“Well,” he starts, his drawl particularly pronounced at the moment, like he’s suffering from extreme exhaustion. I bet he didn’t sleep at all in the last twenty-four hours. And then before that, we fucked more than we slept. I can’t let him kill himself like this. “You were trompin’ around like a hound dog in a forest of dry kindlin’.”
“Technically speaking,” I hiss back as Beast pulls away from me, this sparkle in his gaze that says he’s very much enjoying this.
“You clearly weren’t bendin’ your knees enough. Pretty sure you were walkin’ on the outside edges of your feet without ever putting your heel down. No stability like that, darlin’. And it isn’t just silence you’re lookin’ for—you need to be able to take a surprise hit.”
He moves away from me again and sits back down in the chair.
“Do it again, and if you impress me, I’ll kiss ya good mornin’.”
I scowl at him and shake my arms out, but I do as he asked, retreating to the edge of the room, and trying again. He must just want me to kiss him because this time, he lets me slide my arms around his neck and lean my body against his from behind.
“Much better,” he grunts, pulling me into his lap and kissing me with this needy passion that can’t possibly have been born from a single day apart. No, this is deeper than that, isn’t it? Beast samples my mouth like he’s at a banquet, and I’m a delicacy he only meant to try, but has now decided to consume in its entirety …
He pulls back with a bit of a curse, studying me as I reach up to tease at the stubble on his cheeks with my fingers.
“Everything okay?” I ask as he gives me a searching sort of look. I wonder if he’s curious about what happened between me and Crown. If he asks, I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him anyway, just not right this second unless specifically requested.
“Okay being relative,” he starts, and then gives a loose shrug of his broad shoulders. “It’s alright. I took care of some business. Seems your little friend was right: we need to get ahold of that team before they get to Cat.” Beast reaches around me for his coffee, and I realize that Crown must’ve filled him in on everything; I haven’t had the chance to and yet, he already knows what Grey told me about his father’s tactical unit.
He also seems to know just a little bit more than that.
“You tortured someone yesterday?” I guess as Beast takes a sip of his coffee, eyes watching me over the rim, waiting to make sure I really want to know the answer to my own question.
“We found some mafia scum lurking around the electric fence on the north side of the compound.” Beast takes another sip of coffee and lets out a low, acidic laugh. “Morons.”
Crown sweeps into the kitchen next, pausing when he catches sight of me in Beast’s lap. He blinks past a rush of dark jealousy and turns away, busying himself at the coffeepot.
“So there really is an official hit out on Cat,” I murmur contemplatively, and Beast gives me a look.
“Not just on Cat; they’re after you, too.” Beast glances over at Crown, and their eyes meet. He turns back to me. “The mafia is demanding that we give you up.”
I raise both brows.
Oh.
Another demand.
With the attack Gaz leveled inside our own walls, the deaths of René’s family, and the tense situation with families bunking on the compound, that’s all pressure on the club to submit, to relent, to give something ‘simple’ up to restore order.
Me.
Just me.
“And?” I suggest as Crown moves over to take the seat on Beast’s left.
“What do you think?” Crown asks, posing the question like it’s part of an exam. I reluctantly stand up from Beast’s lap—it’s far too distracting, and he’s already hard—and go to get myself a cup of coffee.
Both men stand up immediately, and I roll my eyes.
“I am capable of pouring myself coffee,” I say with a laugh, and Crown gives me a look. “Oh, and don’t worry: I looked it up.” I give them both a palms out, I’m surrendering sort of look. “As long as I keep the caffeine under two-hundred milligrams, it’s a-okay.”
Crown doesn’t look happy, but he sits down with a sigh, taking a drink from his own mug. Beast stays standing for another minute and then does the same.
I join them after adding cream and sugar, leaning back in my chair with the warm mug clutched between my palms. Looking down at my drink, I can’t help but think of Grainger. I like the way he makes coffee. I like when he makes me coffee. The gesture of it. The familiarity. The normalcy.
