Page 22 of Pucking Forbidden

“Your pussy? Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s attached to my body, Jordan. That makes it mine.”

“Are you mine?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Then that pretty little cunt is mine, too. Don’t touch it while I’m gone.”

She moans softly…which doesn’t help the situation in my pants. Dammit. I should have fucked her one more time before I left this morning. It’s going to be a long two days in the Sahara without her wrapped around me, gripping me just right.

I’m already addicted. It’d be laughable if it weren’t so painful. The man who went without suddenly can’t handle the thought of two days.

Diego would laugh his ass off if he knew.

Archer ducks into the locker room, his eyes coming to me. As soon as I see the look on his face, I tense, my hand tightening around the phone.

“I gotta go,” I murmur to Sutton. “I’ll call you when we land.”

“Okay. I…” She hesitates, and my heart pulses. But she doesn’t finish whatever she was going to say. “Have a safe flight,” she whispers instead before quickly ending the call.

I reluctantly slip the phone into my pocket before facing Archer. I already know what he wants to talk about. Same shit he always wants to talk about before we face the Bucks.

“What’s up?” I ask anyway, hooking my bag over my shoulder.

“Just checking in.” He leans against the wall, his arms crossed. “I know his sister came to see you. You good, man?”

How the fuck does he know everything? It’s a maddening goddamn habit. An irritating one, too. I don’t like anyone in my business, but Archer doesn’t give a fuck what any of us like. He stomps all over our boundaries, trying to keep our heads on straight. Part of me appreciates the hell out of him for it. He’s a damn good captain, the kind every team deserves. But I hate being the focus of his prying. I hate that he knows my business. And I especially hate that he wants to talk about it.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Do I sound unsure?” I growl, glaring at him.

“You tell me, man.” He cocks his head to the side, scrutinizing me. “I know this shit isn’t easy for you on a good day. I’m guessing today is not one of those.”

“Yeah, well, you guessed wrong.”

He cracks a smile, and I realize I played right into his hands, confirmed his guess without saying a word. Son of a bitch. He’s good.

“Mind your business, Graves,” I mutter without heat.

“You’re one of us. You are my business, motherfucker.” He chuckles quietly. “You’re welcome for giving a shit, by the way.”

I growl a soft curse, trying like hell to rein in the voice of doubt screaming at me. The same one that started talking after Jamison and the Bucks turned on me. I’ve been trying to silence that shit for years and remember that not everyone will plant a knife in my back at the first available opportunity. Some people, like Archer, actually give a shit. But goddamn is it hard to believe that when history says otherwise.

“Thanks,” I say, heaving a sigh. “I know I’m an asshole. I appreciate that you give a shit about us. Not every team has that.”

“You mean the Bucks,” he says bluntly.

I jerk my chin in a nod. “I’m still digging the remnants of that knife out of my back. Makes trust hard to come by.”

“Give us time, we’ll get you there.” Archer grins at me like he has no doubts about that and then turns toward the door.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

I hesitate for a long moment, trying to get my thoughts in order. “You know what he did.”

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