I spend the rest of the time alternating between mortified over what Vincent said and petrified that I won’t finish dinner in time. It’s not easy, figuring out a kitchen that’s not my own, especially one that’s been ruled by men for the past dozen years, but eventually I set the table and get the dinner ready. Then I sit down at the table and cover my face in my hands. I think about Vincent, listening to everything Dax and I have been doing the past couple days. We’d tried to be quiet, but it obviously wasn’t quiet enough. I’ve had countless mind-blowing orgasms the past few days, but knowing that Dax’s little brother has heard them . . .
Moments later, the door opens and Dax and his twin brothers stomp in, throwing their greasy stuff down in a heap in the middle of the living room. Eric and Tom are a year behind me in school, and back then they were both arrested for drag-racing cars down Main Street, drunk.
I’d never seen Dax so pissed as when he got the call and had to go bail them out. Both Eric and Tom have Dax’s height, but where Dax is lean, these boys are built like linebackers. As far as twins go, they have different personalities—Tom is the type A, go-getting kind who will be first to help out when Dax needs it, and Eric is the slug. That’s why Tom is Sparrow, and Eric is Turkey, because Dax’s mom thought the names fit them, even when they were babies.
“What smells good?” One of them says.
Then they pile through the kitchen doorway and catch sight of me. Dax’s eyes light up, making my insides flutter, but his brothers’ eyes narrow in unison.
“Hi,” I say, giving them a wave, wondering if they heard Dax and me fucking last night, too.
“Hey,” Sparrow says unexcitedly. Their eyes drift to the bowl of spaghetti and meatballs.
“I made dinner,” I say brightly. Looking at them, then back at the table, I wonder if I made enough food.
I bite my lip as Dax moves close to me, and my heart thrums as he kisses me, cupping my backside and massaging it while the boys can’t see. God, I love it when his hands mold my ass. I could probably get off having him do that all day. His eyes drift wolfishly to my camisole, and now I know the true meaning of undressing a person with one’s eyes. “I’m only hungry for one thing, Darlin’,” he whispers.
I swat him away as Vincent quietly appears in the doorway like a black ghost. He rolls his eyes at me. Great. He’s caught us again.
Dax pulls out a chair for me and says, “Where’s dad?”
I shrug, surprised he has no idea. “I haven’t seen him. I thought he was with you at the shop?”
Dax and his brother share worried glances. Dax pulls out his phone and starts to jab in a number, then brings the phone to his ear and disappears into the living room. The boys waste no time digging into their food. No conversation, no thank you, the only sound the scrape of utensils on the plate. They pile it down, mouthful after mouthful. By the time Dax gets back only a minute later, their plates are nearly clean.
Dax sits down, tosses his phone on the table, and rubs his face tiredly.
“Well?” one of the twins asks. “Where is he?”
“Where do you think, Spar?” Dax mutters. “Guess he’s been there all day.”
I don’t have to be a Harding to know the answer to that. Murphy’s is the Friesville’s shithole bar. It’s the place where people go to drink away their paycheck after a long week at work. The only reason I know anything about it is because Dax’s dad practically has a VIP barstool reserved for his ass, he’s there so much. Mr. Harding hasn’t worked in the shop for years, so instead of blowing his own paycheck, he’s pissing away everything his sons make at the garage.
“Fuck,” the twins says in unison. Wobble pulls his ear buds out of his ears and groans, “What do we do?”
Dax stands and pockets his phone. “Guess I’m gonna go get him. Can’t have him total his car like last time.”
“I’ll go with you,” I say, rocketing to my feet, though I haven’t eaten a bite of my meal. Truthfully, I don’t have the appetite to sit around and take in a meal with three boys who can’t even stand to look at me.
Dax agrees and we hop into his tow truck. We ride out of the country, toward the downtown, an area with not much else than a rundown liquor store, Murphy’s, and a seedy hotel. As he drives, one arm hooked over the steering wheel, his other hand downshifts, lands on my thigh, then works its way up between my legs. “I’ve missed this all day, baby,” he says. “Dinner was great.”
I spread my legs, giving him better access. Since I’m not wearing underwear, his finger finds its way up to my folds. I’m already soaking wet as he parts them, finding my clit. “You didn’t even eat dinner,” I point out, letting out a sharp gasp as he starts to stroke there, sending ripples of electricity straight to my heart.
He nods.
“You have to be starving. You can have some when we get back,” I offer.
“Shit, girl, you’ve obviously never lived in a house with five boys before,” he says with a laugh. “I guarantee all of it’s gone now. They’re probably licking the bowl as we speak.”