Out of Love(32)

“My place?”

“Are you inviting me to stay with you tonight?” I glanced up at him, squinting against the sun.

“Sofa offer still stands.” He delivered everything with zero sarcasm.

“K …” I lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

He jerked his head toward the parking garage, and I followed him, shocked that the numbness in my body allowed my feet to move. No conversation took place on the way to his place. I cringed when we pulled onto the street.

The charred house.

Two vehicles from the fire department were parked on the street. Maybe they were inspecting something.

Once we pulled in the driveway, I climbed out and stared at the house again. Of course, Slade said nothing. He and Jericho sauntered inside. After several minutes, I made my way into the house too. Slade retrieved several dishes from the fridge while I slipped off my boots and tugged up the sweatpants that were way too big for me.

Jericho trotted to his bed and collapsed onto it, and I followed him into the living room. On the sofa were department store bags. Women’s department stores. I peeked inside a few of the paper bags.

“Hope something fits.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “You did this for me?”

He twisted his lips. Had I not known better, I would have said he was trying to hide a grin. “Too much pink for me. And Jericho looks hideous in skinny jeans.”

A joke? Did Slade Wylder deliver a joke?

I poked around in a few of the bags, glancing at labels and sizes. He did good. Really good. Then I pulled out a bra and pair of panties. A thong and a very sexy lace bra. With them dangling from my finger, I eyed Wylder.

“I know for a fact you’re not wearing a bra or panties at the moment.”

I chuckled, inspecting the undergarments. “These will definitely keep me warm on breezy days.”

“Hungry?”

I nodded, depositing the sexy goods back into the bag. He opened a container with salad in it and set a jar of dressing next to it on the table. Then he pulled another container from the microwave with penne pasta in it, sprinkled it with parmesan cheese, and dished some out onto two plates.

Sitting at the table, I tucked one knee to my chest and rested my chin on it as he put some lettuce next to my pasta and drizzled dressing. The garlic and herb aroma offered a nice alternative to the smoke.

Our gazes met for a few seconds, and he let those lips of his turn upward into a barely detectable smile.

I saw it.

More than that … I felt it. And it felt incredible in spite of the events of the previous twenty-four hours.

Nobody died.

That was my new motto. The incessant chant of gratitude circling in my brain.

Midway through eating dinner with nothing but the clinking of forks, I wiped my mouth and cleared my throat. “Thank you for everything … the chauffeuring, the clothes, the food, the sofa.”

He nodded.

Another nod.

“If you talk to me … I won’t tell anyone. It can be our little secret that you know how to say actual words … not just nods and scowls.”

He slowed his chewing, giving me a milder version of said scowl.

“There it is.” I grinned, standing and circling the table to his side and straddling his lap, forcing him to sit back in his chair. His hands rested on my legs.

Leaning forward, I brushed my lips along his jaw, his cheek, and his mouth … without actually kissing him. His hands slid up my shirt—his shirt—stopping just below my breasts, fingertips ghosting over my ribs.

“Can I use your shower, Wylder?” I whispered over his lips instead of kissing him.

He edged forward, trying to take my mouth.

I pulled back and grinned. “I need to brush my teeth … and shower. Did you buy me a toothbrush? Deodorant? A hairbrush?” Teasing him brought intense satisfaction to me.

Withholding actual words seemed to bring him an equal amount of satisfaction. His mouth reached for mine again.

Again, I dodged his attempt to kiss me. In hindsight … that was a mistake. His plate and mine crashed to the floor with one swipe of his arm. In the next second, my back hit the top of the kitchen table. His right hand cuffed my wrists above my head while his left hand slid down the front of my—his—sweatpants where he slid two fingers into me. Our mouths collided and his tongue and fingers fucked me to the same rhythm. A minute or so later, I hiked my feet onto the edge of the table to thrust my pelvis into his touch. He released my hands and they flew into his chaotic hair.

Off with his top.

Deep kisses.

Off with my top.

Deep kisses.

My pants.

“Where do you want me?” He tore his lips from mine and slowed his fingers.

“Wylder …” I lifted my pelvis, chasing his hand.

“Here?” He added a third finger. “Do you want me here, Livy?”

Words melted on my tongue into puddles of lust, so I nodded as heavy breaths pushed past my lips. Need multiplied in the bottom of my stomach and was heavy between my legs.

He withdrew his fingers and retrieved a condom from his wallet, setting it on the table beside me while unbuttoning his jeans. I sat up, keeping my feet on the edge of the table, spreading my knees a little wider.

Intense eyes moved, focusing on my breasts and my blond hair covering part of them. As he rolled on the condom, his gaze dropped to my fingers sliding between my legs.