Page 19 of Pour Decisions (Stryker Family #3)

JD

I eat the entire plate of cookies Katrina brings me.

Katrina. Just Katrina. Not kitten or any of the other nicknames I had for her.

But the temptation to slip back into how we were in the past, with our nicknames and casual touches, is so fucking strong that I don’t know how to stop it. Kat with a plate of cookies and a smile? I don’t know how I managed to not pull her into my lap and kiss her.

At least she’s out for the night. She was dressed casually and slipped out before I could ask where she was going. Not that I could face her without doing something stupid.

I wrap up my work and heat up dinner, some leftovers from the other night. Bubba joins me on the couch while I watch a few documentaries I’ve been meaning to get to. Sitting still, especially with Bubba flopped onto my lap, is making my back ache again.

I push the coffee table to the side and get on the floor to start my stretches. Moments later, the door opens and I hear Katrina thumping around.

“Trying to get extra credit?” Kat asks.

“Nope.” I look her up and down. She’s clearly tipsy, her smile loose. “How did you get home?”

“A cab. My mom will drive my car over tomorrow morning once her boyfriend is back in town,” she says.

“You were with your mom?” My brain immediately goes on high alert and some supporting muscles around my core twinge.

“Yes. And we’re better. Way better.” She leans against the doorframe between the hall and living room. “I think she’s in a good place with a decent guy this time. And she finally has a job that pays her what she deserves. She’s a lot less stressed.”

I nod, even though I’m wary. Katrina might have forgiven her mom for all the shit she put her through when she was growing up, but I’m not as nice as she is.

I shift a bit and pain shoots up my back—not as bad as the initial injury, but enough for me to grunt. I fall to my knees and rest my hands on them, my face hot. She’s seen me in this state before, but it’s different when I’m in the clinic surrounded by others doing the same thing.

“Where’s your pain, on a one to ten scale?” she asks, suddenly more sober.

“Just a five, maybe.” I take a deep breath. “It’s better now. I just pushed it. I’m not used to being this weak.”

And I’m not used to admitting that either, or the sting of embarrassment that comes with it.

She comes into the living room and sits on the couch next to me.

“I had to do physical therapy after my knee injury in college. I was doing way too much dance and not resting even though I should have.” She gives me a pointed look at that.

“And it sucked a lot. I was so used to dancing six days a week, then I suddenly had to work from the ground up to do basic stuff.

“But I learned that doing that then would allow me to be better in the future, so I focused on that instead. You’re just warming up for new PRs.” She shrugs.

I mull over her words for a second. She’s always upbeat, but realistic, and the contrast to my own generally pessimistic attitude is exactly what I need in moments like this.

That deep, almost physical feeling of appreciation fills my chest as much as I try to tamp it down.

That’s why everything felt so right with her—we contrasted each other, but complemented where we needed it most.

“Makes sense,” I finally say after clearing my throat.

“I know you’d brush me off if I said something like ‘everyone is weak sometimes’.” She smiles and my heart flips over in my chest.

This is fucking terrible. Just as bad as it felt when I first started falling for her—like the downward swoop on a rollercoaster. Terrifying but fun.

“Sage advice from a tipsy lady.” She yawns and stands up again. “I’m going to bed. Or at least I probably should.”

“You don’t want anything for that hangover you’re going to have?” I ask.

“I’ll be fine. I think. I have some water.” She drums her nails on the door frame. “Night, JD. Night, Bubba.”

She disappears down the hallway, and Bubba follows her. I sigh and sit on the couch again. I’m too awake after that short interaction to go back to bed, and I’d rather not toss and turn when I don’t have to. Especially since Bubba has clearly chosen to go sleep with Kat.

I’m awake for another few hours before Katrina comes back out, Bubba on her heels. She groans and wanders into the kitchen.

“You alright?” I ask.

She gasps and puts her hand to her chest, then to her head. “God, you startled me. And I can’t sleep because of this stupid hangover. You can gloat internally, please. Now I’m stone-cold sober and filled with regrets.”

I go into the kitchen. She’s changed into a big t-shirt that hits her mid-thigh. Surely she’s wearing shorts under it, right? I stare at her legs for too long as she looks through the fridge.

“Sit down. Let me help,” I say, nudging her toward the island.

She hops up on the counter, wincing. Bubba sits next to her, licking her ankles. She doesn’t seem to mind.

“Why are you still awake?” she asks.

I shrug. “Just am.”

“Is it because of Bubba not being with you?” she asks. “We were cuddling and I passed out hard. At least for an hour or two.”

“Might be part of it.” I dig through my cabinets for my pain meds and a glass. “I’m used to falling asleep with him but I can usually sleep without him if I have to.”

The idea of all three of us curled up in bed is too appealing, and I’m not even someone who likes lounging around.

“Take these.” I hand her two painkillers and a glass of water. She throws them back with a single swallow. “Let me get the other stuff together.”

I open the cabinet and grab my powdered Gatorade.

“You still do this?” Kat asks with a laugh. “You cannot be serious.”

“It works every time.” I grab my electric kettle and fill it with water before putting it on to boil.

“Just because it works doesn’t mean it’s not cursed. Maybe you’ve cursed yourself to drink this for the rest of your life,” she says, wrinkling her nose and leaning over to watch me grab two mugs. “Is it blue flavor?”

