Shatter

by Lola Taylor

  Wide hips with a little extra padding, which gave way to a pair of snug sweatpants. The material pulled along her thighs, which he imagined were just as plump and soft looking as the rest of her. He could hold on to her soft curves while he thrust into her, making her dizzy with ecstasy.

  Her breath caught, and her eyes dipped to his lips. Thanks to their tug-o-paint-can, their faces weren’t that far apart anymore.

  A delicate pink tongue dipped out and licked her glossy bottom lip.

  Oh fucccccckkkk. His heart sped up as his desire for her doubled.

  Just when he thought she might be thinking the same lustful thoughts, she shot him a sexy little smirk that made his heart skip a beat, and purred, “Have it your way.”

  Sporting uncanny swiftness, she swiped the lid off the can. In the tug-o-can, the can had shifted in his arms so the opening was tilted toward the ground. Yellow paint poured out the side and slopped onto the floor.

  “Shit!” he spat as he scrambled to retrieve the lid, which she’d tossed onto the floor.

  She smirked, with her hands on her hips, as even more paint poured out. It covered his hands, making them slick, and the sides of the can even more slippery. It began to slide out of his hands. Like a man crazed, he grappled for it. The desperate movements caused it to shoot out of his hands. The now half-empty can banged against the floor and rolled toward the open door.

  Scott ran after it, swearing the whole time as his shoes squished in a trail of fresh paint. In his haste to retrieve the can, the toe of his shoe kicked it and sent it flying out the door.

  What happened next could only be described as something that would happen in a cartoon.

  Yet, there he was, standing in the doorway with his jaw nearly on his chest, and watched as the can ricocheted off the wall and bounced down the stairs. It clanked loudly down them, one at a time, throwing up paint along its path.

  Neighbors opened their doors and poked their heads out. A kid laughed and splashed in the paint as if it were a puddle.

  The can landed at the bottom of the stairwell, at last drawing still.

  The ringing still echoed in Scott’s ears. Or maybe that was the steam that poured out of his head.

  His temperature rose as his hands slowly curled into fists. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath against the rising surge of fury.

  One, two, three, four…ah, screw it.

  Whirling, he pinned Ms. Miles with a glare that would scare the shit out of the Grim Reaper. “You have two options: one, I charge you for the cleanup, or two, you clean it up. Either way, this gets fixed—now.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed. Both hands covered her mouth, as if she couldn’t believe what had just happened. “I’m—I’m so sorry!”

  “Say you’re sorry with a scrub brush and some cleaner!” he snapped and then stormed out of the room, leaving a trail of bright-yellow footprints.

  OKAY, IN HINDSIGHT, pissing off her landlord—or hot-and-annoying-as-all-get-out building manager, or whatever the hell he was—probably wasn’t one of her brightest moments.

  It had, on a lighter note, been hilarious—until she tiptoed to the hallway and saw the destruction the open paint can had wreaked.

  All she could see was dollar signs as her widening eyes followed the path of canary-yellow paint. It was the good stuff. As in, it wasn’t going to come off anytime soon. Plus, it was a special rapid-dry variety.

  All that money—money she hadn’t come across easily, considering her painting sales had slowed quite a bit because she hadn’t produced anything new in so long—strewn across the stairwell…

  Maybe if she’d flashed the expensive receipt in front of her eyes, she would have thought twice about her little lid-swiping maneuver. Still, seeing Mr. Hot Shit lose his marbles over the out-of-control can had been good for a giggle.

  People milled about, wondering what on earth had happened. It looked as if her neighbors were a collection of all sorts of people: the old, the young, the holy-shit-have-you-ever-brushed-your-hair-or-teeth?

  After the sting of shock wore off, she’d erupted into hysterical laughter. Her neighbors stared at her as though she were insane. Which, apparently, she was. How else could she explain away what she’d done?

  Brilliant, Amy. Really freaking brilliant.

  Thirty seconds of uncontrollable giggling later, she abruptly slapped a hand over her mouth with a dramatic gasp.

