He was a shivering, boneless raw nerve by the time the fingers inside him slipped gently out, leaving him empty, clenching at the absence. He lowered himself fully on to the table and covered his face with his hands, completely spent.
He twitched when Solomon kissed his inner thigh. “Still with me?”
It was laughable, the idea that he could ever be anywhere else.
And didn’t that thought scare the hell out of him?
“I’m here. Admiring the paint job. Have I ever mentioned that I love this color?”
Solomon’s laugh was a soft breeze against his sensitized skin. “You might have said something like that once.”
The timer he’d set next to the oven dinged and Hugo jolted in surprise.
He’d forgotten dinner. Forgotten everything but Solomon.
He always did.
***
“I don’t know why you’re being so closemouthed, Hugo. Part of the fun of a GPP is listening to the three of you spill the details of your lives while I try to invent the next great face cream. And now that one of you finally has something interesting to talk about, you plead the fifth.”
The GPP, also know the Guinea Pig Party, happened once every other month or so. Austen would drag her bag of ingredients out of her closet and experiment on her siblings, while using interrogation tactics that made him wonder if she was a government operative, trained in facial cream torture. All he knew was she was good at it. So good she usually got her way.
Usually.
“It’s not that I don’t want to share every detail of my sex life.”
Yes, it was. The last thing he wanted to admit was how weak he’d become when it came to Solomon. “But I’m not saying anything with Thoreau in the house. Based on previous experience, he’d make a call to his lady friend and every member of Younger’s family would have all the details in an hour.”
Thoreau walked into their living room, a half-eaten cupcake in his hand. “Wyatt is the one with loose lips, not Fiona.”
“Fiona tells Wyatt. And who tells Fiona in the first place?” Bronte looked up from the blanket she was crocheting and raised her eyebrows. “You know Younger’s brothers were waiting to pounce on him the other day, and you know it was your fault. Confess.”
Thoreau grimaced. “Yeah, Fine. She’s got this way of getting information out of me and—”
“Oh we know the way,” Bronte interrupted. “Fiona is a regular visitor, remember? We’ve all seen you following after her like a puppy in love and we know you and Wyatt have been fighting over her attention for months.”
“It isn’t like that, Bronte. Not at all. Look, from now on I’ll tell her the topic is off limits.” He glanced around the room. “Does that work for the judges?”
Austen, Bronte and Hugo all looked at each other, then nodded at Thoreau. “We’ll accept that,” Austen said with a regal tilt of her head. “But for the record, we are not amused.”
“You get points for not bringing up my new caller,” Hugo added with a sigh. “But you have to remember that the Finn men have a tendency to gossip. At least, when it comes to relationships. They’re worse than Grammy Wayne that way.”
Like they were any better.
Bronte was scowling. “Are you talking about Boone? Is he still calling you here?” At his and Thoreau’s nods she swore under her breath. “I think Robert’s punishment wasn’t severe enough for putting that hound on your scent. He needs to be taught to take no for an answer.”
Hugo sighed. He’d thought the same thing more than once, but there was nothing threatening in any of Boone’s messages. Just irritating persistence. “He’s over Robert at work. I’d rather let him figure it out on his own.”
Thoreau joined his sister on the couch, watching Austen slap a clumpy, white paste on Hugo’s cheek. “I’ve already sworn I wouldn’t say a word, but I bet Boone would get over it faster if you did tell Younger about it. Hell, let me tell Tanaka. He could turn his phone off or flag his bank accounts.”
Bronte snorted beside him. “It’s true. And that sexy billionaire Seamus married could probably hire someone to disappear the little twerp to Siberia”
Austen tsked them both, shaking her head in disappointment. “You don’t call in those kind of favors for a guy as insignificant as Boone. He’s a gnat. Pesky but harmless. Like my last boyfriend. Mayor of Gnatville. Always hovering. Great calves though.”
“Calves?” Hugo asked, trying not to smile while she coated his face.
“Sexiest part of a man’s body, in my opinion.”
“No way.” Bronte disagreed. “Shoulders. A strong set gets me every time. Oh and the eyes. As in, can they look at you with them and not lie?”
“Ass.” Hugo was adamant. “A good handful. Mounds of joy.”
“Anyone else notice no one ever says dick?” Thoreau grumbled. “It’s my best feature and it always gets the shaft.”