A Dirty Business (Kings of New York #1)(91)

I jerked up from the motion, my breath hitching in my throat.

“Hmmm, Jess?” He grazed the insides of my breasts, moving his head. His jaw rubbed against me, and he was lowering me to the bed, his fingers still moving inside of me. In, holding, and back out with a twist. His thumb continued moving over me, pressing in. So slow. Achingly slow.

“You’ve not answered. Do you love me?” But his fingers pulled out. Both of his hands went to my hips, and he lifted me up. A pillow was brought underneath me. He positioned me so he had complete access to me. Then his mouth dipped in, and I gasped, my hands grabbing onto his head, his hair, as his tongue replaced his fingers.

He feasted on me, and I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.

I was panting and writhing in place as he continued to explore me. He took his time, his very languid and delicious time, until he lifted his head back up. He met my eyes, looking down my body to where I was watching him. He smiled. “Do you love me, Jess?”

I was melting into a pile of sensations, pleasure.

“Yes.” I breathed out my answer, and he gave me a blinding smile before his head moved back.

I couldn’t speak for the rest of the night.



I woke later, much later. The clock said it was six in the morning—6:43, to be exact. Trace’s arm was nestled under my breasts. He was molded up behind me, one of his legs pushed in through mine. His head was burrowed into my neck and shoulders, but that hadn’t woken me up.

What had?

I saw my phone on the stand next to the bed, and the red light was blinking.

I had a message.

Glancing back, not wanting to wake him, I moved gently to disentangle myself. He let me go, but not all the way. His head moved down so it was pressed into my back. His arm wrapped around my waist, and his leg moved higher up between mine.

He could press up a little more, and I’d be waking him up for a whole different need.

But, reaching over, I was able to grab my phone.

After opening it, I keyed in my code and saw the first message.

Bear: Don’t be alarmed. Your mom is stable, but when you get this, you should come down to the hospital. Chelsea overdosed tonight.





CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE


JESS


I shoved through the doors, flashed my badge, and bypassed the front desk.

Trace was on my heels. I hadn’t cared he was coming. He’d tried to ask, to make sure on the scramble to get dressed and get here, but I’d barely reacted.

My mom. Get to my mom. That was my only concern, and now we were here, and I was racing down the hallway toward where she’d be kept. I’d been here enough times that the staff knew me by name.

I skidded to a halt, seeing one of the senior-most nurses on staff. She held up a hand. “Whoa there, Je—” She stopped, seeing who was coming right behind me. Her head straightened up, and she stood a little taller. “Fancy seeing you here.” Her eyes darted to me and back again. “And with law enforcement.”

Trace’s hand came to the small of my back as he stepped to my side. “How’s her mother, Sloane?”

She didn’t answer at first, her eyes falling down to where he was touching me and back up again, then to me before slowing sliding once more to him. “No disrespect, Trace, but I have to say that I’m not approving of this situation.”

His hand pressed harder to me, and the side of his body pressed against mine. I could feel his tension. “Why don’t you save the judgment and tell us how her mother is?”

“She’s alive.” Her tone gentled, and she took a step back before turning and indicating we should follow her. “Call came in from the ambulance, so we were ready. Patrick was with her, and he had the bottle of what she ingested too.” She moved to a room and pulled back the curtain, and a startled cry left me before I could clamp down on my emotions.

My mom was in bed. She was intubated, her skin with an unhealthy pallor.

She looked so small, like she could’ve been sixteen.

Trace stepped up even closer, holding me upright before my knees firmed. I gave him a nod before pushing off and approaching the bed. Her hand was peeking out from the blanket. I looked, but no one else was here. “Where—”

“Pat must’ve stepped out. He was here earlier.”

Pat was Bear’s first name. Or Patrick. I forgot some people preferred to use that name. Never made sense to me.

I nodded, suddenly so fucking tired. “He called, said she was stable.”

“She is. She was. She’ll be just fine. They administered Narcan. She’s just sleeping it off now. She’ll be sore when she wakes, but you know the drill.”

Because I’d seen this before with parolees. Too many times to count.

I moved to the chair by the bed and took my mom’s hand in mine, and I laid my forehead next to it. If I could’ve crawled in bed with her, I would’ve, but only while she was like this. The second she woke, I had no doubt it’d be back to the norm. Hateful words and loathing feelings. Blame all around. Same old, same old.

But right now, she looked vulnerable and peaceful.

My heart constricted. What did that say about me that I wished she could look like this a little longer before her fighting spirit lit her alive once again?

“You have got to be kidding me?”