Canon (Klein Brothers 2)

“You- I- This is—” date guy spluttered, sounding like he was close to passing out. “Is this true, Jacinda?”

I went to deny it and explain that Canon had issues with boundaries and acting like a decent human being, but then I remembered the date. The calculating of the tab, him watching me put down money like I was going to screw him over by a penny, and him wanting another date in the future. Him trying to kiss me as we’d left the restaurant and how he’d said he wasn’t charging me for gas, like he was doing me a huge favor…

“Yes, yes, it is. I have a subscription for lube because Canon forgets to buy and use it. I won’t charge you for what he uses tonight, though.”

It wasn’t a shame or disappointment that I never saw him again after he spun on his heel and legged it back to his car.

It also wasn’t a great disappointment that I was going to make Canon sing soprano.

Slamming the door shut, I turned slowly to face the pain in my ass.

What I saw shocked the shit out of me. Damian, the demon’s bitch, was sitting on one of his shoulders now, rubbing his face against the side of Canon’s head.

The bullshit that’d just happened disappeared as I pointed a shaky finger at him. “What the fuck did you do to the psycho?”

Shrugging his cat-free shoulder, he leaned in as Damian bumped his nose off Canon’s head, then began purring loudly and rubbing with more oomph.

“We reached an agreement. Apparently he didn’t like the sound of that limp dick being around you, either.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I blinked rapidly, wondering if this whole night had just been a dream. Or a nightmare, tomayto-tomahto.

But then he said something that really irritated the shit out of me. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Dropping my hand to glare at him again, I growled, “Excuse me?”

Any other man would be wise and cover his balls. Not this one, though. Oh, no, he just unclenched his cheeks, letting the ice pack drop to the floor with a loud thud.

“You’re welcome. I don’t know what you were thinking going out with him.”

“What I was—” I blinked rapidly, looking around us for cameras that surely would be recording this for one of those irritating TV shows.

Canon crouched down before he got to me, letting Damian jump off him gracefully before straightening up and closing the distance between us. Once he was practically chest-to-chest with me, he surprised the hell out of me—again—and kissed me.

I had zero control over what my body did, that was my excuse for the way my legs lifted around his waist, and I was sticking to it. Angling my head to deepen the kiss, I was so into it and the way he tasted that I didn’t even notice when he pressed me back against the wall.

I did notice, though, when he ground his crotch against mine and cried out at the discomfort.

Noticing something wasn’t right, Canon pulled back with a frown. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Before I could reply, he walked me over to the couch and placed me gently on the cushions. “I’ll kill him if he hurt you.”

“Canon, no, it’s okay. He didn’t—”

I was too late. Kneeling between my legs, he had my skirt up around my midriff, and my panties pulled to the side before I could finish the sentence.

It had to be said, I hadn’t looked at the piercing yet because I was too afraid of what I might see. Like, if my clit had changed color or looked like some sort of clitoral mutant, I’d freak the hell out. Sometimes burying your head in the sand was the best way, and that’s what I’d intended to do for a couple of weeks, or maybe even a year.

I wasn’t sure if his reaction was good or bad when he didn’t say anything and just stared at it. In fact, the longer his silence went on, the more the feeling that something was seriously wrong began to take over.

Finally, trying to cover it with my hand and planning on going to the ER for help, I cried, “Oh, Christ, it’s going to fall off, isn’t it?”

Licking his lips, he rasped, “How many days have you had it for?”

“Why? Is it infected? Am I going to lose my clit?” I tried to see it, but my skirt and his hand were impeding my line of sight. “Oh, fucking hell, I’m going to be one of those medical stories people share online, aren’t I? I hate social media. Did you know that? I don’t use my personal accounts unless it’s for messaging someone because I hate them all so much. How am I going to stop the story after people share it when I can’t bring myself to even go on the damn things?”