Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2)

by Nicole French

  When I was finally finished, I pulled a tissue out of my purse and blotted my mouth, breathing heavily against the wall as the hands left me. I took another deep breath and turned around.

  Brandon stood next to the open back door of his Mercedes. He looked like he had rolled out of bed and grabbed the first things he could find: worn, light-blue jeans, a blue T-shirt that was creased like he'd been sleeping in it, and a pair of running shoes that were only half-laced. His shirt hugged the contours of his chest and the lean, defined muscles in his arms. His wavy hair, gleaming gold at the ends, stuck out from under his favorite frayed Red Sox hat, and the street light above caught a glimmer of stubble lining the sharp edges of his jaw. Those piercing blue eyes that haunted my dreams nightly shined even in the dark, but were slightly puffy, like he had just woken up.

  It had been just over two weeks since I'd seen him last, on the same day I'd graduated, when we'd fought and kissed and eventually said goodbye on the banks of the Charles River. On that day he'd worn a suit, the kind that made him look like his billions. Tonight, in the same basic uniform of half the men in Boston, he looked even better.

  "H-hi," I said weakly, barely able to wonder what he was doing here or how he knew to come. My head throbbed. My stomach roiled again, but there was nothing in it to come up.

  Brandon tipped his head to the side and sighed. He rubbed a hand over the bill of his cap, causing his shirt to ride up and reveal the hard lines of his abdomen. I drooled.

  "Get in, Red," he said gruffly.

  And, God help me, I did.

  ~

  Chapter 6

  We rode in silence, the clean, luxurious interior of the car a refuge from the filth of the street. David, Brandon's kindly, middle-aged driver, gave me a wink through the rearview mirror. At least someone was happy to see me.

  Brandon, on the other hand, was a statue in his seat, his eyes mostly shaded by the curve of his baseball cap. Even so, his stare was basically a sledgehammer. I turned toward my tinted window, taking solace in the soft leather seats and the cool glass against my cheek. In the backseat, we were sitting maybe a few feet from each other, but it might as well have been miles.

  The nausea was gone, slowly being replaced by fatigue and a mounting awareness that the person I had been dreaming about for the last several weeks was sitting next to me in his expensive Mercedes. And, if his expression was any indication, mostly likely hated my guts.

  Oh, God.

  Conscious of the way his eyes followed my ever movement, I popped a few of the Listerine squares I kept in my purse. We were going to have to talk, and I needed to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. Then I finally turned to him, taking a deep breath as I met the full force of his piercing blue eyes. Brandon didn't move, just watched me with an expression one might have when encountering a wounded animal that might scratch them. Was there loathing there? I couldn't tell.

  "What-what are you doing here?" I asked. My voice was scratchy after having to yell so much in the club. Losing my dinner hadn't helped either.

  Brandon finally blinked, then shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. I knew that move. His patented "I don't want to answer that question" move. The move he made when his thoughts were too much for even him to handle. It tipped the edge of his frayed bill up above his hairline, revealing his face in full. Even puffy-eyed and weary, he was still the most beautiful person I'd ever met.

  Instead of responding directly, Brandon pulled out his phone and swiped to a photo, which he then held out for me to view. Apparently, instead of texting him in response, I'd ended up taking a picture. A picture of a toppled mass of women, two of whom had their underwear on full display. I was slammed against a wall behind them, my eyes half-shut and basically looking like I was trapped in some kind of demented orgy. Okay, so it didn't look good.

  I glanced up, still suspicious. "Doesn't explain how you knew I was here."

  Brandon grunted impatiently, then zoomed in on the top right hand corner of the picture, where I could see the top of an ad the club had placed inside the bathroom stall door. It read: "Events at Solstice Nightclub in June."

  "Huh." I sat back in my seat, shrinking myself into the corner. "We got Sherlock Holmes over here."

  Brandon still didn't say anything, just put his phone back in his pocket. He gripped at his knees, clenching at the fabric. I glared at him, suddenly tired of the silent treatment. No one had asked him to come here, and definitely not to treat me like a piece of furniture.

