Page 122 of Resist

“There’s not much to tell, really, except for her hobby is marrying men, screwing them over, and then going on a search for the next more handsome, wealthier man.” I’m matter of fact, no emotion.

“Is that what she did to your dad?”

“Pretty much. He’s down in Florida now, living off what he has left . . . and she’s moving on to what feels like husband number who knows.” I reach for my beer on the table and take a sip.

“Are you close?”

“Close? Not best buds, but regardless of her faults, she’s still my mother.”

“Mmm.”

“Mmm?” I ask.

“Is she why you decided to specialize in divorce law?”

“I don’t know? What’s the reason you decided to run an escort service?” I ask as my fingers find her ribs and tickle again.

She wriggles against me. “Enough talking, don’t you think?” I tickle again. “We’ve had enough sharing for one day.” Another squirm that rubs my dick the right way and awakens parts of me I swore were exhausted from last night . . . and this morning.

“What about show-and-tell, then?”

“Oh,” she murmurs as she feels my cock pulse against her. She sits up and runs a fingernail down the line of it straining against my shorts. “I always did like show-and-tell. The question is, who’s showing”—her tank top clears her head—“and who’s telling?”

“Are you trying to distract me, Ms. Sanders?” It takes everything I have not to look down and appreciate the sight of her pink nipples and the weight of her tits.

I don’t fight the half-cocked smirk, though.

“Only if it changes the topic of discussion.”

And this time when she teases my cock again, I grab her wrist and pull her into me.

My mouth is on hers in an instant. Her lips are like goddamn candy. Soft. Tasty. Fucking addictive.

We sink into the kiss . . . and jolt when the doorbell rings.

Doorbells are not something I’m used to with a penthouse. I have a doorman. Doormen screen and call and inform.

I don’t do unexpected intrusions when I’m about to get laid.

We both groan.

“Don’t get it,” I tell her, my hands on her wrist as she sits up.

“Let me see who it is.”

“Like that?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows at her shirtless torso.

“It’s me, Vaughn,” a male voice calls through the window near the front door, and I’m immediately curious.

A man who shows up to her house and knows he can call into her window.

“Crap,” she says. “It’s Joey. What does he want?”

“Joey?” Who the fuck is Joey?

“Be right there,” she yells to him. Then she whispers to me, “Let me go get a bra on.”

“Don’t forget the shirt part too,” I say.