Cannon (Carolina Reapers 5)

“Hades,” I teased back, lightly nipping at his bottom lip.

His fingers dug into my rear, lifting me slightly as he guided us to the wall. I slid my tongue along the seam of his lips, demanding entry, and he opened for me. Met me stroke for stroke.

“God, you kiss like a dream,” I moaned against his mouth.

“Not a nightmare?” he teased, flicking his tongue along the edges of my teeth.

I pulled back, took his face in both my hands to steady him—the damn spinning making it hard to focus on his dark eyes.

“Never,” I said. “You’re the dream, Cannon. Can’t you see that? The absolute dream.”

He smiled, free and unburdened. “And you’re drunk,” he said. “Likely won’t remember any of this.”

I glared at him. “I remember everything,” I said and darted my tongue out to graze his lips. He groaned and pressed me harder into the wall, eliciting a moan from my lips. “And I want you, Cannon. On every level a person can want another. You,” I clarified, running my hands over his chest and stopping over the dead center of it. “Not your body. Not your glorious, delicious body.”

He eyed me.

“Okay, not only your body.” I giggled. “I want what’s inside.” I patted the center of his chest. “I want you.”

Something more serious flashed in his eyes, but he quickly replaced it with a wicked smirk. He planted a gentle kiss along my lips, backing us away from the wall. “Tell me something else you want, Princess.”

He guided us back and back until he merely tucked me into his side, and he walked us toward his car. Once he had me properly situated and buckled inside, I rested my head against the seat and smiled at him.

“Tacos,” I answered.

A hoarse, beautiful laugh as he nodded from behind the wheel. “I knew it.”

We laughed some more, and as he drove, I never once took my eyes off him.

11

Cannon

Ten. I crossed another day off in my mental calendar as I entered my kitchen. Our kitchen. I’d made it ten days without putting my hands on Persephone again, without falling into the shelter of her body and the bliss of the oblivion only she brought me.

Ten days.

Who cared that I walked around in a permanent state of arousal? As long as I wasn’t getting off, I wasn’t getting any closer to her, right? I wasn’t growing accustomed to the little make-up bag on my counter, or the junk food in my refrigerator. I sure as hell wasn’t making a habit out of reading with her at night, or cooking her breakfast in the morning. That was all just…well, circumstance.

This was all just fucking circumstance, and it would be over before we knew it.

But we were the only ones that knew it.

“Good morning,” Persephone said cheerfully as she came into the kitchen. Fuck me, she was wearing one of those little silk slip nightgowns she liked to torture me with, and her hair was up in that bun she slept in, but softer, now. She looked delectable and ready to be taken right back to the bed I’d tried to sneak out of.

“Hey,” I replied gruffly, grabbing a water out of the fridge and trying to look anywhere but at her fucking legs. The memory of having those wrapped around me, her soft thighs cradling my hips as I drove into her, hit me with the force of a tsunami.

“Where are you headed?” She rose on her tiptoes for a mug.

“Last informal pick-up game before preseason starts,” I answered, reaching over her head and grabbing the pale purple mug she favored.

“Thank you,” she said softly as I handed it to her.

“No problem.” I needed to move the mugs a shelf lower to accommodate her height, but doing that felt permanent like I was making room for her in a life that she really didn’t want. Room that would hollow out the moment she left. “What are your plans this morning?”

“I thought I’d bake a little. Mom isn’t feeling well, so I might run her over some chocolate chip cookies.” She leaned into the frig to get her coffee creamer, sending her slip riding up the back of her thighs.

I clenched the counter, wishing it was her hips in my hands, that I had her bent over this very counter, her feet dangling, utterly powerless to do anything but accept every thrust I wanted to give her.

“You like chocolate chip, right?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Peanut butter,” I replied, then cleared my throat. “Were you planning on getting dressed today?”

She shut the fridge and grinned. “What? You don’t like the color?” She trailed a hand from her ribs to her waist, then over her hip to play with the hem.

That little hellion knew exactly what she was doing to me. “I’m a fan of pink,” I admitted, stalking over to where she leaned against the counter. I caged her between my arms and stared at the contrast between my overwhelming ink and her bare, creamy skin. “I like the blue one better. Looks like pure fucking heaven with your eyes.”