by Naomi West
I back off a little as she struggles to breathe. She wheezes and coughs from within her little protective ball. I stand, arms folded over my chest, waiting for her to recuperate. Slowly, she calms, her breathing more even. Arms over her head, her voice is muffled when she says, “Just go ahead and do it already.”
I chuckle. “Do what, exactly?”
“Whatever it is you came to do!” she yells.
“I came to talk to you,” I say. “So why don’t you get up, get a drink of water, and then come sit down so I can do just that?”
It takes her a minute, but she finally sits up, her face a mess of tears and mascara. It nearly makes me laugh out loud, she looks so pathetic. Her already curly hair is even bigger, a massive poof on her head as she looks around. One of her cats comes over and yowls at her. She reaches out and pulls it close. It struggles and yowls again, running toward the kitchen.
She pushes herself up, one shoe a few feet away. She pulls off the match and pads into the kitchen, her head held high in spite of whatever just happened. I find myself grinning after her. She’s kind of a trip, this Millie.
I hear her open a can of cat food and feed the cats, muttering something about them being traitors and that she can’t ever trust them again, now that they’ve been loving on the guy who broke into the house. I laugh out loud at this.
I hear the sink and glasses clinking together and then she’s back.
“Sit down, Millie Jones,” I say.
Everything on her is still, apart from the fact that her eyes are wide as saucers. She sits on the couch, legs crossed, arms across her chest, a little pout on those gorgeous lips.
“You broke into my house,” she says.
“Door was unlocked,” I say.
“Bullshit.”
“Not bullshit,” I say. “I knocked. No one answered. Jiggled the door handle and it opened. I let myself in and had some good cuddle time with your pets.”
“They’re lucky they got any dinner for that,” she murmurs. “And I never leave the door unlocked.”
“Check for yourself,” I say. “No signs of breaking and entering.”
She eyes the door but just sighs in response.
“Look,” I say. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t,” she says indignantly, chin jutting up.
“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word. “Then I’m sorry if I startled you. Point is, I needed to talk with you about my motorcycle.”
“And you couldn’t just call?” she asks.
I shrug. “That’s a custom-built Harley Davidson,” I say. “I paid a lot to have it made just to my specifications. To fix it will be costly.”
“How costly?” she asks.
“Over ten grand,” I say.
“I can’t afford that,” she says, her voice small, defeated. “I can’t pay that.”
I wander over and take a seat next to her on the couch. “I figured as much, and I’m prepared to talk about other ways you can pay me back.”
***
Millie
He’s so close. He smells really natural and masculine and it’s unnervingly sexy. And he’s all but told me I could sleep with him and get myself out of this mess. I’m not very experienced. I mean, I’m no virgin, but I’ve never even thought about sleeping with a guy like this, a guy who probably has all kinds of naughty in his sexual repertoire. And the thought of sleeping with someone just to get out of a financial mess? That is totally out of the question.
“I’m not a … prostitute,” I say, all but whispering the last word.
He chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that makes my girl parts tingle. My girl parts are, apparently, traitors as well.
“I haven’t got a thing against prostitutes,” he says.
“I’ll bet you don’t,” I mutter.
“I’d take offense, but I just don’t care that much,” he says. “I’m not interested in prostitutes at the moment, and I damn well didn’t call you one.”
“But you insinuated that I could pay back that money through sex,” I argue.
“I simply said we could talk about other ways to pay back what you owe,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes. “Could’ve meant mowin’ the lawn or washin’ the car.”
Through narrowed eyes, I consider this man. He’s huge and tough looking and strong. He’s clearly able to break into a house without making it look like a break-in—because I sure as heck didn’t leave it unlocked. He’s probably met his fair share of prostitutes, that’s for sure. And yet, there’s a softness to him, not easily recognized. He didn’t call the cops when he surely could have. In fact, he lied and sent them away. He could have hurt me, raped me, taken what he thought I owed him by force. But he didn’t. And … I don’t think he would. He doesn’t seem the type.
“Look,” he says. “If you had ten grand sittin’ around, you’d have car insurance. It’s as simple as that. And you could’ve killed me, so I reckon figuring out a payment plan is better than sittin’ in jail for manslaughter.”
I purse my lips but end up nodding. He’s not wrong about that. And a payment plan … I might be able to do that. It would take a long time, but I could probably tighten the belt a little more.
Oh, who am I kidding? My belt is so tight I can barely breathe.
“What kind of … payment plan … did you have in mind?” I ask.
He leans in, his lips so close to mine, that masculine scent swirling around, making my head spin. “Let’s start with a kiss.”
