13. Tabby

THIRTEEN

TABBY

B y the time I pulled into Walt’s parking lot, I was fuming, having had enough time to properly stew. The group project went terrible. Even though Kevin had completed his portion, when it came time for him to explain his portion of the slide deck, it was as if he’d never seen them before, so I could only assume he’d found someone else to do his work. And Maureen. Poor Maureen. After working with her these last few weeks, I found it obvious she had some kind of anxiety disorder. In-person classes were probably not the best option available for her, to say nothing of being required to give an oral presentation to a classroom of about thirty-five people. The girl couldn’t make it through one paragraph.

I ended up taking over for her and pretty much carried both Maureen and Kevin on my back, but I couldn’t get us anything past a C. When I spoke to the professor after class, he was understanding of my plea that I deserved a better grade but reiterated that this was a group project, and he actually would have given us a lower grade if not for me. So, I had to accept this less-than-stellar grade and swallow it, bringing my average down for the semester.

I wasn’t one of those people who argued for every point, but I was an A student. I wouldn’t waste my time or money on taking classes to earn anything less.

So this shit really fucking pissed me off.

I marched into Walt’s and slammed my bag on the table in the office, where Nate worked on his computer. “Whoa. Take the evil queen vibes down a notch.” When I scowled at him, he held up his hands. “Want to talk about it or just light some shit on fire?”

“You volunteering?”

“To light shit on fire, yes, but not to be the target.” He angled his head, hitting me with his endearingly dumb grin.

Then he stood and held out his arms, and I walked into them, burying my nose in his chest. “We got a C-minus.”

“You what?”

I lifted my head, leaning away slightly so he could hear me, though I loathed to leave any part of his embrace. “We got a C minus on the project.”

He grunted then wove his fingers into my hair, pushing my face back to his pec. I suspected he liked me there as much as I liked being there.

“That sucks. I’m sorry. You worked really hard.”

I sighed and turned, my ear against his heartbeat. “Not hard enough to cover for the other two.”

“But you’re done, right? Officially on spring break?”

I answered through a yawn. “Yeah.”

He gripped my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length. “You tired? Want to go home?”

“No. I want to work.”

He bent down, eyes flicking between mine as if determining exactly how tired I was. “Okay, but if I see you flagging, I’m making you go home.”

“Fine,” I agreed.

“And I’m putting a stool behind the bar so you can sit while you work.”

“Absolutely not.” I brushed his hands off, suddenly really energized. “I am not going to be sitting on a stool to work. No one can serve drinks that way.”

“You look?—”

I spun around, my finger pointed at him. “I wouldn’t finish that statement if I were you.”

He kissed the tip of my finger. “Yes, ma’am.”

I smirked. “Good boy.”

He groaned, closing the little bit of space between us, his hands sliding from my hips to my ass. “I love when you call me that.”

“I know.”

He gave my backside a good squeeze. “I’ll be your good boy all day, as long as you let me eat you out every morning.”

“Could be arranged.”

With a smacking kiss to my lips, he said, “Remember, done at eight.”

I nodded and hung up my coat. I was only scheduled for a few hours a night anymore. I didn’t hate it. As much as I’d like to keep working full time, the bigger I became, the harder it was to be on my feet. In a few weeks, I doubted I’d want to be behind the bar at all, but I would cross that bridge when I got there.

As I turned the corner into the kitchen, he stopped me one last time. “I packed you a dinner. It’s in the fridge in the kitchen. Leftovers from last night, some fruit, and?—”

I attacked him.

Straight-up jumped on him.

“Hey, yo, all right.” He chuckled, cupping my ass as I licked and nipped at his throat while he backed up into the office, shutting the door behind us. He set me down only after he locked the door, and I slid my hands up his T-shirt, running my fingers over his abs, the hair on his chest. I’d yet to see the guy naked, and I was suddenly desperate to get the whole picture. His arms were tattooed, but I always wondered if they extended beyond.

“Take your shirt off.”

“You take your shirt off,” he responded, and I didn’t hesitate. I whipped the thing right over my head. His gaze sizzled, his pupils dilating as his tongue swept over his lower lip.

He tried to reach for me, but I jerked my chin in silent instruction for him to take his shirt off too. As soon as it landed on the floor, I had my hands on him, exploring the hard planes of his torso, from the slight rise of his pecs that were clear of ink to the thick slab of muscle that made up his stomach. I skated my hands up his forearms, his left tattooed with armbands, his right with random geometric patterns. His biceps were covered in more classic designs, roses with thorns, a butterfly, a heart with a sword through it. All of them black. I’d been able to view them before, but seeing them now, with him like this—shirtless with his arms relaxed at his sides while he watched me touch each one—was different.

It was a whole new side of him.

I would need more time to properly learn each and every inch of him, but for now, it was enough to be able to look my fill. He didn’t have defined lines like Hollywood celebrities or models on social media, but he was pure muscle with a fair amount of hair on his chest and small, flat nipples. I raked my fingernails over them as I dragged my fingers down his abdomen to his jeans, unbuckling his belt.

“What’re you doing?” he rasped, his breath hot and fast.

