Page 23 of Beyond the Stix

After washing up, I head back to my bedroom to dress. Relief, with a hitch of regret, settles in my gut when I find the room empty. Remembering John in my childhood space—in my bed, all sleep mussed, sends a shiver of desire throughout my body.

At times, the bodyguard can drive me up the fucking wall with his quiet, stoic demeanor. However, I admit I miss—Nope. I’m not going there.

Not after the asshole ordered me to get into bed with him like he has the right. I don’t know what pisses me off more. That he didn’t pile drive me into the mattress last night like I wanted him to, or that his firm demand turned me the fuck on to the point that I suffered stiff-dick syndrome all night.

I find a black jock with colorful mushrooms on it, a pair of dark blue jeans, and an old Metallica concert tee. I get dressed and make my way to the kitchen.

Rounding the corner, the heavenly aroma of breakfast wafts through the air. There’s pancakes, bacon, and sausage gravy and biscuits situated on the counter. But it isn’t my mother who’s standing in front of the griddle. It’s John.

He has my mother’s frilly, poppy-print apron on, and he’s flipping pancakes. My dick suddenly plumps in excitement at how my blushing bodyguard looks like a demented Mary Poppins.

Under the apron, John’s dressed in black jeans and a white and blue striped t-shirt that brings out his tantalizing eyes.

“Umm… Where’s my?—”

“She’s in the shower. I told her I’d finish making the food.” Then he flips another pancake onto the plate.

“Nice apron,” I chuckle.

He points the spatula at me. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s your mother’s idea that I wear it.” He swallows, and I can’t help track the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and my brain instantly goes back to last night when my dick was down his throat.

I try not to laugh, but it’s wasted effort. “I’m sure she twisted your arm,” I chortle.

“She says the bacon splatters and she didn’t want me to ruin a good shirt.” John glances down at the apron and quickly takes it off.

Yet, I can’t ignore the easy glide of his eyes down my body. I’m not an idiot. I know we neither one of us wants to acknowledge the fact that we are attracted to each other. Hell, look what we did last night. But we won’t be doing that again.

“Is she… okay?” I ask, my eyes cast down to the plate full of bacon.

“Yeah, I think so,” he whispers low.

I nod, then glance toward the hallway before turning back to my bodyguard. “Thanks.”

“For what?” John eyes me with confusion.

“Thinking of her comfort. Being here when you don’t have to,” I reply, feeling a slight rush of heat in my cheeks. “Because I?—”

“Hey,” he clips out, which gets my full attention. He rounds the island and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t even go there, Connor. I’m here to help.”

I swallow a lump in the back my throat and nod.

“What’s going on?” Fig steps in and his eyes bounce between John and me.

“Nothing,” John steps back and utters, “Sit down and eat.” John hands me a plate, plopping down two pancakes and a fried, sunny side-up egg on top.

I narrow my eyes at the bodyguard. “How do you know I like my eggs this way?”

“I pay attention.” He shrugs, and goes back to flipping the last of the pancakes on the griddle.

“Hey, where’s mine?” Fig wiggles an empty plate in front of John.

“Cook your own,” John says, handing him the spatula.

“Oh, good, you’re eating,” my mother says, aiming a dim smile at me.

“You should, too.” John hands her an empty plate.

“I’m not hungry.” My mother pushes the offered dish away.