Page 22 of Leashed

Nixon.

Checked for a reply from NIXON.

Two good-night texts sat unanswered in her messages. Though five years had taught her Nixon wouldn’t be replying, she had expected Bo would respond.

Expected it, and felt awful for it.

Her guilt was amplified by the wanderings of her mind as she drifted close to sleep, yanked back from the brink when she became aware of the path her thoughts were following.

Nixon’s impeccably styled hair, tailored suits, and meticulously groomed goatee’d face had been replaced with shoulder-length blond hair haphazardly finger-combed into messy ponytails, torn jeans that rode way lower than was decent, and days-old scruff.

The commanding presence and domineering efficiency she had once found so sexy and powerful was being nudged aside in the darkness, replaced by thoughts of quiet coffees in cafe booths and casual curse-laden conversations about the sexual habits of nonexistent creatures.

Friend, she reminded herself. He’s just a friend.

With a groan, she ran her hands through her hair and refocused her mind on Nixon.

Nixon, with his dark blue eyes and clean nails.

Nixon, with his rising career opportunities and his logical guidance of her education.

Nixon, with his predictable words and actions in every area of his life.

Nixon, who had her mother’s approval.

Her phone buzzed beside her and she jumped, slamming her hand over the cell to still it before she read the text.

Still up?

She took a deep breath and exhaled.

Yes.

Bo’s response came in quick.

Wanna chat about vamps for a bit?

Pushing aside her guilt to deal with in the morning, she tapped Bo’s number and listened for the ring, smiling when he picked up immediately. “How far into this one are you?”

“Right around the part where they stop fucking and start making love,” he replied, his voice coarser than usual. “Is this a thing? Do women really have that switch in their heads?”

Stifling a laugh, she turned onto her side. “Maybe? I don’t know. You’re probably the expert on women.”

He grunted. “Yeah, well, listen to this shhh…tuff and tell me if it’s accurate,” he said, his blanket rustling through the phone. “If it’s not appropriate or I’m breaking some boyfriend law, let me know.”

She listened to the rumbling timbre of his voice as he read the explicit scene, forcing her eyes to stay open in the darkness after closing them had resulted in a very hot, very detailed, and very improper visual.

“So is that what women think about?” he asked after the grand finale. “Seems pretty fuuu…ricking cerebral for something so instinctual and primitive.”

“Maybe not in the moment,” she replied slowly, almost whispering as she became conscious of the thinness of apartment walls. To avoid being caught. “But afterward I guess if we were to talk about it, it would sound like that.”

He went quiet for a moment. “I’m definitely not eloquent enough to describe fucking that good.”

Smiling into the darkness, she rolled onto her side. “What do you think of the fated mates trope?”

“What the hell’s a trope?” he asked, and she instantly pictured his brows furrowing over his dichromatic eyes.

“It’s like a relationship theme in those books. There are friends to lovers, love triangles, only one bed, forbidden—”

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