by Kim Bailey
I want to dominate him. And I can tell from the way he gives in to my force, he wants that, too.
The purr of the idling engine can’t compete with the low groan that rumbles from deep in his throat as I graze his bottom lip between my teeth. He urges me on with his tongue against my own and his hand that’s found its way inside my open jacket, pulling on the hem of my shirt.
Something about his hold on my shirt distracts me.
It reminds me of the last time I found myself kissing a near stranger.
It reminds me that I shouldn’t be doing this.
Stopping myself before it’s too late, I put as much distance between Sean’s lips and mine as possible. He lets me go immediately, allowing me the space to move back to my side of the car. The look he gives me is relaxed and patient.
“I knew it,” he says, reverting to his cocky ways.
“You don’t know shit,” I reply lightly. “Look, this isn’t going to happen, okay?”
“Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”
Why does he have to be so laidback? So easy to please? And why the hell does he have to say things that I find impossibly seductive?
“I’m dropping you at your hotel. We’re just gonna pretend like this never happened,” I say, attempting to convince him, or myself—I’m not sure. “And I am the fucking boss here. Don’t forget it.”
With a barely audible chuckle, he replies, “Oh, trust me, I’m not going to forget that anytime soon.”
Back on the road, the only words we exchange are the name of the hotel and a request to turn down the heat in the car. I can’t even bring myself to look at him or do more than mumble “Bye” before leaving him on the sidewalk in front of the Best Western.
I’m convinced this was a moment of weakness.
I’m convinced it’ll never happen again.
I’m convinced I won’t look back.
Yet all the conviction in the world doesn’t stop my glance in the rearview mirror as I drive away.
Camping. Gotta love it. There’s something thrilling about being out in the wilderness, where the distractions of day-to-day life become secondary to the basic needs of survival.
Sure, Hunter and I won’t be stranded on an island or in a large forest. We’re staying in a park where there’s electricity, a camp store for things you’ve forgotten, and kerosene to start a fire. I’m not rubbing sticks together.
No matter, the excitement of leaving the video games and work duties at home while just the two of us go out and explore nature excites me.
Maybe that’s why I’m arriving more than an hour early to pick him up. I’m like a kid at Christmas—can’t wait to get to the good stuff. We’ve had this trip planned for almost a month, and I know from our conversations Hunter is just as excited about it as I am.
However, when I pull into Jamie’s empty driveway, my excitement starts to dissipate. Eric’s truck isn’t in the usual spot. That means either they aren’t home, or it’s just Jamie and Hunter here. My excitement about camping morphs into nervous anticipation of seeing Jamie—alone.
It takes all my control to stop myself from barging through the door and scooping them both up in my arms. I want nothing more than to steal them away from here. To convince Jamie she wants that, too.
Despite the tremor in my hand, I focus on maintaining my composure. As calmly as possible, I knock on the door.
It takes a while, and I can hear a fair bit of noise coming from inside—someone barreling down the stairs—then the door finally swings open.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m at the right house. Or in the Twilight Zone.
The woman answering the door is tall and lean with dark hair, hazel eyes, and a wicked way with her mouth. She’s not at all who I’d been nervously anticipating. Yet, I can’t say I’m disappointed to see her.
The opposite, in fact.
My body reacts immediately to the sight of Chantal, looking a tad disheveled and flushed. It probably doesn’t help that she’s wearing a dress that could be lingerie. And it sure as hell doesn’t help that her nipples are poking through the thin fabric like they’re welcoming me.
“Dylan! Hello.” Her accent coils its way around me, guiding me forward as she—maybe realizing her exposure—tries to use the door as a shield between us.
“Enchanté. What’re you doing here?” I drawl.
“Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything at all.” Her response is so immediate, so defensive, I wonder what she’s hiding. I wonder if I’ve caught her in the middle of something. Judging by the way she looks, I’d guess sex. Sex for one, maybe?
Wishing I could call her out on it, I shift the conversation before I forget myself and where we are. “I’m here for Hunter. We’re going camping.”
“Oh! You are?” Her confusion is marked by the way she looks toward the empty hallway behind her.
“They’re not here?”
“No. And I don’t think they knew you were coming . . .”
“Well, I am early. It’s my own fault.”
With hesitation, she asks, “Exactly how early are you?”
“What do you mean? I’m like an hour early. Where are they?”
“In Montreal?” Her voice lifts, even though it’s not really a question.
“What?” My bellow startles her, causing her to stumble. Her foot catches on the floor mat, sending her careening backward.
My reflexes are good but still not fast enough to stop her from landing hard on the side of her ass. The sound she makes as she hits the ground is a combination of disgruntled anger and wounded pride.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping into the landing, bending forward to offer her my hand. I reach out with my foot to close the door behind me to save her the embarrassment of the neighbors possibly seeing. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry,” I say again, pulling her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“Osti d’epais de marde!” she shouts.
“What?”
With another frustrated curse that I don’t understand, she stomps away, rubbing the side of her ass with one hand, the other hand punctuating her mumbled French cursing.
“Can you answer me in English, please?” I demand, following her to the kitchen.
