Eat Crow (Cheap Thrills Series Book 6)

by Mary B. Moore

  Yes, I loved the look of it. Yes, I thought it would look fabulous in the room and house. Yes, it kind of did suit my style because I’d intended to give it character with accessories, but I’d also wanted the living room to be the heart of it. To do that, a cool style was necessary, and this was definitely cool.

  But there was also the small fact that in two weeks, the floor dude would be doing his work, so I needed to get as much done as possible.

  And had I mentioned that I hated skidding around on the plastic sheeting taped down? You try walking out of your room pre-caffeine and skidding in your socks. That shit was no fun. It woke you up, but it also made you walk like you were trying to escape a psycho in a slasher movie.

  All of this meant that as soon as I had what I needed, I’d come home, put music on, and started painting the border from the ceiling down. I was in the zone, and the music was loud, so I hadn’t heard him come home.

  Doyle had reached an impasse with Logan yesterday after he found him chewing on his work socks and lying on his pants. After a tug of war and some evasive actions on Logan’s behalf, he’d managed to leave for work with a slightly mangled uniform and wet socks.

  Last night, Logan had come in with another bone for Doyle, this one filled with marrow. This meant that the dog was docile-ish when he saw Logan, only lifting his head to growl at him instead of attacking him like he usually did.

  Prince, on the other hand, just flicked his tail and glared at Logan before curling back up again in a ball.

  With my hand braced against the wall to steady myself, I twisted at the waist to look at him, seeing him frowning as he looked at what I’d done.

  “I’m painting?” Why was that a question?

  “I can see that, but what are you painting?”

  Dropping the cute little roller I’d picked up into the pan, I carefully got down the steps again.

  “I picked up some design magazines because I wanted to get an idea of accessories to give the house some pizzazz.” Yes, I used my jazz hands for the word.

  Picking up the magazine in question, I held up the double-page photo for him to see.

  “This border looks killer with the bright white walls, so I got some paint and the little wood doohickey like this,” I pointed to where it split the colors on the photo. “Cool, right?”

  Glancing from the magazine to my walls and back again, Logan rubbed his forehead. “I don’t exactly hate it, I just haven’t ever seen anything like that before.”

  “Right? The house has always been one of a kind in Piersville, so I thought the inside should reflect the outside somehow. I know I can make a statement with the accessories and shit, but the living room should be a feature.”

  It was obvious that I was excited about my plan, and whatever he saw on my face made him grin.

  “Well then, let’s finish your feature.”

  Two pairs of hands made the work go much quicker, and within an hour, we were both finished with the first coat of paint.

  Ruffling his hair with his hands, Logan grumbled, “How did it get in my hair? I wasn’t even close to the wall, and none of it’s on the white area.”

  Holding my hands up to show him the amount of paint I’d gotten on them, I shrugged. “Who knows, but it gets everywhere. Why don’t you have a shower, and I’ll put the food on?”

  Such an innocent question, but one that got genuine panic from him.

  “What? I can do it when I’m done or before I go in.”

  “I bought one of those already cooked chickens from the store on the way back from getting the paint, and I’m probably okay to put frozen fries in without killing us.”

  Looking relieved, he moved toward the door. “I won’t be long, but maybe put them in the oven in about ten minutes.”

  And with that, he was gone, leaving Prince and me to stare at the work. The tape was still up because it was only the first coat, but I liked it already.

  “It’s going to look awesome once we pull the tape off and put the wooden partition between the colors, kiddo. What do you think? Suits the fireplace and light fixture, right?”

  Ever the mute, Prince just blinked at me.

  “That’s what I thought. You’re welcome to give an opinion at some point, though, so feel free to hit me with what you really think.”

  To that, he lifted his leg like a ballerina, toe pointed out and everything, and stuck his head between his legs.

  “Well, that’s rude.”

  Looking away from what was a private moment between him and his crotch, I turned in a circle one more time to take in the impact of the work we’d done and stopped when I found a patch that I’d missed.

  “How did that get there?”

  Picking up the brush from the pan on the floor, I reached up and painted over it. Unfortunately, this also meant I was now committed to making sure there weren’t any other spots that needed extra work as well, so I went around touching them up so that we had a good first coat down.

  Finally, I took a step back to look around again and stood right in the stupid pan of paint I’d left behind me.

  Why would someone do something so stupid? Because I was too lazy to walk five steps to the right, that’s why.

  I was only wearing socks, too, so I felt the paint almost immediately and screamed.

  This was a disaster. If I took my foot out, I’d get paint all over the plastic sheeting, which Prince and Doyle would then track through the house.

  What if it didn’t dry overnight and I walked through it in the morning? I was going to have to take my sock off and drop it in the pan until I could get a bag to throw it into.

  It might have sounded like a dramatic reaction, but the frustrated, wailing scream that came out of me was warranted given the circumstances.

  I was so focused on my tragedy that I didn’t even hear Logan running down the stairs.

  In fact, the only warning I had that he was reacting to my screams was when he ran into the living room—wearing only a towel and with shampoo still in his hair—and his bellow, as he put his foot in the paint pan he’d been using on the other side of the room.