I shook my head. I didn’t know what I was doing, only that I wanted to show him how much I appreciated him. How grateful I was for everything he’d done for me, during the time we’ve known each other, but especially in the last few months.

I needed him to know that while it was difficult for me to verbally express exactly how much I loved the fact that he’d packed me a dinner, I would show him.

“Tabby,” he murmured, reaching for my face, but I evaded his kiss and instead lowered to the floor, staring up at him. “Shit, Tab, your knees. Don’t kneel on the floor.”

“I’m fine.” I popped the button of his jeans to pull down his zipper.

“You—” He cut himself off when I tugged his navy-blue boxer briefs down to reveal his cock, semi-hard. Until I wrapped my hand around it and he went fully erect, the head thick and red. I licked the tip, right over the slit, and he wrenched away. “I don’t think we should do this. The baby?—”

“Is fine,” I told him, leaning forward to trace the length of him with the flat of my tongue, and he exhaled audibly, irritably, almost like he didn’t want to agree.

“You have work to do.”

“That’s funny,” I said, my lips brushing his balls. “ Now you want me to work.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head with obvious frustration then flicked his lids open, irises blazing. “Fucking put it in your mouth.”

I teased my tongue along the shaft.

“Tabitha.” He tunneled his hands in my hair, tugging on my scalp in the way I liked. “Put it in your mouth.” He thrust his hips forward, his jaw tense, abs clenched. Barely in control. Tortured. Beautiful.

When he growled my name again, I acquiesced, slipping his length into my mouth, following his directions.

Suck hard.

Use your hand.

Faster.

Normally, I didn’t need him telling me what to do. Hated being micromanaged. But here on my knees with his eyes boring into mine, like he was afraid he’d lose me if he blinked, I’d do whatever he told me to.

“I’m close,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Fuck, Tabby, I’m so close, but I don’t want to come in your mouth. Back up.”

When I didn’t move fast enough for him, he nudged me back to replace my mouth with his hand. I watched with rapt attention as he worked his fist up and down his cock, already slick with my spit, the fingers of his other hand in my hair, holding me in place. He didn’t say anything, merely breathed hard out of parted lips, grunting as he jacked harder, faster, eyes glazing over.

I was fascinated by his sounds. By the way he looked. The fine sheen of sweat on his skin.

Never had I wanted to watch a man come, but I couldn’t take my gaze away from him if I tried.

I didn’t want to.

After a few moments, ropes of hot liquid spurted out of him, landing in jagged lines across the tops of my breasts and neck. He exhaled harshly, slowing his hand until he emptied himself, smearing the glistening tip over my lips.

It was filthy.

And perfect.

Being covered in him.

With his come still warm on my skin, it occurred to me that this might have been his way of possessing me. To make up for what he hadn’t really been able to do.

He left his physical mark on me in the only way he could.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked, not bothering to put his softening cock back in his pants before he helped me to stand.

“Because I owed you from this morning.”

He obviously didn’t believe me, and when I turned, searching for my T-shirt, he snatched it up before I could. He tried again. “Why did you do that?”

I shrugged. “Pregnancy hormones.”

He squinted, mouth tense, clearly unhappy with my lies. He knew the truth, but he wanted to hear it. I got it.

And yet, I couldn’t let it out.

I wasn’t good with words. Never had been. I needed more time to be able to admit it all out loud.

“I just…” I dragged my hands through my hair a few times then tied it back in a ponytail. “I wanted to make you feel good like you make me feel good.”

I suspected he didn’t believe that was the truth, but accepted it, nonetheless. He held my T-shirt out to me. “Arms up.” I raised them up, expecting him to wipe off my chest, but he didn’t. Only tugged my shirt down my arms and settled the hem at my hips, a smug smile plastered on his face. “You’re gonna go out there and work your shift with my come on your skin.”

He pulled me to him, kissing me soundly, his tongue reminding me of what he’d done to me this morning. I started to move, aiming to circle my arms around his neck, but he stopped me, pivoting me so my back was against his torso and my chest against the door, making a mess of my T-shirt.

He scratched his beard along my temple and down my jaw. “Then tonight, when I get home, I’ll clean you off with my tongue.”

He didn’t let me turn or glance over my shoulder, pressed so close I couldn’t budge even a centimeter, a foreboding yet delicious threat. He bent to kiss my throat sweetly then unlocked the door. “Don’t forget to eat your dinner. I’m gonna check on you in a little bit.”

With a gentle push, I headed out to the floor, where I attempted to put what we’d done in the office out of my mind. It was easy when we were so busy, a few groups of college kids here, as well as the usual happy hour crowd. Spring was in the air, and our sales were proof of that.

Nate did indeed check on me, made sure I drank enough water, and forced me to take a break so I could eat the dinner he’d packed me. Then I worked with Bran, answering any questions he had for me about managing the bar, picking my brain for tips and tricks.

Once eight o’clock rolled around, Nate was waiting in the office with my coat and purse, a knowing smile on his face.

“See you later,” I said with a kiss.

“I’ll be home around ten. Be ready for me.”

“I will,” I promised, then headed out. To our home.

Where I promptly crawled into bed and fell asleep to David Attenborough narrating a relaxing story about the mating of exotic birds.