by C. M. Owens
Until then, I’ll continue putting images of him mostly naked into my mind while I give him sponge baths. Too many times I’ve run my fingers over those lines of muscles, wondering what’d it’d be like to trace them with my tongue.
He could bathe himself, in all honesty. But that’s part of my reward for being so selfless. Clearly, he must know this, because he continues to let me sponge him off once a day.
The fire alarm wailing suddenly snaps me out of my trance, and I curse as I use a set of tongs to grab the flaming rag of doom off the stove and toss it into the sink. I’m still calling it a string of names as I drown out the fire. When the smoke rages on, I grab a broom to start fanning the smoke away from the fire alarm.
After that doesn’t work, I run to open two windows, then I grab a chair so I can get higher up to wave the smoke away. Short people problems.
Just as I’m starting to make progress, I hear a whoosh, and I look over my shoulder in horror as the pan I have on the stove—that is cooking lunch—suddenly spurts up a massive flame.
How is this even happening to me right now?!
“Everything okay in there?” Liam calls, sounding a little concerned.
“Fine!” I yell, panicking as I search for something to put the fire out.
“There’s a fire extinguisher under the sink,” he tells me, his voice carrying over the mayhem and stupid freaking fire alarm.
“Ha! No fire in here! Just got a little smoky!” I yell as I dive to the sink and grab the fire extinguisher.
In Liam’s house, it’s like a canyon in the sense that when you yell, “Hellloooo,” you’re going to hear it echo thirty times. So I shouldn’t be surprised that the fire extinguisher makes one hell of a monstrous telling noise as I spray down all the flames.
One tiny little spark of fire reignites, and I spray the shit out of it again, panting as I finally lower the fire extinguisher and stare at the charred mess with extinguisher goo all over it.
This day…sucks chipmunk balls.
Annoyed, I climb back up on that chair, rip the fire alarm off the wall, and…realize it’s not just that alarm going wild, it’s also the fancy, state-of-the-art alarm system he has.
The land line—yes, I call it a land line—rings, and I run to answer it, hearing the security company asking me questions about said fire mayhem. I explain to them that I just can’t cook, but that we’re not actually burning to death or anything.
“I’m afraid I’m going to need to speak to Mr. Harper,” the woman tells me.
“Liam, the phone’s for you,” I call out, grimacing.
“Got it in here.” I wait a beat. “Anything still on fire?” he asks, sounding amused more than anything.
“No.”
I turn around, cursing this day from hell, and go to clean the mess up a little before making him a sandwich. Personally, I’ve lost my appetite.
When I walk into his room, he’s grinning from ear to ear, and I hand him the sandwich I slaved over.
“All that for a sandwich?” he muses.
I ignore him as I climb up on the bed, and he laughs under his breath as he eats his sandwich.
“I have tons of takeout menus,” he finally tells me in between bites.
“I know. I was just trying to do something nice,” I grumble as he finishes the last bite—since he can inhale food—and puts the plate on the bedside table.
He tugs one of my curls, which is something he seems to love to do, as I shift into his side, getting comfortable on the bed while finding something to watch.
He doesn’t take it seriously, but me being cooped up is a bad thing. Dangerous thing. Things like the hairdryer happen after a while. Along with the wild fire.
There will be more accidents, no doubt. Unless I start painting a hell of a lot more.
But he can’t go out, and I don’t want him feeling guilty for me getting crazy from being stuck inside. Well, he could go out, but it hurts him to move around a whole lot, so it’d be pointless and selfish for me to expect that. And the wheelchair really hurts him because of his ribs. He can’t roll himself, and he can’t sit—reclining is necessary. Or lying flat.
“Got a boyfriend back home?” he asks randomly, his hand sliding across my stomach with a little too much familiarity.
“Nope. Beards aren’t my thing.”
I feel his confusion like it’s a real, tangible thing.
“Okay…got a girlfriend back home?”
I realize how that must have sounded when he follows up with that question, and I laugh, shaking my head. “No. I’m into guys.”
His hand slides lower, touching just the top of my pajama shorts.
“So no one is going to get upset if I touch you?” he asks, dipping his head next to my ear.
I make a sound of surprise when he kisses me just under my ear, and my body tenses.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, feeling his hand slowly start to move under my shorts.
“You’ve slept beside me every night. Laid against my side daily. My dick is hard as stone every time you’re around. I just thought I’d return the favor, since you seem to be immune to me.”
My breath hisses through my lips when his hand dips into my panties, and he kisses my neck as his finger slips against the wet proof that I’m certainly not immune. He groans in the back of his throat, and I shudder against him.
I’m obviously not going to stop him from touching me if that’s what he’s waiting on.
“Kylie,” he groans again, and then two of his fingers dip inside me, thrusting hard.
My eyes roll back in my head as I spread my legs wider, giving him access, and he sucks a spot on my neck that drives me insane. I start writhing against his hand, and then turn, seeking his lips, desperately hoping this isn’t a dream that I’m going to wake up from before the finish line is crossed.
All it takes is one touch of his lips against mine, and I’m lost. Because he kisses like he invented the word kiss.
