Dead of Winter (Battle of the Bulls #2) - T. S. Joyce Page 0,28
said low. “Dead, it was a pleasure.”
“Same, sir. It’s really good to meet y’all.”
And before Dad could hang up, Mom was already talking about, “Oh, Dan, he’s such a nice man and sure seems to adore our Raven and—”
Raven’s cheeks were two hot flames right now, so she pressed her cool fingertips against them to try to ease the blush. “You met my parents.”
“They’re awesome. They assumed we’ve been together for a while. I didn’t know how to correct them so I rolled with it. Did you know it’s your mom’s birthday next week? We should send her something.”
“Okay,” she uttered, shocked.
Dead wrapped his hand around her waist and squeezed her butt. “You look good in the mornings.”
Raven glanced down at her giant T-shirt that made her look like a sack of potatoes and tried to pat her hair down again, but it was a very stubborn bird’s nest right now. “I thought all shifters had good eyesight,” she teased. “You’re clearly blind.”
“Girl, I’ll bend you over right now, prove I like you just fine the way you look first thing in the morning. Feel.” He pulled her hand onto his lap and, yep, there was his thick erection. Whoa, he was intimidatingly big.
“You had a boner while my parents were on Facetime with us?” she asked.
“Boners are natural and, besides, it’s not my fault. You’re the one who came in here bouncing them bra-less titties and looking all sexy with your bed hair, your purple fingernails, your matching toenails and, ooooweee, did you shave your legs yesterday?” he asked, running his hand up her smooth thigh.
She laughed because it tickled. “Maybe.”
“Ooooh girl, I’m gonna get you in some cowgirl boots, and then good luck keeping me off you.”
She dropped her gaze and fidgeted with a loose string on her shirt. “Maybe I don’t want to keep you off me.”
He growled through a wicked little grin and pulled her onto his lap. “Wish granted. Leaning into her, he sucked hard on her neck.
“Dead, you little turd, you’re going to make a hickey!”
“Good. Then everyone will know you’re taken.”
It was raining this morning, and the patter of rain on the roof of the camper soothed her. She relaxed into the moment and slid her arms around his neck, arched her chin up slightly so he could reach his workspace. “You’re a good sucker.”
“That’s what she said,” he murmured against her throat.
“That’s what who said? We’ve been dating a day, and I’m territorial.”
“Speaking of,” he murmured, easing back from the definite hickey he’d made. “I got on my Instagram account this morning to post some pictures of last night, and someone named mayhillfuneralflowers sent me a message. She gave me her number. Now, I looked at her page, and she doesn’t have any pictures of herself, so I couldn’t tell how hot she was. It’s just a bunch of pictures of flower arrangements. But my little heart started pumpin’ faster, hopin’ it was from you.”
“Mmm, what pictures were you going to post?”
Dead picked up his phone from the arm of the chair and poked some buttons, and in her hand, her phone started ringing. He showed her the screen of his phone where he’d entered her name as Wifey.
She brayed a laugh. “There’s so many red flags with you.”
“Okay, but let’s make them blue flags because my bull hates red.”
“Dead, Dead, he hates red.”
“Your hickey is red, and I kind of like that.”
“Oh, my gosh,” she murmured, pushing off him to look at it in the bathroom mirror. He did fast work. It was already a deep red bruise. Impressive, since it hadn’t hurt, only felt really, really good.
“Save my number, woman,” Dead said from the other room. “I just posted!”
“What?” she asked, slathering toothpaste on her toothbrush.
“I posted on my social media. Cheyenne will be so proud.”
She finished brushing her teeth and made her way to the living area to find Dead holding a pair of scissors, cutting up a T-shirt on the small kitchen table.
Curious, she asked, “Do you do arts and crafts every morning?”
With a sexy arch of his dirty-blond eyebrow, he lifted the small shirt into the air. It was a black and white Battle of the Bulls T he’d cut into a tank top.
“For me?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yup. And I even made little rips in it with a box cutter.”
“That’s my style!” she exclaimed, running in place. “You made me a shirt!”
He chuckled. “Technically, I stole it from Cheyenne’s inventory in the back seat of her