Page 28 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)
poppy
. . .
I ’m in the kitchen the morning after, wearing the oversized T-shirt I threw on after Turner and I did what we did. My legs are still wobbly, and every time I shift my weight, a dull, tender ache between my thighs reminds me of every filthy thing he said to me.
Every filthy delicious thing he did to me.
And now, I’m supposed to pretend none of it happened because Cash decided today was the perfect day to invite a bunch of friends over—both guys and girls—for a BBQ pool party.
Naturally, the entire yard is packed with shirtless dudes in swim trunks, and girls in bikinis are sprawled out on lounge chairs, squealing dramatically every damn time Nugget climbs out of the pool and shakes his fur off.
I stare out the window, the glass cool against my forehead.
Cash is in his zone, manning the grill, spatula in hand and flipping burgers while simultaneously wrestling one of his friends who’s trying to steal a hot dog that isn’t ready yet. There’s a soundtrack of blaring music and laughter, as one of them jumps up and down on the diving board.
Boing, boing, boing …
None of it really registers.
I’m too busy obsessively replaying last night over and over in my head. I shiver, remembering how relentless Turner was. How demanding.
How big he felt.
I can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on my hips, the way he squeezed hard enough to leave a faint bruise when he pulled me closer, the way his mouth moved against mine as he rasped, “ You’re going to take every inch, Poppy. Every single one.”
Gripping the edge of the counter, I inhale a deep breath and steel my spine. I can go out there and pretend like Turner didn’t fuck me into the mattress a few hours ago. I can pretend like he didn’t bury himself inside me, curse my name, and come so hard we both saw stars.
He’s outside now, laughing loudly at something Cash said, his abs on full display as he leans back in a patio chair. I watch him tip a beer bottle to his lips, and my stomach does this embarrassing little flutter. His hair is damp from the pool, and his skin glows in the sun, tan and slick.
From here, I swear he knows I’m watching because he glances at the window and smiles knowingly.
“Yo, Poppy!” Cash is staring at me through the screen. “Come have a drink!” He lifts his beer. “We’re gonna play pool volleyball soon.”
“I’ll be out in a minute. I, uh—have to put my suit on.”
“Atta girl! This is not a party for bores.” He laughs, tipping his head back and chugging the rest of his beer like he’s the life of a frat party and not a grown-ass man.
I close myself in the bedroom.
Piles of swimsuits are shoved in a drawer but the thought of pulling one on right now—skimpy and sexy—after what Turner did to me… after the way he said my name when he was inside me… after the way he took me apart and put me back together again —makes my skin prickle with heat.
With excitement.
He loves my boobs.
He’d said as much last night, more than once, his mouth hot and wet against them as he murmured, “Perfect fucking tits, Poppy. Perfect ,” punctuating the words with a flick of his tongue that had me arching off the mattress and clawing at his back.
I shiver at the memory, breasts getting heavy.
With a shaky breath I pull open my top drawer, rifling through the mess of swimsuits until I find the yellow one. It’s tiny—two little triangles and a few strings—and once he sees it he’s going to want to yank it off.
With his teeth .
Ha!
The sound of laughter and splashing accompany me as I get naked. Someone screams.
I put my suit on.
Pull my hair into a high ponytail.
Add gold hoop earrings and a gold necklace, cause—why not? My skin is already glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, my cheeks flushed from the memories of Turner’s mouth on me.
Last night, Turner had his hands all over me—squeezing, stroking, pinning me down while he told me exactly how crazy I made him. How he couldn’t stop thinking about me. How he wanted to do this again and again until I couldn’t stand up straight…
And now I have to walk out there and act normal.
Dear lord.
I’m a horrible actress.
“Relax.” You’re in control . “You got this.”
I swing the patio door open and step outside, the afternoon sun instantly warming my skin. It feels amazing, a slight breeze brushing over my chest as I glance around, which is a chaotic mess of bodies.
How was Cash able to assemble this many damn people on such short notice?
He only announced he wanted to have people over two hours ago and now there are guys splashing in the pool with Nugget, some tossing a football, some shooting the shit with him while he grills—and girls I have yet to meet, laying around. Flirting.
I scan the yard.
There he is.
On the other side of the pool, sitting on a lounge chair with one leg stretched out and a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, Turner’s eyes are hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. They hide everything, but I know he’s watching me .
The air is thick with citronella candles and the scent of Cash’s overcooked burgers, the sun dipping low in the sky already, casting everything in a hazy, golden glow.