  Holy CRAP. What the hell had she been thinking? Mr. Sexy, er, Meyers had stormed out of her apartment like an angry bull. Granted, a very sexy bull. And she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t taken the opportunity to scope out his ass. Damn, that man looked good in jeans.

  He’d also probably look fantastic as he kicked her ass out on the streets.

  Images of her living in a cardboard box, pushing around a shopping cart or a bicycle with a million bags on it, rushed through her head.

  Oh God. She didn’t have enough money in savings to afford another place. Her credit cards would get her by at a cheap hotel for a little while, but dayuuuuummmmm….

  Like she said. Dumbass award.

  She could imagine her sister yelling, “What the hell, Amy!” Inwardly cursing herself, she scrambled out the door and asked every person she could find where Mr. Hot Shit went. In her rush, she hadn’t paid attention to where she was going. She slipped and slid on the barely dried paint and had to grip the railing when she nearly fell and tumbled down the rest of the stairs.

  The cursing intensified when she saw the trail of yellow footprints she’d left on the stairwell. She looked around for something to wipe her feet off on. Exhaustion from moving all day had started to set in, so in her defense, she wasn’t exactly thinking straight.

  When people have something on the bottom of their shoes, they wipe their feet. As such, it should come as no surprise that she marched over to the first mat she saw, and wiped her shoes, leaving glaring yellow streaks.

  Her mouth formed an O when she realized too late what she’d done. “Shit!” she screamed and stomped her foot.

  The leasing office door behind the mat opened abruptly. Mr. Sexy stared at her with a perplexed frown. He was so big, he filled up the whole doorway.

  Her sex throbbed as she wondered what other places he could fill up. He looked down and his expression hardened. “What the hell have you done to my mat?”

  “What?” Blinking, she looked down. Her eyes widened as she sucked in a breath. Shit. She’d been too busy fantasizing about him to remember what she’d done. Her gaze jerked back up to a very angry Mr. Sexy. More like Mr. Pissed. “I-I was just, um, wiping my feet,” she said stupidly.

  “Clearly,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation. He squished his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hope this isn’t going to be a sign of things to come.”

  “No!” she blurted. Desperation crept into her voice. “I’m just having an off day, I swear!”

  He stared at her. His jaw—so perfectly sculpted and perfectly lick-able—was set in a hard line. “If this is an ‘off’ day, I can’t wait to see a bad one.”

  She stopped breathing. Her heart hammered against her sternum. It felt as if her very life depended on his meaning, which it technically did. “You mean I can stay?” She made herself whisper, afraid to hear the answer.

  He remained silent and studied her with his calculating stare. His eyes roved from head to toe slowly.

  Oh shit. He was probably trying to decide whether her rent money was worth the trouble of putting up with her.

  That’s when she resorted to the only thing she had left.

  Screw her pride.

  With the weight of her prying neighbors’ eyes on her back, she swallowed hard and knelt down on her knees.

  Scott couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Was she…groveling?

  The round globes of her ass, which looked damned good in the sweatpants she wore, made him yearn to stroke her. It didn’t help that he could see a hint of a
crimson thong peep above her waistline.

  Damn. He hadn’t been this hard in so long that it almost hurt. He cleared his throat, leaned against the doorframe, and crossed his legs in what he hoped was a casual pose. Anything to draw attention away from the noticeable bulge around his crotch.

  “Please don’t kick me out!” she begged, her face directed toward the carpet.

  Oh, he could make her beg, all right. Beg for him to take her as he made her crazy with need while his tongue swirled—

  Stop it. Right. Now.

  These ridiculous fantasies had to stop. The girl didn’t deserve a guy like him—she deserved better. Any woman did.

  He was nothing but baggage wrapped up in a very male package. “Damaged goods,” as it were.

  He stood there, silent from concentrating so hard on suppressing his desire to do naughty things to her. His mind was so preoccupied that he almost missed what she said.

  “Please,” she went on, “I’ll do anything.”

