Page 1 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

Chapter 1

The first Chicago fire burned the city to the ground.

ThesecondChicago fire is happening right now, between my legs.

In a good way.

In a very,verygood way.

My original plan was just to pop home for a quick birthday lunch with my boyfriend. Chris is on overnight shifts for his emergency medicine rotations, and this was the only time we could celebrate. I’m twenty-nine today, which is just a handful of panic attacks away from thirty, and I’ve already had two this morning thinking about it.

But I’m not panicking right now.

Nope, right now, I’m sprawled across our sleek midcentury coffee table naked, Chris is doing mind-boggling things with his mouth, and I’m fantasizing about calling in sick for the rest of the day.

Hard to believe that an hour ago, I was swearing at the copier.Why do we even stillhavea copier??I think, just as Chris does atongue-twisty thing near my south pole, and I accidentally gasp, “Take that, Xerox!”

He lifts his head. “What did you say?”

God, I wish my brain would shut upfor once. “Oh, uh ...” I scramble for a reasonable thing to have said. “Don’t stop!”

But Chrisdoesstop, grins at me, then scoops one arm under my back and the other under my legs, trying to pick me up romance-novel style. It’s an adorable idea, except he can’t quite get the leverage right, and he slips, dropping me back on the table in more of a WWE kind of way.

Thankfully the table doesn’t break. My tailbone, on the other hand, sends out a sharp stab of pain and I wince.Bruised, broken, or some secret third thing?

It’s a good question, but I decide to shake it off for the moment, because there are more important,immediatethings to take care of. That said, I also don’t want Chris to try that particular move again—not with his current success rate—so instead I scoot across the coffee table, I hope sexily, my butt cheeks squeaking a little on the polished wood. He grabs my wrist and tugs me through our open-concept living room, over piles of hastily discarded clothes, and directly to the kitchen island.

I figure this signals sexy time is over, and tbh, I’m kinda bummed even though I guess a sandwich might be nice, but then he swings me around and bends me over the counter, where the cold granite makes me yelp.

Okay, this is a totally different kind of lunch meat scenario.

I should mention that this isnothow we usually operate. We’rebedsex people. Maybe once, twice a week, ever since we first got together in college, when we fell into a routine and kept it. Which is fine! Beds are comfortable, they’re specially made for horizontal activities. Honestly, I don’t even go for sofa sex, because (a) it’s a really expensive microsuede couch his mom bought for us and (b) I worry about the cushions getting funky. Peoplesiton those.

But when I got home from work and opened the door, Chris was standing right there, pitching a tent in his pajama bottoms, and before I knew it, there we were! On the coffee table! And now apparently the kitchen island!

And okay,thatmakes me think about how I literally just called our sex life “fine” and maybe twenty-nine is too young to be living that kind of life, when suddenly it’sWelcome to Dick City!and I can’t think about anything at all.

Chris grips my wrists together in one hand, pinning them behind my back, and holy smokes, what has gotten into him, this whole kitchen counter scenario isveryhot, and I’m doing the mental acrobatics of being extremely turned on while also taking play-by-play notes of what’s happening because hopefully it’ll be Our New Thing. I honestly did not know sex couldbelike this! I didn’t know Ilikedthis! I’m having a kind of simultaneous mind-body revelation right now—everything is vibrating!

And I guess I mean that literally—because right then, when Chris lets go of my hands to grab my hips, my right arm slingshots itself across the counter.

And knocks over the terra-cotta salt bowl his aunt gave us that we never use.

Which spills a big pile of fancy salt all over the counter.

And because my brain is not functioning right, and only some glimmer of instinct is still operating, I automatically reach out, grab a handful of salt, and throw it over my left shoulder.

The way you’re supposed to.

You know, so you don’t have bad luck. Look, it’s a good instinct.

Except at that moment, Chris is, of course, veryveryclose behind me, and I guess his eyes must be open because he screams and cries, “My eyes!”

Shitballs.

“What is this?” Chris yells, rubbing his eyes.

“Just salt! Sorry!”