Page 78 of The Fix

“Okay.” I chuckle and rest my hand against her smooth skin. “What do you want me to talk about then?”

She shrugs. “How about me?”

I aim a cocked brow at her. “You? What about you?”

“Say something … dirty.”

That’s not at all what I was expecting.

“I think someone’s dick drunk.”

“It’s me. I’m someone,” Anna says with the straightest face and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up.

“Okay, now I know you’re intoxicated.”

She pushes up, her red hair falling over her shoulder on one side, and I groan.

Goddamn, she captivating.

“So?”

Humming, I lift my torso until my chest meets hers and thread my fingers through her hair, tightening my grip at the base of her skull as I wrap my other arm around her waist. Our lips are only a breadth apart, her gasps feeding down my throat, my heated gaze colliding with her green one, my dick still buried inside her. “I could spend all night buried in this cunt.” I flex my hips and capture her gasp against my lips. “And it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Her eyes roll as her body shivers in my arms. “Oh, crap,” she mutters.

“Toby … Anna!”

Anna freezes, her eyes going wide, her lips barely moving as she squeaks, “Oh, no.”

“Shit—" I lift Anna from my lap and roll from the bed, tucking my dick back into my pants as I go. “I’ll hold him off.” I swipe my shirt from the floor as I walk, my hands going through my hair once they’re free.

The door snicks closed behind me as I hear my name again, the call of an irritated bodyguard echoing through the hallway.

I’d recognize that tone anywhere.

“Do you not know how to answer a fucking phone?”

I roll my eyes at the prickly man now towering in the kitchen, his coat and boots covered in snow.

I would say his hair, too, but the man has recently shaved it all off—to the scalp—where no snowflakes had a chance.

“Well fuck you, too,” I mutter and blow past Lugh, straight to the stove.

Anna’s gonna need some hot chocolate for this mess.

“Seriously, what have you been doing for the six hours it took me to get up here?”

I ignore the question, because mostly it’s been me waiting for Anna. Clearing the driveway. And then fucking Anna. Playing some tunes to myself and watching another episode or two of that show she picked. Basically, just … wondering what the hell she’s doing.

I start a pot on the stove, slowly heating the last of the milk while I fish the chocolates from the packaging.

“Since when do you cook?”

“I’m not cooking,” I toss over my shoulder at the bodyguard as I shave small flakes off the little blocks and scrape them into the pot.

“Looks like it to me,” he grunts, the thumping of his boots echoing as if receding from me, not coming closer.

My gut twinges when I register where he’s going, my jaw clenching with the words that want to rush out of my face. Words I have no business thinking, let alone feeling straight to my tightened core.

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