“Slash wants to talk to you,” he said, holding out a phone.
Colter offered me a regretful glance but took the phone and walked away with it.
One look at Saint told me he knew exactly what he’d interrupted.
“I’d say sorry, but you two are fucking like rabbits. There’s never a good time to interrupt.”
“Did you rat on us to Slash?” I asked, watching his face, daring him to lie to me.
“Rat on you?” he asked, brows scrunching. “Babe, Colter already told Slash about you two.”
“He what?”
“Yeah, short of pissing on you, he’s claimed you in every way he could think of. Wouldn’t be surprised if the whipped bastard had your name tattooed above his junk.”
“He doesn’t.”
“You would know.”
It was one thing for us not to hide around Saint and Syn. It felt like a whole other thing to know he’d had a talk with his club president about what was going on with us. To ‘claim’ me to everyone important to him.
There it was again, that little shivery sensation.
Only, it wasn’t so little anymore.
It felt like it was getting stronger each time it happened. Harder to deny. Harder still to try to call by any other name but what it was.
Though, damn, I was fighting for my life when it came to trying not to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else.
“Do you have a problem with it?” I asked, watching as Sugar scented Syn then turned and ran toward him, her tail wagging.
“With you and Colter?” Saint clarified.
“Yeah,” I said, turning to look at him.
“My only problem would be if you’re leading that guy around by the dick when he’s trying to give you his heart.”
I didn’t expect for those words to rip my defenses away like they did.
Because he had me nailed down, didn’t he?
I was trying to focus on the sex, on the simple shit.
When Colter was doing everything to show me that he wanted the complicated stuff. The stuff I didn’t even know if I could commit to.
“I’m…”
“An emotionally constipated commitment-phobe?” he cut me off. “Yeah. Trust me. Those vibes are popping off you. It’s probably something that Colter was first drawn in by. The chick who doesn’t need to be taken care of. But the one who fucking desperately needs it at the same time.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of,” I snapped.
But Saint went ahead and ignored that.
“And the thing with Colter is, he’s a caretaker. That’s his whole schtick. He wants to give. He wants you to take. He’s perfectly happy to be whipped.”
“But?” I asked, sensing it hanging in the air.
“But I want to make sure you’re not making him your own personal whipping boy. Because you’re too dense or too defensive or too fucking dumb to see what you’ve got.”
