Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn

Chapter Seventeen

Dixon

Dixonwas gonna kill Nash, but first he had to get Fiona out of here. All the color had gone out of her cheeks, and she was freaked out enough that her already big eyes had started to veer toward anime levels of round.

Holding her by the shoulders, he looked her right in the eyes. “This is a really bad joke, but I’m gonna make it right.”

How he was gonna do that, he had no fucking clue, but he didn’t need to wave that bit of info around. Instead, he guided Fiona to one of the chaises and sat her down. Then he went over to the bar cart and poured her a finger of whiskey, which, knowing his grandma, was from the kind of sought-after bottle that collectors dreamed about finding and she’d drank it without a care while reading her favorite murder mystery.

“Here.” He handed the tumbler to Fiona. “Sip this.”

She shot it back and didn’t even blink. Grandma would have appreciated that. Dixon just took the glass, poured a double, and handed it over. When Fiona brought the glass up to her lips and sipped, her hand barely shook.

Okay, that was better.

Scanning the room for escape options he’d never noticed, no matter how many times his cousins had locked him in during their summer vacations as kids, he took out his phone.

No bars.

No WiFi.

Nothing.

He was definitely going to jail for murder.

The clank of Fiona’s glass being set down on the metal cart preceded her shaky exhale. “I think I can fit through that window if I can get up there.”

Dixon looked up. The windows were narrow. If she’d been a ten-year-old, sure, it could work. As a grown woman with curves that had lingered way too long in his mind? Not gonna happen.

“Don’t kick me, but that’s a really small window.”

Did he reflexively put the back of the other chaise between her and his balls? Yes, he did. He wasn’t a dumbass.

She didn’t even look at him as she stood up and walked over to the wall. “You lack imagination.”

“About what?” Her access to a shrink ray?

“My flexibility skills,” she said and bent over to touch her toes while doing some kind of hip-wave thing. “Don’t worry. I don’t need any help.”

Obviously this was the act of a desperate woman who had decided that he wasn’t going to be of help—something that would have annoyed the hell out of him if he hadn’t been staring at her ass so hard. It was the Mona Lisa of asses, round and high and so much more than a handful. It would have taken a saint not to be mesmerized, and he wasn’t even Catholic.

He was still drinking in the view when she started climbing the bookshelf that had probably been around when his grandma was a kid. He was across the room and holding the wood frame before he realized he was moving. Fiona was already doing her best Spider-Gwen, though, flipping the latch on the window, grabbing ahold of the frame, and half jumping, half pulling herself through. It was pretty damn impressive—until it wasn’t.

“Oooof.” She wiggled that fabulous ass of hers and let out a series of solid grade-A curses. “I need your help.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing out the moment. “What was that?”

“Dixon Beckett, if you don’t help me, I swear I’ll make you fall in love with me just to fuck up your ability to win.”

He was completely in lust with her ass, but that didn’t have any kind of impact on his heart, which was as off-limits as she was. “You think you have that kind of power?”

“Never get yourself on the bad side of a Hartigan. We take our Irish tempers seriously, and we’re damn good at revenge.”

He dragged the chaise over closer to the wall and stood on it, which put him face-to-ass with her. Saying it was a sight to behold didn’t even begin to cover it. Fiona’s ass made him forget she hated dogs, that this was a fake date, or that fucking her was definitely not going to happen. Instead, all of that had been replaced by a thousand gifs of the two of them naked. His cock thickened against his thigh, his mouth went dry, and all the blood in his brain got redirected south.

“So what do you want me to do?” Because he had too many ideas about exactly what he wanted to do.

“Isn’t it obvious? Push.”

That was not the mental image he needed at the moment. He was trying against the odds not to be a total dick, but there was no other place to put his hands than on her butt.

The things he had to do in the service of being a gentleman.

Trying his best not to be completely pervy about it, he put his hands over her back pockets and shoved. Then he shoved harder. She moved maybe a few inches forward.

A familiar honk sounded, followed by the flapping of wings and the sharp thunk of a goose bill hitting Fiona’s head.

She squealed and kicked her legs. “I’m under attack!”

“He wants watermelon.” As soon as the words were out, Dixon wished he could pull them back in. He didn’t need to see Fiona’s face at that moment to know she was glaring at him and plotting his death. The other thing he knew? Pushing was not gonna work; the narrow windows were not made for her perfect ass.

“We’re gonna have to go the other way.”

“Whatever you want,” she said, her voice low and demanding. “Just get me off.”

Those were words he’d be hearing later tonight in his imagination while his hand was wrapped around his cock.

Maybe if you’d had sex or even a date since Nicole died two years ago, you wouldn’t be thinking so much like a teenage jerk, Beckett. Shit. Man up and stop being an asshole.

His conscience wasn’t wrong. Doing his best to think of God and country, he slid his palms over her, grabbed hold of her hips, and tugged her back.

“Harder, Dixon. Harder.”

“You want it harder?” Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he fought against centuries of evolution, testosterone wiring, and a dirty mind that would not go the fuck away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it.” She squirmed, obviously trying to reverse her course. “Just do it!”

His self-control broke. “Fine!”

Locking down his grip on her hips, he yanked her back, pulling her toward him with all he had. The sweet music of her groan was followed by the sound of fabric tearing, and then she was back against him, her ass slamming into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her right as the floor and ceiling swapped places and they tumbled back.

Focusing everything on keeping her out of harm’s way or from getting squashed underneath him, he barely had time to brace before he was flat on his back on the other chaise with Fiona in his lap.

Stunned, they both lay there for a moment.

He could barely breathe.

He could feel a knot growing on the back of his head.

He might have thrown out his back.

He’d never felt better in his entire life.

Maurice poked his head in through the window, obviously using the bench outside of it as a launch point, and let out a honk before he must have decided there was no more watermelon to be had and waddled off, breaking the spell.

Fiona scrambled off him, her hands brushing the edge of his hard dick as she did so, and moved as far away from him as possible in the small room. “Awkward” didn’t begin to cover it. Now that she wasn’t in the middle of a panic attack or stuck in a window, she couldn’t look at him. He was having the same problem but for different reasons.

The tear in her shirt from the window went right across her stomach. It didn’t show much, just a few inches of skin, but considering how she had both arms wrapped around her middle, there was no missing how uncomfortable the exposure made her.

“Here.” He reached behind his head and pulled his sweater over his head, hoping like hell he didn’t have pit stains on the T-shirt he was wearing underneath.

A blush colored her cheeks as she managed to make eye contact and took the sweater. “Thanks.”

He had no idea why he did it, but he looked away as she slipped on his sweater. That’s when he noticed the secret door was open—and it definitely hadn’t done that on its own.