” I ease back, cupping her face.“We need to talk.And if we stay in this room, I’ll have come dripping from your lips, your cunt, and your sweet little asshole.”
A moan vibrates in her throat as she lowers her gaze to the chub tenting my jeans.
“Don’t even think about it.”I grab her discarded clothes and help her pull them back on.
Once we put ourselves together, I follow her to the door.
“Is there a place where we can talk?”I glance up at the ceiling, looking for cameras.“The walls out there have eyes and ears.”
“I know a place.”She fits her hand in mine, just like she did all those years ago, and leads me outside to the citrus grove.
Jungle heat hangs low beneath a sky layered with thick, silver clouds.The fragrance of sweet orange blossoms saturates the air.Green leaves gleam dark and waxy, and fruit glows like small suns against the shade.
I follow her to a stone bench set at the center, worn smooth by years of quiet use.
“Matias grew this grove for Camila.”She smiles up at the canopy of fruit-bearing trees.“Long before she was his.”
“Matias would argue that Camila has always belonged to him.”
“Is that true for you?Have I always been yours?”
“Yes, Little Dove.Say it again.”
“I’ve always been yours, Jag.”
My dick hardens, ready to thrust that promise deep inside her body.
Her eyes glimmer, and she pivots toward the citadel.
“Second floor.”She points upward, indicating a balcony tucked into white and glass.“That’s us.”
We sit side by side on the bench.I shift closer until our shoulders meet, until her thigh rests against mine.
Our hands find each other, fingers threading together, settling on my lap and taking me back to another time, to all the other benches that cradled us in the dark at night.
“All right.”I draw a slow breath and tip my head toward her.“Ask what you need to ask.Or I can start back when it was just us and the streets.”
“Tell me aboutyou, Jag.I want to know about the man you worked so hard to keep hidden.”
Pulse humming and shoulders loose, I stroll into the private suite with my new ride-or-die bestie at my side.
Frizz shuts the door behind us, and I scan the bougie space I’ll be sharing with Jag and Dove.
They’re not here.
Absence leaves a trace, and yeah, Jag and Dove left one.My eyes go straight to the bed.
Whatever happened, the mattress lost the fight.Sheets twisted, pillows flung, the quilt dragged halfway to the floor… If I press my nose to it, will I smell the climax of their reconciliation workout?
One can only hope.
Beside me, Frizz waggles his eyebrows, his lips twitching behind the stitches.
“Stepsiblings.”I clap him on the back.“They’re a whole genre of filthy.”
He folds in half, shaking with silent laughter.