  I looked up just in time to see physics work against him.

  His forward momentum meant that the pan skidded forward, separating his legs as it shot forward, leaving a trail of paint behind it. Then, his arms came out and windmilled around to try and balance him, but as he put the now paint-covered foot down, it slipped on the plastic sheeting.

  With the toes of his paint-free foot on the ground, his blue-footed leg came up into the air before he fell onto his back. Almost like it happened in slow motion, his body hit the ground, the towel came undone, and I stood open-mouthed as his penis lifted then dropped back down.

  I wish I could say there was a noise that accompanied it, but the air leaving his lungs followed by the gasping breath he took and his limbs all connecting with the ground kind of drowned it out.

  Nothing would ever drown out the visual I’d likely have for the rest of my life of his dick dancing, though. Oh hell no, nothing would get rid of that.

  It was like watching those Newton’s Cradle balls hitting off one another on a desk.

  Finally, once everything had stopped bouncing—outwardly, not inside my mind—he rolled onto his side and gasped, “Fucking hell, Bex. What the fuck?”

  “That’s a lot of fucks.”

  And a lot of penis, but I was too much of a lady to say that out loud.

  I wasn’t too much of one not to make a mental note of it, though.

  Still panting, he pushed himself up to sitting, with one arm braced on the floor to support him. I’d like to point out—not to him—that his towel remained open, but at least his leg was supporting his cock and balls now.

  “Why the hell did you scream?”

  Who could think about whatever he was talking about with what he had going on right now in front of them?

  Then I remembered my foot. Looking down at it, I groaned. “God damn it.”

  Seein
g it, he scowled at me. “That’s your issue? A blue foot?”

  “And what would you have done in my socks? Walked on it? Hopped on one leg to the trash can, dripping paint on plastic sheeting that’d get tracked everywhere else?”

  “I wouldn’t have made that mistake in the first place. You need to look where you’re going.”

  “Remind me how you fell again?”

  Unfortunately, with that reminder, he looked down at his own blue appendage. Well, technically, one blue one and one pretty pink one with a darker pinked head that was waving at me.

  Being too much of a lady to wink back at him, I made a point of looking up at the ceiling while he covered himself up.

  “I only stood in the paint because I thought someone was attacking you when you screamed,” he clipped, and when I looked back down at him, he was easing his way onto his feet, doing his best to stop his paint-covered foot from slipping on the plastic. “Now, how am I going to get this cleaned without making a mess everywhere?”

  Sticking my foot out, I asked, “See the problem yet?”

  Tipping his head back, he glared up at the ceiling. It seemed that between us, this tended to be our reaction of choice. Interesting.

  Then, not saying a word, he limped out of the room, only putting pressure on his toes to keep his balance instead of placing his whole foot on the ground.

  I’d just leaned down to pull my sock off, figuring that it would probably slip more on the plastic than my foot would, when there was a manly squeak and thud in the hallway.

  From where they were sitting in their corners, Prince let out a mewling noise, and Doyle grumped.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, I already knew to watch it on the corners. He was the one who was so sure having paint on your foot wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  That was a tiny lie, sure, but in my defense, I was kind of rattled still from the whole falling penis log that I’d witnessed.

  Once you saw the dick of the guy you liked, was there any going back?

  Eight hours later…

  I was in the middle of a great dream, one where I was safe, warm, and comfortable.

  And then the ground moved, and I heard a deep, “Ah, fuck it,” before a weight rolled on top of me, and I opened my eyes to scream…

  Right in Logan’s face.

  Chapter Eleven

  Logan

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Bexley was waiting for a new washer and dryer to be delivered, so both of us were dropping our laundry off with our parents. Yeah, that was the level of adult we were at.

  How was that an issue? Because she only had oversized t-shirts to sleep in now, so when she rolled on her side and threw her leg over my crotch, her vagina pressed up against my thigh. Then she had to go and make it worse by squeezing her chest into my side as well.

  Granted, I was partly to blame because I’d automatically lifted my arm for her to move under when she’d rolled, but I hadn’t factored on the leg over crotch move.

  Or had I?

  I didn’t know the answer to that, genuinely. What I did know was that I’d been lying here for ten minutes in the deepest depths of hell, wondering how I was meant to get out of it. I didn’t want to wake her up.

  Truth be told—I didn’t want her to move.

  Bexley Heath was the best friend I’d ever had, and the woman I’d always wanted.

  There, I said it. I was man enough to admit that—to myself—and not run away screaming.

  I probably should have run away after waving my dick around in the air in front of her earlier, but I couldn’t do it. She had to have seen it, and I didn’t mean that from a yeah because it’s so big angle. I meant because it was right in front of her, for Pete’s sake.

  But she hadn’t said a word or run away screaming, so what did that mean? I’d been so focused on making sure she was okay and then trying to get oxygen back into my body afterward that I hadn’t noticed if she’d paid attention to it.

  Could you miss something like that?

  And why was I thinking about this like a teenager? I was a man who was mature and responsible, and it was time to go back to thinking like that.

