Every nerve in a guy’s body connects to his balls. It was both a blessing and a curse. Once the nausea and lightheadedness faded, all that was left was the dull ache.
Jackson fought his way into a sitting position against the wall. “For reasons that have somehow slipped my mind at the moment…” he continued to grimace “…I feel responsible for the evil demon that is my sister.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned forward, looking down on him with said evil demon’s glare. “AJ has PTSD and suffers unimaginable migraines. I’ve hit him in the nose twice, broken it once, and left an embarrassing and most regrettable collage of claw and bite marks tattooed over his body. I think it’s best we refrain from any more bodily harm before he slaps a restraining order against both of us. Agreed?”
Jackson nodded. Jillian turned to leave.
“Jill?”
“What?”
“I think you’ve had enough too. Don’t let him hit you again. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she whispered.
Jackson’s phone rang. It was on his bed, ten feet away. A long ten feet. He crawled through the pain to answer it.
“Yes?” he groaned.
“Hey, pookie. My mom’s out of town. Want to have a playdate?”
It was a good possibility that any girl inviting him over for a playdate might be too young for him. That and Mr. Snuffelupagus was not feeling so pookie that night.
“Sorry, Dahlia, I’m a little under the weather right now.”
“Oh dear … need me to come over and take care of you?”
“No, no, no … I’m good. I’ll call you.” He ended the call and rested his head against the bed. “Dammit, I’ve got to keep my dick out of that girl’s mouth and cut her loose.”
*
Hallmark really needed to make a Sorry I Beat the Shit Out of You card. The Knights would have purchased them in bulk. In lieu of the nonexistent poetic gesture, Jillian opted for breakfast in bed delivered to AJ, at the ass crack of dawn since that’s when he awoke.
She retrieved the well-hidden key under his planter and let herself inside.
“Your lack of conscience or morals when it comes to breaking and entering is disturbing,” AJ mumbled from behind the morning paper. At five a.m. he was already showered and dressed.
“I brought you breakfast in bed as a peace offering for Jackson’s irrational behavior. So if you wouldn’t mind getting naked and under the sheets, I’ll set this on a plate and surprise you with it in about two minutes.”
AJ folded the paper and tossed it aside. Taking a sip of his coffee he made a quick assessment of her attire—black lace panties, a grey and white polka dot tank top, and her favorite red rain boots.
“I’m fairly certain whatever you managed to throw together for my breakfast is the opposite of a peace offering.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome.” He couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering over her body.
“If you don’t stop looking at me like that, the only thing you’ll be eating for breakfast is me.”
He raised a brow like a sexy accent to his sly smile. “I already know you taste better than anything in that bag.” He shoved the newspaper on the floor. “Hop up and spread ’em.”
She sighed. “Nice job calling my bluff. Actually, it’s cinnamon coffeecake—”
“Oh Lord … I bet you actually put coffee grounds in it, didn’t you?”
She set the bag on the table and straddled his lap. He tensed, bending as far back into the chair as he could to keep a safe distance between her and his ribs.
Pinching his lips together like a duck’s, she narrowed her eyes. “As I was saying … it’s cinnamon coffeecake that Greta made for Jackson while I was gone. Apparently she was under the impression I do the cooking and therefore he was going to starve if she didn’t offer him sustenance until I returned.
AJ jerked his head to the side, freeing his mouth from her grip. “I’ve had Greta’s coffeecake, it’s the best. Now…” he grabbed her hips and lifted her off his lap with a small, painful grimace “…move your rump so I can have some.”
“Rump?”
AJ pulled the foil off the coffeecake. “It means ass or buttocks.”
Jillian leaned her hip against the table, arms crossed over her chest. “I know what it means. You sounded like an old man using that term. It wasn’t sexy.”
He shrugged then hummed—that sounded sexual, but it wasn’t about her rump … it was Greta’s food porn. “Need I remind you that I am older than you, but I’d rather you not call me an ‘old man.’ And I’d imagine you don’t come across the word rump much in the fake meat aisle at the store, but it’s a meat term, like rump roast.”
Jillian picked off a chunk of the crumble topping and popped it in her mouth. It was orgasmic. “So you like rump roast?”