“Why are you here?” she asks, ignoring my question as she takes a tray of ice out of the freezer. Her tone’s harsh, her look’s fierce—practically vicious.
She’s so much sexier than I remember.
“Me? I’m picking up my son—or, at least, I’m supposed to be. Why the hell are you here?”
“Merde. You had plans with Hunter today? Tout gacher?
“Explain yourself. In English.”
“They’re in Montreal, and I’m here,” she states the obvious. “It was my idea. I didn’t really give them a choice. I was extremely demanding. I made them go.”
My anger simmers, already past the boiling point. I don’t want Chantal to feel responsible. It’s not her fault.
It’s mine.
I’ve let Jamie dictate when and where I can see my son. I’ve given her the power to forget about me. If I stood up, took back control, and demanded my rights as a parent, things would be different. If I stopped using my feelings for her as an excuse to let her do whatever the hell she wants, I’d be camping with my son right now.
Chantal is incidental. Jamie forgot about me a long time ago. She would have left me behind, with or without interference.
“How long are you here for?” I ask.
“Four days. My boss forced me to take a vacation.” Her face is downcast, watching her own actions as she dumps the ice onto a dishtowel, but I see frustration, maybe a bit of hurt, flash over her features.
“You must be dedicated to your job if they have to force you to use vacation time.”
“It’s not the kind of job you can just walk away from—at least I can’t. I’ve put everything I have into it, and I take it very personally when I’m told that I’m not doing it well. There was some suggestion that I was going
to burn out . . . I’m not fucking burned out . . . but, whatever. I’m here. Enjoying time to myself.”
“Until I came along to ruin it for you.”
Is she blushing?
“How sore is your ass?”
“My ass?”
“Yes, Chantal. Your ass. How sore is it?”
“Not that sore.” The makeshift ice bag she’s now holding to the side of her buttocks contradicts that statement.
“Good. Get it over here.”
“Why?”
“No more questions. Just come here.”
Placing the ice on the counter, she slowly, silkily saunters her way toward me. The short hem of her dress exaggerates the long, lean length of her toned legs. She moves like a dancer—graceful and fluid—each step a seduction. By the time she reaches me, I’ve forgiven her for fucking up my plans and am thinking of ways to thank her for the new plans I’m forming.
Standing in front of me, silently daring me with her eyes, she waits.
Taking my time to fully appreciate her, I look her over, head to toe. She’s a gorgeous woman. Not pretty. Not beautiful. Fucking devastating. I’ve never met a woman this great to look at with a personality that matches.
And she’s got a brain. I don’t know what her job is, but I know she’s smarter than me.
Intelligent, gorgeous, and saucy. She’s a challenge.
The best kind of game. How can I resist the temptation to play?
Her hair, loose and flowing, falls to the middle of her back, one long, raven lock curling seductively over the swell of her breast. Her nipples, still hard, entice me from beneath her slip of a dress.
“Turn around,” I demand.
The corner of her mouth twitches, but otherwise, her expression doesn’t change. Her gaze is still defiant, her features set in a tableau of sexy superiority.
Calmly, deliberately, she turns.
This view of her is no less impressive. Everything about her is enticing—from her smooth, bare shoulders to the slender arches of her feet. I could stare at her for days.
Looking over her shoulder at me, she flashes a humored smirk.
“Unh-uh.” I shake my head at her. “No peeking.”
With a roll of her eyes, she does what she’s told.
I make her wait just for the fun of it. I watch the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. The twitch of her fingers as she tries to anticipate what I’m going to do.
Hell, I don’t even know what I’m going to do. I know what I want to do. I want to bend her over the kitchen counter and make her scream my name. But considering the last woman I touched was her, and that was almost a year ago, I doubt reality could live up to that vision.
When I grab her by the hips, she lets out a breathy gasp. That sound spurs me on as I crouch down behind her, eye level with the curve of her fabulous ass.
Holding her firmly, I wait—listening, watching as her breathing picks up, her hands curling and uncurling with nervous energy at her sides.
Running my hands smoothly down her thighs, I savor the feel of her taut muscle, barely concealed by the coarse material of her dress. My exploration stops when I reach the end of the fabric.
Anticipation builds, my entire body buzzing with energy.
At last, with my willpower almost spent, I lift the back of her dress, exposing her bare cheeks beautifully framed by the strip of her thong. Showing my appreciation, I lean forward and brush my mouth over the red spot where her ass hit the floor.
That spot’s going to bruise for sure.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” I tell her.
Right before I smack her soundly on the opposite cheek.
“Oh, fuck!” She moans.
She doesn’t yell, cry, or demand I stop. She fucking moans.
So, I spank her again—her perky flesh jiggling with the impact.
“You should say you’re sorry, too,” I suggest.
“I would, but right now, I’m not sorry at all.”
“You’re going to be,” I threaten, my hand hitting her right on the crease where her fleshy bottom meets her thigh.
She moans out again, and so do I. My mouth lands back on her ass, my tongue dragging along the spot made pink from my slap.
The faint smell of honey clinging to her skin mixes with the smell of her arousal, shattering the last of my self-control. This time, when I bark at her to turn around, there’s no hesitation. She quickly spins, wobbling slightly on her feet.