And Turner? Looks like a sun-soaked god who doesn’t have a care in the world.
He freezes when he sees me, beer halfway to his mouth.
His sunglasses might hide his eyes, but his lips part and his Adam’s apple bobs, so pronounced it’s almost comical.
I bite back a grin.
Gotcha .
So. I do what I do, sauntering—no, strutting—over to the lounge chair next to his, tossing a towel down and plopping onto it with a forced, blissful sigh, stretching my arms over my head, arching my back just enough to make the fabric of my swimsuit ride up, exposing a baby bit of underboob.
I wiggle my toes. “Have you been in the pool yet?”
I know he has; he is still wet .
Before Turner can answer, Cash’s voice booms over the music. “Roomie! Hey .”
I look up to see Cash striding toward Turner and me, some random guy following behind. Oh shit. I know I’m in for it—I can feel it in my bones.
The guy is all broad shoulders, dark hair, and a blindingly white grin that screams I was the high school quarterback, they were the best days of my life, and I tell everyone about it .
Jeez.
I wish I had somewhere to hide, but I don’t, cringing inwardly when Cash slaps the guy on the back as they approach, his grin wide and excited. Like he’s about to introduce me to my future husband or perform his good deed of the decade, pride oozing off him before I even know what he’s about.
“Pops. Roomie,” he says again, and beside me, Turner’s body tenses when our roommate shoves the stranger forward like he’s presenting a prize stud at the county fair. “This is Paul. Paul, I was tellin’ you about my new roommate Poppy.”
I cannot for the life of me imagine what’s been said.
Paul smiles down at me, gaze sliding over me in a slow, deliberate sweep that makes me want to take a long, steaming hot shower.
“Hey, Poppy,” he says, dragging out my name like he’s testing how it tastes in his mouth. “How’s it going?”
“Hi—it’s going fine. No complaints.” I force a smile and sit up a little straighter on the lounge chair, wishing my tits weren’t on full display cause Paul notices.
And Paul clearly appreciates it.
Dammit!
Cash nudges his buddy. “Paul was sayin’ how hot it is out here. Maybe you could take him swimming. Cool him off a little.”
I want to gag in my mouth.
“Are you playing matchmaker, Carlson?” Turner asks him, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Naw man, just wanted to introduce two lost souls who are new to town. Playing tour guide, ha ha.” He laughs.
Paul shifts on his heels, his broad shoulders gleaming with water, his eyes glued to my chest. He’s got that frat-boy grin that’s both cocky and clueless, with zero manners and zero fucks given.
Double ew.
“Wasn’t expecting it to be so hot out here,” Paul says affably, running a hand through his dark hair. “You wanna take me for a swim, Poppy?”
Stop.
No.
Turner’s beer bottle hits the little patio table with a thunk as he sits up, leaning with his elbows on his knees and hands braced on his thighs, fingers splayed, tension radiating through every line of his body.
I swallow, fighting the urge to look at Turner. “Oh. Well. My swimsuit can’t get wet—it’s new,” I say, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder.
Paul laughs loudly. “Oh, come on, don’t be a party pooper,” he says, taking a step closer. “It’s a swimsuit. It’s meant to get wet.”
I force a laugh that’s more of a strangled cough. “Yeah, well, I’m kind of attached to it, so?—”
“Yeah—bro, she’s not going swimming,” Turner says, so matter-of-factly it gives me pause. “Not with you, anyway.”
Paul’s brows draw together, his cocky smirk fading. “Dude. Relax.”
Turner’s lips curve into a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth as he stands, rising to his full, opposing height. “Oh, I’m relaxed.”
I shiver, excited.
“Man, I was joking.”
Turner doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Stares Paul down like he’s a bug he’s deciding whether or not to squash.
I gulp back warm, Texas air, when Turner finally tears his eyes from Paul and turns to me, my heart slamming against my ribs. His gaze drops to my legs, then my chest, then back to my eyes, and I swear I can feel every single place he’s looked like a physical touch.
Then.
He lifts his hand, palm up, fingers spread.
I glance at Turner’s hand, at those big, calloused fingers and the way they flex, waiting for me.
It’s a dare.
A challenge.
I glide my palm over his; it’s warm. Rough. Solid.
When his fingers close around mine, it feels like he’s staking a claim.
I barely get a second to process the sensation before Turner moves.
In one swift, effortless motion, he pulls me to my feet. The world tilts, my vision spins, and before I can even squeak out a protest, Turner’s arms slide beneath my knees and around my back, hoisting me up like I weigh nothing.