  “Anything?” He raised a brow. Damn, his voice sounded rough. He might as well say, “Want to sleep with me?”

  She looked up at him. Those pouty lips opened slightly. He’d love to slip his tongue between them to see whether she tasted as sweet as she looked.

  “Anything,” she whispered.

  That almost undid him. His mouth pressed into a firm line. “And what are you going to do to make it up to me?” His voice came out clipped. And low; rough, even.

  She sucked in a tight breath. Briefly, her eyes drooped to his crotch and lingered there.

  He caught his breath. Could she…? No. No way in hell would a woman that gorgeous want someone like him. He was “a plague upon women,” or so one of his casual fucks had screamed at him on her way out the door.

  If Amy knew what was good for her, she’d stay the hell away from him. And if he was any kind of a gentleman, he’d push her along.

  “My face is up here,” he said sternly.

  She blinked as crimson flowed into her cheeks. “I—I wasn’t—”

  “It’s fine.” He tried to sound annoyed and sighed hard. “You can relax. I’m not going to kick you out.”

  Her shoulders fell as she released a huge sigh.

  “That is,” he added, “if you have the stairs cleaned by tomorrow morning.”

  She gulped and pressed her lips together.

  Damn, she looked cute doing that, too. Wasn’t there anything about her he didn’t find attractive as hell?

  Forbidden fruit always smells the sweetest…

  He shrugged and started to go back into his office. “If you don’t want to live here any longer, I certainly won’t—”

  “No, no, no!” She rushed to her feet. “I’ll do it! I’ll clean everything. I’ll even get you a new welcome mat, something without yellow paint all over it.”

  Well, he did like the sound of that.

  In her rush to her feet, her halter top had ridden down, revealing plump breasts just waiting to be squeezed. The lush, round mounds would fit nicely in his hands. And dear God, she hadn’t worn a bra.

  He had to get inside his office, now.

  With a curt nod and a grunt, he turned and shut himself in the office.

  His heart pounded as he leaned against the door. What the hell? You’d think he was going through puberty all over again.

  Maybe he should kick her out. It would be better for everyone involved.

  With his hands running through his hair, he almost jumped when a timid knock came from the door.

  Immediately hoping it was her, and realizing too late what an idiot that made him, he rushed to open the door.

  She stood there, clothes rumpled, hair a mess.

  And far too tempting for his liking.

  He needed to get rid of her before he dragged her into his office and did something they’d both regret.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “Do you have the stairs cleaned yet?”

  She blinked, surprised. “No.”

  “Don’t come back until you do.”

  Slam!

  He felt like a douchebag for doing it, but so help him, he was desperate.

  He froze and listened for her reaction. A few seconds later, he heard a growl, followed by a stream of curses as she stomped off.

  He exhaled and slumped to the floor, harder than ever.

  Hot damn. Her little temper tantrum had turned him on even more.

  Houston, we have a problem.

  HER LIFE SHOULD be a sitcom. Seriously, some producer somewhere should look into it. At least then she could get paid a shit-ton of money for having all this random shit happen to her.

  She’d never had a door slammed in her face before, especially by a hot man, and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. Especially when she’d been about to thank him. In a huff, she’d turned and marched back up to her apartment for some supplies. It was going to be a long, miserable night.

  A puzzling mixture of relief at him not kicking her out and anger at him dismissing her so rudely twisted her insides the whole time she’d cleaned. And when she got angry, she did one of two things—curse or cry. Sometimes both.

  Feeling more on the cursing order, because she was too tired to cry, she cussed out the floor, the brush, and the rusty bucket Mr. Sexy had slammed down in front of her only to retreat to his office a few seconds later.

  Seriously, what the hell was his problem? The guy was an asshole.

  What was more irritating was that despite her knowledge of said assholery, she still found her panties to be stained with want once she’d finished cleaning, and it wasn’t the cleaner that turned her on.

  Her body seriously didn’t know what was good for it sometimes. The generous love handles that clung to her sides were testament to that, at least when it came to food.