“Arctic Blast? Yes.” I find the tiny scooper inside the tub and dump a bit into each mug.

Yes, hot Gatorade is a gross concept, but nothing works better to prevent a hangover.

There isn’t a lick of science behind it.

Back when I worked the bar, a patron talked about it as a hangover remedy at length.

I must have been desperate one day because I tried it.

It’s worked ever since, and I’m not going to question it.

“If there’s any flavor that shouldn’t be heated up, it’s that.” She lifts her foot and pets Bubba’s back with it. “And call it blue flavor like a normal person.”

“There are different blue Gatorades.” I open the freezer and grab a bag of frozen corn. I’ve eaten frozen corn as a snack since I was a kid, which confused the hell out of her the first time she saw me eat some.

“Not the corn too, JD,” she says, putting her hand to her chest.

“Yes, the corn. It’s food but won’t make you feel queasy.” The kettle beeps and I pour hot water over the Gatorade. “And the drink.”

“This is the worst combo. I want to call the FBI on you just for this,” she says. “They’ll put you on a watch list.”

A snort spills from my mouth with ease the way it only has around her.

“No one’s making you eat it,” I say, popping some corn into my mouth.

“I want to. It’s nostalgic.” She sips her hot Gatorade and wrinkles her nose. “This better work.”

“It’ll work.” I lean against the counter and take a sip too. This doesn’t taste as good when sober, to be honest.

“So confident.” She shakes her head. “But so wrong.”

“It’s basically tea,” I say.

“I feel like a British person just up and died because of the psychic damage you inflicted on them.”

Her smile has a flirtatious edge. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

But I don’t want to imagine it. Every part of my logical inner voice, which is usually so dominant that I question whether I have another side, is dead silent.

And the irrational part of me is loud and clear, yelling to just fucking kiss her already.

I put my mug down and rest one hand next to her thigh on the counter. Even as I crowd her, she doesn’t move. She locks eyes with me instead, tracking every move.

“JD…” Her tone has a slight warning but she doesn’t move an inch. Her eyes are locked on mine.

“Katrina.”

I scan her face for one more second before I lean in and kiss her.

It’s an electrifying feeling, and jolts me from head to toe.

I cup the back of her neck and deepen the kiss, stepping between her knees to get closer.

She grabs the front of my shirt and holds me to her like she’s holding onto a life preserver.

My hands wander over her body, refamiliarizing myself with every soft dip and curve.

Her skin is just as soft underneath her t-shirt as always, and the swell of her breasts is fuller than I remember too.

“Shit,” she murmurs, leaning back for a second and peeling her shirt off. She’s wearing shorts, but they’re microscopic. “JD.”

“Say my name again.” I could listen to her say it over and over again for the rest of my life.

“JD.” Her voice has a sigh in it as I kiss down the side of her neck. She grinds against me, her core pressed against my hardening cock.

I groan against the side of her neck as she purposefully rolls her hips.

The friction of the fabric of my sweats against me sends white heat up and down my spine, and I press back against her to get more of the sensation.

We both let out a breath, like we’re getting relief we didn’t know we truly needed.

Just like muscle memory, we grind against each other at just the right rhythm, hitting all the right spots.

I ignore the twinge in my back even though she’d probably be pissed if she knew.

I cup her breast underneath her shirt, her flesh hot and warm.

Her nipples are hard, and she moans when I pinch one.

My cock is so hard that every time we grind against each other, I inch closer to coming right there in my pants. I don’t even care at this point. I just want to make her come, and come too.

I scoop a hand under her ass and scoot her closer to me so we don’t have a single centimeter between us. The heat from her pussy is practically searing. I can pinpoint her little gasps anywhere. She’s close, and I can take her over the edge.

Our kisses blur into each other as I grind against her faster, using every tiny thread of self-control I have to not finish before her.

Finally, she breaks, coming with a cry. She shudders from head to toe and I feel all of it, savoring the familiar sensation.

She kisses me as the aftershocks rock through her, slow and sweet.

The sharp turn from almost coming to this intimacy is nearly as shocking as the near-orgasm, but I love it.

“Wait,” she says abruptly, breaking the kiss. “Wait.”

The look in her eyes is wild and almost panicked, tinged with confusion. Like she’s wondering how the fuck that happened.

“Fuck. We really shouldn’t…” I dig my hands through my hair so I don’t reach for her again. My cock is aching with unmet release like crazy, but I ignore it. “It’s late. We’re not a hundred percent.”

“Right.” She gestures vaguely, her lips kiss swollen. “We’re not doing this again. Ever.”

Ever is a knife to the gut, but it’s true. As much as I want her, I lost my privilege to have her when I fucked it all up.

“I’m going to sleep,” I say, handing her t-shirt back. “Goodnight, Katrina.”

I go to bed, but lay there awake until I physically can’t keep my eyes open anymore. Despite the lack of sleep, I wake up ass early, like always, and see a text from Katrina. She must have sent it not long after I went to bed.

Katrina: I’m sorry. Friends?

Three simple words and there’s nothing else I can do about them.

I text back— yes . Because I either have her that way, or no way at all.