She bit into her lip again, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Is that a promise?”
I bent down and kissed her again, groaning when her tongue swiped mine. “If I don’t come inside you at least once tonight, I’ll probably die, sweetheart. That would be a real shame, wouldn’t it?”
“You can’t say things like that to me,” she all but groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.
I laughed and yanked it away. “Can’t help it. The thought of me inside of you, maybe even planting something there someday, drives me fucking nuts.”
Her sharp inhale wasn’t lost on me. “You would want that?”
Did she not? I could remember all the times she would share her elaborate future, family and white picket fence included. She’d never described a high-rise penthouse where her children couldn’t go outside and play without the risk of crime around. It was always some place remote, quiet, and peaceful. A house surrounded by grass and trees and close friends and family.
“If you do,” I told her honestly, brushing her face with my knuckles. “Until then, practice makes perfect.”
She rolled her eyes and smiled. “You would make a really great father, Theo.”
The thought of her with a swollen belly only made my cock that much harder. “I need to get you out of here before I lock us inside your bedroom and have my way with you in every position humanly possible to try making that happen sooner than we both want.”
“Theo!”
I swatted her ass. “Come on. Time to go.”
She just laughed.
Chapter Twenty
Della
I hadn’t wanted to go to Divers after the celebration dinner Ren, Tiffany, and I went to for the end of school. It was my annoying best friend who insisted we needed to go, which meant there was somebody there he wanted to see.
Tiffany nudged me at the table we’d secured off to the side. “What’s up?” She was on drink number three, four if you counted the shot she took, and watched me carefully with the tiny straw in her mouth. She barely looked buzzed but the glaze in her eyes told me she was going to feel it soon enough.
Ren had disappeared shortly after we’d arrived, talking up some redhead who looked oddly like Rupert Grint, which made sense considering Lawrence watched the Harry Potter movies at least four times a year. Tiffany had rolled her eyes, ordered us drinks, and watched him work over the guy who had to be our age if not a little older.
“Nothing.” I faked a smile. I wanted to ask her the same thing after seeing the frown she was fighting all night. “I guess Ren and Ben stopped seeing each other for good.”
All I got was a shrug.
As if he knew we were talking about him, he squeezed the Rupert lookalike’s arm and walked over to us with a grin. “Ladies. Miss me?” He directed the last question to Tiffany, bumping her with his shoulder. When she recoiled, his grin disappeared.
“I was asking Della what was wrong,” she told him, finishing off her drink before putting the glass down a little too hard on the table. One of my brows raised.
Ren turned to me slowly. “What’s up?”
I couldn’t explain the bottomless pit in my stomach where a mixture of flutters and firecrackers went off. I wanted Theo here, taking me away, telling me we were going to spend time together tonight. But he knew where I was. He’d encouraged the night out, saying, “I’ll be here when you get back, baby girl.” That term melted me in a puddle at his feet and he knew it.
“Like I told her. Nothing.” Eyeing Tiffany, I noticed she was doing her best to avoid looking in Ren’s direction.
“You’re mopey,” she accused.
Ren laughed. “She’s probably moping still about the grade she got in Ribbons’ class. Her final dropped it.”
I frowned at the reminder. “I didn’t deserve a C on that paper. It was well mapped out and researched. I spent way too long making sure she’d have no reason to critique it.”
Tiffany snorted. “You’re upset about school? It’s over. Isn’t that why we’re celebrating tonight? You shouldn’t even be thinking about anything other than alcohol, which begs the question of how many drinks have you had because it’s clearly not enough.”
I rolled my eyes and sipped at the one I’d been nursing for half an hour. It was warm and too sweet, but I didn’t want to give them an excuse to order another. “Ribbons hates me, so I wanted to prove to her that I could talk about topics related to my father and do it in a professional, well thought out manner. And she still nearly flunked me on it.”
The paper had been on political scandals in New York City. I’d even referenced Malik’s case that she was so willing to bring up during our one strange conversation, which was where I discovered that her late husband had been put out of work after he was accused of stealing the money George Malik was responsible for taking. Apparently, their life had been swept up in the scandals she’d long since studied, making her hate the situation more. I wasn’t sure how her husband had died, but a few articles I came across had mentioned suicide, and in that moment I’d felt sorry for Professor Ribbons. Nobody deserved to lose people they loved and cared about. I knew that all too well.
The more I’d researched George Malik and other cases similar to his, I’d cringed at the implications found in the thousands of reports online and pushed past the suggestions reporters and police had made that everything he stood for was no different than my father when his time in court had surfaced. And as if all that work I’d done to collect information about Malik hadn’t been cringeworthy enough, I’d even included pieces from my father’s case because of the current nature of it. Just to prove
