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Chapter Thirty-Eight

Alex

I watch as the red paint thins out, fading into the wood as I let my mind wander. It’s been three Sundays since I attended the Brewer Family Golf-spel, and I’m not sure how much longer I can put it off.

Of course, because the universe loves to torment me, Dad’s precious golden boy texts me this morning asking where I am.

I could have easily told him I was with Mack without going into detail.

It’s not like I haven’t socialized with Austen’s friends.

We’re all close in age, and both of us are involved in sports, so a lot of stuff overlaps.

But for some reason, I can’t tell him the truth.

So I tell him I’m not feeling good because of my knee.

It’s a bullshit excuse, and I know he knows it.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press me and tells me he hopes to see me at the next golf outing .

I don’t hate my brother. Far from it. Sometimes, I just wish we could switch places, that I could know what it feels like to be the favorite and to be praised and revered as a success in the eyes of our parents.

My mother pisses me off with her constant need to be involved in my love life, but my dad is a different sport altogether.

Honestly, I don’t know why he insists on me going with him to the damn club at all, given the fact he barely tolerates me.

It’s not like he’s proud of me and wants to show me off; all he and my mother do is complain about my life.

I dip my brush back into the candy apple red paint, swirling it around before I wipe off the excess on the rim.

Another stroke on the wood, covering up the faded red spots that thinned from where I left off.

I can’t help but glance out the window at Jordan, who’s been outside all morning and afternoon, underneath the hood of his truck.

He insists he can fix whatever’s wrong, and while I would call it a day and buy a new car, he seems attached to it, so I don’t argue with him.

Though, the thought has crossed my mind to just buy him a new one, something big and shiny.

Expensive. One of those trucks people look at that makes them think the driver has a small dick.

I laugh to myself, knowing Jordan does not have a small dick and it would be funny for people to think that .

He deserves more than he lets himself have, but I get the feeling that me buying him a car would piss him off in the not-so-good way, so I won’t.

Oh well. He knows he can take the BMW if it comes down to it.

I watch him from the window, thinking about his words earlier.

He’d asked me to help him figure out his feelings, I guess. It’s a dangerous game to play, especially with him. I’ve played it a hundred times and I always lose. But I keep thinking about that moment before.

When his hands tightened on my waist, when he looked at me with those kiss-swollen lips and clear amber eyes.

It was the rawness in his voice that did me in.

It’s real.

He bends over just a bit, part of him disappearing into the depths of what he’s working on.

I watch as his back muscles tense, as he props his leg out, the motion elongating his back and drawing attention to the rag hanging out of his back pocket, to his perfect, round ass.

Everything about Jordan Mackenzie is perfect, but his ass is a fucking museum piece.

Especially in the tight, dirty jeans he’s wearing that are hanging low on his hips.

I bet I could bounce a quarter of that thing.

I bite my lip as thoughts of other things I’d like to watch bounce off those cheeks permeate my brain—though, I’m not sure he’d let me near it.

I don’t know what his sexual record is like or if he’s had anything in his ass—and I can’t say I’ve topped a guy before.

I’ve never felt compelled to. But for Jordan?

I would more than make an exception if he asked me to.

If he wants to experiment, I’ll be his guy.

My cock twitches in my jeans, and my instinct is to look away, to resist the urge to run outside and grab that god damn rag and smack his ass with it. It’d piss him off, and it would be so worth it…

“No,” I tell myself as I head back to my cabinet. “Absolutely not.”

I move to dip my brush in the paint, but stop when I see him through the window, removing his tank top, and using it to clean something up under the hood.

I note the way the muscles in his shoulders move, how when he shifts his weight, his jeans slide down just enough to show off that pale little sliver of skin. Fucking hell.

I bite my lip, my gaze drifting to the ceiling.

I should not go out there. Not because I don’t want to, but because I need to finish these fucking cabinets so I can get the counter installed.

I’m already taking longer than I should because of my fucking knee in the first place.

It’s driving me crazy, and I need to see it finished so I can start working on the porch.

The weather’s going to turn soon and those half-rotten floorboards on the porch aren’t going to replace themselves.

