Page 102 of Wicked Scorn
“Football hands, bunny. Get it right,” I correct her, but I’m grinning, caught up in our usual banter now that things have finally calmed the fuck down.
“Right, because that makes them cleaner?” She tosses back at me, her tone light, but her eyes filled with humor.
From the corner, Ramsey, ever the tech gremlin, is hunched over his latest gadget with his glasses perched on hisnose. His head snaps up at Oakley’s next jab, “And you, Ramsey Blackwood? Keep those hockey mitts off the table till they’ve seen some soap.”
“Harsh, Oaks. My hands are pristine,” Ramsey protests, throwing up his hands, looking more amused than chastised.
Unable to resist, I sneak up behind her, wrapping my arms around her tiny waist and pulling her back flush against me. “Got ya,” I murmur against the delicate shell of her ear.
She doesn’t startle or flinch away. Something I wasn’t sure was ever going to happen. Instead, she melts into me, her body molding to mine in a way that has me swallowing hard. The trust she has in me these days…it’s fucking everything.
“Mmm, is that so?” she teases, craning her neck to meet my heated gaze. Her blue eyes are sparkling with mischief and love, it leaves my heart pounding against my ribs. She dances out of my grip, and I step back to lean against the counter.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” I ask, pushing away from the granite and inching closer to the fridge, unable to resist the urge to see what she’s already made that I can pick at. I’m fucking hungry.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she teases, turning back to her task before adding with a soft chuckle, “Patience, Rem. Good things come to those who wait.”
“Never been much good at waiting, especially when it comes to you,” I admit under my breath, hoping she doesn’t catch the weight behind the words.
But she does. She always does. And that knowing smile she sends my way tells me she’s fully aware of the power she holds. Damn, if that isn’t the hottest thing.
“Quit bothering me, Blackwood,” she orders gently, pointing at me with her wooden spoon, “And stay out of the fridge. Dinner is almost served.”
“Whatever you say, chef,” I reply, obeying with a mock salute, but not before sneaking a quick peek at the swell of her backside. This girl is going to be the death of me, and what a way to go.
I lurk in the kitchen, the sizzle of the pan distracting her from the fact I’m about to snag something, hell I’ll even take a piece of cheese to quiet the gnawing of my belly.
“Penn’s not gonna be here for dinner I don’t think,” I tell her, fighting to keep my tone even as her scent surrounds me. “He’s been MIA.”
Oakley frowns, her brow furrowing in that adorable way that makes me want to kiss the crease until it dissolves. “Everything okay?”
I shrug, not wanting to worry her. “You know how he gets sometimes.”
Oakley turns in my embrace, eyebrows knitting together in concern. “Did something happen?”
“Who knows with Penn,” I say, shrugging it off. “He’s probably off charming some poor unsuspecting soul or plotting world domination. Ya know, normal Penn things.”
“He’s been gone more than usual. Should we be worried?” It’s just like her to care, to consider every angle.
“Let’s just enjoy the quiet while it lasts,” I suggest, trying to mask the undercurrent of concern in my own voice. There could be something going on, sure, but right now, Oakley’s here in my arms, and that’s all the world I need. Not to mention I trust my brother and if he needed me, needed us, he would tell us and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. Except for give up my girl, I’d tell him to eat shit.
“Alright,” she concedes, her smile returning. “But if he doesn’t show up by tomorrow, I’m sending a search party.”
“Deal,” I agree, pressing a quick, daring kiss to her lips before stepping back.
“Need a hand with anything?” Iris strides into the kitchen, her voice slicing through the lingering concern. Thank fuck, these two get along because if I had to kick miss bitchy law barbie’s ass I would have. Their first meeting was less than stellar.
“Absolutely,” Oakley responds, her tone full of relief and welcome. “Can you grab the salad from the fridge and toss it?”
Iris and I just look at each other and grin, but don’t make a comment in order to not corrupt and embarrass my girl.
“Got it.” Iris moves with purpose, headed straight for the stainless-steel monolith of a refrigerator.
“Jesus Christ, Iris! Keep your clacking ass down.” Graham’s at the table, grumbling about the staccato of whatever the fuck she’s wearing on her feet while his attention is glued to something on his phone. His annoyance crackles like static in the air, and I feel Oakley stiffen beside me.
“Excuse you?” Iris shoots back, her words sharp as shards of ice. “I’ll clack however I damn please, thank you very much. You’re lucky I’m not stomping and putting my size seven up your grumpy ass.”
“Yea, shove it, Graham,” Oakley chimes in, her sass a surprising match for Iris’.
