Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(186)

Chelsea giggles and fixes her stare back on me. “I’m the patient.”

Dean’s eyes make the rounds back and forth between Chelsea and me. All I can do is shake my head. “I tried to tell you,” I say, holding my hands up surrender style.

“Let’s check your vitals.” He’s determined to do this by the book, ignoring the obvious fact that Chelsea is healthy as a horse and called with an emergency need for something Dean can’t give her.

“I think it’s my heart,” she says dramatically, her eyes still trained on me. My chest. My belt. We got cut off in the middle of something last night when Chelsea’s friend tossed her cookies in the middle of the bar. Chelsea had to bail to take her home. Looks like she’s called to finish what we started, and I can’t say that I mind one bit.

“Okay, well, I’ve got the heart monitor here. Let’s get inside and we can take a look. Are you feeling nauseous? Have you taken any medication?” Dean asks, stubborn as a mule to find the mystery ailment Chelsea is “suffering” from.

“I think… I think I should lie down in the back of your ambulance. Do you have a stretcher I can use?” Chelsea winks at me.

“I told you we needed the stretcher,” Dean mutters.

“Come on, Chelsea, I’ll show you the truck,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist and leading her down the narrow drive. I know this game. I’ve played it before. It’s a fetish for some women—men in uniform on their turf does it for them. And that’s fine with me.

“You can’t—” Dean calls after us.

Chelsea slips her hand through mine and calls, “Go ahead and make yourself at home! There’s a pitcher of sweet tea and some boudin on the counter!” over her shoulder.

In my mind, I can picture Dean shoving his hands in his pockets, kicking at the ground, and pouting, but I don’t turn around, because Chelsea is walking backward and unbuttoning my crisp shirt. Next she’ll go for my belt, and pull me into the back of the truck, ignoring the fact that there’s been blood and brain matter and countless other bodily fluids spilled on the very surfaces that she’s willing to bump against as she strips down—and goes down on me.

“So, ma’am,” I say, closing the door of the ambulance behind me. “What’s your emergency?”

“You didn’t say goodbye last night.” She pushes my collared shirt off of my shoulders and gives my undershirt a good tug. I help her out and pull it up over my head, then get to work on the zipper holding together the thin lace of her dress.

“That was emergent?” I ask.

“No, but doing this was,” Chelsea says. She reaches inside my pants and wraps her hand around my dick. I press one hand onto the wall of the truck to steady myself and shimmy out of my pants. Chelsea licks her lips, top first, then bottom, and sinks down to her knees, her tits barely contained in her tiny lace bra.

I look down as her fingers slide into the waistband of my boxer briefs and give a solid tug, revealing my raging hard-on. She goes to work with her eyes closed, moaning appreciatively in the back of her throat as she sucks harder.

Good as it feels, I keep an eye on the closed door, waiting for Dean to bust in and get the shock of his respectable young life. Damnit. That kind of thinking makes it hard to concentrate on the amazing job Chelsea is doing.

I reach my hands down to her shoulders and tug her up.

“Did you not like?” she coos with a frown.

“I f*cking loved it, baby, but I’m not selfish.” I let her push me back on the floor and straddle my hips. I’m sure as hell ready to pick up where we left off before her friend blew chunks. But I’m also ready to get what we both want and be done.

It’s not like me to give a rat’s ass what anyone else thinks, and I guess I really don’t. It’s not so much that Dean’s opinion matters; his silent judgment is just irritating, and I don’t want to deal with more of it if he catches me and Chelsea.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” I can’t help smiling as she unhooks that bra. Man, the joy of getting some one-on-one time with Chelsea Fenwick’s tits is worth listening to Dean lecture me all goddamn shift. I bury my face in her perfumed skin, muttering a prayer of thanks for girls who know exactly how to drive me out of my mind.

The vibration of the pager on the floor of the truck couldn’t come at a worse time.

I pat at the floor blindly, reaching for it, but unable to pull my mouth away from Chelsea.

“Ignore it,” Chelsea gasps, pulling my hand back up to her tits.

“I ca—” I start, just as Dean’s palm slaps into the back of the truck.

“Warren, get out of the back. We’ve got a call,” he yells, his voice tinged with panic. “Hurry up Warren, I mean it!”

I nip once more at Chelsea’s neck then pull my pants up.

“We’ll continue this another time, darlin’.”

Chelsea nestles her tits back into her bra, slips her dress on, and pouts. “Promise?” she asks.

I don’t promise shit. Ever.

Dean has had enough and uses his key on the outer lock of the door.

“Get. Out. Now,” he says, his mouth in a grim line, his eyes narrowed to slits. He tosses the bag and monitor in.

“Come on, good-lookin’, I’ve got lives to save,” I say, patting her ass and lending a hand to help her down.