by Unknown
“I don’t—” But whatever he was going to say gets lost in a groan as she gets her fist around his cock and licks, all broad, flat tongue and one long stripe up the underside. Nick brushes the hair away from her face with a shaky hand. “Taryn—”
He honestly doesn’t know if he wants to tell her to stop or keep going. Before he can recover enough to choose, she’s looking him in the eye and opening her mouth as wide as can be, swallowing him down for real. When the head hits the back of her throat, Nick’s knees almost buckle.
Falvey pulls off, smirking. “Yeah, you aren’t gonna take long. Now let go.” She means her right hand, the wrist still twisting inside his grip. Nick can’t think of what she needs it for until she reaches down to work open the button of her own jeans, fingers slithering inside.
I take a minute, tops. Oh fuck.
Taryn catches him looking and grins wickedly, like there’s something about him in particular that makes him fun to try and shock. “That cool with you?” she teases, and it’s basically all Nick can do to nod. She works her hand down into her panties while she settles on a rhythm, all this warm suction and how criminally soft her tongue feels. Her mouth is very, very wet. He’s leaning against the dining room wall but there’s nowhere for him to brace his hands, not really, one of them back behind his neck and the other hovering ineffectually near the crown of her head. Nick reaches for her like an instinct before he remembers himself and quits.
Falvey glances up and makes a face at him, cheekier than it should be considering her mouth is full of his—yeah. “You’re fine,” she promises, backing off exactly long enough to get the words out. He can see her fingers moving inside her jeans. “Go ahead.”
Nick hesitates. She’s still got her fist wrapped around him, jacking steadily with a slick, quiet sound. Years, Jesus, on top of which she’s so completely fucking— “Falvey,” he says, helpless. Everything about her is still so, so new.
Falvey rolls her eyes. “Kanelos,” she counters, exact same tone and everything. Then, letting go of his cock and grabbing his hand herself, guiding it to the back of her skull. “Come on,” she urges, her teeth scraping whisper-light at the ridge. Nick hisses, barely managing not to thrust. “Show me.”
So. He’s gentle at first, gathering her silky hair up into a loose ponytail. She butts her head back impatiently, so he pushes some more. Taryn hums a satisfied sound. She closes her eyes to concentrate. The next time she takes him all the way deep, loose and easy and her touching herself the whole way through. Nick’s thumb trails down to the hinge of her jaw, feeling it work. He’s pretty sure that if she wanted to she could open him right up and walk around inside.
“Taryn,” he manages finally. He’s held off this long out of pride more than anything else, that plus how insanely good she feels and how bad he wants to make it last, but between her hungry mouth and her eyes and her wrist flexing faster and faster down between her legs—yeah. Nick’s pretty much done. “You gotta—” he starts, trying to warn her. His free hand drifts lower, plucking at her nipple through the flimsy bra. “I can’t—”
“Mm-hmm.” Taryn doesn’t ease off even an inch or two, just glances up to let him know he’s got permission. She arches into his touch so he’ll work her rougher, and in the end that’s what pushes him the rest of the way. Nick comes hard, fist tightening like a reflex in her thick hair. He forgot this, fuck, made himself forget it, the feeling as she swallows pulse after pulse. His breath shudders out, uneven.
Even as it’s happening Nick’s planning to haul her up as soon as he’s finished, to shove his hand down into her jeans and feel her clutch around his fingers, but she’s still milking the last of it out of him when she lets out a whine sharp enough to make it pretty clear she’s not going to need the help. Nick feels the vibration of it right up his spine. “That’s it,” he murmurs as her whole body shudders, Taryn leaning her hot forehead against his stomach while she gets herself off. Nick tugs her hair back until she looks.
She comes off his cock with a quiet pop, the hand under her waistband still working. Her knees are spread wide open on the hardwood. “So, more like two minutes,” she pants, this supremely self-satisfied look on her face as she winds down.
“Smartass.” Now Nick really does haul her to her feet, pulling those wet fingers out of her jeans and sucking off the sharp-slippery taste. Taryn giggles as he licks her palm. Her eyebrows jump when he leans in for a kiss, like she didn’t expect it so soon after. Nick makes a point of licking as deep into her mouth as he can.
