by Dee Ellis
Fighting for Her
A Tantalizing Trope
by Dee Ellis
Fighting for Her by Dee Ellis
© 2018 by Dee Ellis. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Cover Design: Dee Ellis for Indies Ink
Interior Design: Dee Ellis for Indies Ink
Publisher: Hummingbird Press
ISBN 978-1985071483 & ISBN 10: 1985071487
First Edition
Printed in The U.S.A.
Dedication
For my betas: Tamara, Tre, Christine, Nikki, Ashley, Shannon and Audrey, who told me to share Judge and Cress with the world.
Dedication
Cress
Judge
Cress
Judge
Cress
Judge
Cress
Judge
Cress
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Cress
"Jesus Christ! Is there more dress to this dress?"
"Cress, don't be such a girl about it." Shrieks Hope as she laughs and yanks the very short skirt higher on my hips.
"Hope, at your vantage point you know damn well I am all girl. So, shut your filthy mouth. Who wants to show off the goods without promise of it being worth it?" Standing in front of a massive filigree framed mirror, I twist and turn as I make a face at my reflection.
"A girl who is all girl like you said, and has the goods to show off, honey bun. Speaking of buns, damn Cress your ass looks sinful in this dress." Despite myself I giggle, turning to the side and popping my hip out; in the tiny black dress, whose hem she keeps tugging higher, my ass does look great.
The dress looks great, really. Soft black lace, a V-neck that goes nearly to my navel, the neckline draping, with a matching draped back. Lace trims the short hem, that sinful neckline and quarter length sleeves. The lace print of it is very pretty but it’s wildly inappropriate for my curves.
My tits are about to pop out—plus she nixed my bra. The panties that just happen to match are merely strings. My ass does look great in a thong, though. I don’t know why I let her talk me into it. It’s not exactly my style. I bite my tongue though—I promised her free reign for tonight's overdue ladies night.
Hope’s been my closest friend since I moved here for college. With money to spare and no need for an actual career—she’s a hotel heiress believe it or not—college has been nothing but a good time for her. Which means it’s been a good time for me, too.
We lasted all of three weeks in the dorms before her antics got us both kicked out. Hope sweet talked her daddy into buying the condo we moved into, and I’ve been living a very different life ever since. Before college, and pre-Hope, my life was very different.
I grew up with nothing and never thought I’d know anything else.
Back home, I’d been a bartender in a dive bar, saving every penny to survive. To get out of that dead-end parish and the memories that haunted me at every turn. My sights had been on getting as far from those memories as I could.
A condo in Boston, college at BSU seemed pretty fucking far away.
Boston is two days drive from my hometown in Louisiana. Eden Springs was a tiny town nearly wiped out after hurricane Katrina; with less than ten thousand residents and resting far below sea level, it screamed dead end. My dreams had always been bigger than that tiny town.
Boston was a good place to start on those dreams, I thought.
I still tend bar because I had a certain lifestyle I wanted to live. One I’d gained once I could afford it. I liked nice clothes and shoes but I was willing to work for them. The bar afforded that and the tips from the pretty college boys didn't make me feel as cheap as the ones back home—ones often followed by a slap on the ass and an offer to let me earn a bigger tip.
In my two years at the bar, I’d saved enough to fill my closet and my rainy-day fund was looking pretty healthy. Hope refuses to let me pay for anything more than groceries, says her daddy owes her enough to take care of us both. Whatever that means. I know the two aren't close, but Rooker Barrett does whatever she asks of him, for the most part.
"Ready to go sweet ass?" Hope swats at my backside as I tug at the skirt once more.
"As I might ever be." Grabbing the neon pink clutch that cost a fortune and matches the expensive shoes, I follow her from the room.
Passing the huge fish tank filled with a rainbow of exotic fish, I feel an anxious fluttering in my belly. We’re going out to a few clubs and I’m not the greatest with crowds. Oh, I can tame a crowd when I’m behind the bar. Being amongst them, pretending I actually fit in is a different story.