It’s commanding, powerful, demanding…it’s a whole bunch of other words too, but my brain is struggling not to short circuit.
I moan into his mouth when he cups me, putting pressure on my clit while still pumping two fingers inside me. My hand comes up, cupping the side of his face, as his tongue mimics what his fingers are doing.
I’d really love to have that tongue somewhere else.
Just the thought has me grinding harder, and then it all erupts at once, the orgasm washing over me as I clamp down on his fingers.
“Fuck,” he whispers against my mouth as I break the kiss to suck in air, shuddering against him.
I pull back as he watches me with lust-filled eyes, and he brings his fingers up, sucking them into his mouth while winking at me.
That’s what snaps the last of my restraint. He started this, so that means the line has been crossed and I don’t have to hold back anymore. Liam just doesn’t realize he released the kraken or whatever. At least not yet.
That crazy guy still thinks I’m sweet just because I’m short and have curly hair. It’s sort of cute how difficult he finds it that I’m anything else.
I shove my shorts and panties down in unison. His eyes zero in on the newly exposed skin, and he smirks as he watches me.
“As much as I’d love to fuck you, there’s no way—even if you were on top—that I’d be able to. My leg isn’t ready for that much movement.”
“I’m not fucking you with that,” I say with a smile. “But my mouth can fuck you without jostling you too much.”
Heat fills his eyes, and I gently tug his shorts down just enough to let his very hard, very ready erection pop free. Damn. I really want to fuck that.
Staring wistfully, I throw my leg over his body, and his hands immediately go for my hips, dragging me down for his mouth to connect with that sweet bundle of torture.
I have to focus really hard to remember I’m supposed to be giving too, and I lower my head, taking him in little by little, swirling my tongue over the tip each
time I come up.
“Don’t thrust. It’ll hurt you,” I tell him, grinning when he groans.
I stop grinning when he sucks my clit into his talented mouth and then smooths his tongue over it at the same time.
That’s when I go in for the kill, sucking him down as deep as I possibly can and we both work hard to bring the other to climax first. I’m the first to go, which makes it really damn hard not to grit my teeth.
Since he’s still in my mouth, that would be bad. I suck harder, even as my body shudders against his relentless mouth that is trying to kill me.
Then it happens. Without warning. He makes a surprised sound before semi-salty warmth is shooting into my mouth. I take it like a champ, though. I’m almost positive he had no idea that was coming—ha ha ha!—either.
His fingers dig into my ass as his head drops away from me, and he grips me even tighter as I finish sucking him down completely. When I’m sure he’s done, I let go, bringing my head back, smiling as I toss my leg back over him and move to his side.
He’s studying me like I’m a two-headed lizard.
“How does a girl, who looks as fucking sweet as you, give head like that?”
I roll my eyes, curling up against him. “For the last time, I’m not sweet.”
His arms go around me, even as his back stays flat on the mattress. His gaze rakes over my face several times as he touches my spiral curls like he can’t help himself.
“You have a rose tattoo in a very odd place,” he murmurs with a wicked grin.
“The crack of one’s ass is an odd place for a rose tattoo? Huh. First I heard of it.”
He laughs lightly, and I fidget nervously.
“So…that happened,” I say awkwardly.
A slow smile forms over his lips as his eyes meet mine. “About damn time it did.”
“It’s only been a week,” I point out.
“A week of pure torture,” he amends.
I grin like an idiot, trying not to let myself fall. I don’t have long left before it’s time to leave. I’m happy to be here and help him out, and having some fun wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
As long as I remember it’s just fun and can never be more.
“Every time I think you can’t possibly surprise me again, that’s when you blow my mind,” he tells me.
I laugh as I stand up, hearing the buzz of the door. Liam gets a ton of packages, since he’s an online shopping whore.
I tug on my shorts before walking toward the door the old-fashioned way, instead of using his fancy remote thingy.
“That wasn’t your mind I just blew,” I call out over my shoulder, hearing him chuckle behind me.
Chapter 6
Wild One Tip #104
Being with a Wild One is like being in a rodeo.
You keep waiting to see someone get trampled by a bull, and you giggle at the clowns.
KYLIE
For two weeks, I’ve been in Liam’s bed. Or on his floor while I painted. I set up in that other room, then kept finding myself gravitating toward him again.
I’ve sat on his face a lot lately. It’s my new favorite thing in the world, and he seems to enjoy it as much as I do. Sixty-nine is the only number he seems to remember these days.
“I like this color on you,” he says as he slides his finger over my nose, touching the green paint there.
I grin and roll my eyes, as his eyes spark with humor, while I finish putting the rest of his clothes into the laundry hamper and set it aside to do later.
“I guess I missed a spot,” I tell him, wiping my nose with the towel that is holding my wet hair.
He lies back on the bed—where the poor guy has to spend most of his time.
“You seem to know your way around broken bones. Everything you’ve warned me that I would experience, I’ve experienced,” he says, looking over at me as I settle into the covers.
