Page 40 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

Little One: If you ever send me another unsolicited dick pic again, I’ll block your number. Don’t test me, Abi.

God, I love this man. Rather than reply, I scroll a bit further, locating an image of my bare ass. In the picture, I’m staring over my shoulder, arching an eyebrow at my reflection in the mirror. I send it to Tatum, hoping he appreciates the view.

His response comes fast, and it’s one that makes my heart skip a beat.

Little One: Hope you cry, hope you die. Can I play with it tonight?

My cock twitches against my jeans. The longer I stare at the message, the longer my shaft grows. I feel the head peek past the boxer-briefs that reach halfway down my thigh. I must be leaking too, because my thigh feels a bit damp.

Me: I would like that very much.

The next message that comes through is hardly a message at all. It’s just a picture of me through the diner window. When I turn to look outside, Tatum is standing on the other side of the window, holding his middle finger high to the sky, aimed right at me. After I give him a wink, he quickly shoves his hands in hispockets, staring at his feet as his cheeks burn a little bit brighter. When he finally finds the courage to look at me, he mouths, “Hi, Abi.”

A bell jingles above the door when they enter. Mrs. St. James is the first to arrive, clapping a hand against Fiona’s back as if they've just shared a joke. Once they’re at the table, Brody slides out of the oversized booth, offering her a spot at her husband’s side, but she lifts her hands in opposition.

“Thank you, sweety, but I think I’d like to sit by my boys today,” she says before tapping me on the shoulder. When I look up at her, she’s smiling at me.

“Mind if we scoot in, son?” she asks me. My heart pitter-patters, and I have to swallow a forming lump before I can speak. The affection in her voice sounds motherly. The way the word “son” rolled so effortlessly off her tongue. All I’ve ever wanted is a family, and perhaps I’ve allowed myself to warm to the idea more than I ought, but I cannot help it. It feels nice.

“Yes, ma’am. I would like that very much,” The moment I’m up, she pulls me in for a hug. I soak up the maternal affection for longer than the moment calls for, pulling away when I feel a tug at my shirttail. Tatum. He’s got one hand gripping the tail of my shirt, and the other is wrapped around one of my wrists. Mrs. St. James motions for Fiona to slide in first, then follows her into the booth. Tatum inches closer to me, his eyes focusing on my chest.

“Hey, Abi,” he says, his voice small and nervous.

I hook a finger beneath his chin and tug until our eyes meet. “Hello, my love.” Leaning in, I press a quick kiss to his lips. He doesn’t fight me on it, nor am I scolded for taking liberties I have no right taking. If anything, he leans even closer against me. It takes everything I have not to pick him up and slide my finger where it belongs. Considering this is one of the first exchanges I’ve had with my soon-to-be in-laws, I’m not sure how they’d feel about their son being finger-fucked on an endless loop while in public. Perhaps I can steal him away to the restroom before weleave. For now, I’ll take what he’s offered me, and I’ll hold onto it tight.

I slide into the booth, and when I look over at him, he’s staring at my lap. It’s like his body is seeking connection, because it’s where it knows he belongs, but his head is telling him a man sitting in another man’s lap at the dinner table is a social faux pas. I’ve never given a damn about social graces, so the protector in me wins out. Tatum wants to sit in my lap, so he is going to sit in my lap. End of discussion. Once he’s sitting beside me, I push the table back a few inches and grab Tatum by the hips. He squeaks when I pull him onto my lip, his cheeks flushing furiously.

“Jesus, Abi. I can’t sit in your lap at a diner,” he insists. “Normal people don’t do this.”

My hand finds his ass, and even through the protective barrier of dark denim, it feels like coming home. Giving him a squeeze, I cock a brow at him. “I don’t particularly care what normal people do in public. This is where you belong, no?”

Tatum glances around the table, his cheeks flaming. Brody and Scotty are side-by-side on the other end of the booth. Fiona and Mrs. St. James are staring at Fee’s phone, sharing a secret joke. Tatum’s father is staring at us with an amused expression.

He must not care what his father thinks on the matter, because he quickly dips his head in a nod, whispering, “Yeah. It is.” I lean in long enough to place a quick kiss on his cheek.

“So,” Mom says, taking a sip of her iced tea. “Abi, tell us about yourself. Aside from the fact you’ve got the cutest accent I’ve ever heard, I know absolutely nothing about you. If you’re going to be our son, we’ll need to remedy that. Tell us everything.”

“Mom,” Tatum warns. He’s probably worried about bringing to light facts I’d rather stay hidden. But that’s the thing. I don’t want to hide anything from them or from him. For the first time in a long time, I want to do like the ladies on Tatum’s housewives show say; I want to be open and honest. Sitting here withthe man I love nuzzling up next to my heart, I want to show myself. The parts I’ve kept for myself.

“It is alright,” I murmur, kissing his forehead. “I do not mind.” Turning to Mrs. St. James, I try to force a smile. “What would you like to know?”

“Whatever you’re willing to share,” she says cheerfully, but her voice softens as she continues. “To tell the truth, most of what we know about you came from Scotty, and he’s hardly a reliable narrator, adorable though he may be.”

Scotty growls like a cornered dog, baring his teeth like he might lunge. “Why must you continuously throw me under every bus that passes by? Jesus, Lindsay. It’s like you’re actively trying to get me in trouble.”

She arches an eyebrow at Scotty. “Maybe I am.”

“Why? What have I ever done to you?”

She shrugs, and there’s a mischievous smile settling on her face. “You think I didn’t notice the spark in your eyes each time Brody scolded you yesterday? It’s clear as day you enjoy being punished.” She darts her eyes at Fee, then back at Scotty. “You’re not the only one. Anyway, I’m just doing my motherly duty, sweety. If my boy needs to be smacked around a little to keep the home fires burning, you’re dang right I’m going to tattle on you. I’m doing it now, and I’ll do it again.”

Scotty whimpers, and, unsurprisingly, his eyes are filled with tears. The boy cries at the drop of a hat. He’s a bundle of emotional instability. Still, it works for him. “That ...” he says, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath. “That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.” Turning to Tatum, tears drip from his newly narrowed eyes. “Perhaps as my one-and-only best friend, you should take note. Worst biffle ever.”

“Perhaps your one-and-only biffle is sick and tired of your bullshit,” Tatum says.

“Yeah? Well, maybe I ought to—” Scotty begins, only to be cut off by Tatum’s father of all people. He places one hand on top of Scotty’s and gives him a stern glare.

“Scotty, I believe the banter portion of this lunch has gone on long enough, don’t you?” Though his words aren’t unkind, Scotty must see them as an attack, because he picks up his butter knife and aims it at the man.

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