The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  Games? That’s all we seem to be fucking playing.

  “Seemed like you were playin’ games when you slipped outta my bed yesterday,” I say, crowding her.

  “King—” she starts, but I keep talking.

  “Don’t do that shit again. I’ll tell you when I’m done with you,” I growl, irritated just thinking about her ass leaving my bed. Backing her toward the wall, I ask, “You feel me? You leave my bed when I tell you to.”

  She wouldn’t be Samantha if she didn’t fight back. She bucks up, back straight and shoulders high. The princess is ready for battle. She points her manicured finger at me. “No, King. I do whatever I fucking want to. You don’t own me. You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” Her arms are crossed and her chin’s up. “You’re not my old man.” That’s fucking laughable.

  “I don’t want to be your old man, baby,” I tell her, pressing her into the wall with my body. She can run, but she can’t hide. She can fight me off all she wants, but when she melts into my touch, her eyes glazing, I know I’ve got her where I want her. “I just want your pussy.” I tell her, my hand on her chest, between her tits. My thumb rubbing against her tit. “Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

  I’m a fucking sucker, though. I’m as bad as she is. I should be worried about tracking her stalker, but here I am, focused solely on her body and the shit I want to do with it.

  I’ve got her up against the wall, just where I want her.

  Tugging at the deep cut on her tank with a finger, I free one tit, the plump, soft skin bouncing a little. Leaning down, I suck a nipple into my mouth.

  Sam moans, sagging into me. “Fuck, King.” One hand in my hair and the other gripping my jaw, she keeps my head steady and right where she wants it. The girl knows what she wants from me and she lets me know. Always.

  Biting on her nipple, my fingers find the button on her pants and pop it open, looking for the prize. The princess bats my hand away. “No.”

  Grabbing her hand with mine, I pin it against the wall above her head, looking into her hard eyes. “Yes.”

  “I hate you,” she whispers as I slide my hand down the front of her pants.

  In the back hall, right outside her dad’s office door, dressed from head to toe, I suck on the princess’s tits while playing with her juicy pussy.

  I do shit I shouldn’t when I’m around this bitch. She messes with my mind. Chews me up and spits me out.

  I just want to get inside of her body. Fuck her so hard I hurt her.

  Jesus Christ, she makes me crazy.

  Licking my way up her chest, finger fucking her, Sam stops me out of nowhere, jerking away from me.

  I don’t like that shit.

  “Stop,” she pants, breathing hard. “I’m not doing this shit with you.” Leaning her ass back against the wall, she takes a deep breath. My hand is still in the waist of her pants, but out of her cunt, wet and cold.

  Sighing, I lean my forehead on her chest, fucking frustrated. “But we keep fuckin’ doin’ it.”

  “Yeah, and it’s a problem.”

  “It’s your body, baby.” It’s always been hers. Her curves. The way her ass jiggles and tits bounce. The way she fucking melts when I touch her. The way she looks at me. The way she feels, smells, and tastes. She’s all-fucking-consuming.

  Pushing my head off her chest, she glares and rights her tank, stepping away from me. “I’m leaving,” she tells me, seeming uncomfortable. “Don’t follow me.”

  That’s not gonna happen, but I let her go, liking the chase.

  Trying to dodge a puddle, I hop over one but step in another. My high-heeled covered foot is soaked up to the ankle, and the folder I’m holding hits the ground. Thankfully not in the puddle my foot met, but still, on wet pavement.

  Pulling my foot out of the water, I shake it off, beyond annoyed, and cold.

  “Jesus Christ.” Exactly how I expected my day to end, with a wet foot and soaking paperwork.

  Squatting down, I grab my folder and stuff the sopping wet paper back inside and tuck it back under my arm, getting my blouse wet in the process.

  At my front door, I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice on my front porch. Fucking King. I’m rattled. The bastard ruins everything, even my day and my ability to hold on to a set of keys.

  I should’ve stayed away from the club, but my dad just had to have the listing for the old muffler shop on the outskirts of town. Apparently, it just couldn’t wait. I blame my dad and King.

