Page 140 of The Chance

He likes the taste of my cum and he’s sharing my toothbrush!

Maybe dreams do come true.

Chapter Eighty

Jordan

The bravado I wasfeeling from getting Mac off drained nearly as soon as we hit the street.

But it’s at an all-time low as I sit across from the woman that raised him, at their favorite diner, with his hand on my knee hidden under the table, and her inquisitive glare aimed right at me.

As if this is some kind of meet the boyfriend thing and not just the two of them sharing a meal.

Oh,andI thought it was a great idea to agree to this for Sentry under the condition that Ian and I chat afterwards.

Which means my stomach is in knots and though my arm is on the back of Mac’s chair, I’m anxious as hell that I’m going to miss something. Put him in danger. Risk his mother.

How the hell did I do this before?

“Jordan, dear, what have you been up to?” Marie asks, pulling me from my thoughts and I swallow.

You mean other than being hung up on your son? Having an existential crisis every time I look at him? Hoping he doesn’t fall in love with anyone when I’m not around?

“Uh, the gym.”

Mac snorts and squeezes my knee.

It almost comforts me. At least until I realize my thought pattern has shifted once again to what I feel for Mac and how this time feels like so much more.

More.More. More.

Blowing out a breath, I break away from the stare down with the internal excuse of scanning the room.

“I bought the gym I run,” I amend. “It’s been a handful and a half to figure out and fix up, but I enjoy it.”

Marie nods and sips her mimosa. “So Ian requested you since Peach is on bedrest.”

She’s not asking, but I tip my chin in conformation anyway.

“And what about after that?”

I catch her glance sliding suggestively to her son who groans. “This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition, Mother.”

Their bickering begins to draw eyes from around us and I have to force myself to breathe. To focus.

Except all I see are Mac’s curls, mussed by my hands. All I smell is that sweet scent of his enveloping me. All I feel is him.

His grip flexes on my knee again and I nearly jolt out of my seat.

“Shit,” I mutter and avoid looking at his worried gaze. “Sorry.”

The server choses that moment to interrupt and I’m thankful for the reprieve, however temporary.

Plates are doled out, the heavy scent of greasy meat and sweet syrup wafts through the air, making my stomach flip over itself.

I’m starving but not for food.

Aching from the amount of restraint it’s taking to keep my hands to myself.

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