He couldn’t. Words wouldn’t form.
“Tell me to stop.”
Did he even want to? He wasn’t sure what was happening here, but Nico didn’t want to shove Stone away. He didn’t want to tell him no. He wanted … fuck. Possibly, for the first time in his life, hewanted.
The arousal was so potent it robbed him of breath and sense at the same time. There was no way Stone couldn’t feel the steely length of his erection because they were pressed together from chest to groin.
“I didn’t realize you played for both teams,” Stone taunted.
“I don’t.”
“No?”
Nico hissed when Stone reached down with his free hand, grinding his palm along the outline of Nico’s dick.
Yeah, you fuckhead, I’m hard. So fuckin’ what?
“You like this. You like it rough.”
Damn him. He wasn’t asking for confirmation. He was telling him, and since Nico couldn’t very well deny it, he gave a very slight nod.
“You want me to do dirty fuckin’ things to you, don’t you?”
Because he refused to be completely mowed down by this guy, Nico pressed his hips forward, grinding against Stone’s hand as his official answer.
The sound of Stevie’s excited squeal broke through the memory, drawing Nico to the present. He stepped back from the stove, remembering what he’d been doing before that memory had consumed him.
“You got a puppy! He’s adorable. When did you get him?”
Nico didn’t answer her, too focused on the smoke filling the kitchen.
“Shit,” he hissed when he realized he was burning the chicken.
Just likethat night, it looked like Stone could still drive him to distraction.
Nine
Stevie was in love.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
She’d never seen anything as adorable as this puppy in her entire life.
“What’s his name?” she asked Nico, aware of him banging around in the kitchen.
“Didn’t give him one,” he grumbled.
Stevie lay on the floor, knees toward the ceiling, letting the dog sniff her neck and face. She inhaled his sweet puppy breath, unable to stop smiling.
“Well, you gotta have a name,” she whispered, then raised her voice to talk to Nico. “What were you makin’?”
“Fajitas.”
Her stomach rumbled. She shouldn’t have been hungry because she’d gone to her dad’s for dinner. Unfortunately, Stan Shepherd hadn’t made his famous fried spaghetti like he promised. He lost track of time, or so he said. When she got there, she found him on the computer in his office talking to some woman he’d met online. At that point, thoughts of food had evaded her, replaced by the overwhelming need to warn her father that he couldn’t trust everyone he met on the internet.
“I’m not an idiot, Stevie,” he’d told her.
