by Eden Summers
He paused in the middle of unbuckling his belt. “She?”
“The woman who turned Bryan to Brute.”
“There’s no woman,” he lied. “Like I said, I haven’t been with anyone more than once since my school days.” He released his belt, undid the zipper, and shoved his pants to the floor. “You really need to stop searching for excuses to explain who I am. There aren’t any.”
She made a noise. An mmph of disapproval. “We’re all shaped by our experiences.”
“If you say so.” He averted his gaze, unable to look at her while he climbed into bed beside her. Out of all the sexual things he’d done over the years, this, by far, seemed the strangest.
Then again, it wasn’t sexual.
This part was due to the bet.
A bet he’d thrown.
“If there’s no woman, then tell me about your upbringing. Have you lived in Beaumont all your life? Do you have family here?”
Well, that was a sure-fire way to instigate a limp dick. “Grew up in Florida. Had a good education. Excelled in math and science. Hated my parents, like every kid my age.” Problem was, his parents had hated him back.
“Do you go home often?”
“Not at all. A while ago I bought an apartment in Tampa, thinking I’d eventually revisit where I grew up. But…” What the fuck? This wasn’t a shrink session. He didn’t need to rehash the past to fill the silence. “I have no plans to go back now.” He cleared his throat, rested back against the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. “How ’bout you? What are your issues?”
“You already know mine.” She released another noise, this time a tired moan. “Dead husband. Kinky proclivities. Inability to orgasm.”
“You orgasm just fine.”
Her chuckle was a puff of breath. “Spoken by the only man capable of making it happen.”
“You’ll figure yourself out soon enough.” With another man. Maybe in another club.
“Yeah… I know.”
He remained quiet through her long yawn, hoping she fell asleep and brought an end to the ocean-deep conversation.
He watched her from the corner of his eye, her hair splayed across the pillow, her blinks closing for longer and longer, until finally they closed for good. Tiny moans escaped her, the barely audible sounds sinking under his skin. His cock twitched again, the softened length making a comeback with renewed enthusiasm.
If she didn’t stop, his ability to sleep would sit somewhere between not-likely and never-going-to-happen.
Not unless he took the edge off.
He stared at the clock, passing the whimper-filled minutes as he glared at those numbers. Each second provided a new rush of blood to his dick and a renewed sense that something was seriously off-kilter in this situation.
She hadn’t tried to seduce him. She hadn’t even stayed awake past ten o’clock.
He let out a silent puff of laughter. This woman was the best damn distraction he could ask for. But he couldn’t stay here. Not in her bed, lusting over her with perversion while she slept. Nope, he needed to get up and disperse the blood pooling in his groin.
He slid from the mattress, his dick leading the way as he escaped down the hall, in search of…something.
There were innumerable offerings to appease his interest—the television remote, the magazines on the coffee table—and still, he found himself back at the bookshelf, his fingers skimming the spines of medical texts.
Even with the grim reaper hovering over his shoulder, his dick remained adamant. A trooper. The fucker had no plan to give up the fight.
He pulled the books from the shelf, one by one, and stacked them near the front door. She didn’t want the reminder, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Apart from her. So, he kept going, his cheap workout continuing until every book on cancer sat waiting for him to leave.
And he should leave.
He hovered at the door, his issues resembling those of a teenager trying to sneak out for the first time.
“Fuck this.” He wasn’t a pussy. He could handle a sleepover. Especially when there were no claws sinking into his balls. She was asleep, for Christ’s sake.
He padded back to the bookshelf, his attention snagging on the top shelf and the photos spaced evenly along the wood in silver frames. All the images were stereotypical happy families. Mother, daughter, and sister, in varying degrees of happiness.
Would their bubble ever burst, like his had?
He shook his head at the stupidity.
He’d never had a bubble to begin with. The script of his life had the fairytale set with a cast who never showed.