  "So, I'm in the car with you. You going to tell me where we are going?" I asked.

  He gave me a dark, blue look. "I don't know. You texted me."

  I frowned. "I never asked you to pick me up."

  "I don't know what you were asking me to do with those texts. But I'm here, up in the middle of the damn night, and you clearly needed someone to stop you from, I don't know, dying in the street. So, where to, Miss Crosby?"

  The venom in his voice was so strange; I hated that he was calling me by my last name, just like he had when I was still just an intern at his law firm, only six months ago. I glared back.

  "David, could you please drop me off at Sheafe and Margaret Street?" I asked the driver without breaking eye contact with Brandon.

  Brandon frowned. "Where is that?"

  "Where I live!" I snapped, now preoccupying myself with searching for something––anything––in my purse.

  Unfortunately, my clutch was small, so sorting through it was not a good distraction. But I didn't want to look at him, didn't want to feel those beautiful blue eyes boring into me with such vitriol. It hurt too much.

  "Where you live? What happened to the New York job?"

  I ground my teeth, still avoiding his face. His hand was now resting on the back of the car seats, only a few inches from my shoulder. It was physically painful to be this close to him and not touch. I could smell his scent, almonds and soap and sleep, and it was so much more vivid than in my imagination. My thighs clenched.

  "I had to take one here," I said finally. "I've got debts to pay and a father to put through some very expensive therapy. A public service job just wasn't going to cut it, so here I am again."

  Brandon processed the information while his gaze flew around the car and his hand massaged the leather seat.

  "What debt?" he finally asked as he pulled his hands back into his lap. "I paid everything off to Messina. All of it."

  "Oh, I know," I bit out quietly, chucking my clutch onto the seat between us. "I know all about your so-called 'generosity' to that low-life motherfucker. Set him up for life, didn't you?"

  "Oh, so now I'm a jerk?" Brandon looked up to the ceiling of the car as if in pain and groaned. "Perfect. Here we fuckin' are again."

  "I don't know. Maybe." Apparently, the alcohol hadn't completely worn off yet. My mouth was shooting off like a teenager, and I couldn't seem to stop it.

  "Jesus Christ, Skylar, I can't keep up with you! Did you call me just so you could berate me again for being a nice guy?"

  Brandon yanked off his cap and threw it across the car into the front passenger seat. David picked it up and handed it calmly back over his shoulder to his boss. The car didn't swerve an inch.

  "Keep up?" I asked. "I haven't exactly been jerking you around here. Okay, I sent one dumb, drunken text by mistake. Those girls literally fell on me, and my thumb pressed send. No one asked you to get in your Batmobile to save me!"

  "You don't get to make me out to be the bad guy here, Skylar!" Brandon erupted. He pulled his hat between his hands so hard I thought it might split apart. "You wanted out, I got the message, and I let you go, didn't I? Even though the breakup made absolutely no fuckin' sense! And there has been no word from you until tonight. None!"

  His South Boston accent, which tended to appear only when he was upset or emotional, was now out in full force. I tensed against it, even though at the same time it turned me on. I had been seeking that feeling all night, and was only finding it here. With him. Whi
le we were fighting.

  How fucked up was I?

  "That's because it hurts too much, Brandon!" I yelled back, not even caring that David was sitting in the front seat.

  A quick glance revealed that he had thoughtfully put in headphones. I kicked ineffectually at the bottom of the seat in front of me, not caring that it made me look even more like a child. Brandon watched for a few beats, then hurled his baseball cap onto the floor of the car.

  "FUCK!" he shouted. "Goddamn it!"

  We stared at, bristling under the streetlights that flashed through the windows. Then, before I knew it, we were falling toward each other. I was scrambling across the seat and grabbing at the collar of his shirt; his long arms were yanking me into his lap.

