Game. Fucking. On.
Before Chase knows what hit him, I push him out of the elevator and climb him like a tree. Just think of me as the lumberjack to his hardwood. TIM-fucking-BER!
My legs wrap around his waist, and my cowboy boots hook behind his back. I shove my hands in his hair, using my leverage to devour his mouth.
I keep kissing, barely breathing, while somewhere in my mind I process Chase’s struggle to stay standing. I don’t care. I’m determined to make him crazy, to burrow my way under his skin just like he has mine.
Maybe we can exorcise each other out of our minds through our bodies. And if not, by the feel of him in my mouth earlier, I know that what is about to happen next will at least feel fucking fantastic.
We whirl through the foyer like a tornado through Oklahoma. Keys fall, lamps crash, a cat hisses…
Wait, what?
“Mike, fuck!” Chase’s foot catches, and he careens over something that sounds like a pissed-off tiger. Suddenly we’re airborne. I feel Chase trying to throw me forward, and I appreciate his efforts when my ass lands on some sort of cushioned furniture. But any appreciation evaporates when something hard crashes on my head.
“What the—?”
“Fuck. Campbell. Are you okay?”
There is a beat of silence as we both assess the situation.
Chase is stretched out on his stomach in front of me, his arms out. I’m sitting, legs akimbo, in a large, overstuffed armchair, and there’s a picture frame on my lap. Still stunned from the knock to my head, I turn over the frame and stare at the photograph mounted behind cracked glass.
“It’s a dick.” I blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things. Maybe I have a concussion.
Chase chuckles as he pushes up from the floor. “Uh, yeah. It is.”
I look up at him, still not making sense of it. “Why do you have a framed picture of a dick on your wall?” And not just any dick. This one is huge and hard and very veiny.
He steps over to the side of the chair I’m on and runs his hands over my head, checking for a bump or cut, I guess. Finding the former, but not the latter, he crouches down in front of me, his hands on my thighs. “My sister gave it to me.”
“Your sister gave you a picture of a dick?” Definitely a concussion.
He lifts one hand and runs it through his hair. “Yeah,” he chuckles. “She did.”
Before I can think of another question that would somehow make sense of the fact that his sister sends him dick pictures and he has them framed and hung on his wall, a beige bag of rocks jumps on the large picture on my lap.
“Meow.”
Oh, excuse me, I misspoke. It’s a cat. A scrawny, hairless cat.
The tag on his collar swings back and forth before settling against his smooth chest.
“Mike Hunt,” I read out loud. Then my eyes widen at what I just said. “You named your cat Mike…Hunt.” Sheesh, even with the pause it still sounds perverse.
Chase is eyeing me strangely, like a kid who poked at a hornet’s nest and is waiting for the sting.
I glance down at the unfortunate dick picture that the hairless pussy is perched on.
“Mike Hunt is on your dick,” I deadpan.
And then I bust out laughing.
FOURTEEN
Chase
Laughter.
