Page 40 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

Dev woke up the following evening on a moan. He was on his back, one arm over his head, the other twisting a wedge of blanket up in a fist. Down at his hips, shit was thick and demanding, and tendrils of the dream he was coming out of tantalized.

Something to do with that stairwell to the rooftop and Lyric straddling him, as he held himself in place on the steps.

Closing his eyes, he went right back into the fantasy, seeing her blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her parka open, her turtleneck shoved up over her breasts, her bra pushed under them, her nipples peaked hard—

Another moan rumbled up through his chest—

His alarm went off, the sound of a barking dog shooting through all the sexy and blowing it apart to hell and gone. As his eyes popped open, he slapped his hand around the little table and sent the cell phone flying.

“Mother fucker …”

Sweeping his legs free of the covers, he planted his feet and yanked the blanket aside.

Of course, as things dragged across his lap, he hissed through his locked teeth at the friction.

And then as he stood up, shit was positively obscene, his erection sticking straight out in front of him like a divining rod—

Bending down for the phone, the true north stayed its course.

As he silenced the alarm, he heard people moving around upstairs, voices in the hall, a siren outside. Life, happening all around him.

Going into his texts, his heart started to pound, but he ignored—

Nope, Lyric’s initial text was still there. She really did want to meet him for dinner.

After verifying she hadn’t changed her mind, and that his affirming response had been seen, he closed out his phone and put it facedown on the bedside table.

Not too late to change this , he reminded himself. You can still pull out.

With a grim resignation, he headed to the bathroom, and as the door was partially closed, he swung his hips and pushed it open with his cock—

Payback was a bitch.

The contact shot was a bolt of lightning into his balls and he sagged against the doorjamb, the wood creaking as his weight hit it.

When he went forward again, it was directly to the shower.

No chance of going the bladder route, and he didn’t wait for the water to warm up.

He stepped under the blast of spray, and led with his dumb handle.

Another plan backfire. He’d wanted to punish himself, but the stinging impacts that tickled his proverbial ivory just made the thing throb more.

Turning his back to the spray, he grabbed his shaft with his left hand, braced his other palm against the tiled wall, and dropped his head into his biceps.

The stroking was goddamn delicious, especially as he closed his eyes and imagined it was a different palm against his cock— Lyric’s —and she was setting a rhythm that was hard and fast.

Naked. He pictured her naked and with him, her nipples dripping with water—

Annnnnd that was what did it. He didn’t even have to get to the part where he got down on his knees and licked those drips off the tips of her breasts.

He came so hard, he had to bite down on a knot of muscle to keep from yelling loud enough to scare the neighbors—and as soon as the orgasm started to fade? Another ramped right up.

Not his usual thing. But did he even have one?

As he kept working his erection, he told himself—when he could think—that he was doing everybody in Caldwell a public service.

He’d been pent up ever since Lyric had left last night, and he had a feeling that seeing her again, even if it was just across the table in a restaurant, was going to sharpen his libido to a blade.

So this was a good idea. Take himself down a notch or two. Chill himself out.

When he finally released his grip, he also let his biceps go.

“Great,” he muttered as he washed off the spots of blood where he’d broken his own skin.

Shampoo. Conditioner. Soap.

And then he got out before there were any other great ideas from down below.

Getting dressed took a little more time than usual.

He had two uniforms: going to work and sitting around.

Neither of which was quite right, but it wasn’t like he could accessorize them up.

In the end, he went with “going to work,” and picked the best versions of blue jeans, Hanes t-shirt, and pullover he had. Pathetic, really.

He just wasn’t used to having anybody to dress for.

On that note, he grabbed his cell phone, put it into his windbreaker, and was opening his door when he stopped and looked back.

Dev closed things up. Returned to his bed. Shoved his hand deep between the mattress and the box spring.

The Beretta he took out was loaded and in its tuck holster with the safety on.

He put the nine millimeter through a checkup, then stowed it inside the waistband of his jeans, with the holder arm tucked under his belt.

Going back to the bathroom, he stood in front of the sink, but had to step away some so that he could see his torso in the mirror.

Yeah, you couldn’t see anything—

Shit. His hair.