He slid two of the frames to the side and grabbed a shiny pink album stashed behind. He opened the cover, the pages flicking through his fingers, highlighting Ella in all her beaming glory. Her mother and sister played a leading role in the documentation of her life. But it looked like she’d hidden the shots of her husband. Or maybe those were reserved for the privacy of her bedroom.
There were birthday photos. Holiday happy snaps. More images with her sister. With Animals. At different locations. With sexy clothing. Then a fucking bikini.
He slammed the album shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. With every breath, he could taste her, smell her. His limbs tingled with the need to walk down that hall and give her what she’d asked for.
The one-fuck rule must have started to take its toll. The quality-over-quantity diet had turned him bat-shit crazy. So crazy he had to clench his fists to keep from palming his dick.
Alcohol. He needed alcohol.
He strode for the kitchen and grabbed the almost-empty wine bottle from her fridge. The lid was thrown aimlessly, the liquid contents sliding down his throat like the first taste of water after a year of dehydration.
He gulped. He chugged. He downed that motherfucker until the bottle was dry and he leaned against the sink, sucking in breath after breath. And still, his erection wouldn’t admit defeat.
His mind was in on the act, too. Images of Ella flashed before his eyes. He could see her ass swaying as she dropped dishes in the sink. Could see her bending over to place food in the fridge.
He gripped the counter for grounding and pressed his erection against the cupboards, hoping to discourage the growing pulse.
The pressure increased.
He couldn’t fight the need to palm himself through the thin material of his underwear, his fingers clutching tight. Every time he blinked, she was there—in the Vault, at the lockers, splayed beneath him on her bed. He heard her words, too. All those rasped pleas to be fucked. Hard. And the whimpers.
Jesus Christ.
He increased the severity of his hold, gripping his dick like he was trying to choke a snake. Damn thing wouldn’t die. The harder he squeezed, the better it felt. The pain was the best part.
One day, he’d return the favor. He’d torment her like she currently tormented him.
The tight grasp became a stroke, the first glide of friction bringing a heavy dose of pure relief. He bit his lower lip to stop a groan escaping and closed his eyes to concentrate on the childishness of his actions.
The darkness didn’t help. Within seconds, he’d wrenched down his boxer briefs, leaving them to cup his balls as he spat on his hand. The first slide of his saliva-slicked palm was hell—pure torture and defeat, rolled into a package of fucking bliss.
Fighting was pointless. Instead, he squeezed his eyes tighter and punished the shit out of his dick, jerking it with harsh strokes, squeezing it with a tight fist. Back and forth he worked the length, each glide getting shorter. Sharper.
He growled through the pressure building in his balls, wanting to get this over and done with. He raised onto his toes, disgust turning his stomach as he blew his load in the sink. Burst after burst of white liquid shot from him, and still she didn’t leave his mind. Pulse after pulse of release splattered the stainless steel, increasing his self-loathing, and all the while, she was still there.
Those eyes.
<
br /> Those whimpers.
Those pleas.
He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to.
“Fucking hell.”
He rammed his softening dick into his underwear and washed his lack of restraint down the sink. This was Tera’s fault. His family had shoved their way back into his life, destroying all the barriers he’d tried hard to erect. Annihilating his sense of worth. His focus. Maybe even his confidence.
Bet or not, he had to leave.
If Ella woke and gave him another whispered proposition, he’d cave. He’d buckle like a cheap belt. And he didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into this regression.
He stalked into the living room, found a piece of paper and a pen, then scribbled his cell number in large font along with the message—Next Thursday. 8 p.m. The Vault.
He dropped the note beneath her glowing bedside lamp, tiptoed around the bed, and grabbed his pants off the floor. The loud clink of his buckle was a major “fuck you” from the universe. The noise shot through the silence and she whimpered in reply. He froze, pants halfway up his thighs, his dick beginning to reawaken like an energetic puppy.
“You’re leaving?”