***
Axel
This little broad drives me insane. She smells squeaky clean, like soap. Her hair looks soft, her lips even softer. That hot little body might be mistaken for skinny, but there are a woman’s curves under those modest work outfits she wears. I’d kill a man to rip her free of those confining outfits and expose that coffee-with-cream skin.
She isn’t wrong. I’ve had a few hookers in my life. I respect ’em, honestly. It’s not an easy job, having men think they can do whatever they want just because you fuck for money. I’ve held a few of them after a rough go, and I’ve kicked a few members out of the club for being rough with the girls who work with us.
But I wasn’t wrong, either. Hookers are the farthest thing from my mind right now, because all I see are hazel eyes with swirls of brown, green, and even yellow. Millie’s eyes are something to get lost in, something that could haunt a guy if he wasn’t careful. Millie’s eyes, and her tight curls, and her full, full lips. Lips I’d like to have around my cock, which is twitching just thinking about such a treat.
I like this girl. She’s feisty and independent and proud. She’s got a story, I’ll bet. I don’t want to know it, though, because if I know it, that’ll mean I’m all in. And I can’t be all in, because I’ve got a club to run in Rod’s absence.
“I’m not kissing you,” she says defiantly. Her button nose crinkles distastefully.
“Aww, come on,” I say. “I’m pretty good at it.”
“I don’t do things like that,” she says, prim and proper.
“You don’t kiss men?” I ask. “No sex before marriage kind of girl?”
“I do. I mean … I have … but I don’t just kiss guys I don’t know. And you’re, you’re …”
“Incredibly sexy?” I ask jokingly. “I know, I know. I am a whole lot of man to handle. But I’ll be gentle. At least at first.”
I’m still right up in her face, smelling the sweetness of soda on her breath. I want to kiss her so badly, to melt into that body, to twist that hair around my fingers.
“Why do you want this so badly?” she whispers.
I back away just slightly, taking in her look of anxiety. I see it there, underneath her indignant posture, her straight shoulders and her crossed arms and legs. I see that she’s not a self-confident woman. She doesn’t see herself the way I see her, a bombshell waiting to emerge. No, someone has made her feel like she’s not worth a second look, not worth a kiss.
I lay a hand on her upper thigh, clos
e enough to the heat of her core to make her stiffen in response. It’s a very light touch, on the outside of her skirt. Nothing more.
“I’m sure whatever cocksucker you kicked to the curb deserved it,” I say, moving in so my lips nearly touch hers. “He’s a stupid fuck for letting a woman like you get away.”
“That’s not an answer,” she breathes, licking her lips. Her pink tongue is a beacon.
“I don’t need a reason to want it,” I say. “You’re damn sexy and I want to kiss you. That’s all there is to say about it”
“But what if—”
My lips are on hers. No more excuses. No more questions. I press my mouth to hers and her eyes go wide before closing again. She sighs as my tongue begs for entry, opening, letting my tongue intertwine with hers.
Then she surprises me, grabbing my shoulders, pulling me closer. My arms wrap around her as I pull her onto my lap, not breaking our connection.
I’m hard as a rock and her skirt is hiked way up to allow those long legs to spread as she straddles me there on the couch. My hands find her ass, thin cotton panties covering round cheeks. I don’t go any further, though. I don’t explore, though God knows I want to.
We kiss and kiss, my lips leaving hers only to explore the length of her graceful neck, the lobes of her ears. She signs and moans, her sexy sounds just about enough to make me cream like some inexperienced teenage boy.
Whoever Phillip Reed was, he made one serious mistake letting this woman out of his sight. He probably never pleased her. I can’t wait to fuck his memory straight out of her.
My fingers itch to explore, to feel how wet she is, but I don’t. I am, for all intents and purposes, a perfect fucking gentleman.
“I’ve imagined this,” I say, hushed against her neck.
She surprises me by saying, “Me, too.”
Chapter 4
Axel
When she finally pulls away, her cheeks flushed a deep peach color, she looks down and sees the spot of wetness on her panties. Even though I love it, want to put my face in it, she cringes and hops off my lap, pulling her skirt down, biting the corner of her bottom lip, looking anywhere but at me.
“Why so embarrassed?” I ask.
“That’s not … I’m not …”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, standing up, my cock still raging hard. “I’ve heard it all before. You’re not like this. You don’t kiss big brutes like me. Blah, blah, blah. Well, now you do, and there’s no sense in being shy about something feeling good.”
She bites that lip again, blushing even deeper, looking dewy and hot and bothered and gorgeous. I step to her and take her in my arms, my mouth meeting hers again. It takes a moment, but there is crackling chemistry between us that even she can’t deny with her little prude act. She wraps her arms around my neck and I put one hand on the back of her neck, the other at her waist. The length of her body is against mine and there is nothing but heat between us as we kiss. I nip at her bottom lip and she gasps, her hips jutting toward me. Hmmm. So the little vixen likes a little pain here and there. I’ll keep that in my back pocket for later.