Back home I was constantly reminded I was nothing more than trash. I had nothing and never would. My parish was poor, my parent’s nobodies who did nothing for society. I might have moved away from it, but sometimes I still feel like it. Tonight, I certainly look the part.
My usually tame, sleek blonde hair is wild and wavy, my blue eyes made up. My pink mouth—fuller and wider than I like—is lined in glossy stain. I look like a seductress but I don’t exactly feel like one.
With too much going on in the backside, and more than a handful spilling from the neckline of my dress, I’m all curves. In heels I just hit 5'5, and my thighs touch more than I like but I am generally pretty pleased with my body. Softer in places than I like, but in all the right places too.
Hope’s in prime form tonight; wearing a silver crop top with a keyhole neckline and a black flared skirt with silver stripes, more of her skin is on display than covered. Her cleavage, which is only cleavage with expensive bras, pops through the keyhole and her tiny waist is bare. A tattoo, a dirty poem in Latin, that spans her ribcage moves as she dances around the elevator.
Hope’s tiny, maybe five-feet, with tiny features on her pretty face. Bright green eyes and a rosebud mouth work magic on men. Her pretty mouth is filthy and her eyes are often moving on to the next one. Hope’s bright and laughs a lot, but I always wonder about her substance. With estranged parents living on opposite coasts and plenty of money to throw at her problems, she has none to look to.
When I first lugged my crap into my dorm freshman year, she was there already. Bright and excited about living on her own, even though she had always been alone before. Our tiny dorm was crammed with her Louis Vuitton luggage and she had an assistant unpacking for her. True story.
Hope had declared me her new best friend within moments of meeting me. It turned out I wasn't the only one lacking in that department. I’d had no friends back home.
Not anymore, at least.
Turns out we had a lot in common and so the bestie moniker stuck. I thought maybe my rough and tumble background called to her in the same way her silver spoon lifestyle did me. We wondered what the other half lived like.
"Cress you seem awfully introspective today. Lots of thinking going on behind those baby blues. Spill it, bitch." Coming beside me in the elevator, she hooks a slender arm around my neck.
"Just thinking about how crazy you are and how glad I am you’re my main bitch." I shoot back, hooking my arm about her slim waist.
"Well shit,” Hope playfully wipes at her eyes, “Don't make me ruin my makeup. That's about as sentimental as I've ever heard you. My stone-cold bitch, is your heart growing a few sizes? Does it have anything to do with your hot student aide?" I roll my eye and smack her ass.
"First, I'm not cold. Lukewarm. Second, absolutely fucking not. Noah is pretty on t
he eyes and talks dirty enough to ruin some panties but he's got nothing going on between his ears. That he will soon teach the future of our country literally makes me ill. " Hope laughs loud and presses a kiss at my temple.
"Honey bun, who cares what is going on between his ears? Just worry about what's going on between his legs. I am positive that man is packing. Willing to find out if he knows what to do with it for you. Sacrificial lamb that I am." I giggle too and give her a squeeze.
"Be my guest you tramp. He is fucking hot,” I sigh, remembering how hopeful his pretty blue eyes looked in class today, “Even hotter when he's not trying to be. He knows I want all that dirty shit he promises. Too bad Noah doesn't seem like he can handle my shit." I give a shake of my ass, but I mean more than my curves and we both know it.
"Shut your mouth. Who cares? Doesn't need to handle your shit beyond fucking you. You do not get nearly enough dick between those thick thighs and we both know it. Let him in, honey bun. Let him in." We snicker again as we head through the lobby of our condo, smiling at Bert, the concierge.
"Your car is waiting, ladies. Be safe, have a good evening." I take a longer look at him, realizing this sweet, charming old man is the closest thing I've ever had to a real father.
"Night, Bert. We will be on our best behavior." I promise, lighting in a genuine smile as he gives me a nod.
