by Dakota Gray
I send off the first flirtatious reply without waiting to think things through. I can't read lips, but I see we jump right into a conversation—no names exchanged.
I watch, damn near holding my breath, for the moment shit snowballs. I pick up the flashes of desire and anger playing over her face, and that's all I can see. I fast-forward through The Moment—the one where she gives me a taste.
Exchange over.
Relaxing my hands, I suffer through the rest.
After she hits me with the coup de grace, she slinks back to her friends. I want to say she goes to recoup, but she doesn't. She cheers the redhead, laughs, looking relaxed and unfettered.
Every second I force myself to watch her give zero fucks about my very existence, and I just want to fuck up her world. No. I just want to fuck her in a way that her world is never the same.
Finally she leaves. Her squad stays for another hour and finally follows suit.
I don't want to watch myself for the next three hours as I troll the club. I may not do denial but stark truth isn't appealing either.
But the important thing to note is that she left the club in a simple sedan. Her friends piled into an SUV. The redhead is the designated driver. The club, bless them, has a habit of noting every license plate.
Though Stealth's car leads nowhere, the SUV is registered to the redhead. And the redhead's name leaves a trail to a job and daily activities. That name allows me to discover every Monday Stealth meets the redhead at the Starbucks downtown.
That's all I need to know.
~CHAPTER THREE~
I plant my ass at a table in a corner that has a direct view of the door and the counter. Stealth struts through the doors at exactly 9:03 a.m. My breath doesn't hitch or any bullshit like that, but my muscles are carved from stone as she does her smile—the eye-crinkle one—at the girl behind the counter.
Her voice isn't as I remembered. In the club, Stealth had had a huskiness to her tone that could caress with a single word. Now there's a fluidity to her timbre as she orders some kind of chai-frap-latte. There's no flirty skirt either, but a professional pants suit that still manages to curve to her tits and ass. The navy blue shade somehow makes her skin glow. No earrings, no necklaces, no cleavage. Her bun is too tight for even stray curls to escape and glisten in the sunlight. Nothing about her appearance says she'll let a man stick his hand up her dress to get a little revenge.
Fucking Stealth.
But it's her, with that long, sexy stride. In hindsight, her walk should have tipped me off. She moves as though she knows her pussy can topple empires.
What had blinded me? Even as I settle into the hard wooden chair, stretching my legs under the small table, I can't say what tugged at me about her. No. That's a lie. She was vivacious, witty, and cocky, but I can't pinpoint her taste, her scent—that's what usually drives me.
But none of that matters. She's doing her shy, seductive smile, and she has no idea I'm lurking. I stand, shove my hands into my jeans and do my own stealthing.
She's waiting for her order, blissfully unaware she's bleeding, and I'm a goddamn shark with a taste for her. I saddle up much too close behind her and smile with all my teeth.
“Fancy seeing you here, Sugar,” I whisper in her ear and get the pleasure of seeing her shoulders jerk up and rise damn near to her ears.
I don't know what I expect. Crumbling, tears, and a profuse apology...? None of that comes as she glances over her left shoulder at me. Her face is a mask of boredom as she flicks her gaze up to mine.
“You,” she says and shifts her focus away.
I'm dismissed like an unruly hair from her bun. A flick of her wrist as if I were a problematic irritant. About zero fucks are given over my presence. I don't know what it's like to suffer from a stroke, but as I try to breathe my temper away, I scent burnt toast and there's a slight twitch to my left eye.
“I can hear your teeth grinding, Nate.”
I abhor violence against women, but I have to close my hands into fists to keep from turning her around and shaking her hair loose. And I know she wants me to lose my fucking cool—it's all in her syrupy sweet tone. She wants to be able to look at me with raised brows, as though I'm the irrational one.
I dig deeper for patience I rarely have to use, inhale, and exhale. She has a breaking point. There's something I can say to fluster her. There's something I can do so her facade shatters. I just have to keep poking until I find it.
“Aren't you still curious?” I ask, using the accent that would make my ancestors want to do soliloquies about how the South shall rise again.
With a sigh, she faces me. “Curious about why and how you're here? In a coffee shop that I frequent every Monday, in the morning? When in all of space and time I've never seen you in here before? I don't know. Coincidence?”
I refuse to find her amusing. “You—”
“Or maybe you hunted me down?” Her bored tone matches her expression, but the huskiness is back as she snaps her fingers. “No. No. I got it. You must have the last word. It's in your DNA. You listened to that inner voice and let it guide you.” She makes a Eureka motion with her hand. “No this one is it. You hired a team of former CIA agents to find me? Either way, your...ego…must be so small.”
I'm going to shake her. I'll do the jail time without complaint and the therapy afterward. I inhale, longer, deeper, and exhale in an angry rush. I make sure to chuck her chin when I ask, “Can't say the words cock or dick? Didn't take you for a puritan.”
I brush my thumb down over her soft skin. Touching her is like caressing silk. She moans, so softly that if I wasn't breathing her every exhale, I would have missed it. Not so bored now, is she?
She swallows. “I'm pretty sure your cock can only be seen with a microscope.”