  Unlocking my front door, I make it in without any more trouble, but I suspect the rest of my hell will be just around the corner.

  Dropping my keys on the small table to the left of my door and flicking on the light, I kick off my wet heels and hang my coat on a hook.

  It’s good to be home.

  Walking through my house, flipping on lights as I go, I stop dead. A cold sweat breaks out down my spine when the light in my dining room illuminates a large bouquet of red roses sitting pristinely in the middle of my table. Flowers I didn’t buy. Flowers I didn’t put there. Flowers I’ve never seen.

  “Fuck.”

  My hands instantly start to shake, my stomach falling to my feet. I feel sick. Dizzy. Cold. Scared.

  Too scared to look around, too scared to move, I dig the phone out of my purse and dial my dad and pray he answers quickly.

  It rings twice. Two of the longest rings of my life. “Samantha?”

  “He’s been here or he is here. I don’t know,” I ramble, staring at the blood red buds, beautiful and terrifying.

  He cusses into the phone. “Fuck. You’re in your place now?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, swallowing roughly, the words stuck in the back of my throat. I know I should get out, but my feet won’t move. Every hair on my body stands on end, feeling like someone’s standing behind me. “I think he’s still in here,” I whisper, my voice shaky. My whole body’s trembling.

  “Get out,” my dad barks into this phone, his voice booming.

  “Okay.” My voice is wobbly and my legs much the same.

  Taking a quick, deep breath, I clutch my purse tightly and head for the door, grabbing my keys and shoes on my way. I keep my eyes on my feet and my head down, too scared to see anything else.

  I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast in my life.

  Of course this shit would happen. After the day I had, I just wanted to take a fucking bath. Relax. Drink some wine and eat some good food.

  “Are you out?”

  “Yes,” I reply, pulling the door closed behind me quickly. I walk down my steps, taking them two at a time, and get in my car, locking the door behind me.

  “Should I come to the club? Are you gonna come here? Should I go somewhere else?” This has never happened. I’ve found notes on my car at work, had flowers sent to the office, and felt like I was being followed, but never this, never at my house—my safe place.

  “Do a couple laps…run to the store, something. Someone will be there in ten. Just stay the fuck out of the house.” By someone, he means King.

  “Don’t send King,” I snap, my voice panicked. I can’t deal with this and King. I can’t.

  “Why?”

  Shit. “I’d just rather have you come.”

  “Someone will be there. Go. Drive around.” He doesn’t want to argue, but he also doesn’t want to give in. I’m getting King.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  The phone line drops and so does my heart.

  Two bottles of wine, one pizza—not that I can eat—and twenty minutes later, I pull up to two bikes in my driveway. Buck on one and a prospect standing next to another.

  Buck jerks his chin up at me when I get out of my car. “Sammy.”

  “How’s it goin’, Buck?” I ask, grabbing my stuff from the front seat, slinging my purse over my shoulder and tucking my phone into my jacket pocket.

  Looking around nervously, I see nothing out of place. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking.

  “Good. Need a hand
?” He eyes my food and the wine bottles I’m balancing, the ones I almost drop when I damn near fall up my front steps.

  I wave him off. “I’m good. Everything okay?”

  He nods again. “Yep. All clear. Leavin’ the prospect. Need anything, call.”

  I smile, walking up the steps, trusting Buck and trusting my dad. If he says things are good, then things are good. “Thanks for swinging by.”

  “Need anything, you call, yeah?” he repeats, his voice firm.

  “Yeah,” I agree, not arguing.

  No King. Thank God.

  Walking through the door, my stomach sinks for the second time in too short a time.

  Fuck. Spoke to soon.

  As much as I hate him, and I hate to admit it, seeing him brings me a sense of safety. I know nothing will happen with him here, and I hate that I feel that way with this man.

  Safety in the deadliest form possible. King.

  Standing in my kitchen, leaning against the island, he looks mad. Furious. His features stone. “Should’ve called me,” he growls, stomping through my house, his boots beating off the hardwoods as he gains on me.

  I don’t back up, I stand my ground.

  “I called my dad,” I snap.

  “You call me.” He taps his chest, eyes locked on me.

