Wild Like the Wind (Chaos #5)(106)

Call me crazy, but after beer and tequila and a night’s sleep, Hound still tasted awesome in the morning.

When he was done, I tipped my head to the side and asked, “Did you know Boz has a giganto dick?”

Hound immediately went from looking morning-just-tasted-my-woman content to looking sick.

He also did not answer.

So I kept talking.

“Apparently, Tad is well endowed too. It’s just that Boz is seriously well endowed so Bev didn’t have the right measuring stick for comparison, as it were.”

“Do we need to talk about this?” Hound asked.

“It’s not like you’re not lookin’ good down there too, baby,” I assured him. “Though you’re a winner in terms of formation and girth.”

“Seriously,” he growled, “can we stop talking about this?”

And again, I was giggling, but through it I said, “Sure.”

“Obliged,” he grunted and reached for the toothpaste.

I moved out of his way so he could brush his teeth.

A little later, he moved into the shower so he could shower with me.

Fortunately, water drowned out a lot of noises.

So it was delayed, but our morning fuck was still awesome.



Hound slid a plate filled with a stack of buttermilk pancakes and rashers of bacon in front of Dutch, who immediately looked from Hound, to it, to me, as Hound moved back to the stove.

I gave my son big eyes.

His eyes narrowed on them.

“Jag, you want four, like Dutch?” Hound asked the stove.

Jagger kicked my foot under the table.

I moved my big eyes to him.

He gave me big eyes back.

“Uh … yeah, Hound,” Jagger answered.

I forked into my pancakes.

“You’ll start with two, like Dutch,” Hound muttered to the skillet.

“You … uh, you guys eat this big a’ breakfast every morning?” Dutch asked.

I looked up from my plate and gave him bigger eyes.

Hound grunted.

My foot was hit again by Jag’s.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” Jagger mouthed at me.

Dutch tapped his plate with his fork and my gaze went to him.

“Yeah, Ma, what the fuck?” he mouthed.

“What the fuck what?” I mouthed back.

“Why are you being weird?” Dutch asked silently.

Jagger kicked my foot under the table yet again and I looked at him.

“And why is Hound cooking?” he also asked silently.

“Just eat it when you get it,” I answered, yes, silently.

“Jesus, hope you three don’t get yourselves in a situation where it’s actually important you gotta communicate without communicatin’,” Hound remarked, and my gaze flew to him to see his back was turned to the skillet where two fat pancakes were rising and bubbling, batter-side up, his arms crossed, the pancake turner sticking out at his side.

“Um … Ma was just bein’ weird and uh … we’ve never had breakfast with you two and, well … you’re cookin’,” Jag pointed out.

“Men cook, Jag, they wanna eat anything other than Arby’s,” Hound answered.

“Right,” Jag mumbled.

“I know your mother taught you how to cook,” Hound continued.

“Yeah, she just doesn’t go weird when I’m at the stove,” Jag replied.

Hound looked to me.

I tried a casual shrug.

“Jesus, we know you guys are boning. You don’t have to be weird about it,” Dutch put in at this point, sounding exasperated … and pained.

My eyes got so huge I felt they might pop right out of my head.

“Gulk, I might get sick before I eat pancakes,” Jagger gagged.

“Okay, this we’re not talkin’ about,” I declared.

“No, we absolutely fuckin’ are not,” Hound stated, all steely.

“Okay, then don’t act all weird at the breakfast table when we already know you got your bang on,” Dutch returned, to me.

Jag threw himself against the back of his seat and tipped his head to stare at the ceiling, requesting, “Somebody kill me.”

“It’s not that,” I told my eldest.

“We’re not four, Ma. You came down all dreamy and Hound came down lookin’ like he just ate a really good steak,” Dutch, unfortunately, carried on.

Hound grunted again but this one sounded amused.

After I shot him a glare, he got it together and asked, “Did you not hear us say we’re not talkin’ about this?”

“What I’m sayin’ is, just do your thing. It isn’t weird unless you make it weird by actin’ weird,” Dutch shot back. “Christ, Jag’s fucked girls in practically every room in this house and he doesn’t act weird.”

Slowly my eyes turned to my youngest, who I saw was scowling at his big brother.

“Like I didn’t catch Dinah goin’ down on you, curled on the floor while you were sittin’ at this very table,” Jag clipped at Dutch.

Dinah.

She’d been one of the good ones.

And there I was, sitting at a table where my son sat to get a blowjob.

Of course, he was also sitting at a table, precisely in the spot where his momma got gratifyingly banged by his stepdad.