I open my mouth to decimate any notion she might have about my dick being small...but the glint of triumph in her eyes stops me. I let my gaze skate down. She's holding herself so still if I reach out to touch her a second time she'll shatter. I keep my hands to myself, but I want to caress her again. We stand there for another second, the air thick with unspoken words. Her mouth parts like she wants mine.
Then she faces the front again.
I say, “I only have one question...”
She turns her head in profile. There's a smirk now. “Still can't remember my name?”
“You never gave it to me.”
Her huff of breath is the only tell that I've caught her in a lie. “The question?”
“You said I destroyed a woman's world. Who?”
“It's amazing your mouth hasn't fallen off from all the pussy you must have eaten.”
“I use a dental dam for protection. I like my mouth. I like being able to use it.”
She glances at me over her shoulder as though surprised by the fact. “How many women are there?”
“I don't know. I don't count.”
She purses her lips. “Can you remember anyone's name?”
That question pounds in the fact this isn't like me. I don't hunt women down. They reject me, and I move on. I'm not walking around with a fragile ego. My father taught me if I don't have the balls to be who I want to be then I should just grow a fucking pair.
She wants me gone. I should regrow my nuts and leave. Fuck her and her mysterious friend. I consider doing just that. Walking out, but...I have to have the last word.
“You never gave me your name.” It's a truth I want to drive home. A pointless one, because even if she'd told me, I would have considered the information dead weight and tossed it.
She strides forward in a hurry, and confusion takes hold until I realize the barista is going to call out her name. Intent, I follow close behind and only miss the reveal by milliseconds. Her hands fold around the cup before I can scope the truth. Even if she is Michelle and they've written Mashell on the label, I would have had a ballpark name.
Once again she deprives me of what I need.
Logic tells me to let it go. I don't eve
n need to be here. What did any of this matter? But I obsess, and she's my current fixation.
“Nathan,” she says in a reasonable tone.
“Drop the act. Tell me what I need to know and I'll go.”
“That's the problem.” Her hands grip the cup. “I could tell you a name and you won't even know who I'm talking about.” She shakes her head at me. The simple gesture is filled with more disappointment than disgust. “And then you'll be back for more information. You'll keep coming back like an ingrown toenail.”
Fuck. She's right. “Try me.”
Her face is blank as she says, “Corine.”
And fuck...nothing. Not a single memory rises up to match the name with a face. My phone is filled with contacts and...I put descriptors to remind me who is who. Corine can be listed under Cinnamon for all I know.
I glare down at her. I don't want Stealth to have a point, but remember how I feel about stark truth? She's holding up a mirror, and I can't break my own gaze.
“It's not even her name,” she mutters. “And still you had no idea.”
“What do you want me to say?”
She shrugs. “You've said it all for me, personally.”
Odd word choice, and her body language is screaming at me. She's not hunching over or curling into herself to get away from me. These are visual clues I have a habit of looking for from my stripping days. If a woman didn't want to be a part of my show, I would back off. I wouldn't want her uncomfortable or ashamed, any more than she would want to be.
Right now, Stealth doesn't perceive me as a threat or an irritant. She's enjoying herself. This conversation is happening because she wants it to.
Huh.
I ask, intently, “And when it's not personal for you?”
Her gaze flicks over my shoulder, and she edges into my space. I wrap my fingers around her arm. She sighs and holds my gaze.
“Do you want me to absolve you of all your sins? Tell you you're not an user? An asshole? What do you want, Nate?”
I want to wake up in the morning and not taste her in my mouth. I want her on my bed, spread eagle and panting for me. I want to know if I can change her walk. Fuck, if I could, she would rule the universe with her hip sway.
I track my thumb over her forearm. “Give me the name I want.”
Her inhale is slow, deep. “And then what? You ruin her life some more?”
My fingers tighten on her. “Keep that secret then.”
Her lids lower and so does her voice. “In exchange for what?” Husky words.
My cock pulls tight at her voice, her scent crowding my space. “You know what.”
Her body leans against mine. My fingers twitch, itching to check her pulse to see if its race matches mine. Our chemistry isn't all in my head. I skim my thumb over her wrist. Her mouth parts in invitation. She wants to fuck me. What happened in the club between us was real. Not the revenge shit, but her pussy being wet for me.
Dropping my hand down to my side, I narrow my gaze on her, intent to catch every tell. “You know what I am.” I let her linger over that thought. “Are you saying I could destroy your world?”
Her face transforms with a laugh. “There wasn't any CIA to help you find me. It was all you. You spent hours on the Internet until you did. All because you like the way I taste.” She pops the top on her drink, takes her time sipping it, and then she meets my gaze again. “Do you want another, Nate? What will you do to get it?”
Truth? I'd sell my left nut.
But the important question is: how the fuck does she know or even suspect I will give up my left nut?
“My friends helped me find you.” I answer her unasked question. “No CIA in the bunch.”
Her brows flick up. Is her reaction surprise that I've told her the truth or that I have friends?
“Are they as perverted as you?”
That's a hard question to answer. “Want to meet them? Let them put their hand up your skirt and fondle you, too?” I place my thumb on her wrist and caress.