  “I call my dad.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks off. “What are you doin’?” I ask, watching him walk into my dining room and up to the table. Jerking the vase and the flowers off the table, the glass scraping on the wood, he walks to my front door and throws it open, the door hitting my wall with a loud thud.

  “Jesus, King.”.

  I watch as he walks onto my porch and chucks the vase and flowers into the street, the glass shattering, flowers everywhere. “Stay the fuck away from her!” he yells, his voice dark. “Come near her again and I’ll fucking kill you!”

  He’s screaming at no one. Lost his fucking mind. Gone off the deep end.

  “King.” Grabbing his arm, I pull him in. Well, I try. The man moves on his own accord. “You’re nuts.”

  “I’m nuts?” he fumes, getting inches from my face again. “That motherfucker is the crazy one, comin’ in here. I’ll fuckin’ kill him.” He punctuates the word ‘kill’ with a fist through my entry hall mirror, inches from my head. I duck. His fist hits the glass and pieces shatter, falling to the floor around him. “Fuck.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  Instantly, I grab his hand, the one that’s bleeding from a piece of glass that’s lodged between his knuckles. “You’re crazy,” I grumble, looking at the bright red liquid dripping down his hand and onto mine.

  He chuckles darkly, his bottomless blue eyes detached and distant. “You haven’t seen crazy, baby.”

  “You a doctor now?” I joke, but my voice is still tight. I’m still fucking mad. So goddamn mad. Some asshole was in here, in her fucking house. Not gonna happen again, not with me around. Just thinking about it makes me want to hit something else.

  Cocking a brow, Samantha gives me a look, a look that says she doesn’t find me funny. “Are you crazy?” she fires back, looking from my face to my bloody hand, her eyes narrowed. “You broke my mirror, and I’m sure a couple of knuckles.” Pulling a piece of glass from the cut on my hand, she puts it on the paper towel draped over her knee.

  “I’ll buy you a new mirror.” But I couldn’t give a fuck less about the knuckles. Wasn’t the first time they were broken, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I get mad and I hit shit. It’s how I deal.

  “I don’t want a new mirror,” she tells me, cleaning the blood from my hand with some serious determination. This isn’t her first rodeo. She’s too good at it, with a first-aid kit under her sink full of the good shit.

  Me on her couch, Samantha’s on the coffee table between my legs, fixing me up. “I want an explanation,” she demands instead, dabbing a soaked cotton ball on my knuckles.

  “For?” I ask, watching her use the hydrogen peroxide-soaked cotton ball to clean up the cuts. She’s so gentle, so sweet about it, like she’s afraid to hurt me.

  “Why you showed up here and acted like a lunatic?”

  She can’t be fucking serious. “Some guy, a stalker, broke into your fucking house and left flowers.”

  “I know,” she mutters, shaking her head like I’m crazy. “I was here. Still doesn’t explain your crazy.” She laughs softly.

  My crazy?

  Jerking my hand from hers, I grab her face and bring it toward mine, serious as fuck. This shit’s not funny in the least. It’s not a joke. This is her life, something I take dead fucking serious. I don’t play around with that shit. “My “crazy” was because some fucking asshole broke into your house, might’ve still been in here while you were in here, and might’ve been plannin’ to hurt you and that shit makes me crazy fucking mad.”

  “Okay,” she whispers, her face still in my hand and now streaked with blood. That shit sobers her up. “Sorry.” My words seem to have penetrated. She’s scared. She should be.

  “Don’t be sorry, be careful.”

  Taking my hand away from her face, I grab her hand instead, done with this shit. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” she asks, standing up when I tug on her, but digging her heels in when I try to take a couple steps.

  “Clean your face and my hand,” I tell her, knowing damn well she won’t move if I don’t answer her. She’s stubborn to a fucking fault.

  She brings her hand, the one not in mine, up to her face and touches her cheek. Looking at her hand, she sees the blood, and instead of saying something snappy or argumentative, she just nods, agreeing easily. “Okay.”

  Walking past the kitchen, she mutters, “The pizza’s cold.”

