Sloe Ride (Sinners, #4)

The press of his bladder, however, told him he had to pee.

It was hard to slide out of the bed. Rafe’s arms were loose around his waist, and Harley was easily moved out of the way, but Quinn just didn’t want to go. Another deep breath, and his body threatened him with release, so he reluctantly pulled himself loose from the covers, dressed quickly, then headed to the bathroom.

The cold marble shocked him awake, and as he stared at the line of bite marks down his throat, Quinn resigned himself to being awake. Exploring the chain of tiny purpling bruises on his skin with his fingertips, he hissed when one throbbed beneath his touch, a thickened swell warming the area.

“Okay, next time Rafe gets dinner before we go to bed.” He stopped putting toothpaste on his brush, and the enormity of where he was… what he’d done and whom he’d done it with, struck him anew, leaving Quinn breathless. “Hell, Rafe Andrade—and he bites.”

It was both surreal and comforting to make coffee in Rafe’s kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty, boasting mostly a variety of nondairy creamers, bags of ground coffee, and condiments. A limp carrot danced a solo on the top shelf next to a half-used stick of butter. He grabbed both the crème br?lée creamer and the carrot, disposing of the sad, wilted root in the trash before fixing his coffee. Harley padded into the long kitchen, mewling her displeasure at her empty belly, and Quinn grimaced.

“Aye, I didn’t feed you last night. God, I’m….” A quick peek at the cat dishes in the kitchen corner bore evidence of wet food scraps and a brimming pile of dry kibble with a dent on one side where it’d been nibbled on. “Huh. You’re lying to me, baggage. Rafe took care of you just fine.”

He gave her a small pouch of wet food anyway, leaving the crinkled cat behind to munch away at her fishy breakfast.

At some point, a spring storm bullied its way into the city, and it tore apart the sky in a fierce display of thunder and rain. Spikes of light forked across the belly of a cloud bank not far from the penthouse, their sporadic flashes bright enough to leave dots on Quinn’s vision. Taking his coffee over to the living room, Quinn set his sights on the soft, comfortable couch running lengthwise across the room. Facing the sliding glass doors to the patio, it looked to be the best place to sit, drink coffee, and read while the storm snarled over them.

He got as far as putting his mug down on a side table when a pounding on the door froze Quinn in his tracks.

His first thought was of Rafe and how the muted noise would wake him. His second was of LeAnne and Simon, wondering if trouble had somehow found him at Rafe’s door. A quick look at the monitor next to the door had Quinn sighing in disgust.

“Kane,” he muttered, scanning the intercom buttons below the monitor’s screen. “Come on, Rafe. You paid for a penthouse, and this thing’s got more buttons than the Mach V. Shouldn’t there be a sleeping gas function for the foyer?”

Resigned, Quinn opened the door.

“I brought over the cat’s food.” Hefting a flat of cat food in his arms, Kane took a step over the threshold, then stopped short when Quinn didn’t move out of the way. “Breac, this shit’s not heavy, but you know, I’d like to dump it someplace. Move.”

“Where’s Tanngrisnir, Tanngnjóstr? Did someone catch him and suck the marrow from his bones?” Quinn grumbled as his brother pushed past him. He followed Kane into the kitchen, then leaned against the counter as Kane opened the box to put the cat food cans away. “If you’re going to use the cat as an excuse to come over, at least buy the brand she eats.”

Quinn saw the moment his brother spotted the bites on his skin. Kane stiffened, one hand clenched hard on a can of tuna-and-egg flaked cat food Quinn knew Harley would like. She was a finicky cat, but anything with tuna, egg, or cheese would set her to purring. More to save the can than himself, Quinn closed the distance between them and took the can out of his brother’s grasp.

“You were about to pop that open.” There was a bit of delight in seeing his brother’s nostrils flare slightly when Quinn opened a cabinet door, then placed the can among the others he’d brought with him. “And as Rafe and I found out last night, he doesn’t own a mop.”

“Rafe.” His lover’s name came out strangled, a guttural slither from Kane’s gritted teeth. “Really, Q-ber—”

“I’m going to say this once, Kane. Once.” Quinn stepped into his brother’s space, standing nearly nose to nose with a face he knew nearly as well as his own. “That is the last time you call me Q-bert and sure as fucking hell the last time you have anything to say about what goes on between me and Rafe.”

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