“Okay,” she says finally, breaking away. “Um. Now that everyone’s happy, we should probably go.” She’s blushing, he’s pretty sure, just the slightest bit. Nick smirks.
The drive over to the diner is quiet, both of them humming through some pretty wicked afterglow. Or, at least, Nick certainly is—years without that, fuck, how could he have ever forgotten—and judging from Taryn’s lolling posture he’s not alone. Wrapped up in her scarf and that ridiculous puffy jacket she looks sweetly exhausted, a cold weather flush all across her lips and nose. How little sleep they’ve both had since the night shift, Nick bets he could still convince her to nap with him.
“Last chance to bail,” he tells her, pulling around back to park outside the kitchen doors. “Wait here in the truck, if you that’s what you want. Wooden spoon trick is better with some mystery.”
Falvey shakes her head. “Nope. I’m committed now.” Then she yawns, and seeing her tongue—Christ. Nick thought he was done. He wants her constantly, it feels like, more than he’s wanted anyone since—
Since.
“This diner have coffee?” Taryn asks, rubbing at the bridge of her freckled nose.
Nothing for it. “Locally roasted,” Nick confirms, shoving down the realization and swinging himself out of the Tahoe.
There’s no sign of either Alexandra or Ioanna when they first get inside the kitchen, stamping off their boots beside the dishwashing station. Nick waves at one of the harried-looking cooks who’s doing the best she can with a jury-rigged mise-en-place and the crappy induction burner that basically amounts to a hot plate. The grilled cheese she’s working on looks singed.
“Round the front,” the girl says, gesturing. “Mrs. Christou thinks it’s really broken this time, so they’re writing up a menu that works for the microwave.” From her expression, she finds the prospect faintly horrifying.
Oh for Christ’s sake. “Alexandra’s just being dramatic,” Nick reassures her, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “She would’ve called a repair guy if it was actually dead.” He thinks, at least. Falvey’s hovering at his elbow, looking around the busy kitchen with bright eyes.
“I’m sorry, I’m just being what?” That’s Alexandra herself, of course, popping through the service doors like she was waiting for her cue. She has an unlit cigarette all ready to go in her mouth, which is how Nick knows the stupid oven might actually be shot. “You certainly took your time,” she tells him, hands on her hips.
Nick resists rolling his eyes. It’s been fifteen minutes since she first called, tops. “Sorry.” He reaches around behind him to grab Falvey’s upper arm through her puffy coat. “Alexandra, this is Taryn,” he explains, nudging her forward. “We work together. And I’m her ride, so we can’t stay long.” Not true, obviously—Falvey drove her own beater over to his place—but close enough.
Well. That certainly distracts Alexandra for a moment. She looks Taryn up and down without even bothering to pretend she isn’t doing it. Nick half-expects her to ask to see Taryn’s teeth. Finally she nods. “Nice to meet you,” she says briskly, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and tucking it into her pocket, and that’s how Nick knows he’s in trouble.
Chapter Nine
The wooden spoon trick, it turns out, is pretty much exactly what it says on the label: banging around underneath the enormous oven with a wooden spoon until it hits the gas valve and the thing ignites. Nick shrugs out of his jacket and sets to it, down on his knees on the
rubber mat covering the industrial tile. “Are you going to stand here and watch me do this, seriously?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at Taryn and raising his eyebrows. “Go out to the front. Io will get you some coffee.”
Taryn grins. “I think I’m going to stand here and watch you do it,” she says, aware that his sister is standing right there and—judging by her delivery of the world’s most obvious once-over—clearly already suspects something’s up besides a friendly ride to work. Taryn doesn’t know what it is about her and Nick exactly. It’s like the two of them together send out some high-pitched sound only middle-aged women can hear. She takes a step back, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her coat.
“Is he here?” That’s got to be his other sister coming through the door now, Ioanna—she’s heavier than Alexandra but prettier in the face, with dark, curly hair to her shoulders. There’s a family resemblance among all three of them, strong eyebrows and that same plush mouth. Taryn bets they made a nice Christmas card when they were kids.