My parents were less than prime examples of parents when they were present in my life. Then they just weren't present at all. At fifteen I came home from school to find them gone. They left a note. A fucking note. Said they were just spending the weekend in New Orleans. Two weeks later I got a postcard from Las Vegas. A call from my mother from Miami.
I’d never even left the five-mile radius of our shit hole town. Couldn't really take along their teen daughter who couldn't get into the bars or casinos they were wasting their life and all our money in. That phone call was the last I ever heard of them. I got a job cleaning Beau—my father’s only friend—bar for cash. By sixteen I was waiting tables and before I was legal, he had me tending bar.
Beau was like a creepy uncle; he often stared too long at my tits and used any excuse he could to rub his dick all over me. Beau was not a good guy. But not a bad one either. Least he let me make a life for myself after my worthless parents bailed.
My father and he never spoke again and really, I think it was more Beau refusing to than anything else. My parents were around somewhere. I just didn't know or care where. I put up with the drunks and the fights and Beau propositioning me every single Friday night to let him 'break me in' because I didn't want to end up like my mom.
Pregnant at sixteen with a drunken, cheating gambler for a husband and a child I resented. My mother stood by my father when he beat her, brought other trash into their bed and ran us so broke we starved. I learned early she was weak. I could accept that.
What I couldn't handle, and why I hated them both was something only one other person knew about. Something that made me relieved when they didn't come back. They did me a fucking favor.
"I will not be on my best behavior Bert. But you already know that." Hope winks at him then we push through the double doors and head for the waiting town car.
"You are such a proud slut, Hope." I chuckle as we sink into the plush seats of the Lincoln. Cook, our regular driver, smiles at us in the rear view as Hope tells him where to take us.
"Why not be? Men are huge sluts. Massive. Most make me look virginal,” This is a lie and she laughs because she knows it, “but we have to play it prim and proper. I say fuck that. I want to come, I'm getting dick. End of story." I love that she’s so bold, so brash; I try to follow her lead when I have the guts to do it.
We have different goals tonight, though. Hope’s goal is almost always to get laid. I just want to dance, feel a man’s touch, sure. But, I’d made a promise once and that negated the chance of me waking up with my lady bits properly used tomorrow.
My promise, made what feels like a life time ago, means I can’t get serious with anyone. No matter how that promise burns me now, I’d made it and even if the person I swore it to didn’t come to collect on it, I won’t break it until I’ve lost all hope.
And, last I checked, I still have hope.
Tonight, I promised my sluttier slice of Hope I’d allow for some manhandling, at least. Some hands on my exposed skin, a warm, hard body pressed against mine. I could allow that. I could pretend for one night that I might allow something more, even though I know better.
I let her dress me like I was asking for it and when we got to the club, I feel like maybe I am. After a few shots, my ass is pressed against a dark-haired stud with dark gray eyes and lots of tattoos. His hands are everywhere and I try to pretend it feels good. That I like it.
Of course, I don't because he’s not my type. Too sinewy and lanky at the same time. Smelled like smoke and cheap perfume. So, I move onto the next. Taller, darker, with hazel eyes, a too tight shirt and perfect fitting jeans, his hands are soft.
They press to my hips and tug me back against him as he bends his face into my neck. I feel the evidence that Hope's efforts had paid off press against my ass. His soft hands yank at my hair, his head bending to try to cover my mouth with his. Before he can, I’m gone.
"Damn bitch you are cold." Hope accuses between suckling at the tongue of a man who looks like he’s in love.
"Lukewarm, slut. Lukewarm." We laugh and pretty boy's tongue is back in her mouth.
I’m not cold. Not really. I just don't really know how to care for people. I mean, I had shitty, abusive parents. Growing up, I had done everything to keep people out. Only one person had ever forced me to let them in. Let them stay awhile.
Then that was over just like everything else and if I had been lukewarm before, maybe I did become cold after. Because I let that one person become my entire fucking world. What do you do after your world is gone? You shut down. When I met Hope, I learned not everyone wanted to hurt you. Even the ones who did it anyway.
