Page 7 of Addicted

“You're going to feed her fucking pancakes? In. My. Bed?” he growls, and it's just too funny that I can so easily wind him up, thoughts of the mess we might make fucking with his OCD. I hope he explodes.

“Yep,” I reply, mixing the batter and heating the pan on the stove. “With all the trimmings; maple syrup, Nutella, golden syrup, strawberries…” I trail off, thinking about the other combinations. I bet my Nightingale has a sweet tooth.

I glance over to Aeron, biting my lips to keep my laugh from spilling out. He looks ready to burst, his face all flushed, and I swear the vein in his head is throbbing triple time.

“And how, pray tell, are you going to feed her pancakes covered in syrup in my fucking bed without making a mess?” His voice is deadly calm, his body statue still, both signs any normal person would take to run the fuck away. Luckily, I'm far from normal.

“Easy,” I answer, pouring some of the batter into the hot pan to create the first pancake. “I'll make sure any drips land on my cock so she can lick them off with her delightful tongue.”

I flip the pancake, grinning like a loon at the growl behind me before catching it in the pan and placing it back on the hob, then stepping away towards the cupboard to grab a plate.

“Oh, for fuck sake, Jude! Point that shit away from me!” Aeron grunts out, and I look down to see I'm standing to rigid attention. The thought of my Nightingale wrapping those red lips around my shaft was enough to make it hard as granite.

“You could always help me out here, bro,” I suggest, looking up at him with a tilt of my lips to see what he makes of my baiting. His upper lip curls and I let loose a chuckle.

“I’m not into that incest shit, Jude,” he sneers.

“No kink-shaming, Aeron. It’s not friendly,” I chastise, placing the cooked pancake onto the plate and pouring another measure of batter into the hot pan. “And anyway, I don’t really see the difference if we’re both fucking her at the same time. Especially if we’re in that delicious pussy of hers together,” I muse aloud, my dick bobbing at the thought. A hand grabs me and spins me around, and I can feel my teeth show as my smile widens.

“No one is fucking her,” he seethes, panting hard, which just makes me smile wider.

“Sure thing,boss,” I reply, poking him with my still-hard cock, and he leaps back. He doesn’t give a shit if I walk around naked, but I guess he draws the line at me touching him with my dick. And they say I have issues.

I hum the “Bare Necessities” as I assemble my Nightingale's pancakes, adding chopped strawberries and lots of syrup.

“I fucking mean it, Jude. No attachments to this one. Remember, she’s a Soldier. Remember what they took from us.” His voice is hard and unyielding.

I pause on my way past him, sweet tendrils of black rage swirling inside me like smoke from a gun barrel.

“I remember every fucking day, brother,” I reply, my voice sharp like my flip knife.

His hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing gently as we share our pain. The pain of June’s death was like an infected wound, seeping pus and blood. Taking a deep breath, I shake my head, as if that’ll help rid me of the sticky feeling of rage that lives within my soul.

Without saying another thing, I step away from him, taking my Nightingale her food. Something about her makes me want to take care of her, to treasure her like the beautiful bird that she is. I don’t care that she's my enemy and that her shit of a fatheris responsible for the other half of me dying five years ago, but I will break her. It’s all that I’m good for now, after all.

Ironic that I called her broken when she’s far more complete than I’ll ever be.

CHAPTER FOUR

“BAD BOYS” BY AZEE

LARK

Idrag myself up and shuffle towards the bathroom to pee and clean up a little after that wake-up call.Jesus. That boy is fucking trouble, mark my words, but fuck if I don’t want to buy what he’s selling, even if we’re sworn enemies.

Keep your head on straight, Lark! It’s fine to get a few kicks, but remember, the goal is to escape this shithole.

By the time Jude returns—still gloriously naked and sporting another massive erection—I’m half propped up in bed and wondering why my back doesn’t hurt as much as it did yesterday and why I don’t feel quite as shit.

“Nightingale, you moved,” he pouts, and the sweet aroma of pancakes makes my mouth water. He strolls towards me like a jungle cat, the dead madness shining clear in his ocean eyes, and don’t ask me how something can look dead and mad at once. He just pulls off that kind of vibe.

“I needed to piss,” I inform him primly, his maniacal grin going wider at my crude words.

“Careful, Nightingale, talk like that will only turn me on,” he replies, climbing onto the bed next to me and setting the plate between us.

“You into water sports, devil boy?” I query, reaching for the plate, only to yelp when he slaps my hand away.

“I’m into a lot of things, Nightingale.” His voice drops, and I notice his shaft getting harder as I watch, my mouth watering now for an entirely different reason. My tongue darts out to lick my lips, and I wonder why these guys have affected me like this when all the others before them just leave me feeling numb.