Saved For Me

by Abby Knox

  Chapter 7

  wendy

  After the cops have all the bad guys in custody, Lars puts me into his car and we’re headed to the interstate.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “My safe house. You’re a witness. Slate has some slimy-ass lawyers and he’ll probably bond out of jail within hours. After that there’s no telling what they’ll do to get rid of you.”

  I shudder in my seat and he flies down the highway. I’m wrapped in a blanket that the EMTs gave to me after the police, fire department and all manner of rescue workers showed up to arrest Slate and his crew, and also examine all the girls found on the premises who had been doped out of their minds.

  He squeezes my hand in his, and I realize he has not stopped touching me since he found me. And I mean not for a second. When he put me in the car, he put me in through the driver’s side and set me down on the passenger seat like a priceless package.

  I should pull away, but I don’t want to. My hand wants to be held. My hand wants to be held by his hand, specifically.

  And the drive is kind of nice. I’m noticing Christmas lights and holiday displays on the lawns of houses I never bothered to glance at before.

  “Sweetheart, I know you’re scared. You’re OK now. They’ll have to get through me to get to you. And they can’t get through me.”

  His words feel like a long stream of hot water down my body. The kind that makes my spine let go of all tension, from my neck all the way down to my tailbone. And deeper. Every time he speaks, every time he squeezes, I can feel myself soaking these little panties I’m wearing, and I can feel my nipples straining against the fabric of this too-tight bra.

  The direction we’re headed isn’t anywhere near our apartment complex. In fact, we’re headed into the nicer part of town. These houses have wide lawns, tall trees and swimming pools. It’s the kind of middle-class neighborhood my mom used to dream about for us when she was alive.

  Sadly, we never got there.

  But then Lars keeps driving past these properties, and the houses get bigger and farther apart. Eventually, we roll past one gated community after another, and soon it looks like we’re headed into the woods and up a winding mountain road. The tree line is closer to the road now, and the pine trees themselves are taller. I could be crazy, but the air actually smells cleaner the higher we ascend.

  “You live up here? On top of the mountain?”

  “Not exactly. I have a house up here, but I hardly ever stay here.”

  We speed by an overlook and the view of the city below is breathtaking. I had no idea anybody lived this far up the mountain.

  Eventually we come to a huge iron gate, which swings open as soon as our car approaches.

  Past the gates, my mouth drops open. We’re on a long, cobblestone driveway lined with overgrown but pretty hedges and willow trees. There’s a wide clearing with a pond and a tiny island in the middle, with a moss-covered Romanesque ruin. If I think that island is straight out of Jane Austen, the sight of the house itself makes me think that Lars might be an American Mr. Darcy in disguise. It’s a gigantic limestone structure, bigger than any building on my college campus. “Where…are we?”

  “Your new home.”

  I am totally agog as he parks the car under the house in an expansive garage that houses just about every muscle car known to mankind.

  “Can I ask a question?”

  He doesn’t respond, only gets out of the car without letting go of my hand and slides me right out into his arms.

  “I can walk, Lars. I’m not broken.”

  “I like to carry you,” he says, and he sounds just like a caveman. Like he’s physically and mentally incapable of grasping the fact that maybe I’d like to walk on my own again at some point. He’s holding me in his two arms like a groom holding a bride. He pushes doors open with his feet and mounts stairs two at a time. I feel like a spoiled cat whose feet never touch the floor.

  Still, a part of me likes it. It could get dangerous, him refusing to break physical contact with me. But it’s the kind of dangerous that doesn’t scare me. The only thing that scares me is what might happen if and when we kiss again. Things could get hot pretty fast, and I’ll have to explain to him that I’m a virgin.

  Eventually, we go to his room, which is not so much a bedroom but a suite. Lars moves me past a lush four-poster bed, through to a state-of-the-art bathroom.

  At the sink, he finally sets me down but keeps a hand on my back through the blanket.

  “Wash your face,” he says, pointing to some high-end facial scrub.

  “Huh?”

  “I want your face bare when I kiss you again.”

  My excitement spikes. So, it wasn’t just “in the moment” when he kissed me last time.

  “Listen to me, buster. I’m gonna take off this makeup for three reasons. One: these shades are spring and I’m obviously a summer. Two: this shit is skanky as hell. And three: I’m starving, and I can’t have on any lipstick when I’m cramming food in my face super hard.”

  Lars grins. “I don’t know why, but thinking about you stuffing food in your face is about the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  I grin and turn to the sink so he can’t see me blush.

  His fingers very carefully roam the small of my back while I wash my face. It feels good to take all of it off; I can only imagine how it’s going to feel when I take off all this constraining white lace.

  I turn back to Lars and I can see his jaw clenching. He’s holding back the urge to do something.

  Rip away the blanket? Take me on the bathroom floor?

  I clear the way forward by dropping the blanket myself, forcing him to let go of my back for a split second. I hear the faintest of growls as his other hand grips my waist.

  “You have a dog?”

  “No, I don’t. That was me. I don’t like it when I’m forced to let go of you.”