Alexandra nods. “He’s here,” she answers for him, arms crossed as she watches him skeptically. The spoon is noisy even over the rest of the kitchen bustle, a timer dinging somewhere and a boom box on a high shelf, tuned to a Spanish station. “He’s trying the wooden spoon trick.”
“If the wooden spoon trick works for him, I’m going to be annoyed,” Ioanna declares. Then, noticing Taryn, “Oh!” Her hazel eyes widen. “Hi.”
“That’s Taryn,” Nick says to the oven. There’s a thin strip of his lower back showing where his thermal’s riding up, olive and smooth. Taryn’s really careful not to look. “Falvey, that’s Io.”
“We work together,” Taryn explains, offering her chapped hand to shake; for a second she wishes she’d put on some lotion this morning, which is absurd. It’s not like she’s trying to date Nick’s sister. Shit, it’s not like she’s trying to date Nick.
She, um. She doesn’t think.
“Oh!” Ioanna says again, with a laser-fast glance in Alexandra’s direction. It’s a siblings-with-telepathy kind of look, the kind Taryn and Jesse used to shoot each other behind Rosemary’s back sometimes—do you have a feeling about what is actually going on here, and is it the same as mine? “Okay. Well. Have you had lunch?”
“She needs coffee,” Nick says, still not looking up. He hits something under the oven and swears. “So do I, actually.”
Ioanna nods. “Coffee we can do. Come on, Taryn, I’ll get you a mug.”
Taryn follows her to the front, taking a seat on one of the old vinyl-covered stools. It’s a neat-looking place, the diner proper, all checkerboard floors and a big, cheery front window. Taryn unzips her coat and looks around while Ioanna bangs through the cupboards underneath the counter, coming up with three giant mugs. “There’s a pot already made,” Ioanna confesses, “but it’s sludge. We’ll give the dregs to Niko and make a fresh one for ourselves, okay?”
Taryn smiles back like she’s supposed to. “Sure.” Honestly, if one of the sisters is going to feel her out, she’d almost rather the sharp-faced Alexandra. At least that would be more direct.
Ioanna disappears through the service doors with Nick’s—Niko’s—coffee while Taryn picks at her cuticles, eyeing the other patrons and wondering if she still smells like sex. That was a stupid thing to do, God, almost like she’d taken leave of her senses entirely—sex with Nick always feels a little off the rails in a way Taryn’s never quite sure she enjoys, like she’s teetering on the edge of something.
The kitchen doors swing open again, and Taryn looks up. Her karma must either be really good or really bad, she decides, because it turns out she’s getting her wish about which sister she’ll be dealing with after all. “Io said you wanted a fresh pot?” Alexandra asks shortly, shoving her order pen behind her ear.
Taryn opens her mouth to deny it, then realizes there’d be no point. “Please.”
Alexandra resets the machine with an almost brutal efficiency, her strong hands exactly like her brother’s, better suited for doing a needle decompression or tying off a tourniquet than waiting tables. When she looks up, Taryn can see that her eyes are the same as Nick’s too.
“Taryn, right?” Alexandra asks, folding her arms like she’s settling in for a conversation. Behind her, the coffeemaker burbles happily. The bright timer on the front promises it will be ready in four minutes.
Taryn nods. And God, she has never in her life tried to charm someone so apparently already set on disliking her, but… “Alexandra?”
Alexandra smiles thinly. “Yes.” Then, without any sugarcoating at all, “We’ve never heard your name come up before. How long have you been working with Nick?” Something about the way she drops the accent off his name feels downright unfriendly.
Taryn works very, very hard on not fidgeting in her seat. “Um. A year? Maybe more, I’m not sure.” She met him on her first day, actually, right after orientation. At the time, she remembers thinking he looked exactly how a paramedic should, those reassuringly solid shoulders.
“I see,” Alexandra says, with the gravity of a person who is witnessing something not altogether pleasant. “So you know about Magdalene, then?”
It takes Taryn a second to make the connection—she’s only ever heard the name Maddie tossed around in conjunction with Nick’s wife, and even then only once—but when she does… Yeah. Sweet Jesus mother-fucking Christ. She takes a deep breath and nods again, being careful not to even blink. “I do.” She wants like hell to follow it up with some kind of explanation or denial, we’re just friends or this isn’t what it looks like, every single one of her blurting, panicking, lying instincts coming online at once. She physically has to bite her tongue to keep from saying anything else.