He tugged his pants to his waist, zipped, buttoned, and secured the belt. “Yeah. It’s too damn early for me to sleep.”
“Sorry.” She turned toward him, cuddling her pillow as she blinked with lethargy. No woman had ever looked so feminine. So pliable. So breakable.
He only had to say the word and she’d be on her back, arms open, thighs spread. The thought should’ve been enough to turn him off.
Why didn’t it?
Why was his blood rapidly regrouping in his dick?
He snatched his shirt off the floor and stabbed his arms through the sleeves with enough force to rip the material. Every second that drew closer to her proposition made his pulse quicken with anticipated relief. She was going to beg him to stay. She was singular breaths away from transforming into another groupie. Just like everyone else.
“Can you lock the door on your way out?” She stretched, the curve of her breasts straining against the sheet.
What. The. Fuck?
He frowned, confused by the awkward mix of beauty and rejection. “Sure.” His fingers tripped over the remaining buttons. “I left a note on your coffee table. It’s got my cell number on it. Message me if you’ve got any questions about the demonstration. Otherwise, I’ll see you there.”
“Who says I’ve made up my mind?”
“You’ll be there, Ella. And you’ll do a great job.” He grasped his pockets, making sure he had his wallet, cell, and keys. “Thanks for tonight.”
Thanks? For what? The erectile dysfunction and new kitchen fetish? Who the hell was he?
“Thanks?” She smiled. “Are you being polite again?”
“Nope.” He made for the bedroom door, ready to run. “I got another cheap thrill and a boost to my ego. What’s not to be thankful for?”
“Jerk,” she whispered with sleep-addled humor.
And don’t you forget it, sweetheart.
“Night, Ella.” He stopped himself from turning back for one last look.
“Night, Brute.”
The use of his nickname didn’t escape him. She’d finally realized who he was. What he was. And even though hearing his title didn’t bring the usual thrill, he knew the emotional distance would be nothing but a good thing.
Chapter Twelve
The café’s dining room was empty, spare a few women sharing their usual mid-afternoon coffee. The lull always hit hardest on Tuesday afternoons, which made for really crappy timing since Pamela’s mind was mimicking an attention-starved toddler.
“Drop the dishcloth and nobody gets hurt.”
Her hand paused mid-circular motion on the counter, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Kim holding the window spray as a weapon.
“What are you doing?”
“Mom and I have been patient, but your time is up. You need to stop the manic cleaning so we can have a serious conversation.”
Pamela released the cloth and wiped her hands on the ass of her black leggings. “What have I done?”
“It’s been two days.”
“Two days,” her mom parroted from the kitchen.
“Since?” She stalled, praying they weren’t going to bring up the person she’d been trying desperately to forget. It had been two days since Brute. Two days since Chinese, orgasms, and a formidably sexy body in her bed.
“Don’t play dumb.” Kim crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve given you space to digest whatever happened, and now we want the dirty details.”
“Not today.” She reclaimed her cloth and continued with the calming circular motions. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Since when?” Kim hissed. “You always tell me everything.”
“Yeah…well, maybe it’s time I stopped oversharing.”
“Did he say something? Or do something?”
Pamela scoffed. “From now on, take that as a given. But after the other night, I’ve got bigger problems than his insults.”
“I knew it.” Her mother shoved through the swinging kitchen doors. “I never would’ve picked it from such a handsome boy, but I told Kim I had a niggling feeling about those marks on your throat.”
“Mom,” her sister warned. “We discussed this and decided it was a rash.”
Oh. Shit.
Pamela’s hand instinctively snapped to her neck, covering the thin scarf strategically placed around the fading red fingermarks.
“Or am I wrong?” Kim went from chastisement to fire and brimstone with the widening of her eyes. “Did he force himself on you?”