  We attacked, desperate to get closer, to consume one another right there in the back of the car. My fingers clawed at the muscles under his thin T-shirt; his own hands were just as savage, clutching desperately at my waist, back, ass, any place he could use to pull me so that I was straddling his lap. Soon my dress was hiked up nearly to my waist, and Brandon growled again as one hand found bare skin and squeezed hard enough that I'd probably have bruises in the morning. Another grabbed my ponytail and pulled. I moaned aloud against his lips. The pain felt good. It was exactly what I needed.

  "What the fuck do you want?" he snarled in between angry, forceful kisses. "Is this what you want?" He wrapped my ponytail in his fist and pulled again, even harder this time.

  I didn't say anything, just kissed him back, biting at his lips while both of us groaned, desperate to get closer, desperate to get beyond the thin layers of clothing. I slid my hands under the hem of his shirt, wanting to feel his smooth, ribbed muscles. My fingernails dug in, and Brandon groaned. He kneaded my ass and thighs forcefully and ground his obvious desire through the meager material that separated us.

  Then the car pulled to a stop. We broke apart, breathing heavily, and caught in a mutual stare as our chests heaved. Brandon's hand tightened on my thigh, but the other dropped from my hair. I loosened my death-grip on his collar. My gaze dropped to his lips, now swollen and reddened. No doubt mine looked much the same.

  David cleared his throat. Oh fuck, I thought as a massive flush immediately covered my body. What the fuck was I doing? I slid off Brandon and hastily tugged my skirt back into place. Ducking my head (I couldn't even think of looking at David), I quickly clambered out to the sidewalk in front of my small brick building. The street, one of the quieter in the North End, was deserted, although sounds of merriment still filtered through the brick corridors leading to Hanover Street.

  Willing myself not to turn around, I dug clumsily through my purse for my keys. When I looked up, another car door slammed shut. David pulled the car away, leaving Brandon in the middle of the deserted street, hands fisted at his sides.

  His brow was a bit sweaty, as if he'd been exerting himself, and his hair, which had already started to grow out a little since I'd last seen him, stuck out in several directions. He had a slightly crazed look in his eyes, which I had a feeling was mirrored in my own.

  "Wha–what are you doing?" I asked as he approached, shoulders moving with the grace and intention of a predatory cat.

  The glare of the street lamp caught the ends of his hair, lighting them up like a halo, although the single-minded expression on his face was anything but angelic.

  "Which one is your house key?" Brandon demanded as he plucked my keychain out of my hands.

  "What the fuck? Let me do it!"

  I snatched the keys back from him and fumbled to the correct one, dropping the set twice before finding it. Before Brandon could argue back, I had unlocked the door and charged into the small building, a six-foot-four lion on my heels.

  I took the steps of the walk-up two at a time, Brandon hot on my tail. It felt like a race, but no one was having fun. The urgency between us in the car was back, building with every step we took. All I could think about was having his hands on me again, having his lips on me. But I was angry too. Angry that he made me feel this way. Angry that I couldn't stop myself. Angry that we had done everything we had to each other, and angry that things couldn't go back to the way they used to be.

  Full of that animal anger, I kept going past the third floor, where my apartment was. I didn't want him to see that space I'd worked so hard on all day––that space that had nothing but a futon and piano sitting in it, but which I'd inadvertently painted the exact color of his eyes. I didn't want his pity. I just wanted to fuck him and be done with it so I could get him out of my system and move on.

  We charged straight to the top of the six-stories and out the heavy fire door to the rooftop. It wasn't exactly the posh roof of his massive townhouse––just a concrete slab bordered by a creaky metal railing. A few rusted lounge chairs that some of my neighbors had apparently donated to the building were clustered in one corner. Two taller brick buildings shot up on either side of us, eclipsing the roof in their shadows.

  "What are we doing here?"

  Brandon's deep voice echoed across the roof. The heavy metal door banged closed behind us, and I turned around to look at him. His eyes drifted down my body, resting briefly on my bare legs––what had once been his favorite part of my anatomy. I was suddenly very aware of just how much skin I was showing. I normally wore this dress like a tunic over leggings; the hem barely reached the bottom of my ass.

