Della, who he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Hell, he’d seen her less than twenty-four hours ago, but his heart was skipping, and his ribs were suddenly steel bars around his too-big lungs. His entire body was lit up with anticipation.

And not just physical anticipation. He couldn’t wait to see her face, her smile. To eat whatever she’d cooked for him and listen to her chat about her day as Betty watched her adoringly. It didn’t matter that it was late and he was exhausted from a busy night at Jack’s and a lack of sleep that was becoming chronic ever since he’d started staying the night.

Della was instantly reviving. Just being with her energized him.

She’d gone to Denver this morning to see her shrink, and he couldn’t wait to hear about that and the lingerie shopping she’d taunted him with as he’d walked out her bedroom door this morning.

What color underwear should I buy at La Perla today?

His dick had set a new land speed record for penile engorgement. Zero to rock hard in three point nine seconds. He’d choked out a “Surprise me,” then hightailed it out of her house before Mrs. Doyle rose for the day and turned her heat-seeking gaze on Della’s house, spying two warm bodies instead of one and a giant glowing red rocket about to burst out of his pants.

Seriously, the NSA should employ her as a spy.

His knuckles had barely landed before the door was pulled open. A part of him had half expected to see her in her new underwear and nothing else, because the woman took a little too much delight in pushing him to the edge. But she was fully dressed. Although a short, tight skirt that barely reach mid-thigh and a tank top featuring a row of tiny buttons straight down the middle was tempting as fuck.

His fingers already itched to hike up her skirt, to grab the bottom of her shirt and rip. He wouldn’t though. He’d slowly brush his hands up her legs to tease under her hem and undo those buttons one by one, watching the sweet swells of her breasts and the pinkness of her nipples as they were slowly revealed.

“Hey,” he said, his voice scratching like gravel in his throat.

She smiled slow and sweet. “Hey.”

Tucker squatted next to Betty, who was turning excited circles around his feet. “Good evening, Missy B.”

The dog jumped up, planting both paws on his chest, and licked Tucker’s neck with enthusiasm. He scratched under her ears, but all the time he was aware of Della’s bare feet—complete with blue sparkly toenails—and the tight barrier of her skirt stopping him from finding out the color of her underwear.

Was it sparkly blue as well, maybe?

“On your bed, Betty.”