Page 58 of Hideaway Whirlwind
“That’s going to hurt in the morning,” she says.
A hot poker spears me in the gut. “I swear I didn’t mean to bite that hard or hurt you,” I say, my voice rising with alarm.Please don’t tell me I fucked everything up already.
“No, no, shh. I didn’t mean that.” With the tips of two fingers, she traces the indentations my teeth left in her flesh, the corners of her lips lifting as if she’s delighted by the texture and the bruising that is sure to follow. “I only meant my feet are asleep, and my legs are going to be seriously sore tomorrow.”
“Good.”An understatement if I’ve ever heard one.My blood pressure returns to normal, my cock overly sensitive and already missing its home inside her when I help her sit between my thighs so she can straighten her legs.
“It’s a shame you didn’t stick around last night,” she says in her sing-songy voice, shaking one foot out, then the other, as feeling returns to her lower extremities. “We might have figured this position out sooner and had more time.”
“Trust me, I wanted to. But Layla…” I sniff, hooking my chin on her shoulder while I massage her upper thighs. “She made some good points.”
“I meant after that.” Birdie looks toward the trees when Storm barks again, a little closer this time. I’m surprised she’s traveled this far.
“After what?” I comb back her hair and kiss her cheek, thinking that now she’s chosen me, we won’t have to spend another night apart. We’ll have the time we need to explore anything and everything we want. At the cabin. Where we all belong.
“When you were hiding in the trees,” Birdie says with a fleeting smile. “I wanted to talk to you face-to-face about what happened in the bathroom.”
I go still as I process what she said, my mind not as sharp, slow and lazy in the afterglow of our intimacy. “I wasn’t hiding in the trees.”
She twists her head, frowning. “Yes, you were. Not very well, though. I saw you.”
“When?”
She huffs. “When we were texting.”
“You saw me when we were texting last night?” I ask slowly, my skin rapidly cooling. Casting my eyes to the surrounding trees that are merely a dark blob in the distance, I mentally kick myself for not giving in and ordering the old man glasses I’ve been too stubborn to believe I need just yet.
“Yes,” she says, growing frustrated. “But then the floodlights came on, and you took off when Goldie came outside. Drove away before I could catch up to you. You know this.”
Both of us tense when Storm’s barking grows louder, drawing ever closer, twigs snapping as she careens through the woods. It’s not her normal bark of exhilaration when she finds some vermin or another and chases it up a tree. It’s a warning, a call to arms—one that I heed.
“Why is Storm—” Birdie yelps when I lift her off the lounger and yank her skirt down to her ankles as soonas she’s standing.
I’ve barely zipped up my jeans before I grab her and run straight for the patio, then burst through the back door of the overly crowded mansion. I slam the door closed and lock it, pull my shotgun from inside my jacket, then point to Davis across the room. “Lock the front door!”
Davis immediately does so without argument.
Even though my brother has spent a fortune on special tinting for the windows and doors to prevent anyone from seeing inside at night, I hate how exposed it still feels to be surrounded by so much glass, like we’re sitting ducks, and I pull Birdie into the kitchen.
“Get away from her,” Russell bites out, charging over and trying to get in between me and my Birdie, plunging another knife in my back, and I shove him away.
“What’s happening?” Birdie asks, wringing her hands that have gone white with cold or fear or both. When Russell tries to get between us again, she balls her fists, her ribs flaring when she sucks in the breath needed to scream at Russell, “Leave him alone!”
Russell backs off with his hands up, and I pay him no mind when I shout, “Paul!”
My nephew is already standing guard with Mckinley at the side door that leads from the living room to the top of the driveway and garage, having flipped the lock before I finished saying his name.
Goldie moves swiftly to Birdie’s side. “What did he do to your neck?”
“What’s happening!” Birdie shouts instead of answering.
“You bit her?” Goldie screams at me, her face going fiery red with rage.
Ignoring Goldie, I search the living room and bark, “Whereare the kids?”
“They’re all playing upstairs in the nursery with Layla and Cora,” Dolly says nervously, with Wyatt’s arm wrapped around her from behind to drag her away from the windows. “Why?”
I find Trace, his ridiculous, teal hat sticking out like a sore thumb, and point to the second floor. “Keep guard upstairs.” He doesn’t argue, either, his naturally goofy smile slipping off his face when he sprints up the stairs two at a time.
