Page 19 of Bound

And when he touched me, when his body came close, when I felt far too much at freakingwork…

My knees tremble.

My nighttime fantasies have been off the charts the last couple of nights.

Thankfully, Jackson isn’t here and I don’t need to be distracted by those fantasies, by the dreams, by the insatiable need that has me charging my vibrator every night.

I walk over to the table, sink into an empty seat between Smitty and the wall, feeling something settle in me when he bumps his shoulder against mine. “Where’s Kailey and the rest of the crew?”

He smiles. “The girls took the twins to that new kids’ movie.” One big shoulder lifts then drops. “They said no hockey players allowed.”

“No,” Walker says, mouth curving. “They said noloudhockey players allowed”—he winks at me—“as in no loud hockey players who like to talk during previews and all the intense parts because they’re nervous a movie for kids won’t have a happy ending.”

“Hey now,” Smitty protests. “That shit gets intense sometimes. Especially when they kill off Bambi’s mom or whatever.”

My gaze connects with Walker’s across the table, and he rolls his eyes, but his mouth—just like mine—is curved up at theedges. “Dommie wants you to taste test a new cake flavor the bakery is trying out. You down?”

“This”—I wave a hand at my jaw—“sweet tooth is always down for any consumption of baked goods, but especially those delicious baked goods loaded with sugar and covered in frosting your woman makes.”

He grins. “I’ll tell her to text you.”

I nod, open my mouth to thank him, but the words don’t make it past my lips.

Because my gaze slides over his shoulder at the sight of someone coming close?—

No. Notsomeone.

Jacksonis walking across the room, all loose-limbed grace and leanly muscled strength.

Our eyes connect, and I’m lost in the deep brown depths, breath trapped in my lungs, heart suddenly in my throat. Like amber stones glinting in the sunshine, so many shades of brown and gold and?—

He blinks, and the connection breaks as he looks away, a muscle in his cheek flickering.

Heat crawls up my cheeks at his obvious dismissal.

“You good?” Smitty asks.

A shrug before Jackson hesitates to take the only empty seat at the table…

The one next to me.

His mouth flattens out, and I get a flash of that dog-poop-on-the-bottom-of-his-boot feeling before I shove that down and lift a brow in his direction.

A flicker of connection, of him responding to my nonverbal challenge.

Then he’s glancing away again, dropping with a sigh into the seat next to me.

“I’m fine,” Jackson mutters when Smitty shifts, as though getting ready to ask again, and adds, “I had to change my pump, something I’ve done a fuck-ton of times in my life. It’s not rocket-science.”

My gaze goes to between the men, wondering what Smitty’s reaction is going to be to that obvious dismissal.

But there isn’t one—or notmuchof one, anyway. Smitty just shrugs, lifts the pitcher in question to Jackson and then to me. Jackson nods. I shake my head.

“She doesn’t like beer, dumbass,” Jackson mutters.

Which makes Smitty’s mouth quirk as he fills one chilled glass and slides it over to Jackson.

I don’t get a chance to comment on the fact that Jackson knows I don’t like beer because suddenly he’s shoving his chair back and stalking across the room, moving with purpose to the bar and speaking with the bartender.

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