by Shandi Boyes
Clara pushes back from the kitchen counter, sending the barstool toppling over. She glares at me with nothing but disdain tainting her arctic eyes. Her lips twitch, dying to fight back, but not a single word spills from her mouth.
"He was your daddy replacement, wasn't he? A strong, dominant man you wanted to swoop in and look after you the way your father should have."
Her nostrils flare as anger envelops her entire body. “You don’t know what you're talking about.” Her words fly from her mouth like daggers.
“Fucking bullshit, Princess.” My voice is as vicious as my words. “You’re the classic story of a poor unloved little rich girl. When you failed to secure the love of your daddy, you went hunting for the next best thing: a man who was just like him.”
Clenching her fists at her side, Clara charges into the laundry room. The washing machine beeps, announcing it has been opened, when she yanks the door so hard, it indents the drywall. Ignoring the fact her dress is still wet, she throws my shirt over the top of her head before dragging her dripping wet dress up her quivering thighs. You’d think her absurd overreaction would surprise me. It doesn’t. The only thing I’m shocked about is that she doesn’t attempt to refute my claim. No bitchy reply. No snarky remark. Nothing.
“Come on, Princess. Where’s your fighting spirit? What happened to the feisty little temptress who has told me time and time again how she can look after herself? Where the fuck has that Clara gone?”
“I can take care of myself,” she hisses, her angry words unable to hide the sob sitting at the back of her throat, dying to break free.
“Yeah, you can. So fight me. Prove what I'm saying is wrong.”
She angrily shakes her head while striding across the room. My eyes track her as she makes her way through my residence searching for her belongings, the water dripping off her dress leaving puddles of water in her wake.
When she snatches her purse off the coffee table in my living room, I push off my feet and race to the door. I only just make it to the entranceway before her.
When she lifts her eyes from the ground, the heaviness weighing down my chest since last night grows. Fresh tears leak from her overfilled eyes as the same broken look she was wearing last night returns full force. She won’t fight as she believes every word I’m speaking is true.
"Look around, Princess.” I wave my hand in the air. "There's no white horse, and I sure as hell can't see Prince-Fucking-Charming, but you're still breathing, you've got clothes on your back, food in your belly, and a roof over your head. Who gave you that, Clara?"
Her face crunches as she battles to settle the heavy flow of tears streaming down her face.
"You did. Not your daddy. Not Isaac. You did it. You're not a damsel who needs saving. You, and only you crawled yourself out of the pit that was trying to swallow your life whole four months ago."
“If I don’t need saving, then why am I here? Why are you helping me?” she stutters through a barrage of hiccups.
“Because it is what a man does for the woman he's falling in love with,” I reply before my brain has the chance to object. “Last night scared the shit out of me. The thought of losing you. . . Fuck! I couldn’t handle that. I can’t handle that.” I lock my eyes with her. “Don’t ever make me handle that.”
More tears spill from her eyes. “If you knew the things I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt, you wouldn’t be saying that, Brax. You would leave me to fend for myself like every other member of my family and friends have. I’m not a nice person. I’m not who you think I am.”
“I don’t care about your past, Princess. None of it matters to me.”
“It should,” she interrupts, her glistening eyes bouncing between mine. “No one should get away with what I did.”
“You don’t think you’ve already been punished? You got mugged at gunpoint in an alleyway for fuck sake. I think your dues have been paid.”
“That’s nothing compared to the hurt I’ve caused people,” she replies, her voice switching from a medium volume to a faint whisper. “Not even close.”
“Then tell me what you did. Let me make my own decision.”
She balks before shaking her head.
“Then I guess I’ll keep running with my own opinion.” I move to stand in front of her. The closer I get to her, the more she retreats. Her fleeing steps only stop when her back is plastered against a wall in my apartment, and my body is splayed to her front.
"And my opinion is one hundred percent certain that I need to taste your lips again." I lift my eyes from her thrusting chest to her face. "So unless you tell me something shocking within the next five seconds, I'm going to kiss you. And since I'm planning on kissing you until you can't speak, you better speak now while you have the chance."
Lifting my hands, I cup her jaw. "Five.”
I run my thumbs over her cheeks to gather her tears. "Four.”
I drop my thumb to brush the mouth I'm dying to taste again. "Three.”
I adjust the angle of my head to align our lips better. "Two.”
I tilt my head in closer to hers. "One—"
"I snuck into a taken man's bed while he was heavily intoxicated so I could pretend we slept together," she blubbers out, her hot breath fanning my hungry lips.
Although shocked a woman of Clara’s standards would need to stoop to those levels, it isn’t the first time I’ve heard of women running those types of tricks.
It also isn’t enough to stop me from tasting the lips I’ve been dying to become reacquainted with the past three weeks.
"I was also the reason my brother lost the love of his life.”
I pull back and peer into her eyes. They’re shimmering with silent regret, undoubtedly proving what she's saying is true.
“Have you tried to fix the mistakes you made?”
A big, fat tear rolls down her cheek when she shakes her head.
“Why not?”