“No, Nate.” She says in a way that's filled with sweetness and light. There's a hard glint in her eyes though. I think she wants to throat-punch me. “You're just special, and you warranted extreme measures.”
She doesn't hit me, so I drag my hand down to her wrist. I press the tips of my fingers against her pulse. It's racing. “Who is this person to you? You let me, someone you clearly detest, stick his fingers in your cunt?”
Not a single flinch, and I could write an essay about why one should never say the word cunt to a woman. I'm poking at every conceivable soft spot she can have, and nothing. My cock should have shriveled five minutes ago. He's half awake, ready for the ‘go’ signal. I wish I can say she is some kind of ice queen, but Stealth has heat in her gaze.
I'm tempted to pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. A private place like the backseat of my car would do for this conversation. I wouldn't need her naked, just her pants and thong off. Yes. Thong. I've checked.
“No,” she says.
“What?”
“I can see what you're thinking. I'm not going somewhere alone with you to talk. Actually I'm going to talk to Samantha when she gets here, and you can go away. Or wait in vain for me to notice your existence again.”
Samantha. I was going to fucking remember that. From here on out, I'm going to use my memory for useless shit. “Is she the one? Did you hear about me through her?”
She takes another sip of her drink, her gaze pinned on me like I'm something to be figured out. “She was a virgin. The woman you broke. I'm pretty sure eventually she might have liked to get spanked and tied up, but now she'll never know. You dropped her like trash in the street and fucked her up.”
Her confession drops the list down to three. Now an empathetic wince or a guilt- pang should hit me at what she's saying, but I only ever fucked women who were over the age of 25. I'm not a babysitter or hand holder. If an adult woman, of my choosing and of her own free will, wants to get into my bed, I won't stop her. Unless she's broken in some way. I avoid that harder than a woman who wants to settle down.
I say, “Where were you to tell her to run in the other direction of me? Since we're putting responsibility on everyone.”
“I met her after the fact.” Another sip. “Do you remember her now?”
Nope, and if I cop to that she might throw her drink in my face, and that would pretty much tell me she wouldn't ever have sex with me.
Maybe.
Women are strange.
“If I apologized would that make you happy?” I offer this and mean it. “You can call her up, and I'll let her know that I fucked her over and I wish her all the best.”
Her breath shudders as she inhales. “Would you mean it, or do you just fake sincerity?”
“I sincerely want you on my bed.” I turn my face to the side, ready for the slap of liquid.
A laugh spills out. “Go away, you pig.”
This is why I only lie during breakups. Truth is better even if it bites on its way out. And, God, I love her laugh. It's just a sexy sound, and her brown eyes light up when she does it. “I'm going to wait in vain.”
“You're going to wait to see what kind of car I get into and jot down my license plate.”
Likely. I'm craving more details about her. If I find them all, the mystery of her can fucking die. “And you're not bothered by any of that?”
“I like being able to tell you you're the scum of the earth. To your face. As often as I can. Brings me joy.”
It's my turn to laugh, and shit, I'm starting to like this sexy, twisted, pain in my ass, but one thing is bugging me. Okay. Several things about her make me twitchy. I just need to know one thing if I'm ever going to be sane again. “How'd you know?”
“What?”
“That I'd want to eat you?”
“You're a pervert. It's not about me. It's about the fact you can't have me. I'm epic in your mind simply because I told you no.” A glance over my shoulder and she's moving away from
me.
I look. The redhead stands at the door. Her brows go up, and she pans her gaze to Stealth. And Stealth makes a ‘forget him’ gesture and moves over to a table. Once again I'm dismissed. I'm not even meat.
I've always known I wasn't wrapped too tight. Other boys were getting perpetual boners over tight shirts and short shorts. I practically cried with joy over the daisy dukes trend because camel toes were on rampant display. I watched porn for the pussy eating scenes, which I soon learned was all bullshit. If you eat pussy like they do in porn, that's why your wife is always mad at you.
Why the inner monologue about this?
She dismissed me without a backward glance...and I want to fuck her until we both die. I'm going to make a home at a table and wait for her.
Stealth and Heels
“You're shitting me?” Samantha gasps as she slams her hands down on the table.
Sure, I told her about Nathan Ellis. Yes, The Nate—the one damned to hell in our small group when we first met. Up until a week ago he was pure legend. For the past nine months, not even I was sure he existed.
I answer her shock with a sigh and then say, “Nope.”
“No. Like...are you serious? Nathan Ellis is Fuckable from the club?”
“Yup,” and I fight a laugh as Samantha sits there with her mouth half open.
She's settled in at our table in the coffee shop by the window. It's mid-morning. Beautiful outside, but I can't concentrate on any of that. I keep my face free of any emotion. I know he hasn't moved his gaze an inch away from me since I sat down. He might, eventually, but right now he's intent on imploding the very fabric of my life.
The only thing that saves me are the years I've spent sitting in a courtroom or meetings as a seen-but-never-heard paralegal. Otherwise, I might have Samantha's outward reaction. Nate tracked me down. When I threw down the final gauntlet...how could I have known he'd see my brush-off as epic?
Well, okay... It was epic, I just didn't expect his reaction.
