Page 96 of Caught from Behind

As in…son?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Riggs snaps. “Turn around and I’ll talk to you in a second.”

“I said, don’t you dare talk to me like?—”

Riggs moves so fast that I gasp again, my eyes going wider as he shoves the man—his father?—out of the kitchen and down the hall. I catch a glimpse of a bulky form and a shock of white hair before they disappear from sight.

Voices lift, but I finally snap out of it enough to adjust my underwear, to hop down from the counter.

There I falter—should I go and intervene in the conversation…well, argument that’s growing louder in the hallway? Or should I go put some clothes on?

I glance down at my bare legs, figure that pants should probably be my first priority, and hurry up the stairs.

Riggs’s bedroom is a lesson in sunshine and warm masculine energy, but I don’t have time to soak in all the details I missed last night and earlier this morning before he coaxed me out of bed and into the kitchen. I rush over to the dresser, yank out a pair of his sweats and tug them on, having to get creative with the tie around the waist in order to ensure they won’t fall down.

Socks are next and just before I’m about to head back downstairs, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the far wall.

Rat’s nest hair and smudged makeup and…nipples beading against the fabric of Riggs’s T-shirt.

“Shit,” I mutter, hurrying to the bathroom and doing my best to wipe off yesterday’s makeup and tame my sex hair.

The nipples…

Well, I snag a sweatshirt from Riggs’s closet, tugging it over my head and yanking it down to cover me.

I’ve gone from half naked to swimming in fabric.

Not the ideal way to meet my prospective father-in-law.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Riggs

It takes everything in me to not continue squeezing, to not choke the remaining years from my father.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I grit out, forcing my hand to open, to release my hold on him.

My dad—my fucking dad who just barged into my kitchen while I was eating out my woman—shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I rang the doorbell.”

“And did I fucking answer it?” I snap. “Stay there,” I order, turning my back on him and rounding the edge of the wall that leads into the kitchen. Ella’s not sitting on the counter any longer, not a woman in the bliss of an orgasm, body equal parts tense and not as she shatters around me.

The space is empty.

A good thing considering that my dad is right behind me, not listening—which isn’t a fucking surprise. The man listens about as well as a toddler intent on a different colored plate.

Which is to say, not at all.

I grind my teeth together and turn to face him, arms crossed, mind and heart braced for whatever bullshit he’s going to dish out.

“Help yourself,” I mutter when he marches by me and opens the fridge, adding when he pulls out a beer, “It’s nine in the fucking morning.”

He slams the door shut. “It’s like a fucking wasteland in there.”

“We were planning on going to the grocery store.”

His brows flick up, mouth curving into a smirk. “That didn’t look like you were making a grocery list, son.”

I hear a giggle, turn to see Ella clamp a hand over her mouth. She’s put on my old college sweatshirt and a pair of sweats that dwarf her petite frame. “Sorry,” she says, the word slightly muffled before she manages to peel her hand free and shakes herself. “Sorry,” she says again. “I—” A helpless shrug. “I don’t really know what the correct social response is for this situation.”

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