She scoffs. “Because I'm not who you think I am.” After flinging a tear off her cheek, she locks her remorseful eyes with mine. “That vindictive two-faced bitch you met at Inked months ago—that’s the real Clara McGregor. I'm a spiteful cow who doesn’t think twice about steamrolling anyone standing between me and the ultimate prize. I'm not the Clara you see, Brax. Not the slightest.”
With that, she slips under my arm and throws open my front door. A waft of warm air hits me in the face when I slam the door shut before she has the chance to exit.
“I’m not even half done with you, Princess,” I growl into her ear.
Chapter Seventeen
I stand so close to Clara, her wet dress creates a large watermark on my jeans. "If you were a vindictive bitch who didn't care, you wouldn't be crying right now," I mutter into her ear. "You also wouldn't have sold all your designer dresses and shoes to give the profits to the women’s shelter three blocks over from Inked.”
She intakes a ragged breath, seemingly unaware I knew she sold every designer outfit she owned, not the half she had sprawled on her bed the afternoon she moved into her apartment.
“You did that because—”
“Because that women’s shelter was where I would have ended up if you hadn’t given me a chance,” she interrupts, her words croaky, hampered by a sob sitting at the back of her throat. “I was two seconds from living on the streets.”
Even though her admission hits me fair in the guts, I continue my endeavor to show her she isn’t the woman she thinks she is.
"It's not just that. You did it because under the hard shell you've been wearing the past, I don't know how many years, is a woman with a massive heart. The Clara you spoke of earlier isn't you, Princess. It is the sheltered Clara who was hiding behind a pile of money. The instant you stepped away from the lifestyle that was no doubt slowly killing you, the real Clara was set free."
I tap my finger on her chest that is furiously pounding her ribcage. "This didn't just start beating when you walked through the doors of Inked. It's been beating since the da
y you took your first breath. Just no one was listening."
I cup her jaw and tilt her head back to face me. “I’m listening,” I declare into her tear-welling eyes. “And I’ll never stop listening.”
I'm hoping my admission will have her spinning around and sealing her mouth over mine. What I'm not expecting is for her to bury her head into the crook of my neck and shed enough tears to fill a river.
Riddled with guilt that I pushed her too far, I gather her into my arms and stride to one of the sofas in my living room. I draw her in close to my chest and run my hand down her back as I whisper assurances into her ear. I tell her everything will be okay and that I will always step up to the plate for her, undoubtedly proving the words I blurted out in the heat of the moment ring true.
I'm falling for Clara. Only now am I realizing she's the reason my cock went into hiatus, and why I’ve been so lost the past few months. And while I’m being totally fucking honest, she's the cause of my biggest worry.
Imagine finally getting close enough to something you've always wanted that you can taste it on the tip of your tongue, only to discover it might be short-lived. Although I truly believe the Clara sitting before me is the real Clara, I can't one hundred percent testify that she will stay this way if her silver spoon ever finds its way back to her mouth. I hope she will, but there are no guarantees in life. Let alone for a woman who is as complicated as Clara.
Any concerns about only having her in my life for a fleeting moment shift to the background of my mind when Clara lifts her head off my chest and locks her wide eyes with mine. Just from the way she's staring up at me, I don't care if she can only give me a second, I'll take every moment I can get.
I move my mouth, preparing to continue apologizing for the callous words fired off my vindictive tongue. My words fall short when Clara's hand grips the back of my neck to pull my mouth to hers. The aroma of coffee filters through my nose, and the flavor of salty tears swamp my taste buds when she seals her lips over mine. Just like our first kiss, I open my mouth to accept tongue, but if she wants this to go any further, she needs to make all the moves.
“Take what you want, Princess,” I mumble against her mouth when she freezes with the tip of her tongue bracing the seam of my lips. “If you want to stop, stop. If you want to take it a little further, take it further. But you need to guide the pace.”
Pulling back, she peers into my eyes. Shock and confusion are marring her face. "Don't you want me?"
A smirk curls on my lips. "Believe me, I fucking want you." I jerk my hips up so she can feel the effect her PG13 peck had on my cock. "I just want to make sure this is something you want. I'm not going down the denial road again. We've already walked down that path, and I'm not repeating it. If this is going to happen, then I’m all for it. But if you're planning on waking up tomorrow morning in my bed and pretending it was all a dream, it ain't happening. You got me?"
My brow arches when Clara bites on the inside of her cheek, struggling to hold in her giggle.
What the fuck is she laughing about? I didn’t hear anything humorous in my speech.
Spotting my furious scowl, she asks, “You do realize it is only 10 AM? So the whole statement about waking up tomorrow morning in your bed was a little overboard.”
"You don't think I'm up for the challenge?"
Heat creeps across her cheeks. “Well. . . no. . . it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She mumbles something under her breath, but she's so quiet, I miss what she said.
“Speak up, Princess.”
Her eyes snap to mine. "From the conversations I've overheard at Inked, you don't wake up with anyone in your bed.” Her voice is surprisingly strong considering the number of tears she just shed.
I arch my brow. “Did you not wake up in my bed this morning?”
She scoffs. “Yeah, but that’s different. We didn’t do anything.”
“Only because I stopped you.”
