Page 89 of Jensen
She takes a breath and lifts her head. I shift my thigh and pull my cock from her. There’s pussy and Crisco and rice all over my pants, all down my thighs. Gently, I roll her onto her back and stretch out beside her. Her eyes are misty, blinking hard.
“Hey, come back to me,” I tap her cheek.
Slowly, her breathing evens. I stroke her hair and hold her to my chest. When she’s ready, I lift her to her feet. The sun cuts through in a beam, falling on her hair, making it translucent. I’ve never felt so naked with anyone before.
“We should wash up,” she whispers.
I carry her upstairs and turn on the shower. She grabs the dish soap on the way up to get the slickness off our skin. Everything smells like cheap soap and sex as we wash it off. The drain clogs with bits of rice. I scrape them out, and she laughs, her shoulders finally sinking as the come-down hits her hard.
That’s when I take her in my arms and kiss her like she means something. Slow, deep, exploring her mouth.
“Jensen,” she says, pulling back.
I raise my brows.
She looks like she wants to say something, but then she shrugs. “I think it’ll take both of us to clean up the kitchen.”
I smile. “Yeah, think so.”
We don’t talk about what happened, not any more than we did the first time we mixed pain with our pleasure. I wash her, spreading her thighs to make sure I didn’t hurt her ass or pussy. There are little marks on her delicate skin. I kiss them, remnants of blue dish soap bitter on my tongue. She washes me, and I let her, even though it feels vulnerable to be taken care of.
We get out, dress, and clean up the kitchen. It takes the rest of the afternoon, a few hours of not speaking.
Then, she reheats dinner while I feed the horses and lock up. I sit in my usual seat at the wobbly table. She sets down a plate of pork belly, refried in oil and served on a bed of rice and greens.
It’s dark now, save for the single golden light bulb hanging by a string from the ceiling. She sinks down opposite me and hands me a fork.
I can’t begin to guess what she’s thinking.
We eat in silence until everything on our plates is consumed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JENSEN
Neither of us talk about the Crisco again.
The next afternoon, I go into town to track the periphery of the Caudill estate and start to build a real plan. It’s not the same one Matthew Caudill lived in when I was in Kentucky. It’s bigger, more secure. Everything about the Caudills is more imposing than I anticipated.
That presents a problem.
I’ve done my fair share of breaking and entering, but this is different. The Caudill house is more of a compound. The fences are iron, and every corner is equipped with cameras. The only advantage I have on my side is that Leland Caudill won’t recognize me, so there’s a chance I can infiltrate. That would be the easiest thing—maneuver my way into his security team and slip Landis out. But that kind of plan will take time and money.
I have the latter, but on the former, we’re running low.
The hills are on lockdown with Caudill soldiers. They’re easy to spot. He employs them under the guise of a security company, so they all wear the uniforms. Brothers wasn’t exaggerating when he said their family is growing more powerful. Around noon, I do a loop of the surrounding neighborhoods, and I see them, planted here andthere. A car sits on the curb too long. An SUV repeats the same pattern twice. Men stand on the sidewalk with the faint outline of a bulletproof vest under their uniform shirts.
It’s all there in plain sight.
But nobody looks. Nobody wants to see.
“Take me with you,” Della begs as I’m strapping my gun to my thigh and fastening my shoulder holsters.
“No,” I say.
She comes close, eyes big. “Please. I don’t want to just sit in this house all the time.”
“You wanted my help,” I say gently. “Let me work.”
