He wasn’t thrilled at the thought of her being with “some dudes” at all.

So he didn’t think on that.

He said, “You can get carried away with me.”

She smiled.

“And just to confirm, this once, you wanna force me to shoot harder down your throat, you claimed my cock, my balls come with it, I’m not gonna complain you drain me.”

She squirmed in his hold.

He tipped his head to the side, muttering, “She likes dirty talk.”

“Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

He grinned. “Yeah.” He then touched his lips to her mouth, pulled away, dropped his voice low and promised, “I’ll take care of you later, sweetheart.”

That made her grin, roll up on her toes and touch her lips to his.

He’d let her go but took her hand and began guiding her to the stairs when she tugged on his arm.

He stopped and looked at her.

“Thank you.”

He was confused. “For what?”

“How many do you want?”

He was more confused, but asked, “How many you got?”

“Well, there’s looking after me. Moving me in to protect me. Being cool with my meltdown. Listening to me. Understanding. Not running a mile when Essence told you her Woodstock orgy story. Looking after Essence. Being honest. How you’re honest. Asking if I’m good with how you’re honest. Giving great head. Having a big dick and knowing how to use it.” She gave him a wicked grin. “And liking your balls squeezed.”

He yanked on her hand, she fell into his arms, and he landed a deep kiss on her.

When he lifted his head, he said the only thing he could say.

“You’re welcome.”

But That Did It

Beck

Much earlier that same morning . . .

Beck opened his eyes and smelled bacon.

He then rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling a beat before he lifted his hands to his face and rubbed.

He also counted.

Five times.

Five times in the five months he’d been seeing Janna he’d spent the night.

And every morning, she was up before him, even if he had to get up early to get to work, and she made him breakfast.

He rolled out of bed, moved to her bathroom and stood at the sink, scowling at the toothbrush she’d opened for him the morning after the first night he’d stayed. A toothbrush that was in her little, ceramic toothbrush holder with dots that formed designs that looked like henna art on it.

Digging in.

He used the toilet. Washed his hands. Splashed water on his face. Brushed his teeth. Moved out. Nabbed his jeans. Dragged them on. Same with tee, socks and boots.

Then he prowled out toward the kitchen of her little two-bedroom place to have a word with her about breakfast.

But he stopped in the living room.

They didn’t spend time in it, so he’d never really paid attention.

The kitchen was a galley kitchen with cheap, fake oak cabinets.

The bedrooms were small and all anyone could say about the bathrooms (except the way she decorated them) was that they were functional.

But the living room had a slanted ceiling that had beams and bead board. The walls were painted one step up from white to be a light shade of gray. The floor had that tile that looked like wood, hers was gray. There were big square windows set high enough you could see out, but they still gave privacy. Leading to the yard, a sliding glass door out to a deck with a pergola over it. All these windows giving a lot of sun to the room during the day.

There were also two cool light fixtures hanging down, matching sconces on the wall, and gray velvet couches facing each other she probably got from that Z Gallerie place. Two armchairs pointed at the TV rounded out the place that someone (not him) would probably describe as azure or something, but they were a kickass blue. There was a square coffee table in the middle.

Toss pillows.

Nice fifty-five-inch TV on the wall. A low modular cabinet under it that had an Xbox, but other than that, nothing in it but what looked like sponges or something, painted silver.

It felt like it wasn’t a living room in Aurora, Colorado, but in a house at the beach.

It was clean.

It was classy.

It was calming.

It had personality.

And it was obviously the only room in the house she’d had the time, or the money, to really put herself into.

But Janna had concentrated on it, and he had a feeling now that it looked like it was done, she’d probably move on to another room when she had the cash.

Patient.

Smart.

Hopeful.

Beck stood there not knowing what to feel.

He’d grown up in a decent place, but his mom and dad struggled. They both worked a lot, but with two growing boys and a factory that sustained the distant suburban Denver town constantly changing hands and eventually closing down, it wasn’t easy.

He’d never had velvet couches.

He’d never had personality.

His father was a presence in the house, not a force.

His mother tolerated her husband, raised her sons and ran her house and sons like she was a single mother, and the idea of silver sponges (or whatever) that had no purpose and were a little weird (but Beck had to admit they looked cool), would not cross her mind.

He did not think of his place with Rosalie.

But if he’d thought about it, he’d realize she brought her life to it, not adding anything from their lives together. And he’d brought shit. So when she’d left him, she’d taken it all.

And if he’d thought on it, he’d realize they’d always been temporary. She’d always had her foot aimed to walk out the door.

Now he knew that wasn’t about Rose still being in love with Shy Cage.

It was that he never gave enough of himself for her to fully give herself to him.

And somewhere in her, she knew she deserved better.

She’d been right.

Now he had a bed. A couch. A TV. A set of plates and forks, knives and spoons he got at Walmart. And an overflowing trash bin since he always ate takeout.

He had shit before he had Rosie.

He had shit now.

Except when he was with Janna.

He turned the corner and saw Janna standing at the stove wearing a tight, little cami with tiny pink flowers on it and short, pink pajama shorts with a little frill at the edge.

She curled that mass of blonde hair so that now, in the morning, after sleeping and fucking, it was a messy mane of curls and tangles that dropped down in a V nearly to her waist at the back.

Her profile was makeup free.

She had the top of her hair pulled back in a little pony that made her look like Pebbles Flintstone, except hotter.

And the toes on her bare feet were painted an insanely girlie shade of pink.

His cock started to get hard.

Something pulled in his chest.

It was the smell of bacon, as it would do, that cut through.

“Babe, you shouldn’t make me breakfast.”

She turned her head, got that melty look and a smile, and replied, “Good morning, honey.”

Beck ignored the melty look.

“I gotta be at work at six thirty. You don’t.”

“It’s a trek into Denver.”

“It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

“So?”

“When do you normally get up?”

She looked to the skillet.

Right.

It was time.

It was time months ago.

Now, those legs, that Pebbles hair, her living room, the toothbrush, her going for a deep kiss, bacon . . .

It was definitely time.

“We don’t have this.”

She jerked her head to face his way again, emotions chasing across her expression until she settled on just one, and that one was a look he’d never seen.

Stubborn.

It was cute.

Fuck.

Her eyes scanned him up and down and she retorted, “Funny. It looks like we do.”

“Janna—” he started, beginning to move into the kitchen.

“Beck,” she snapped, making him stop.

She’d never snapped at him.

Never showed backbone.

That was hot too.

They held each other’s eyes.

And as they did, he decided to use this to his advantage.

“Okay, if we do, you had another bad dream last night. Wouldn’t tell me what that shit was about. Didn’t tell me about it when you had one before. So if we got this, tell me what it was about.”