Page 29 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

They had a fast and simple pasta for lunch.

Cass wore nothing but his hoodie, and Shep had pulled his little black boxer-briefs back on. They stood at the stove, her arm looped around his waist, her head on his shoulder, while he poked at the tomatoes and onions in the pan one-handed, his other arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Cass hated the thought of letting go of him. There was a rather nasty bite mark on his collarbone, and she kept touching it, again and again, tracing its puffy red edges.

“I feel insane,” she murmured dreamily.

“That’s the endorphins. It’ll ease up in a while. Hand me those artichokes.”

They were jarred hearts, nothing fancy, and he’d chopped them earlier while she stood behind him, both arms around his waist, face smushed into the groove of muscle flanking his spine.

She reached for them now, sad that she had to pull so far away from him to reach the bowl, and snuggling quickly back in.

“Is it like this every time?” she asked, as he dumped them in and picked the spoon back up.

“When it’s really intense, sometimes. Not always. But who knows.” He shrugged. “Maybe you’re just a nympho.”

She leaned over and bit his nipple.

“Ow!” He chuckled. “Little freak.” Said with great fondness.

She finally turned him loose when it was time to dump in the noodles, and then she went to collect plates, and forks, and glasses of water.

They carried their meal to the sofa, and Cass curled up against his side with her plate while he searched for something to watch on TV.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he proclaimed as he clicked through each channel.

“Ooh, Tremors ,” they said in unison, when they landed on a movie channel, and Shep traded the remote for his plate.

Cass settled deeper against Shep’s shoulder, twirled pasta onto her fork, and tried to decide how she felt apart from sore, satisfied, dopey with affection, and eager to try it a dozen more ways.

“I missed class,” she realized aloud.

He glanced over, expression neutral, clearly trying to gauge her reaction to that. When she shrugged, he said, “Want me to write you a note? ‘Dear Teach, please excuse Cassandra’s absence from class, she was too busy getting dicked down.’” He smirked, pleased with himself.

She snorted, and then started laughing, and it dispelled a little of that dopiness, leaving her tired and fond.

“You won’t, like, get in trouble, right?” he asked once they turned back to the movie.

“No. Only one of my profs takes attendance, and I only have her on Fridays.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him make a face that had nothing to do with the doctor’s station wagon getting sucked down into the sand on-screen.

“Ah. The horrifying realization that your old lady has her attendance taken at school.” She was only half-teasing.

And half-terrified, because she’d busted out “old lady” before “girlfriend” or “dating.”

He made another face, and gave her a sidelong look. “Nah. I’ll manage.” He looked back at the screen, speared a tomato with his fork and said, too-casually, “Is that what you want to be? My old lady?”

A cheeky retort formed and died on her tongue. She could tell from the set of his shoulders that it was a serious question. So she gave a serious response. “Yes.” And an honest one: “I sort of assumed we were already on the same page there.”

He took a bite of food, chewed, swallowed. Looked down at his plate and shoved noodles around with another shrug. “I mean. You coulda changed your mind.”

“I didn’t,” she said, hurt now. “But maybe you have.” She faced forward, TV a blur of color and sound, plate forgotten and in danger of sliding off her lap.

“Hey.” When she didn’t respond, he said it again.

She turned her head, and found his expression soft with apology. He leaned in and kissed her, soft and sweet, until the hurt melted away. His mouth tasted like tomatoes.

When he pulled back, he said, “I didn’t change my mind. You tell me what you want, and I want it, too.”

She nodded, blinking hard.

“Eat your food.”

She picked her fork back up, and they spent several minutes eating in comfortable silence.

Finally, Shep took a deep breath and said, “How do you think Raven’s gonna take it?”

“Honestly? She might try to hit you.”

“I figured.”

She bit at her lip and admitted, “I’m not sure how to tell her. Or any of my family.”

“That’s okay.” She thought he sounded relieved. “We don’t have to yet.”

We . She liked that. “Okay.”

~*~

They got dressed and walked down the block to the bodega to get dinner supplies.

It was a clear, cold afternoon, wind tunneling through the buildings, stiff enough they had to lean into it to keep their balance.

Cass linked her arm with Shep’s, and then he took her ungloved hand and stuffed it in his own pocket, his hand big and warm and anchoring around it. Her heart gave a little swoop.

Inside, they went down the aisles together.

“What sounds good?”

“I don’t know.” Her hand was still in his pocket, and it was warm, warm, warm, burning up. “I’m not hungry again yet. Like, a sandwich?”

“Easy enough.”

Sadly, she had to pull her hand out of his pocket so they could collect ham slices, and Swiss cheese, and the disgusting pickles he liked.

Bread full of little seeds, and a sad head of lettuce, and her favorite salt and vinegar (“Chips,” he said, before she could say, “crisps.” “You’re in America, friggin’ talk like it.

” “And who’s going to make me, you? Crrrriiiiisps.

” To which he tweaked her nose before they rounded the next aisle) chips.

He grabbed a six-pack of beer, and then a cheap bottle of white wine. When she lifted her brows, he said, “You don’t like beer,” and they headed up to the register.

The gray-headed man working the till was too preoccupied with the news playing up on the TV in the corner to shoot them a second glance, for which she was grateful.

Their age difference didn’t feel like any sort of obstacle, but she’d caught their reflection before they’d pushed in the door, and she knew that there were those who would give them funny or even concerned looks.

“…trial scheduled to start in April,” the news anchor said, and a familiar photo flashed up on the screen. Sig.

“Sigmund Blackmon,” the anchor continued, “son of well-known socialite and real estate heiress Shanna Denato, has been charged with rape. The allegation comes from an NYU classmate who says that Blackmon invited her to his home, and assaulted her there against her will. Police are investigating—”

A plastic bag crinkled, and Shep caught her gently around the waist. “Come on. Don’t watch that shit.”

She turned into his side gladly.

~*~

“I know you’re sore, baby,” he said, later that night, when the world was an orange smear of manmade light against the window.

“You’re not gonna be able to sit down tomorrow.

You sure as shit won’t be able to get on the bike.

” But he was already feeding his cock into her dripping sex, settling over her, cursing under his breath.

She was sore, achingly so, but she knew she could handle him now, that her body could accommodate all he had to offer, and the way he slid his hands all the way up her legs and wrapped them around his waist made her feel like a starlet in a Hollywood sex scene.

He hunkered down low over her, elbows and wide-spread knees braced on the mattress as he started to move, and kissed her at the same languid, lush pace at which he fucked her.

“God,” he murmured between kisses. “God, Cassie, holy shit .”

She was making him feel good. She was unraveling him.

She felt so tender, then, so full, not only of him, but of an unexpected, and wholly new sort of affection.

She wrapped her arms around him, stroked the shifting muscles of his back, and wanted to kiss his forehead; to tell him how good and sweet he was; to take care of him.

“That feels so good,” she whispered against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t, I won’t.”

After, she lay against his side, head on his shoulder, tracing idle shapes across his sweat-sticky chest while he played with her hair. She could tell from the pattern of his breaths that he wanted to say something, and eventually he did, voice hoarse.

“Earlier today. At the precinct. When I said I would kill anyone who put a scratch on you.”

Her hand and her heart stilled, a thrill skittering down her back.

“I meant that. I’ll do it.”

“I know.”

“But, Cass, I’m serious: you can’t go anywhere near this case. You can’t go anywhere near those shitheads.” His fingers speared through her hair so he cupped her head. “Do you get that? Can you promise me that?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I promise.”

And she even meant it, but out there beyond their fogged-up window, gears were already turning.