Page 32 of Smith

Then to Aria he laid on the charm so thick I would’ve throat punched him if I hadn’t known he was trying to goad me into showing my hand.

“No need to apologize. Besides, I watched some of your content the night before last. Your work is excellent. I’m looking forward to seeing you in action. That herringbone backsplash in the big blue house was inspired. And you stayed under your self-imposed ten percent waste rule. Impressive when cutting porcelain tiles.”

“Why thank you very much. I was pretty damn proud of that kitchen. What did you think of the master bath? Some would say seven shower heads was overkill, but damn, it turned out rad.”

I gritted my molars hearing her excitement.

“Darlin’, I’m not one of those people. After living in shit for a decade, I’m all about luxury and indulge whenever and wherever I can.”

It was the second ‘darlin’’ that had my control slipping until I was damn close to give Jonas what he wanted—a reaction.

“Oh, were you in theater with Smith?”

Aria’s question was met with silence. The room grew still and I could feel Jonas’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

My issues were no secret.

Shewas no secret.

Thus I understood why Jonas was shocked into silence that I’d shared something personal with an outsider.

If Aria felt the change in the room she didn’t let on but gave Jonas an out. “If you can’t say, I get it.”

“Darlin’, I’m just surprised you know what ‘in theater’ means.”

The growl that slipped was unfortunate and Jonas wasted no time jumping on my screwup.

“Those potatoes giving you trouble, brother?”

“I could mash if you want to visit with Jonas,” Aria put in, oblivious to Jonas’s dig.

“I got it, baby.”

Fuck.

Jonas cleared his throat.

I braced for the fallout of my slip.

Uncharacteristically, Jonas changed the subject back to Aria’s remodels.

I went back to beating the hell out of a pan of russet potatoes while scratching finding a doctor into my mental to-do list and tuned them out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

My back arched off the bed. Smith’s hand on my belly held me down while his hand on my ass lifted. He had not lied—he ate like a bear. That was, if a bear ate pussy like a gold medalist.

It was after dinner, after Jonas had left, and after I’d taken a shower in Smith’s tub-shower combination stall that was a dingy yellow, while he locked up the house. I was still in a towel contemplating all the updates I’d do in his bathroom when Smith snatched the towel off my body and tossed me on the bed. I’d only had a moment to appreciate his broad chest covered in tattoos and boxy defined abs before he spread my legs and commenced Operation Kill Aria.

One orgasm had bled into two and now the impossible was happening and a third was building.

“Smith,” I groaned and arched deeper.

His head shook between my legs and his fingertips dug into my flesh.

“Too much,” I breathed.

Smith’s lips captured my clit, his tongue lashed, and I had no choice but to ride the wave of pleasure so intense my muscles tightened and my hands flew to his head.

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