Page 183 of Overcast

I finish loading our plates with what I’ve made and place them down in front of our spots to where Stormi jolts up to walk to the fridge.

Pouring us some orange juice, she places mine down before I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her into my lap.

“I would’ve gotten that.”

“I can walk,” she conveys, propping her arm around my neck.

“Can you?” I perk a brow. “Damn, I didn’t fuck you long enough then.” Hands on her thighs, I begin to lift her and me off the chair, but she squeals and gently hits my shoulder.

“No, not yet. Let me eat what you made for me.”

I nestle my face into the crook of her shoulder. “I’m hungry for something else, though.”

“Marty.” My name is a whiny-breathy moan off her lips as I trail the tip of my tongue up the column of her neck.

Closing my lips around a sensitive part of her skin that I know drives her insane, her body weakens against mine.

“Mhm?”

“Food...it’s going...to get cold.”

“I’d never let you get cold, baby,” I reply, bringing one of my hands down to the apex between her legs. My middle and index finger dip into the fabric of her shorts and panties before parting her pussy so I can start fucking with her clit. “Ride my fingers.”

She mildly lunges once just to get a taste when her fingertips begin to dig into my flesh. I practically make out with her neck, knowing I’m going to leave a mark, but I couldn’t give a shit.

“You’re absolutely fucking perfect to me,” I assert along her carotid artery that drives me into this deep-seated mental state that I can’t climb out of. “I—” She pulls her face around and slams her lips into mine, driving herself into my hand.

I love seeing this part of her—reckless, wanting, alive—and I’m here for it. I’ll take full responsibility for enunciating what lies under years of mental and physical abuse and bringing out the true Stormi in all her fucking glory.

“Are you going to come?” I provoke, ignoring the overexerted strain in my sweatpants. “Right here on my lap, in my kitchen, baby. Off two of my fingers and my—”

“Emric.” I go from being aroused to fucking pissed at the reverberating tone of Mills’s voice—a-fucking-gain.

“Dude, what the fuck now?” I snap, glaring in his direction, but it’s too busy being blocked by Stormi’s body and how she just buried her face into my shoulder in embarrassment.

“It’s important, dude. Meet me outside.” Stormi begins to move off me, but I keep her grounded by her hips.

When I hear the front door close, I say, “I’m sorry.” I brush my lips against hers. “I’ll be two minutes. Eat your food, you’re going to need it.” She releases a cute scoff and gives me a peck to my cheek before removing herself and plopping her ass in her chair next to mine. “I might kill him.”

“Don’t,” she opposes, hitting my side on the way to the door. “He just likes to mess with you.”

“And you,” I spat. “Fucking brave ass motherfucker.”

I’m out the door in seconds to find Mills pacing the grass in front of the porch, a cell in his hands and doesn’t acknowledge me until I open my mouth.

“Well?” He extends the phone to me but keeps moving back and forth, setting more irritation through my body but also a sliver of anxiety. He normally isn’t so fidgety. That’s Bishop. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Not me, brother—” He ends up tossing the cell when I don’t take it. “—it’s going to be you.”

Catching it, I immediately power on the screen to find a text message thread already opened with only one message.

Unknown: Call the attack of Reagan Lockwood off. Montgomery is dead.

Montgomery—I know him.

He’s the shady fucker that Wade got into a pissing match with years ago.

He was sentenced to prison four to five years ago over stealing money from the city of Bridgeport, prostitution, and some other shit.

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