Page 35 of Three
I think about the guys living with me. “Cereals, milk, a pile of veggies, eggs, pasta, meat. Normal shit, I suppose.”
“You cook?” He grabs a pack of peppermint Altoids.
Why all these questions? “You don’t?”
His eyes dim. “I’d love to.” I think he mumbles, “Hey, darling.”
I turn, and he’s staring ahead. He has a faraway look that appears on his face when he’s talking with Serena.
“Great.” His voice is chirpy again, like I only imagined the shadows in his eyes. “My informant has arrived. Let me pay, and we can go.”
“How do you talk to her?” Having an AI like Serena sounds very useful. I wonder what can she actually do.
“To Serena? Wireless microchip implanted under my skin and in my ear, plus the bracelet on my wrist…” He keeps talking, but I get distracted as he stops at the cashier and bends to get the things out of the cart. My eyes zero in on a red strip of fabric peeking out of the back of Ramiel’s pants.
What the fuck is he wearing?
He bends again, and the jeans waistband slides down revealing the intricate red-orange lace. I can see more of the delicate fabric now, and my cock plumps all over again. Is it lingerie? Sexy as fuck men’s lingerie?
I stop the grunt from leaving my chest. The erotic image forces me to adjust myself as my length continues to stiffen in my suddenly overly tight jeans. Ramiel turns around and smirks seeing what I'm doing.
But before he can say anything, the old woman working at the register steals both our attention. “Oh dear, are you okay?”
That’s when I notice Ramiel’s hand is pressing on the small cactus near the till.
He lifts it, and I can see his glove is filled with long, thin white thorns. What I can’t see is a reaction of pain anywhere on his face.
“I’m fine.” He moves his fingers. “The glove protected my skin. What a relief.” he smiles at her reassuringly. But reading facial cues is part of my job, and there’s tension and wariness there.
He takes the wallet out of his jeans, and placing it on the check-out belt, he tries to slide his credit card out with one hand.
I help him, and after bagging his groceries, we walk out to his car. A Hyundai Kona Electric.
I place the bags in the trunk, and Ramiel pushes them further inside. That fucking strip of lace is visible again, and I know he’s doing it on purpose. I bite my inner cheek and fist my hands, forcing my cock to behave while I follow him. Ramiel sits sideways in the driver’s seat. He’s trying to pull out the thorns from his hand—with his fingers.
I sigh and pull a small bag out of the inner pocket of my jacket before crouching down near him.
“What’s that?” he asks as I slide out a pair of tweezers from mylock-picking kit. He leans toward me to look more closely, and I’m assailed by his cool, balmy scent.
“It’s youropen sesametool bag. Nice,” Ramiel says, with excitement in his gaze. His eyes are overly expressive. I can read him easily through them, especially when he’s turned on. They morph into melted caramel.
“Let me see.” I go to grab his injured hand, but he jerks it back.
“Sorry. Automatic reflex,” he explains and places his hand, palm up, into mine. It feels rigid, and he looks uncomfortable. Maybe he’s one of those people who like to do everything for themselves.
Well, not this time. I begin working on the thorns. “Who’s this informant?” I ask, wanting to distract him for some unfathomable reason.
“The son of a very powerful man.” Ramiel keeps it vague. Fair enough, I don’t like to out my informants as well. Still, I need a little more, just to be prepared in case something happens. “How do you know him?”
“We hang out in the same circles. How did you start your P.I. agency?” He changes the subject. I let him do it since he seems more at ease now.
“Didn’t you find out from my background check?” The next thorn I pull is thicker than the others. A drop of blood smears the glove, butRamiel still doesn’t seem affected. He must have a high pain threshold.
He shrugs. “I’d like to hear it from you.” So, he really meant what he said in the café yesterday.
“Couldn’t be a cop anymore with a criminal record. Private investigator was the closest thing to it.”
“Do you like it?” He’s the first person to ask me. Opal never has, probably out of unreasonable guilt. The rest of my ex-friends pity me or don’t want to have anything to do with me.