Moving the hand at her neck up, I fist some of that soft hair and pull her head back slightly, my mouth moving to her neck, down to her chest. I find a hard nipple through layers of dress and bra. I use my teeth to tease at it.
“Fuck, I’d do anything to see you out of this,” I say, moving my hand to her thigh, sliding it up under the thick fabric of her skirt. My fingers find that spot of wetness, the hot core of her sweet little body. I rub at her clit through the cotton and she moans. It’s the best sound I’ve heard in a long, long time, so I keep working at it, determined to give her a little something to remember me by.
Just as I’m ready to fall to my knees and suck that sweet little button, ready to make her come right on my face, the fucking doorbell rings.
She gasps and moves out of my grasp, her eyes darting around wildly, looking every bit like a woman who is very unsure about where she is and how she got here.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m …”
The doorbell rings again.
“Pizza delivery?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
I head to the door as she smooths her dress and hair once more. When I open it, there’s a skinny white guy on the doorstep. He’s in a dress shirt and khaki pants, his light hair cut and parted to the side like some junior accountant. He’s got a bouquet in one hand.
I raise an eyebrow at him and he looks confused. He takes a step back, looks at the house number, then back at me.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“I came to, uh, see Millie,” he says, stuttering a little.
“You are?”
“Phillip Reed,” he says. “Her fiancé.”
My eyebrow arches even higher and I feel a smirk spread across my face. “Her fiancé, huh?”
His chin juts out. “Yes,” he sniffs. “Her fiancé.”
“Well, does she know you’re her fiancé? Word on the street is you don’t live here anymore. I’d say the wedding’s off.”
“And you are?” he asks.
“None of your concern,” I say.
“Is Millie okay in there?” he asks, trying to lean around my bulk, see inside. He calls out, “Millie! Millie, you okay in there?”
She steps into view. “I’m fine, Phillip,” she says. Her voice is devoid of emotion, empty, like she’s spent every last ounce of anything she had for him and just can’t muster any more of it.
“Who is this guy?” Phillip asks. “Should I call the police?”
“No, Phillip,” she says. “Everything is fine. Axel and I had a fender bender yesterday. We’re working out the details so I can pay him for the damage.”
“Oh,” Phillip says. “How much is it? Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t need your help,” she says, her tone getting shrieky. “I don’t need anything from you. I just want you to stop texting, stop calling, and stop showing up.”
“Yep, get your ass out of here,” I say. “She made her feelings clear.”
Phillip looks taken aback. “I just … Millie, could we talk for a moment? Alone?”
“No,” I say, slamming the door in his face. I turn to Millie, who’s mouth is in a shocked O.
“Think he got the hint?” I ask.
She shakes her head rapidly. “No. No, I do not. He hasn’t gotten the hint any other time I’ve ignored him or kicked him out or told him it’s really, really over. Why would he get it now? If anything, imagining me with someone else will probably make him redouble his efforts.”
“He’s a stalker?”
“You could say that,” she sighs. “I need a drink.”
She walks into the kitchen. I hear glasses clinking again, the refrigerator door open, the pop of a bottle top. A few moments later, she wanders back in with a pint of beer in each hand.
***
Millie
My hand juts out, the beer sloshing over the edge of the glass and onto the carpet in my clumsy attempt at offering the drink to him.
Axel takes it, that same smirk on his face. It’s sexy and annoying at the same time. I’d be willing to bet money he knows it, wears it like a mask.
I head toward the small dining room table and sit, taking several large gulps of my beer. Axel finally moves to take a seat across from me. He doesn’t drink his beer, only sets it down and bores holes in me with the intensity of his stare.
“Tell me about that fucker,” he says.
I tap my fingernails on the table. One of the cats jumps in my lap and circles before laying down. It’s comforting.
“He’s my ex-fiancé,” I say. “I caught him sleeping with some blonde and booted him out.”
“How long ago?” Axel asks.
“Six, seven months? He’s been up in my business, trying to come home, for about three months now. Hard press. Texts probably thirty times a day, calls six or seven times a day, shows up like tha
t.”
“Why don’t you get a restraining order?” he asks.
“He’s harmless,” I say with a shrug. I take another drink and nod at Axel’s still-full glass.
“I don’t drink when I’m going to ride,” he says. “But thank you anyway.”
“Oh,” I say. “I just assumed.”
“Assumed I was some drunken dumbass who drinks and drives?” he asks. His tone is light but there is no humor in his eyes. This must be a sore spot for him. I’ll bet people judge him all the time for how he looks.
