Page 55 of The Finish Line
“Ah, well, I have no say in this? I’ll be stuck with a chunky chicken-fried Frenchman?”
“You will love me anyway,” he says in his thick brogue, again nestling into my neck. “Even if I’m fat and grey.”
I tug at his unkept onyx hair for another shot of amber, unable to stop the slight movement of my hips over his thickening cock, my words conflicting with my need for more. “I prefer we wait a bit longer to let ear hair be an issue.”
He jostles me in his lap. “Oh, let’s have fried chicken for dinner.”
Narrowing my eyes, I glance at the end table and lift a brow when I see the little antique box. “You got into my emergency weed stash.”
“Maybe.” He lifts guilty eyes to mine, and though he’s being playful, the sure tug of the truth of his new reality is starting to weigh heavily, zapping some of the ever-present sexual energy.
“You’re bored here.”
His brief hesitation only confirms it. He grips me tighter when my fingers relax. “I’m not.”
“Tobias, you don’t have to quit. I told you when you got here. I won’t let you. The work you’re doing is too important to the people who rely on you, and it matters to you.”
“You matter more, and I’m on vacation,” he insists, running his hands along my back where my wings lay. When his eyes flare and his hands begin to explore, I push at his shoulders.
“I’ve got groceries to put away.” It’s a shitty excuse for breaking the intimacy, but I use it anyway and feel the hesitance in his arms before he releases me. I stand and grab some of the trash, and he grips my wrist, my hand wrapped around a soupy pint of Cherry Garcia.
“I will clean up my own mess, Trésor, and it wasn’t a bad day,” he insists, before releasing me and standing to gather his trash.
“But it wasn’t a good one, either. What’s next, an Xbox and a headset? You going to turn into one of those guys?”
“Why the fuck not? I’ve earned it.” He follows me to the kitchen, trash in hand, and tosses it in the bin.
“I’m not saying you don’t deserve it.”
He crosses his arms over his taut chest, his dark hair limp and slightly curled around his ears. “Why don’t you just say what you want to say?”
“This isn’t you.”
“No? Fine, what would please you?”
“It’s not about pleasing me.”
“Isn’t it? You seemed to have some preconceived notion about me and this life with you. I guess I’m not living up toit.”
“I have no notion. That’s the point.”
“And I’m telling you, I’m exactly where I want to fucking be.”
“Well, pardon me if I don’t believe you because I know better.”
“Yeah, well, excuse me if I think the same about you.”
I pause with a granola box halfway out of the bag. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He crowds me where I stand at the kitchen table. His eyes lit with animosity. “This isn’t you, either. This is the life of the Cecelia Horner—who you might have been—before you knew what true living meant for you. You aren’t exactly living the standard of the woman who ran a board meeting with spiked fucking heels eight months ago and spent her spare time taking down adversaries of her choosing.”
“You’re calling me a hypocrite?”
He presses in. “Yes. I saw you. I saw the victory in your eyes when you cornered your prey. I’m not faulting you for the life you’ve chosen to live, but it’s not exactly suited for who you really are, is it?”
“I know who I am.”
“Do you? Because the woman who left me eight months ago was far more fucking daring than the one I hold at night.”