Page 177 of Zach
“It’s like visiting a museum,” Jonas says, eyeing the art on the walls. “It feels very much like I
should put my hands behind my back and stay away from the pieces. Especially those ones.” He
points to the pillars scattered through my large living room, and the pieces displayed on top of them.
I drop my forehead to Maya’s knee, needing a moment. Her soft hands come to rest on the back of
my head, gently combing through the strands.
Or trying, anyway.
I can feel the stiffness of the strands thanks to myno-movegel. I love the stuff. It keeps my hair
exactly the way I want it. But right now, it’s keeping me from enjoying Maya’s touch, and that pisses
me off. Just another part of the man I am that no longer feels like it fits.
I roll my head and study my family.
“I didn’t know all this shit was stopping you guys from coming here.”
Ransom, from his spot in the corner of the room, answers for the group. “We don’t ever want to
hurt you. And breaking your shit would hurt you.”
“Breaking my shit would hurt me,” I echo, a mix of shame and anger curling through my chest.
Anger at myself, because I fucking did this. How could I be so oblivious?
I rise to my feet, eyes darting around the room, cataloging the statues and vases, wondering which
one would get my point across best. Locking on an abstract statue, I move toward it, determined to
show everyone exactly how much value I put on this stuff. I’m so focused on getting to the statue that I
miss the shouted ‘no’, but there’s no way to miss Maya’s warm weight as she throws herself at my
back and locks her arms around my hips.
I make it a couple more steps before my mind catches up. I put my hands on hers where they’re
clutched tight around my lower stomach and realize there’s a warm weight at my ass.
“Maya,” Jonas asks casually, “Why is your nose in my brother’s crack?”
She mumbles an answer, and yep, I can feel the warmth of her breath through my slacks. My body
reacts immediately, and I lean forward to relieve the pressure, accidentally shoving my ass further in
her face. I glance back and see her legs splayed straight out. She’s in a forty-five degrees lean, her
grip on my waist the only thing holding her up.
Her low groan of embarrassment sends my family into howls of laughter. The hysteria ramps up as
she loosens her hold and slowly slides all the way down to the floor, head bumping along the backs of
my thighs, knees and calves on the way. She lays there cheek pressed to the oriental rug, and covers