  I smile. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He grunts, “Irrelevant.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Of course you’re not going anywhere. That’s not even a question. The fact is my body, my brain, something keeps telling me to keep my hands on you at all times. I feel…normal when I’m touching you.”

  I smirk. “You think you might win a truck if you can keep your hand on me for 24 hours?”

  Lars cocks his head at me, looking confused at first. “Is that a joke about those car dealership contests?”

  “Um…yes? Wow, I really need to work on my material.”

  He nods. “I have a hard time with jokes. I get it. It’s funny. I appreciate jokes, I’m just a little weird, I guess.”

  I place one hand on top of his huge paw that is gripping my hip and slide my other hand up over the ripples and sinews of his huge, muscular arm. My eyes study his arms and chest and abs while I speak. “You’re not weird. You’re my rescuer.”

  “You said I was weird the first time we met.”

  I blush at the memory of how he made me feel when he towered over me in my doorway.

  “I already liked you then,” I said.

  “I know,” he says, before his lips crash into mine with a restrained power.

  My hand goes to his chest and I hear a rumble coming from him, like a wild animal getting ready to pounce. His lips are doing magical things to my body. I feel that these panties are forever ruined.

  His grip on my hips intensifies and I feel his thumbs fiddling with my waistband.

  I think for a moment that I’m about to finally lose my virginity, when my body betrays me.

  My stomach lets out a huge growl.

  Lars pulls back.

  “You’re hungry.”

  I shake my head, but his whole demeanor has changed.

  “Hang on,” he says, pulling his phone out. “Ordering you food.”

  “You know what I really want? I want out of these…things…that Slate put on me.”

  “Perfect,” he says with a glower. �
�Because so do I.”

  Chapter 8

  Lars

  Fletcher assures me he will have a spread ready for us in the kitchen in five minutes.

  The plan had been to explore my Wendy’s tiny body from top to tail first, but I can’t live with myself if she’s just going along with my horny self while she’s starving.

  After all, she was held captive for how long without food? What was I thinking?

  In the meantime, I walk her into my spacious walk-in closet that’s just off the bathroom and help her find something to change into.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have anything in here that will fit you. Fletcher is having a few…female things delivered to your suite later.”

  “My suite.”

  “Yes. Problem?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’ve also asked him to procure some Christmas trees and decorations to make the place more homey,” I say.

  She shrugs as she flips through my wardrobe. “It’s not necessary. I’m not really into Christmas.”

  My chest tightens when I wonder what happened to her to make her not love Christmas. I might be a big scary dude, but I can’t help but picture this female staying with me forever. Celebrating holidays. With, like, 16 kids running around, trimming the tree, baking cookies, filling this old mansion with fun and warmth. Piles of teddy bears in every corner for the kid who likes to crash into things; because there are bound to be one or two in the litter with my exact same quirks.

  OK, so 16 kids is a lot to ask. But this is just how I feel around her. I want to do what normal people do, but at an outrageous pace. I vow silently to make sure my Tink has new, happy memories associated with the holidays from now on.

  “There’s a lot of black in here, but I’ll take this,” Wendy says, pulling out a vintage Walter Payton jersey that my dad bought the day I was born, the same week the Bears won the Super Bowl.

  “Alright, turn around,” she says.

  “Are you joking again? Because it’s not funny.”

  Wendy shakes her head. “I gotta get this bra and these panties off. I don’t want any trace of that disgusting place on my body. And I’ve never been naked around a man, so your choice is either turn around or take your hand off me while I change. Your choice.”

  I growl and then I bite out, “Fine, but I don’t like people telling me what my choices are.”

  I grumble and pivot around, keeping my hand locked on her hip.

  I hear rustling and then it’s like her whole body sighs in relief. I see the bra fall to my feet. My cock, which is already pretty damn hard, jerks in response. I’m ready to say “fuck it,” turn around, grab her and take her right there. I wouldn’t need a bed; she’s so tiny it would be nothing to hold her up with one arm while she rode my cock to completion.

  Then it registers that she’s never been naked in front of a man, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “I’m gonna need you to move your hand so I can get these undies off me,” she says.

  I mutter some more about not taking kindly to instructions, but I slowly slide my hand up to her ribcage.

  I feel her bending over to slip off the undies, and she’s so much shorter than I am that one of her breasts brushes my arm.

  I know it’s my own fault. If I wouldn’t be such a lost puppy about staying fused to her every second, I wouldn’t have severe blue balls and a dick hammering to get out of these jeans.

  But I can’t regret this feeling of accidentally copping a feel, the brush of a velvety round tit, the sweep of one hard little nipple against my forearm. Sweet round yon virgin.

  I see the panties drop to the floor.

  I’m so close to bursting that I can barely hold back what happens next. Fuck it. I don’t wanna hold back. While she’s slipping the jersey on over her head, I bend over and grab the panties. I’m such a damn animal, I don’t even bother being subtle about taking a whiff. I bring them to my nose and inhale. And fuck me if that woodsy, floral, citrusy scent doesn’t triple in intensity. The panties are soaked with her cream.

