“Dreamweaver,” he whispered.
“You bet your ass,” I replied, smiling huge and not even close to whispering.
He dropped the stick on the counter and started stalking toward me.
I started backing up, sharing, “Creed, I peed on that.”
“Later, I’ll get the Windex out.”
Good call.
He kept stalking.
I kept backing up.
Finally, he lunged and I turned and ran.
He caught me two feet from the bed, tackling me and we both went down on the mattress.
This time, there were no rose petals.
Still, it was awesome.
Then again, it always was.
* * * * *
One month later…
“Partner, this sitting in the getaway car is for the birds,” I said, my voice going straight to Creed’s earpiece.
“Shut up, Sylvie, I’m breaking and entering,” Creed said back, his deep, smooth yet rough voice filling the cab of the Expedition.
“I’m just saying, next B&E job, I get to do the B&E,” I declared.
“You can do the next B&E that happens when you aren’t pregnant or nursing,” he replied and I blinked.
Then I snapped, “I’m not nursing! Nothing latches onto one of my br**sts except your lips.”
“Now she’s making me hard while I’m breaking and entering,” Creed griped.
“We’re talking about breast feeding, Creed,” I returned.
“We’re talking about my lips and your tits, Sylvie,” he shot back.
He had a point.
I shut up.
Then I waited, staring at the building Creed was breaking into waiting for an alarm or a siren or anything while scanning to make sure he continued to have privacy, no cars or passersby.
There was nothing.
Ten minutes later, I saw his shadow jogging toward the Expedition.
Not surprisingly, it jogged to the driver’s side.
He pulled open my door and ordered, “Scoot. I drive.”