Her eyes roll as she huffs. "Thanks for the reminder. I would have hated for the sting of rejection to heal too quickly," she snarls, shifting her eyes sideways.
I grip her chin and force her eyes back to me. “How bad would have that sting been if I’d taken advantage of you last night? Was it not better for me to deny you than hurt your feelings?”
“Ah, you just called me out for having a daddy complex. My feelings were still hurt, rejection or not.”
“Yet here you are sitting in the lap of a guy who’s far from a father figure. Maybe I was wrong?”
I’m braced and prepared for her to either flee from my lap or unleash a scathing tirade. She shocks me for the second time in under five minutes by remaining quiet.
I don’t know how many minutes pass with me holding her in my arms as she stares out into space. I’m too entranced by her beautiful face to keep time. The silent void isn’t awkward, and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It just appears as if she needs a few minutes to gather her bases.
While she does that, I run my hand down her shiny locks, smoothing the frazzled pieces into place while relishing being the man she can find a moment of peace with.
After a stretch of silence, Clara shifts her eyes to me and mumbles, "I wasn't always like that."
I quirk my lips, pretending I don’t know what she’s referring to.
“I wasn’t always attracted to men who could take care of me,” she elaborates as the glazed-over look in her eyes fades. “I can’t recall the exact moment it happened, but I'm fairly certain the switch was flicked on not long after my eighteenth birthday.”
“That would make sense. The jump from adolescent to adulthood is pretty daunting.”
“It wasn’t that.” Her words are barely audible over the mad beat of her heart. “It was so much more than that.”
I hold my breath, hoping she’ll open up to me.
My wish isn’t granted when she leaps off my lap and declares, “I really need a shower.”
I only just stifle the groan her sudden loss of contact spurred from my cock. He was as happy as a fish in water nestled against the soft curves of her ass.
There’s no chance of holding back my second groan when Clara drops her eyes to mine. “Care to join me?”
I try to speak, but words fail me when I spot an unrecognizable glint in her eyes. Although her stance is strong and determined, something about her body language is off. I'd like to say I've witnessed a wide variety of Clara's personalities the past four months, but this one is leaving me wholly stumped. I can't tell if she's petrified or excited. And while I'm being entirely forthright, not being able to read her scares the fucking shit out of me. I've got enough obstacles to jump over; I don't need any more things added.
The unidentifiable sparkle brightening Clara's eyes fades by the moment, no doubt snuffed by my delay in replying. It isn't that I don't want to join her for a shower—believe me, I want that more than anything—but I want to make sure this is what she wants and that she isn't acting impulsively from the mass surge of adrenaline pumping through her blood after her brush with death last night. I only denied her advances ten hours ago. Is ten hours truly enough time to overcome shock?
I scrub my hand over the stubble on my chin. "Are you sure this is what you want, Princess? I can't guarantee once I've had you I'll ever stop. So if you're hoping your adventure on this side of town will be a short one, you need to step back and consider your options more thoroughly."
Any concerns clutching my throat loosen when a flash of excitement flares in Clara’s eyes. “Who said my visit was going to be a short one?”
I shrug. “Just an assumption.”
“A wrong assumption.” Her words crack out of her mouth like a whip.
Spreading her hand on her cocked hip, she stares me straight in the eyes. “Are you going to show me where everything is? Or am I going to figure it out on my own?” she asks, quoting the exact thing she said the first day she arrived at Inked for her two-week trial.
I sl
ant my head to the side and return her fervent stare. It takes a massive effort to keep my feet planted on the ground when a glint I can identify ignites in Clara's heavy-lidded gaze before my very eyes. Even a blind man would recognize it. She doesn't just want to be ravished; she wants a man to help her get back the confidence she lost last night.
So, that leaves me two choices: I either back away and let another man step up to the plate, or continue wielding the bat I've been holding the past four months. Since there's no chance in hell I’ll ever let another man take care of Clara, let alone touch her, it looks like there's really only one option. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't as happy as a pig in mud to be awarded the challenge.
Chapter Eighteen
The soft pants of Clara's breath increase the further we pace towards the bathroom. A crackling of energy fires the air between us, inciting a prickling of goosebumps to form on her arms. When I swing open the thick black door and switch on the light, she inhales a ragged breath before her eyes absorb the grandeur of the bathroom. Other than my bedroom, this is my favorite room in my apartment. It is roomy, dark, and incredibly manly. Although it took a good chunk of the money I had left after downgrading from a two-bedroom apartment, and a solid forty hours of my weekend, I'm glad I put effort into the bathroom. Even more so now since it's managed to shock Clara into silence.
I watch the excitement in her eyes grow when I unfasten the button on my jeans and lower the zipper. Her eyes blaze when I glide them down my thighs and kick them to the side. She tries to hold my gaze when my Calvin Klein’s follow the path my jeans just made. She fails. I'm hard in an instant, jutted and firm when she gasps in a wild breath.
The heat scorching my blood turns potent when she murmurs, “Jesus,” under her breath as her eyes drink in the effect her avid gaze has on my cock.
She drags her eyes away from the lower half of my body when I take a step towards her. “Your turn,” I mutter, my voice laced with smugness, proud as a peacock about her slack-jawed reaction.