It seems to be the right move. After a beat that feels like it lasts for all eternity, Alexandra nods, then picks a menu up off the end of the counter and slides it in front of Taryn. “You want to order something while you’re here?” she asks.
Taryn doesn’t actually—she’s nervous now, shit, and she has a hard time with food when she’s nervous—but it’s not like saying no is an option, so. “Thanks.” She scans the menu as quickly as humanly possible, remembering at the absolute last second not to order something that needs to be baked. “A turkey club would be great.”
“French fries?” Alexandra prompts, raising her eyebrows like possibly it’s a trick question.
Fuck it. “Sure.”
Ioanna comes through the kitchen doors again as Alexandra’s keying in the order, thank God—direct is what Taryn had been wanting, she guesses, and direct is absolutely what she got. “Alexandra, I said give me two seconds, I told you I would—” Ioanna breaks off, sounding exasperated, like possibly this is a conversation they’ve had before. “Are you torturing her?” She motions toward the coffeepot, then toward Taryn. “Is she torturing you?”
“N-no,” Taryn says, which isn’t a lie if by torture Ioanna means things like waterboarding or shoving lit matches under her fingernails. “Not at all.”
“I’m getting to know her,” Alexandra says, picking up the coffeepot and filling Taryn’s mug. “Can I get to know her, is that okay with you?”
“You’re getting to know her, or you’re giving her the third degree?” Ioanna nudges a tin pitcher of milk in Taryn’s direction. “Ignore her,” she instructs cheerfully. “Sugar? Or the fake stuff. I’ve got all three colors.”
“That’s okay.” Taryn cannot for the life of her figure out whether the good cop/bad cop routine is for her benefit specifically or if maybe they’re always like this. “How’s it going with the oven?” she asks, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. She looks down and realizes she’s shredded her napkin into little grayish bits.
Ioanna makes a face. “Don’t ask.” She pours a cup for herself and takes a long sip, raking her fingers through her hair. “Hi, Paul,” she calls, as the front door jingles open and an older man in a scally cap ambles in. “Go ahead and sit anywhere. I’ll
send somebody over.” She lowers her voice to a murmur, raising her eyebrows. “Not that you’re going to tip ’em, God forbid…”
It’s good coffee, strong and thick-tasting. Taryn downs a full cup. Next to the waitress station is a revolving dessert case, carrot cake and out-of-season blueberry pie cycling by. For the moment, at least, both sisters seem content to let her be. “Lunch,” Alexandra announces, sliding a club sandwich with a heaping side of fries in front of her. “Look out, plate’s hot.” And that’s that. Taryn still isn’t hungry but she takes a bite anyway, watching as a mother over by the corner table wiggles her baby out of his snowsuit piece by piece, mittens and hat and booties. The kid treats each newly released limb like a magic trick, holding them up for the ta-da.
“You aren’t making her pay for that, are you?”
Taryn whips around in surprise, Nick suddenly materializing directly behind her stool. The wooden spoon trick worked, apparently. “I can buy my own lunch, Kanelos,” she says, realizing a beat too late that she left her bag and wallet back at his house. Fuck, that’s probably what tipped his sisters off in the first place—not only is Taryn tagging along for no good reason, but she has nothing to her name but a coat and scarf. The whole thing screams houseguest.
Nick just ignores her, leaning up beside the stool to get Ioanna’s attention. “The coffee you brought me tasted like dirt,” he accuses his sister. Under the counter, two of his fingers slip into the vulnerable crook of Taryn’s knee and press lightly, warm and secret. Taryn can feel the heat straight through the denim.
So. Not ignoring her then.
“It was supposed to,” Ioanna says easily, taking his empty mug and reaching through the service window to rinse it out in one of the back sinks. As she puts it away, separate from the other diner mugs, Taryn looks down at her own cup and realizes she’s eating off of the family’s private dishware too. “And I hope the stove is fixed,” Ioanna continues. “Because Alexandra’s about scared this one off the property.”