“No. God, no.” How did she admit to loving every second of his strong hold around her throat? How could she make them understand she’d never been more turned on than in that moment? “The marks are…”
“Damn it, Pamela. Just tell us what happened.” Her mother’s concern came with a volatile voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” She sucked in a breath and slumped with the exhale. She’d been dodging this conversation for a while. “Actually, no.” She didn’t want to admit what happened—the monumental stupidity. Problem was, she knew this drill. They weren’t going to leave her alone until she blurted the truth. “I fell for him.”
They stared.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
“It’s idiotic, I know.” She winced through the words. “It must be something hormonal.”
“I thought you said he was a dick.” Kim lowered her voice and did a visual scan of the few remaining customers.
“He is.” Oh, God, he is.
“Then there must be a reason.”
There were many. The pathetic excuses swiftly formed a list in her mind—his touch, his voice, his body. He was gorgeous—oh, so, gorgeous—with his tough-man beard, scrutinizing eyes, and talented hands. Visually, he was perfection. And those books. He’d cleared the shelf that had served as a constant reminder of the months of cancer and misplaced hope. The realization had brought tears, happy ones.
And sad ones, too.
“I can see your brain running a mile a minute.” Kim narrowed her eyes. “He did something to win you over, didn’t he?”
“No. Not really.” Definitely nothing worthy of the plaguing heart palpitations she’d been battling. “He was the same asshole, for the most part.”
“And the other parts?” Her mom reached over the counter, tidying the sugar packets in an unconvincing act to appear unfazed. “Could there have been a deeper connection on some other level, maybe?”
Pamela rolled her eyes. “Wow. You slid off your protective suit and seamlessly pulled on a matchmaker cloak in record speed.”
“I’m not matchmaking,” her mom scoffed. “I’m only suggesting there may have been more of a connection between you than you think.”
“Come on.” Kim waved her on with a swirl of her hand. “Break it down. Tell us what
happened. Start to finish.”
Her mom cleared her throat. “Apart from the juicy stuff, of course.”
“Of course.” Jesus Christ. If she ever heard the word ‘juicy’ from her mother’s lips again it would be too soon. Especially when referring to sex.
Her sister and mother had continuously supported her. They had her back even though they didn’t understand her enjoyment of adult clubs or any of the facets within them. They listened without judgment. The only thing they didn’t do was hide their confusion over it.
“He turned up at my apartment with food and wine. I think there may have even been a smile on his face.” Yes, there’d definitely been a smile. A self-assured curve of his lips. “We talked over dinner, and he was friendly. Even a little funny. Then he helped clear the table and gave me a foot massage.”
He’d shown his charm and more of that willingness to physically please. And one by one, the opposing list of negative attributes had begun to diminish under the weight of his allure.
“A foot massage? Is that a fetish thing?”
“There’s no foot fetish.” Not that she knew of. “He was being nice. He even opened up to me about a family struggle he’s having.”
Kim’s brows pinched. “Then maybe you fell in love with him because—”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not love.” She snatched the dishcloth and twisted it in her hands. This thing wasn’t anywhere close to the L-word. It didn’t even nudge the edge of the greedy emotion. What she felt for Brute was something less vulnerable…but equally cloying.
“Then how hard was the fall?”
Pamela turned to scrub at a non-existent mark on the counter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. There hasn’t been anyone in my life since Lucas. Not other than physically.” But he’d shown her a glimmer of the man beneath the mask. He’d given her a peek at the soft, gooey center, and it kinda seemed comparable to her favorite peppermint-filled chocolate. “This could be a simple case of enjoying the attention I’ve been starved of. I just wish I could get him out of my head. I need to stop thinking about him.”
“Because he’s allergic to commitment?”
She paused, wondering if her situation would be as dire if that was the only issue. “Because I’m supposed to be his assistant for this demonstration night, and I’m not sure I can hide the way I feel. The last time I showed any sort of interest, he confronted me about it in front of the entire club. I’ve never been more humiliated, and back then, I didn’t think of him as more than an asshole. Imagine how he’d react now.”