  On the back of that decision, though, Bex shifted her thigh, dragging it more firmly over the area of my body that was now harder than it felt like I’d ever been in my life—and I’d gone through puberty, so that said something.

  Out of desperation to focus on anything but my pressing problem, I started trawling through things I could think about. Literally anything was a good subject at this moment.

  The first thing my brain went to was: Bex’s legs as she got into bed. The way the t-shirt had lifted when she’d lifted one to get onto the b—

  No. Fuck no!

  Okay, I needed a new thought.

  Instead, the mental image of her t-shirt dipping when she’d bent over, and the clear view I’d had of her cleavage popped into my mind. Her tits would fit in my hands perfectly, and they were so full at the top that if I put my mouth—

  “Christ,” I whispered into the room, rubbing my face with one hand and hoping she stayed asleep. “You need to find Jesus, Richards.”

  Like she knew I was in erection hell, Bex chose that moment to shift deeper into me, then rubbed her nose against the area just under my ear.

  Swallowing loudly, I started counting down from ten. After that, I’d get up and sleep on the ground or something. Hell, I’d Duct Tape myself to the wall and sleep upright if it would end this.

  The hand resting on my chest moved downward until it settled on the top half of my cock, and that’s when every shred of restraint I’d been desperately clinging onto broke.

  “Ah, fuck it.”

  Rolling her onto her back, I waited for her eyes to open. The second I saw them do it, I swooped down and kissed her. I was gentlemanly enough to hold as much of my body off hers as I could in case she decided to hit me—hopefully not knee me in the balls—or say no, though.

  She didn’t.

  Not only didn’t she, but she moaned and wrapped her arms around me, then licked my lower lip with a firm sweep of her tongue. Deepening the kiss, I allowed a bit more of my body to press on top of hers as I licked back into her mouth.

  I had just enough control and self-restraint to do one thing. Well, two.

  “Are you awake?”

  This was important to me because I needed to know that she was with me.

  The hazy expression on her face as she looked up at me softened. “Yes, I’m awake.”

  Here came part two, even though my arms were shaking with the restraint of holding back.

  “What’s my name?”

  “Logan William Richards.” There was no hesitation and no confusion.

  A small breath of relief left me, but before I could do anything else, she pulled my head back down to hers and started kissing me again. This time she dominated our movements, tilting my head to the side so that she could deepen the kiss.

  Threading my fingers into the hair at the back of her head, I took back control once the tension left me, around the same time that pushed her chin against mine, like she was trying to get me to do it anyway.

  Feeling the change, she pulled back slightly and muttered against my mouth, “Thank God for that.”

  Things quickly got even more heated, because she pushed her hands between us and pulled her t-shirt up her body, then over her head, separating our mouths again.

  I got my first look at her and the panties she was wearing.

  I wasn’t a man who had an ideal woman. Personality was attractive to me, and stereotypical beauty could come without that. Whenever I met a woman who was amazing to look at on the outside but came without anything on the inside, I shut down. I’d learned my lesson in high school, and there was a point when a guy had to outgrow that shit.

  The point I’d done it was at eighteen when I graduated and decided on my path in life. Maybe I was old before my time, but I learned lessons through experience, and nothing hit you harder than los
ing your best friend and the other half of your soul because you were a shallow dickhead who didn’t have the guts just to fess up.

  And that was the crux of the last seven years for me. I hadn’t had the spine to do that, and I’d lost the best person to ever happen to me outside of my family. Trust me, that eats away at someone, so that lesson was learned and applied to how I’d lived my life for seven long years.

  That meant that I wasn’t expecting the punch that an almost naked Bexley, visible thanks to the light coming through the partially open door from the hallway, would have. I’d dreamed about it, sure, but no dreams ever prepare you for reality.

  Staring down at her in amazement, I managed to croak, “Fuck me.”

  “I’m trying to,” she snapped. “But you keep stopping.”

  Shaking my head to clear it, I skimmed a hand from the base of her abdomen up to just under her right tit. “How is your skin so soft?”

  With what I dealt with at work and how I lived my life, it felt like the roughness of my hand was going to graze her if I wasn’t careful.

  Her right hand trailed its way down to my side and onto the small sensitive patch on my stomach, making me flinch. Whether she knew this or not was undetermined, but she quickly found out when I jerked as she moved it.

  “Logan,” she said slowly, moving her thumb over it again and smiling when it got the same reaction out of me. “If you don’t start moving again, I’m going to go to the bathroom to take care of things myself.”

  The meaning behind what she was saying filtered through the haze in my brain, which was still trying to come to terms with what I was seeing.

  Scowling at her, I growled, “No.”

  One word, but it said everything I needed to.

  Swooping down, I went straight for her nipple, sucking it into my mouth and groaning as she fisted my hair again. With a small tug, she arched her back and pressed her breast into me even more, then wrapped her legs around my hips and ground her crotch against mine.

  All that separated us was a thin pair of sleep shorts and her panties. I couldn’t sleep with underwear on, they were too restrictive for me, so the loose, thin cotton of the shorts was as much as I could bear at night when I wasn’t alone in my own place.