“Hold on, baby.”
Lifting her leg over my shoulder, I lick up the inside of her thigh. When my nose hits the fabric of her panties, I nuzzle into her, breathing her in.
Fuck, she smells amazing—like sex and sugar.
“Please,” she begs. Her hand grasps my hair, but she doesn’t pull or push. She simply holds on like I told her to.
She’s so good. I can’t tease her anymore, and I can’t wait any fucking longer, either. Moving the material of her thong aside with one hand and grabbing a handful of her delectable ass in the other, I dive in, tongue first.
Licking up her slit, I swirl around her sensitive bud and then go back to do it again. And again. And again.
I feast on her pussy the way a dying man sucks air—ravenous and desperate. The quiver of her legs, her breathy gasps of pleasure, her hands clenching my hair—all of it’s intoxicating, driving me to please her, to push her over the edge.
When I suck her clit into my mouth, flicking hard with my tongue, her gasps turn to desperate cries. Until, finally, she breaks apart.
Stroking her softly, I give her a moment to come down, but only a moment. Her legs are still shaking from orgasm when I slide two fingers into her opening.
“Saint Espirit! C’est trop, je peut plus en prendre. Please.”
I love that she’s so far gone she’s forgotten which language to speak. Ignoring the parts I didn’t understand, I accept her begging “Please” as a request for more.
I don’t let up. My fingers move in and out of her, fast and hard. When I hit her G-spot, she cries out loudly. So, I stay there, focused on stroking her through to another orgasm. This time when she comes, her entire body spasms.
Her leg falls from my shoulder, and I grab her around the waist to keep her steady. Pulling her down to the floor with me, I lay her body out over mine.
Relaxing into me, she murmurs, “I should take vacation more often.”
“Count me in.” I laugh.
“I’ll return the favor,” she promises. “Just give me some time to recover.”
“No,” I tell her, “that was perfect. I got off on your pleasure.”
Raising her head from its resting spot on my chest, she looks at me skeptically. “The bulge in your pants says otherwise.”
“Trust me. Having you come on my face was very rewarding.”
“But, Dylan—”
“Chantal,” I interrupt. “Who’s in charge here?”
The smile she gives me is pure sin. If I thought I had it in me, I’d roll her over and bang her hard and fast just to prove I’m the boss.
Except, the last person I had sex with was Jamie, and I promised myself that if I were going to try to win her back, she’d be the only woman I ever have sex with again.
That’s a hard promise to keep for a guy like me.
Even harder with Chantal draped across me and my cock hard as steel.
Still, the fact that I’m thinking about Jamie right now proves what a bad idea sex with Chantal, or anyone else, would be. Especially right here, on Jamie’s kitchen floor.
Fuck, I’m a bastard.
“Yes, you are,” Chantal says.
I guess I must be thinking out loud now, too.
“But you’re a dirty bastard,” she teases, “so that makes you the good kind.”
I want to tell her that even though she’s right, she’s totally wrong. I want to tell her how much I like that she’s a good, dirty girl. I want to offer to whip her ass again.
But I can’t.
<
br /> The game’s already over.
***
I give Jamie a day. That’s it. One single day after returning from Montreal to come to her senses and call me to apologize.
The call never comes.
It shouldn’t surprise me. She doesn’t think of me, at least not in the way it counts. Not in any way I want her to think of me. Makes me wonder why I still think of her so damned often.
Once again, I’m at her front door, waiting for someone to answer. The difference this time: I’m not anxious; I’m angry. When Jamie opens the door, I’m not blown away by how amazing she looks or by my own stupid feelings of devotion. I’m still just fucking mad. Even the slight look of guilt on her face doesn’t curb my temper.
“Dylan . . . I was going to call you.”
“Sure you were, Jamie. Right after you thought up a bullshit excuse to feed me about why you ran off with my kid again, right?”
“I didn’t run off—”
“Stop!”
Her indignation does nothing but fuel my anger. She can’t downplay her actions. Her selfish fucking actions. She calls me inconsiderate, tells me I haven’t tried hard enough, says I’m to blame for not having built a better relationship with Hunter from the start.
Fuck that.
“Please come inside so we can talk about this like adults,” she begs.
Even her begging doesn’t change my hardened resolve. Her waves of white-blond hair, the sway of her hips, her inviting ass—none of it changes the anger that I feel.
Following her into the kitchen, I refuse to sit in the chair that she offers. I can’t let my guard down. I can’t relax.
It isn’t until Hunter’s dog, Mojo, comes bounding up to me that I start to loosen up. Petting the dog behind his silky ears, I ask, “Where’s Hunter?”
“He’s with Eric and Caleb at the skate park.” Biting her bottom lip, a worried frown takes over her pretty face.
Part of me hates to see her upset, but a larger part of me revels in the fact that I’m not the only one affected by her thoughtless actions.
“Good,” I say. Her expression shifts from anxious to surprised. I’m sure she didn’t expect me to be cool with the idea of Hunter spending more time with the man I’ve declared my nemesis. “Now, I need to say what’s on my mind, and I need you to hear me this time.”