I realized belatedly that ‘normal’ people wouldn’t be so comfortable sleeping with a complete stranger. But, Liam has been cool about it, especially after I started giving him orgasms in the middle of the night.
I move in closer to him, and he slides his arm around my shoulders as I close my eyes and breathe him in like a total creeper. It’s a daily struggle to remind myself that I can’t keep him, even though I really want to.
“I’ve had tons of broken bones. I didn’t figure out gravity until I was almost thirteen. I stopped breaking them after that. Tuck and roll, baby. Tuck. And. Roll.” I pat his chest.
He laughs lightly, not groaning in pain for a change.
He’s healing nicely, though he still has a long way to go.
“You didn’t panic at all when I went down,” he says, looking down at me.
His eyes are blue. Like really blue. And his hair is blond.
He’s like my own sexed-up version of an anatomically correct Ken doll.
With a strong jaw and a constant mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Barbie would be so jealous…
When I smile, he smiles back, unaware of what’s going on in my head right now.
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen chaos unfold. It’s actually second nature.”
I love it when he studies me like I’m an enigma he can’t figure out. It’s one of the main reasons I’m always so vague. It keeps him looking at me the way he’s looking at me now.
He looks like a model, he’s smart, and he’s hella rich. I’m a semi-cute starving artist who is known back home for being a little crazy. I need the advantage, so I take it.
His nose brushes mine, and he leans over as he arches an eyebrow.
“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
I lean back, grinning. “You know the routine. You ask. I evade. Then you tell me something about yourself instead.”
“I feel like I’m losing all my mysterious points, while you continue to gain more and more.”
He cuts his eyes toward me in mock accusation, and I laugh as I lie back on the pillow. His arms stays around me, and he brings me closer. I always sleep on the side where his good leg is.
I let my leg ride up on his naked hip, wondering if he’d be ready for another round yet. It’s been at least an hour or two.
We didn’t even bother putting clothes back on after I finished showering and giving him a wonderful little sponge bath.
I’d really freaking love it if we could have sex, though. Because…well, I don’t think I have to explain that one.
“I can put some of your work in my other galleries. I’d like it to be there, actually,” he states randomly.
“That’s sweet, but not necessary. I actually have a few gigs lined up after this tour.”
It’s a lie, but I’d never let him put my work in his galleries as a show of gratitude or as a sex-buddy favor. Well, an oral-sex-buddy favor, rather. I want to earn my spot on someone’s floor.
Besides, my pieces are getting attention online now. I used his computer today to get a look at it, and I emailed Lilah Vincent to help run that website, since I don’t know how, and she knows all things web-related.
“You’re maybe 5’2—”
“5’3,” I quickly point out. “5’6 with the right boots on.”
He chuckles lightly as I settle my head onto his chest.
“Weigh possibly a hundred and—”
“Do you want a boot in your ass?” I ask him seriously. “Never guess a woman’s weight. It’s like number one on the list of things to never do.”
He laughs harder this time, his lips brushing my forehead as he shifts, pulling me even closer until my entire body is pressed up along his side.
“My point is that you’re tiny. Yet you dragged me out of that lake with no problem. So I’m guessing…army brat?”
I snort, then outright laugh. He studies me, waiting expectantly.
“No. I think my dad was worried he wouldn’t pass the psychological evaluation required for enlisting,” I say by way of explanation.
It’s adorable
that he doesn’t take me seriously.
“Then law enforcement brat?”
I laugh again. “No. And I’m not sure that’s a thing.”
He taps his chin thoughtfully with one hand, while his other snakes down to my waist, resting there. It’s like a full beacon presence. I can feel that one touch all over my body.
“Mob boss’s daughter?”
I arch an eyebrow, and he snaps his head toward me.
“You laugh at army brat and law enforcement brat, but you merely quirk an eyebrow at mob boss’s daughter?” he asks, his look incredulous.
My smile grows. “No. Not a mob boss’s daughter. But kudos for thinking outside the box.”
I reach up and touch his face before I can stop myself, and he smiles as I trace my finger down the side of his jaw. I touch his face all the time. Normally, guys as hot as him are not guys I get to touch.
Guys like him have girls lined around the corner. Guys like him break the hearts of crazy girls like me.
But Liam? I can’t stop touching him. Maybe it’s because we’ve been in our own little bubble for two solid weeks.
Maybe it’s because I’m the only one around, and he has no choice but to settle for me. I mean, I’m feeding him, bathing him, taking care of his house—when I’m not equally destroying it—doing his laundry, making sure he takes his medication at appropriate times…
The point is, I’m convenient, and I don’t really mind that. I keep reminding myself of this when he’s looking at me the way he’s looking at me right now. Like I’m not just a convenience, but the exact thing he wants.
His eyes meet mine, and our gazes hold for a long, palpable moment. He always looks at me like he wants sex. That’s not new. But this look? This is something different, something reverent. Like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory.
“Even downed to a bed, you still keep it so smooth,” I say quietly, still running my knuckle along his cheek as he leans into the touch.
He gives me a shaky smile, his hand tightening on my waist.
“I can’t grow a beard. It looks like shit when I try, so I have to keep it smooth.”