I’ll be damned if I fall through one of those steps and fuck my knee up even more.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not that I don’t think he knows how to fix shit, I’m sure he does.

But sometimes getting started is the hardest part.

You keep dragging it out, unsure of how you want to do things, unsure of what tools or supplies you need to get the job done or what the end result will be.

Sometimes you just need to dive in headfirst and figure it out along the way.

If you run into an issue, you adapt—you try again.

And in the end, it ends up better than you ever imagined.

I look at the half-painted cabinets, my aching cock voicing his opinion on the matter, and then I look outside.

“Fuck it,” I say, tossing the brush into the tray. I grab a water from the fridge and head outside, the screen door smacking against the doorframe loud enough it makes him look up.

I saunter across the yard, meeting his gaze. He doesn’t move, still poised against the car, but he’s not looking at it.

“What do you—” I don’t miss the way his gaze roves over me in my paint-splattered T-shirt and ripped jeans.

“Thought you might want a drink,” I say with a grin as I hand it to him. I make a point of being obvious about checking him out. He slowly grabs the bottle from me, seeming unsure .

I bite my lip as I take in the sight of him like this. Streaks of grease speckled along his forearms, sweat clinging to his hard chest, his jeans still hanging low on his hips.

“You look pretty hot.”

It takes all of two seconds for him to catch on and he grins, opening the bottle and taking a long drink. I lean against the side of the truck casually, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs.

He takes too long, and part of me thinks he’s stalling, or that maybe he’s thinking of going back on what he said. Maybe he regrets what he said, and I’ve miscalculated this whole thing.

He gulps down half the bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smudging dirt and grease on his chin.

“I know,” he says with the cockiest grin, and I realize perhaps, he did this on purpose. I’m sure the shock on my face is evident, and he takes a step closer to me, shoving the bottle against my chest. His amber gaze is full of fire.

“You look pretty thirsty. Maybe you should finish that.”

The nerve of this man.

I fucking love it .

I twist the cap as he nods to me. “What’s the matter, Alex?” His voice is sexy as hell as he smirks at me. “Cat got your tongue?”

I take my time opening the bottle as he leans against the truck, crossing his large arms over his chest.

Oh, you want to play, do you? I love to fucking play.

Game on, Jordan.

I shake my head, a sly grin on my face.

“Nope,” I say, guzzling down my water.

He chuckles as he slides closer to me, thinking he has me. I let him back me up against the truck, my cock twitching with delight as I gaze up at him.

I’m going to pay for this, but I can’t fucking wait.

I look him in the eyes just as I take my last gulp, but I don’t swallow it. I spit it right in his face.

“Tag, motherfucker. You’re it.”

I throw the bottle up in the air and duck out beneath his arms and run as fast as I can without hurting my knee, towards the woods at the back of the house.

“Fucking asshole!” he yells. “Get your ass back here!”

I hear him gaining on me, my heart thudding in my chest like a drum in a damn canyon.

My feet kick up leaves as I make a beeline for a group of trees close by when I realize his footsteps have stopped.

I stop, too, turning around. I don’t see him.

Where the fuck did he go? Did he give up so easily and head back to the truck?

I pout at the thought as I try to catch my breath.

Just as I take a step forward to go back, I feel his heaviness against me, those thick arms pushing me until my back hits a tree and all the air whooshes from my lungs.

He stares at me, eyes blazing, chest heaving as he takes a step forward. He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head, and my eyes roll back in my head. I’ve always been a sucker for a man who knows how to hold me down, who knows how to use his size against me.

Fuuuck.

He doesn’t say a word, just crushes me against the tree. Nothing has ever felt so good.

His breaths are heavy as he looks at me like he looks at a bowl of fucking ice cream: like he wants to devour me. He’s quiet as he studies me and my reaction. I’m not sure what’s going through his brain, but I know what’s going through mine.

I can’t help but grin.

“What’s the matter, Jordan?” My cock strains against my jeans, and I thrust against him as much as I can from this position. His hardness is not missed. I wiggle a little bit, just enough to feel his nails dig into my skin. “Cat got your tongue?” I add.