  She sighed. She couldn’t blame her body’s lapse of judgment. She hadn’t, after all, had sex with anyone in ages. Sure, she’d lusted after guys, but that’s all it was—looking at pretty eye candy and never touching it.

  But from the moment she’d laid eyes on Mr. Sexy, something carnal had awoken inside her.

  And it was very, very hungry.

  By the time she’d gotten the stupid stairwell all cleaned up, it was well into the night. Becca had texted her a gazillion times, wondering where the hell she was for their workout. Apologizing for being a terrible friend, Amy had changed and gone over to the gym. She hadn’t even had time to shower and wash the paint off, not that she’d seen any point. She was about to get hot and sweaty all over again.

  This was going to royally suck. Sweat + exhaustion + hunger = bitchy Amy.

  Ugh.

  The gym wasn’t far, a short car ride a few blocks from where she lived. She got her membership at half off, thanks to Becca, who knew one of the trainers there. It was the only way Becca had needled her into joining.

  Not that she was allergic to exercise equipment, but seeing all the skinny bitches running around, flirting with their overpriced personal trainers with their toned abs and tight asses, made her feel like shit. And, really, how the hell were they so skinny, doing nothing, when she worked her ass off and gained weight?

  WTF?

  Yeah, so, she’d let herself go. She blamed World War Michael. The devastation it had caused showed in the extra plushness around her thighs, arms, and ass. Changing her physique was all part of Becca’s rehabilitation program for her.

  “Burning up the calories (reminders) of her past.” That was what Becca preached.

  Easy enough for Becca to talk. She already looked like a supermodel. Amy felt like a hippopotamus next to her. Every time she saw Becca in a cute outfit, she couldn’t help but think, “Wow, that’s cute… but it wouldn’t be on me for X,Y, Z reasons.”

  Low self-esteem about your body image majorly sucked.

  So did being covered in super-expensive yellow paint that apparently had no plans to come off her body anytime soon.

  She all but crawled into the gym, s
quinting at the bright lights. Even at eleven o’clock on a weeknight, there were a ton of people here. Were they battery powered? Or bionic? How did they still have so much energy?

  Probably because they haven’t been performing manual labor all day.

  Casting them all begrudging looks for their effortless perkiness and toned bodies, she dragged her feet toward a petite brunette clad in hot-pink sweats. Her skin was lightly tanned—all natural, since she spent so much time outdoors—and her long, dark-brown hair was up in a ponytail. She was just tying her sneakers when she looked up at Amy—and frowned. “Why are you covered in yellow paint?” Becca asked. “Oh, wait a minute. Let me guess.” She straightened and pretended to think. “You’re doing a modern piece on canvas and decided to use your body as the paintbrush this time?”

  “No, but I’ve thought about that.” Amy stretched her sore legs with a groan before she hopped on the treadmill.

  Becca didn’t press her for details. It was something Amy loved about her. She didn’t pry; rather, she let Amy tell her what was bugging her when she was ready.

  The girls ran alongside each other. Well, Amy speed-walked. Sort of. “Speed-limped” was more like it. Becca did all the running. Amy didn’t mind running—she actually kind of enjoyed it—but today was one of those days where she preferred to walk.

  Or go to sleep on that comfy-looking bench over there.

  “How’d the move go?” Becca asked after a moment.

  “Eh,” was all Amy said.

  “That good, huh?”

  Amy sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  A few moments of silence passed between them. Becca cast her a guilty frown. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help out with the move.”

  “It’s okay,” Amy said warmly, instantly giving her a smile. “I know you couldn’t help it.”

  Becca scowled. “My brother can be a pain in the ass sometimes. I can’t believe he got kicked out of school again. Do you have any idea how long I spent in the principal’s office sorting his shit out?”

  Becca, now twenty-five, had guardianship of her little brother, who was thirteen.

  Amy gave her friend a sympathetic look. “Fighting again?”

  “Nah. This time he’s graduated to robbery. Took some kid’s lunch money.”