  I hear her gasp when she notices what I’m doing.

  “Lars.”

  I turn around and face her wide eyes. I ball her panties tight in my fist. “I know. You’re hungry.”

  She blinks up at me, glancing at my fist, her lips parted.

  Every look she gives me, every time I do something strange and she doesn’t run away makes me feel like she’s spreading fairy dust all over my body.

  A smile tugs at her lip. “You’re like a big Labrador retriever, you know that?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Chapter 9

  Lars

  Fuck if I understand anything this female makes me feel.

  The jersey falls to her knees but doesn’t help me forget she’s wearing nothing else underneath.

  “I…uh…we can go get you some new undies, I’m sure Fletcher found a range of sizes. I’m not great at guessing.”

  Wendy looks down and sees me adjusting my cock.

  She bites her juicy bottom lip. “Um, I can never remember anyway. You know, I wish they would size undies like dress sizes, but they don’t. It’s like, I wear a size 2, which is hard enough to shop for as it is, but underpants? I don’t even know. My bra is a C cup but those animals shoved me into a B while I was unconscious.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose while she talks. It’s everything I can do to keep from covering her mouth with mine.

  “Time to eat!” I scoop her up into my arms again and we make our downstairs into the kitchen.

  Fletcher has laid out a huge spread for us on the marble breakfast bar.

  “Tacos! How did you know that’s exactly what I wanted?”

  I don’t tell her that ever since we met, I’ve been creeping on her social media accounts. She posts a lot of memes about tacos.

  “I didn’t know what kind you wanted so I had Fletcher grab some beef, chicken, pork and shrimp.”

  “Oh my god, I love you,” she squeals.

  “Good to know.”

  She blushes deeply when I set her down on a barstool. “I…I didn’t mean…”

  “I know,” I say. “I can wait for the non-taco related I love yous.”

  She grins and shakes her head as I plant myself on the stool next to her, keeping my hand firmly between her knees.

  I watch her devour about six tacos, and I don’t know where she puts all that food in that tiny little body.

  “I used to eat like that and my grandma would ask if I had a hollow leg. Obviously I was a growing boy,” I say.

  She smiles over at me and for some reason it warms me more than anything ever has in my life.

  I don’t know if it’s because we’re eating together in my kitchen like a couple of married people, or if I’m happy that she’s letting me take care of her.

  But it makes me think of the future.

  I picture her sitting at this breakfast bar, wearing this jersey that falls down to her knees, no undies underneath because I’ve woken her up with my tongue between her thighs.

  I imagine us tussling in bed, over and over again, and then going to breakfast with my seed leaking out of her, my love bites all over her, her scratches down my back, and smiling conspiratorially at each other while our crazy kids run around, tormenting each other with their Nerf guns.

  I’m so turned on by this image that I want to reach over and grab her. Haul her little ass to her new bedroom and spread her wide, start making a bunch of babies immediately.

  Never once in my 33 years have I thought about making babies with anyone. It’s not that I didn’t like kids, I’ve always been more or less neutral on the subject.

  At the moment, there is nothing in my brain idling in neutral.

  Everything has been thrown into black and white. Day or night. Everything is clear. I finally have a path forward.

  The path forward is lit by this woman. My little Tink.

  She smiles even bigger and says through a mou
thful of tacos, “So, what’s your story, Short Stack? Why do you have this gigantic house if you’re a cop? More to the point: why are you a cop if you have money?”

  I shrug. “Not used to talking about myself. Not that interesting.”

  She glares at me. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  So I tell her everything. How can I deny her?

  I tell her about how my parents come from very old family money.

  Like my buddy Brian, I have a lot of money at my disposal. What people can’t tell by looking at us together, I have quite a bit more.

  He and I go way back.

  We attended prep school together. I was always freakishly tall. Always expected to play basketball for my height. Or football for my size. I threw everyone for a loop by becoming a champion wrestler instead.

  It helped that I was practically in my own exclusive weight category.

  My bulk and height also fooled my opponents into thinking I was slow and not flexible, which I am.

  I worked hard at it because I loved to fight, and I liked pinning those punk asses to the ground. It gave me a rush, just like crashing into piles of toys as a kid.

  I was supposed to go on to an Ivy League school, maybe even wrestle for Harvard.

  But that just didn’t interest me.

  I signed up for the Marine Corps instead. “I did two tours in Afghanistan,” I say, and this is where she puts down the tacos and really listens. “I was posted at this little village where we had intel about some Taliban activity in that area. Kids were outside, playing soccer at this tiny school playground. I’m walking the perimeter, all of a sudden I see a guy with a grenade launcher on the hill. I shout at everybody to get inside. Most of them made it inside. I jumped on top of the stragglers, and I got hit with shrapnel.”

  Wendy wipes her hands and picks up my big ol’ mitt that’s resting between her knees. She examines it as I hold my breath.

  “That’s how you got these scars?” She touches each one tenderly with her fingertips. Holy shit, I could marry her right now.