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“Y-y-yes.” She barely spluttered out the word.
I was semi-fucking her slowly under the table with my finger, punishing her for her little stunt. If she thought she was going to get awarded with an orgasm, she had another thing coming.
Her cheeks were bright pink, her lips parted in desire, every muscle in her body clenched tight. “I-I gave him a ch-chance. And he c-came through.” Her hips rolled, desperate for more of my touch. She was close. I could feel it.
“Well, one of us had to, sweetheart.” I kissed her cheek casually, giving her swollen clit a flick with my thumb before withdrawing from her panties in one go. She actually yelped in frustration.
“And you, Ambrose?” Bruce turned to Row. “How’d you take their coupling?”
“Not well,” Row grumbled darkly. “But I love my wife and daughter too much to spend the rest of my life in prison for first-degree murder.”
“Honey, you have to taste this special sauce.” I ran the finger that was just inside Dylan along the alfredo residue on my plate, bringing it to her lips.
Her nostrils flared in annoyance. “I’m not hungry.”
“Alfredo is your favorite sauce, sweetheart. Isn’t it, Cal?”
“Uh…yeah,” Cal confirmed, confused.
Dylan shot me a heated glare but wrapped her lips around my finger nonetheless. There was barely any sauce and a whole lot of pussy juice.
“Taste good?” I rasped.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, we’ll be off. Early flight into Dallas tomorrow.” Bruce stood up, adjusting his belt over his stomach and screwing his cowboy hat on.
“Hope you forgive us for not staying for dessert.” Jolene smiled apologetically, assisted to her feet by her husband.
“Not at all,” Cal assured her. “Do what you gotta do.”
As soon as they left, Row turned his focus on his sister. “What’s that shit about you working at a pub, Dyl?” he demanded.
While I was glad that was the first thing to catch his attention, I didn’t like his tone. Neither did Dylan, judging by the way her spine snapped to attention.
“It’s a bar,” she corrected primly. “And I need to subsidize my life as well as my kid’s. You know, food, clothes, tuition, extracurricular activities.”
“I can take care of all that.” Row’s brows grooved into a deep scowl. “You should be focusing on your future. On going back to schoo—”
“I’ll do that on my own, thank you,” Dylan clapped back. “You’re doing more than enough for me. I want to succeed because of me, not because of you.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Row bristled. “You think rich kids who go to Harvard because Grandpa donated a fucking wing tell their families, ‘Oh no, I want to bust my ass for a scholarship or go to a community college. I don’t want to use my connections’?”
“I don’t know what those kids say, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care. I’m me. The girl you left behind to live your glamorous life and advance your amazing career. The girl who was always less-than. Who was known as somebody else’s sister. You don’t know what it feels like, Row. To be the spare, not the heir. The talentless, unremarkable one.”
“What are you talking about?” Row was practically foaming at the mouth. “You’re a genius.”
“Not many people know that, though,” Dylan said. “I don’t want to be indebted to you or to anyone else. I don’t want anyone to question if I had any shortcuts. I want to prove the people who underestimated me wrong, and I want to do that independently so that my daughter learns that no matter what your starting point in life is, you can always fight your way up.” She took a quick breath, cheeks flushed. “And while I am grateful for the privilege of house-sitting for you because I get to live in Manhattan, I won’t let you pay my way through life.”
“Row.” Cal put a hand on her husband’s hand gently.
“No, Dot. She needs to hear it. You’re of the same mind as me. She is wasting her life away. Rhy.” He cut his gaze to mine. “Talk some sense into your fake fiancée.”
“Sorry, pal. I jumped on that feminism bandwagon when they started offering free condoms in college.” I sprawled out in my chair, soothingly toying with Dylan’s hair. “I’m letting her call the shots on her own future. Radical, I know.”
Row dug his big, rough finger pads into his eyelids, massaging them. “Traitor.”
I ignored him. “You know, I’m starting to warm up to the theory that women’s brains aren’t actually smaller than ours. I’mstill not fully sold on giving them voting rights, but, like, some of them have profound shit to say.”