I down a few more shots, laughing and dancing with Hope when she ditches pretty boy. With finals coming up I’ve been wound tight for weeks. Noah's constant flirtations and Hope's partying—despite her failing most her classes—wore me down. I love Hope, like the sister I never had, but I wish she would take her future seriously.
Hope wants no part of her father's business. She’s majoring in media arts. With no plans other than to get a degree. Hope knows she doesn't have to work if she doesn't want to. I not only have to, I want to. My marketing and relations degree is my golden ticket. To keeping my ass here and never having to go back to a shack in a shitty parish.
I’m trying to have fun; laughing with Hope and a few new handsome faces she lures over. They’re handsome and funny. The blonde one smiles at me with perfect teeth and pretty sea green eyes and I feel pain flame in my chest. The shots help it but it’s still there. Always there.
With that pang in my chest, I still let him lead me out onto the dance floor. As he grinds against me, hands moving everywhere at once, I feel cold wash over me; it feels an awful lot like guilt or remorse. Like I’m betraying something. Or someone.
Suddenly, I feel someone move close behind me, and I barely make out blondie and another man talking. Without a word, blondie leaves. Just turns and walks away. Jerk.
New guy moves close behind me and I watch huge hands smooth over my hips and yank me back. His body is solid, worn jeans rough against my bare thighs and his thighs strong and powerful against my backside.
Muscled arms go tight around me, like he already knows how to hold me. My eyes close as I sway to the beat, shaking my ass back against him. His face is in my neck and he inhales deeply and I shudder. My arms lift to try to wind the beat around us before they hook about his neck, fingers in his thick hair.
Unlike all the others, I feel no hesitation in being in his arms. In fact, it feels more right letting his arms close around me than anything has in a long time. In another life, before Boston, I’d only f
elt good, whole, safe, with one other person.
His promise a lifetime ago is why I continue to keep mine. Why I never let anyone in. I hoped he might keep it still. In the meantime, I try to make do without him. I barely do it, but damn do I try.
Right now, this warm, strong body feels good and right and I don't want him to let me go. Which he seems to realize too because he’s not letting me go. He brings me closer, holds me tighter and I feel like he needs this as badly as I do.
For several songs we stay like this. Moving together, never speaking, his large hands pinning me back against him. I feel his mouth on my skin, a moan tearing through me. My fingers yank at his hair roughly. I don't know if I’m urging him to stop or asking for more. He gives me more. Teeth sink into the spot between my neck and shoulder and my panties are soaked.
A large hand slides down my thighs, shoving beneath my skirt and I whimper. It’s crowded, dark, and no one can see us. I want him. He smells sweet and delicious; like spring in the country woods. His strong fingers slide between my slick thighs. As he trails them higher, my pussy is pulsing with need. I want him to touch me. To spread me open and make me come. I need it.
In the darkness, drugged by his touch and his scent, I forget all about promises.
"I need you,” His deep, sexy voice husks at my ear and I tremble, “Right fucking now. I need to feel you. Let me touch you." I dip my head back to press it into his neck, nodding. Yes. I need it too.
"Please. Please. Touch me." I’m being reckless and Hope would be proud, I'm sure.
"Fuck yes. Open up for me." His knee slides between my thighs as he settles me atop one of his thick thighs.
My legs spread more as I fall back against his hard chest. His fingers press between my legs, over the soaked lace of my tiny panties. We both moan when they find me hot, wet, needy. Quickly he moves the lace aside and I shudder as thick fingers spread me open. Work my wetness over my swollen lips.
My hips buck to his hand. He’s breathing heavy as I moan into his neck, breathing him in deep. One long finger shoves between the folds, thumb circling my clit. I cry out and his mouth crashes over mine. Eating my sounds as two fingers slide inside me. Pumping at my core, making my thighs tremble.
