Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(39)

“He just seemed so aloof and downright belligerent,” I say, hoping the comment will draw her out of her uncharacteristic reticence. Skipper once told me about a threesome she had in the botanical gardens. A woman who will copulate with a dude and a chick behind a bush is not what I’d call circumspect. Skipper pauses on her way to the door, turning to look at me, chagrin smeared in shades of shame all over her face.

“I don’t know what came over me.” She stomps back into my office and flops into the chair across from my desk.

“Oh, do take a load off. Not like I have work to do or anything.”

“You asked and now I’m telling you.” She runs a hand over her eyes wearily. “It was like a wild animal took over my body.”

“If this story gets bestial or even anal in nature, I’m good on the details. You can keep ’em.”

“Would you stop joking?” she asks, even though her lips twitch. “I’d never felt that way before. Especially not for someone shorter than me. Ewww.”

“Nothing wrong with short men. I’ve fucked a short man with a big dick. An excellent redistribution of inches if you ask me. Height won’t make you come.”

“You didn’t say that when you smashed that basketball player who was a good six seven.”

“Chile, I slept with that man thrice, but I deeply regret it because it was mid every time. I just kept trying, though. Kept hoping it would get better. A man that big, it just had to be better.”

“When we first met him, you said he had BDE.”

“He got the B and the D but no E. Dick included. Energy sold separately. I was like, bruh, you working with all them inches, and I still got to rub it out with the Rose when you leave? Sir, you are redundant.”

“You really have no shame, do you?” Skipper giggles.

“Says the woman who slept with a man she was actively combative to three seconds after meeting him. And in the women’s bathroom no less.”

She covers her face and screeches, “It was unisex!”

“Now, you know I stay out your business.”

“That’s a lie.” Skipper parts her fingers, allowing space for one eye to glower at me. “You always in my business.”

“At least tell me if it was good because I have to know what he is packing under that bow-tie.”

The barest hint of rose crawls over Skipper’s cheeks in a light-skinned blush. “It was surprisingly satisfying given the… quickness of it all and that he repulses me in every nonsexual way.”

“Did you come?”

“Yes.”

“Then your pussy must like him, even if you don’t.”

“Hendrix, please,” she groans. “Don’t remind me I slept with a man who insulted me as soon as we met.”

“You gave as good as you got.”

“What’d you hear?” she demands sharply.

“Nothing. I don’t mean sexually. I meant banter, sparring. Ya know, verbally and upright, not on your knees in a unisex bathroom.”

“Oh, my God. When did I tell you that?”

“Not until just now.” I chuckle. “Has he called? Have you?”

“No. It’s like nothing happened.” She might try to hide her disappointment, but I know her too well.

“He’ll call,” I tell her gently, not sure I can make that promise with any certainty, but wanting a return of her usual spark.

“I really don’t care.” She stands and walks toward the door. “Don’t forget your favorite housewife is calling at noon after your meeting with the network.”

Technically Imani Jo is an ex-wife, but the drama surrounding her divorce from the NFL player is what landed her on the show in the first place.

“We’re just back-to-back today.” I press my fingers to my temples, preemptively massaging the pain Imani always gives my head. A pain in my ass, too. “I’ll be ready. Could you close the door? I need to focus on the contract we’re discussing before this call.”

I dig into the details and red line the changes we need to make to the agreement. Changes the network must have known I would demand.

“Y’all really tried it, though.” I chew the tip of my pen and shake my head. “Playing in my face and pissing me off. Oh, I’m ’bout to get this bag for real.”

My phone screen lights up on my desk with an incoming text. I nearly drop the pen when I read Maverick’s name.

My fingers creep toward the phone like it might bite me if I get too close too fast. I slide the phone to the edge of the desk so I can read the message.

Maverick: Thought these might be of interest to you.



My breath hitches when I see it’s a link to in-person Alzheimer’s support groups in the Atlanta area.

Maverick: I know you said you’d be staying in Charlotte while your aunt recovers from her surgery, so here’s a list of virtual ones I found, too. My mom did those when she didn’t feel like going out.



I stare at the message, at his name. My fingers freeze around the phone, tightening with the effort of not hurling it across the room to get it as far away from me as I can. To get him as far away from me as I can. I cannot bond with him this way. I can’t connect to him. Like each conversation, each text message is a thread strung between us that slowly, inexorably pulls me closer. It’s not his chest, ripped and muscled. Not that dark gold of his skin or that protractor-perfect jawline. It’s not his wealth or power. His kindness, his consideration, his caring is the lure. I’ve been on plenty of dates where men pretended to listen long enough to get in my bed, but probably couldn’t tell you one real thing about me beyond that I have a glamorous job and give good head.