39. Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Tatum

“No, I don’t want you to leave.”

I hold Devon tighter, not wanting her to get out of bed. She snuck into my room a little while ago. We fucked, and now have been cuddling for who knows how long. It’s getting late and we can’t risk falling asleep in case someone comes in. Someone like her brother, who comes into my room unannounced all the time. It’s never been an issue before, so I can’t make an issue of it now. He’ll know something is up.

“I don’t want to leave either, but I’m hungry. Come on, let’s go raid the kitchen like we used to do when we were twelve,” Devon says.

“I won’t say no to food.”

We untangle ourselves from the blankets and search around for our clothes.

“Where are my underwear?” Devon asks.

“Don’t bother looking. You’re not getting them back.”

Devon grins, dragging her finger down my chest. “You going to use them to jerk off to? ”

I grip her hips, lowering my voice. “I’m going to cum in them, fold them, and put them back in your drawer with the others.”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I’ll record it.”

Her grin turns devious. “Fine. But expect payback.”

“I’ll be waiting for it.”

We finish getting dressed and I pop my head out to check the hall for anyone before we head out. Dane is home, but Brent isn’t. Thankfully, his room is down another hallway, away from mine. It was a risk having Devon in my room, but worth it.

Devon goes for the fridge once we’re in the kitchen, while I go to the pantry where all the snacks are. I grab a bag of pretzels and shut the doors, turning and freezing when I see Devon with her arms full of junk.

“Seriously?” she asks. “That’s what you want? What is wrong with you?”

I hold up my bag of pretzels, pointing to it. “This is a normal snack.”

She tries lifting her arms but nearly drops a jar of cherries. “No, Tate. This is a snack. Put that healthy crap away.”

“You think pretzels are healthy ?”

She rolls her eyes, going to the counter to drop everything there. Then goes back to the freezer. “Fine, bring them here.”

Curious, I put them on the counter next to all the stuff she has.

I lean against the island, watching as she works.

Devon gets two bowls from the cabinet and scoops Neapolitan ice cream into each—one of each kind.

“You’re going to give me diabetes,” I mutter.

She shakes her head but keeps going.

She tops the ice cream with fudge sauce and caramel. Puts an obscene amount of whipped cream, uses half the jar of cherries on hers while only giving me two, then crushes the pretzels to sprinkle them on top. She quickly puts everything away, gets two spoons, and offers a bowl to me.

“I expect that bowl to be clean,” she says.

I raise a brow. “You’re making demands now?”

“So what if I am?” Her eyes shine with mischief as she takes a bite of her ridiculous sundae.

I swipe my finger through the whipped cream on my bowl and offer it to her. With a smirk, she wraps her lips around my finger and sucks it off. Before she’s able to swallow, I grip her chin and force my tongue into her mouth, kissing her. She moans, kissing me back.

Footsteps on the tile have me jerking away from her, and I catch the hurt look on her face just as her father steps into the kitchen.

“You’re both up late,” he says, completely oblivious to the fact we’re in the same room together without fighting, which isn’t something we’ve done in five years.

“Just wanted a snack,” Devon says, disappointment clear in her voice.

I clear my throat and move around to the other side to sit.

“Since when do you eat all that sugar, Tatum?” Brent asks.

“It was a long day,” I say.

Brent looks between us, the bags under his eyes dark. He’s been working more than normal lately, doing a lot of traveling to prepare for a big upcoming summer fashion show that he puts on each summer.

“Well, I’m getting to bed,” he says, kissing Devon on top of her head. “Night, sweetheart.”

“Night, Dad.”

I watch as he goes until I can’t see him anymore, then turn to face my sundae, feeling shameful.

“Look, Devon—”

“Don’t,” she says. “Just don’t, Tate. I get it, okay? We’re just messing around, and you don’t want my dad to flip out and kick you out.”

“That’s not it,” I say, but she stares at me like she doesn’t believe me.

“I’m going to bed.” She gives me a sad smile, walking away with her ice cream.

“Devon,” I call after her, but she just keeps walking.

I know she doesn’t want me to follow her, meaning if I do, it’ll turn into an argument. I don’t want to argue with her.

So I sit in misery and eat my ice cream. Every last drop. Then go to bed—alone.