This man can seriously read my thoughts.
Chapter Eight
Joel
Once upon a time, I thought my parents knew what was best for me and my sister. I took their side, parroted their words, channeled their way of thinking.
And then I realized I had a will and opinion of my own. That I disagreed with them on lots of things. That I wasn’t them. Never would be.
It’s been a while since then, but I still can’t shake off their hold on me. Even when I know that the strings are all in my mind.
Fucking shit.
I’m perfectly fine. I’m just stressed about this new job, like Jet said, and my project. I’m not sure what I’m doing. Me, a publisher. I don’t have the funds. I don’t have the experience.
I just want it.
In any case, that’s what’s bothering me. It’s natural. I gave up a good position in a big company, a position I admittedly hated, among colleagues more interested in finding out dirt about me than their own damn business. I wasn’t comfortable or happy there.
What I don’t fucking need is to talk to my parents. I don’t give a flying fuck about what they think of me. They won’t approve of me changing jobs, or loving Jet and Candy. I know that.
And I don’t fucking care.
Goddamn Jet, insisting I should talk to them, saying… Fuck. No, time to stop thinking about it. Why am I still thinking about it?
I slam the fridge door so hard the wine bottles inside rattle. My hands are shaking.
“Still not done?” Jet drawls from behind me and I whirl about, almost faceplanting.
“Shit. Don’t do that.” Man is barefoot and he walks quietly like a cat when he wants to.
And okay, for whatever reason I’m still on edge. My heart is hammering.
Jet leans back on the doorjamb, his hair tousled as if he just raked his hand through the soft spikes, something like amusement glinting in his eyes.
“He’s busy,” Candy says, draping herself all over him, her hands sliding under his T-shirt.
Her blond hair has come loose, falling on her shoulders. She’s also shed her sweater, and her blouse molds on her small frame, clinging to all the right places. Her round tits are perfectly outlined.
I lick my lips. Damn, I’m not sure she’s wearing a bra.
Or maybe that’s just my dirty mind. I often find myself imagining I meet her at the bookstore and drag her behind the shelves, that I slip my hand under her skirt only to find her bare, that I lift her sweater and she’s braless so that I can put my mouth all over her.
Fuck, now I’m hard.
“Yeah, he’s busy,” Jet mutters and gazes down at her, a light flush in his cheeks. “That’s okay.”
And with that, he cups the back of her head and leans down, fusing their mouths together.
Shit, that’s hot. Especially when he walks her backward, to the kitchen table, and lifts her up. Thank God I happened to move the pancakes to the counter just minutes ago, or she’d have ended up covered in syrup.
And the mental image hits me like a sledgehammer. My dick hardens so fast I gasp. Now I’m pitching a tent behind the apron, the head of my dick poking right in the middle of one of the stars decorating the front.
I lean back against the counter, my knees going weak when Jet pushes up Candy’s skirt and drags down her lacy panties.
She was wearing panties.
Not anymore.