I need someone else here to keep me from doing anything stupid.
Like grabbing Margot and hauling her into the bedroom and tearing her clothes off and devouring her mouth and her skin and her pussy and basically any part of her that I can touch and lick and suck on and then some.
Fuck on a cupcake, she tasted like cinnamon and chocolate and temptation, and one kiss is not enough.
Especially after watching her split that wood.
It was equal parts funny and beautiful, and I’m just fucking gone.
I can barely keep my boner under control beneath the table, while she’s carrying on as if we’re practically strangers instead of two people whose tongues were wrestling twenty minutes ago.
“You don’t have a dog like Jack does?” Margot—Margieis asking Lucky as we eat roasted potatoes and carrots andbalsamic-glazed chicken that I barely taste for being distracted by everything about her.
“Nah, I work too many hours,” Lucky says. “So I get to be a dog uncle instead, which is even better than being a real uncle, because real uncles have to change diapers. Plus, dogs don’t have opinions the way almost-four-year-olds do. Ask me how I know.”
“So that’s why you chose geriatric care? Because it’s easier than pediatrics?”
He chuckles. “Nah. Honestly, it picked me.”
She smiles at him, and I want to punch him for stealing one of her smiles from me.
He’s herbrother. She’s not doing anything else with him. This is platonic. Family-ish.
And I still want to punch his stupid face in.
And I rarely want to punch people.
Get a goddamn grip, O’Malley, I order myself.
“You like working with older people then?” she asks.
“Are you serious? I fucking love it. Seasoned people tell the best stories. They’ve seen things.”
“And you have no stories of your own?”
The way the dude’s eyes twinkle leaves no doubt. “Might have a few. We have fun around here. How about you, Rhys? Accidental face and hair dye job aside, you have any stories?”
I look at him, then at Margot, almost forget the question, remember it when she stifles a smile that should’ve been aimed at me, then look back at Lucky. “Yeah. I have a story or two.”
“Anything about Decker?”
Focus, idiot. “I don’t sell out my friends.”
“Probably already heard it,” Lucky says.
“Then you tell it.”
“He’s no fun,” Lucky says to Margot.
“He taught me to chop firewood,” she replies.
“Split,” I correct, latching on to the one thing I have at ready disposal in my brain. “Split firewood.”
Lucky smiles at her. “No shit? You any good?”
“I girlbossed it.” She flexes a bicep.
He holds out a hand for a high five while my dick reacts to Margot Merriweather-Brown pretending to be Margie Johnson pretending to be a badass.
