Wild Fire (Chaos #6.5)(69)

Dutch opened his mouth, but Hugger got there first.

“You wanna taste your gonads in your throat after I punch them up there, you keep talkin’ ’bout his woman like that.”

And there was the solid.

“Relax, mountain man, I’m just givin’ him shit,” Roscoe said good-naturedly, “mountain man” being what Roscoe called him since Hugger was blond, with a massive, bushy light-and-dark beard, like Grizzly Adams.

“Find somethin’ else to give him shit about, leave his woman out of it,” Hugger warned.

And Dutch had to hand it to the guy, he was prospect, and he didn’t hide he wanted the patch and was willing to work for it, but he was not backing down from a patched-in brother.

Roscoe was assessing him, unoffended, but with interest.

Then Coe looked to Dutch. “You good?”

“Yup,” Dutch answered.

“Excuse me, do you carry WD-40?” a woman asked.

They all looked to her.

She was pretty.

And she was stacked.

“Let me lead the way,” Roscoe offered magnanimously.

They took off.

Dutch turned his attention to Hugger. “It’s his way of tellin’ me he digs I got a good woman, man. If he didn’t like Georgie, he’d keep his trap shut on all accounts. So appreciate the backup, but you can chill.”

Hugger looked him right in the eye.

“You don’t talk about women like that.”

And there it was.

What Rush read in Harlan “Hugger” McCain.

“You’re heard,” Dutch muttered.

Hugger grunted.

Chill gave Dutch a look.

Dutch shook his head.

And a man came up to the register with three five-quart jugs of motor oil, a gallon of wiper fluid and a spray bottle of Armor All, so Hugger went to the register to grunt his greeting, scan his shit with bad humor and grunt his “I’m done with you, get the fuck out of here.”

All of this being precisely what Hugger did.

So the customer left, looking confused about why he’d just paid money to have someone be ambiguously rude to him.

And that meant that, after the doors swooshed closed behind him, Dutch started laughing.





Dutch lay on his back, staring at his woman who was sitting on his still-hard cock.

Uncontrollably laughing.

He loved her laugh.

He loved she was doing it wearing nothing but the earrings in her ears that were interlocking CCs with dangly bits coming down that had little pearls on them. Earrings she’d barely looked at before she was pulling the ones she had in her ears out to switch them with the ones in box.

He loved that they’d had a great dinner where he got to stare at her looking gorgeous and happy while they cuddled together in one side of a booth, neither of them giving that first shit what anyone thought about them being that far into each other.

And he loved that he’d just watched her ride him until she came, then kept watching her ride him until he did.

What he didn’t love was, after she gave them that, she’d leaned down while he was still thrusting the last jets into her, and said in his ear, “My new source in the DPD said Jackson got canned today for sexual harassment. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you, honey?”

Which of course made him clamp her on either side of the head, force her to look at him, and the only thing he could manage in that moment was to force out, “Georgie, the fuck?”

Which took them to now.

Georgie having pushed up and she was sitting on his dick, busting a gut.

Her laughter dwindled and he waited until she was simply smiling down at him.

Hugely.

“You done?” he asked irritably.

Then it came over her.

With a new look on her face, she bent slightly toward him and ran her fingers along his cheekbone, down his jaw, along his throat, and ended this journey with her palm pressed over his heart.

He waited.

He waited for her to say what was shining in her face.

He waited for her to repeat what she’d said earlier that day.

So he could repeat it.

And they could stamp it clear, right there, in their bed, between them.

Forever.

And she did say it.

Absolutely.

She just didn’t use the usual words.

Instead, she whispered…

“Cute.”

And right on cue, after she said that, Murtagh jumped on the bed.

“Mwrrrow,” he called his “are you done?”

Dutch framed Georgie’s face in his hands, her hair pressed against his flesh, and he smiled up at his girl.

She smiled back.

And it was stamped clear, right there, in their bed.

Forever.

Georgie slid him out and then melted into his side.

Dutch wrapped an arm around her and reached the other out to their cat.

Murtagh settled in, ass to bed, body draped over Dutch’s side, resting into his paws on Dutch’s abs, Dutch scratching his booty, Georgie scratching his head.

And all was right in the world.





Meanwhile



Meanwhile…

As Dutch slept with Murtagh on his pillow…



Georgiana slid carefully out of bed.