He started to go through the drawers, but that was a waste of time. He didn’t have a comb or a brush, and well, that checked out. He kept his hair cut short just so he didn’t need anything to run through it.

Overdue for his bimonthly trim. Great.

Dipping his palm under the sink faucet, he got some water, put it on the top part, and passed his hand over the dark growth.

“Whatever.”

Back at the door, he went to step out. And had to pull up short as his neighbor appeared in her apron.

“Dinner.” The old woman wiped her hands on a red dish towel. “In ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Aoun. But I can’t tonight.”

She set fists on her ample hips, her expression like he’d cursed in church. “Where are you going.”

“I—ah, I have a date.”

Instantly, her attitude shifted, her forehead wrinkling as her gray brows shot up. “You have a girl?”

“Woman. And we’re just having dinner together.”

“What’s her name.”

“Lyric.”

“She nice? You know her family?”

“She’s—yeah, she’s very nice. I don’t know her family, no. This is our first date—well, actually, we shared your dinner last night.”

As well as the shit up on the roof. But in case his neighbor had missed it, he wasn’t bringing up the drama.

Down with the brows. “She like my food.”

“Oh, yeah, she loved it. Particularly the fattoush.”

“Ah. Good.” Mrs. Aoun turned back to her door. “You will tell me how it goes when you get back here.”

Dev opened his mouth. Closed it. “Mrs. Aoun?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

There was a grumble of disapproval on that, but the old woman was nodding as she closed herself back in. Dev waited a second. Then he went over to her door.

Rapping with his knuckles, he said, “Ma’am? Throw your dead bolt for me. Please.”

There was a pause. And then shuffling.

The door opened and the tiny old thing stuck her forefinger in his face. Okay… his sternum, because that was as far as she could reach.

“You a good boy.”

Then she shut things back up with a clap—and that bolt was engaged with a chunk . As he went over to the staircase, he was shaking his head. How the hell had he ended up going out with some blonde for dinner and worrying about some geriatric’s locks. He’d lived here for—

Dev paused with his boot hovering over the first step. This was a really bad idea, he thought.

He could still turn back.

Then again, he could still turn back on his way to the restaurant.

The trip down and out of his building was a solitary one, and he tried to find good luck in that.

As he hit the snowy sidewalk, he hung a right, and put his hands into the windbreaker.

The gusts coming over from the river were cold and bitter, as if the weather had taken a personal interest in driving the citizenry of Caldwell into their homes and locking them down, and he decided that was another sign this wasn’t as stupid as he thought it was.

Then again, maybe it was a sign he should have stayed home.

Whatever.

While he traced the path he usually took to work, he looked up to the tops of the buildings he passed. No billboards. And he also didn’t run into any other damsels in distress.

Good thing, as he was retired from that line of work. Permanently.

A couple of blocks on, he passed the construction site. The place was lit up like a stadium, and the muffled sounds of machines running made him check his phone. Second shift had just started. The fuckers had four more hours before lunch, and he didn’t envy them.

No doubt Bob had been surprised Dev hadn’t showed, but probably relieved, too.

Petey with the mouth was no doubt even more happy, and you had to wonder if he’d resumed flapping his lips.

Or maybe the lesson not to pick on other people had stuck.

Either way, none of it was Dev’s problem.

He’d tendered resignation through the Wabash business office, and his former foreman would no doubt hear about things on Monday, if not sooner.

The restaurant was another two blocks to the south, and as he came up to the glow of that nightclub’s blue and green sign, he double-checked his gun was in place and entered the alley.

There was absolutely no one else out walking, just a couple of cars traveling on the salted roads, and you never knew who you were going to meet.

He was not into complications tonight. He’d had enough already.

As he arrived at the front entrance of the Italian joint, condensation blurred the view of the interior, but there was no mistaking who was sitting at the table in the window.

Like he wouldn’t recognize that fall of blond hair anywhere.

Unfortunately.

Lyric was facing away from him, her profile as if drawn in pastels, all those long, flaxen waves falling down over her shoulders. She was in some kind of a dark blue sweater, and that scarf, the one she’d maintained her dying grandmother had knitted, was around her neck.

“You can still leave,” he said into the icy night.