  I don’t stop, but tell her, “I’ll order another one.” I’ll get the woman whatever she fucking wants as long as she doesn’t fight me.

  Halfway to the stairs, someone knocks on the front door, and I swear to fuck, my head feels like exploding. I’m so fucking done. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, letting her hand go and leaving her on the stairs. “Wait,” I tell her. She nods, her feet not moving.

  Walking over to the door, I jerk it open. There’s a prospect standing there, looking nervous.

  “What?” I ask, leaning against the door and looking out onto the empty street behind him, my blood pressure starting to rise again just seeing those goddamn flowers.

  “A black sedan drove by twice, real slow both times.”

  “You get a license plate number?”

  “It didn’t have one.”

  Fuck. “A picture? Make? Model? Something?” This incompetent fuckface better have something for me.

  He looks down at his feet. “No.”

  I don’t say anything. I just shut the door and jerk out my cell. Punching in Dan’s number, I wait until he answers, and when he does, I say nothing more than, “Send a different prospect over here,” before hanging up and grabbing Sam’s hand again. I’m done with this shit.

  Flipping on the shower in Sam’s giant shower, I turn it to hot and let the steam fill the small room. There’s girly makeup and hair shit around the sink, and a silky robe hanging on one of the hooks on the back of the door. Even her bathroom screams female.

  “Hot, right?” I ask her.

  She smirks. “How’d you know?”

  “Just a guess. Most woman like it hot enough to boil noodles.”

  The laugh, the soft sweet sound that comes out of Samantha’s pretty mouth, hits me in the chest. It’s painful. So sexy, but so fucking painful. “Boil noodles?” she asks around a breathy laugh.

  “Whatever. Just get in.” I can’t get caught up. Can’t feel anything more for this girl than I already fucking do.

  Grabbing the hem of her shirt, I urge her to lift her arms and peel her shirt off. “You’re the one with the broken hand, but you’re taking care of me?” She watches me chuck her shirt onto the floor, her eyes fixated on my hands.

  “Get
in the damn shower.”

  She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Yeah, I’m going, pushy ass.”

  Leaning back against the sink, I watch her shimmy out of her black slacks, her ass popping free from the material. Wearing a lacy black thong, I swear to Christ, my heart stops a beat or two. The woman’s a fucking sex goddess, every inch of her, and it’s all mine. At least she’s mine until she’s not.

  “You’re staring,” she giggles, suddenly shy, her cheeks rosy.

  “You’re takin’ too goddamn long,” I grunt, pulling my cut off and hanging it on the back of the door, next to her robe, followed by my tee which lands at my feet. Holding open the glass door, I lift a brow when she doesn’t move. “Get in.”

  “Yes, sir,” she mumbles, stepping around me and into the shower.

  This shit’s new for me, showering with a female. I’ve fucked plenty of club whores in bathrooms, outside behind bars, in beds, tool sheds, and shops, but this shit’s new for me. Different. Almost too close.

  Walking into the shower and under the stream, I hiss when the scalding hot water hits my knuckles.

  “You okay?” she squeaks, grabbing my hand, her tit brushing against my arm.

  “Good.” Nothing a couple pain pills and a few shots can’t cure, or just her.

  Running her finger along the slice in my hand, I snap. Her naked body and her hands on me are more than I can fucking take right now. Pent-up anger and a naked female don’t mix.

  Never had my heart broken, don’t have one to break, but if I did, she’d be the one to do it. She’d destroy it. Ruin me. Fucking kill me.

  “Need to fuck you, Princess,” I tell her, wrapping a hand around her waist and pulling her in. Eyes wide, she nods, not arguing. “Good girl.”

  Nothing in my life is more satisfying than being inside of Samantha.

  Being with King is like being on drugs. Hardcore drugs. I’m high—so fucking high. Euphoric. Mind-melting, body numbing, life changing.

  I should be scared. Worried. Nervous. With King I’m gone, so high, and nothing else matters.

  “Slow,” he growls in my ear, making me shiver. My body is pinned to the cold tile shower wall by his overpowering frame. One hand braced against the wall next to my head and the other gripping my ass, he holds me up, and still.