Page 42 of Dock

“An old word for ho.”

“Educational.” Extra snickers are accompanied by slow nodding. “Dropping knowledge even in your off hours.”

Humor and frustration and embarrassment amalgamate in my expression and tone alike, “It’s the only thing I’m good at!”

This time his laughs are soft.

Comforting.

“You keep teaching me,” Hogan hungrily purrs, hands slipping themselves down to my hips, “and I’ll keep teaching you.”

No additional words are spoken before I’m hoisted onto the seat in front of me like ragdoll.

Squeaks spring loose, yet they don’t spark an apology or concern.

They merely receive a wink of acknowledgment that’s followed by him climbing on in front of me.

Against my own volition, I grump, “Why didn’t you just do that to begin with?”

“You like that?” Our eyes lock over his shoulder. “You like shit a little rough?”

Yes.

No.

I don’t know.

But I wanna know.

And I wanna know with him.

Rather than command an answer, he simply smirks. “Wrap your arms around me.”

They automatically do.

“Hold on tight.”

It strengthens.

“Tighter.”

A bit.

“Tighter.”

Bit more.

“Like you never wanna let me go.”

I fasten my fingers together at his midsection – on abs that could be used to hand wash my delicates – and smash myself against his back to the point we’re practically one person.

Who knows.

Perhaps in a way we are.

One soul.

Two bodies.