  "What do you think we're here for?" I retorted, not feeling the slightest bit gracious.

  His hungry blue gaze snapped up to meet mine, sending another shock of yearning through my center. His eyes flashed so much they practically sparked. I still felt furious. Furious and full to the brim of naked lust.

  He didn't answer. I stared. He stared. All of the pain and torment of the past few months was bubbling to the surface. The intense desire. The yearning.

  In my still-drunken haze, there was only one thing I wanted. Now it was my turn to stalk him. So I did, and surprisingly, he backed up, all the way to the thin black railing at the perimeter of the roof.

  "Skylar, I want to talk," Brandon said, though his eyes continued to drift over my body, down to my bare thighs and back up to where the silver chains fell into the cleavage he couldn't help but see with his height advantage.

  I ran my hands under his T-shirt, eager to feel the warmth of his skin again, the edges of the defined muscles that dipped into his waistband. He grunted heartily at my touch; already I could feel the length of him straining through his jeans. He wanted the same thing I did.

  "I don't believe you," I said as I slipped my hands lower and started to undo the buttons of his jeans. I spread the fabric apart and pulled at the waistband of his boxer briefs, the ones that didn't exactly hide just how badly he wanted me. "I don't think that's what you're here for. And it's definitely not what I'm here for."

  "Skylar––shit!" he yelped at the sudden contact of my hand closing over him. His hands, stretched out over the rickety black railing, gripped the thin metal edge tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "Baby––"

  "I am not your baby," I interrupted, even as I ran my nose up and down the straining muscles of his neck. God, he smelled so good. I wove my fingers into the thick hair at the base of his neck and dragged him down to me. He met me heartily, attacking me with a ferocity that neither one of us anticipated.

  "Fuck," Brandon gasped into my mouth. "Fuck, that feels so good."

  He groaned as if in pain when I pulled my hand back out of his jeans. I shoved his jeans and boxer briefs over his hips, over the perfect lines of his ass and the v-shaped muscles of his abdomen. I knelt down, oblivious to the cold concrete or the fact that any of the neighbors in the taller building could see us clearly if they liked. I only had one thing on my mind.

  "What are you doing? I said I wanted to talk," Brandon said, even as the obvious lust caused his voice to crack, eyes wild as he watched my descent.

  "Fine, you talk. I'll listen." I took him between my lips, effectively gagging him despit
e being the one with a full mouth.

  His hands immediately found their way into my hair, subtly urging me on.

  "Skylar––fuck!" His words choked in his throat as I continued my work. "I...you know...oh my...shit!"

  His breathing became more and more erratic until at last, his hands tightened in my hair and he started to rock slightly with the rhythm I had set. It didn't take long. One, two, three more times, and his entire body tensed. Brandon swore profusely, and I finished him off. Slowly. And savored every. Single. bit.

  When I pulled back, Brandon was leaning completely against the railing to support his sagging weight, his face looking up to the dark night sky. His broad chest rose and fell dramatically as he worked to catch his breath. Every muscle of his legs was on display and fully tensed, the bright moonlight above us drawing shadows around their long, lean lines.

  I reached to where my purse lay discarded on the concrete and stood up. All vestiges of my lust were fading fast, even though I hadn't come anywhere near completion myself. I still wanted him––God, I wanted him more than anything––but I couldn't, and not only because I wouldn't be medically cleared to do that for another two or three weeks. I couldn't because while this aching I felt, the knowledge that we just couldn't work anymore, had abated as I lost myself in him and made him lose himself in me, it had only gotten worse after.

  I suddenly felt tired. And discarded. And ashamed. And heartbroken all over again.

  I felt the remnants of gravel still sticking to my kneecaps, and the uncomfortable binding of this stupidly tight dress. I felt the taste of him in my mouth, and the feel of him against my fingers. The unrelenting throb of wanting him still coursed through my entire body, but my skin felt so fragile, like I was made of impossibly thin glass.

  I felt like I was going to break.

  Before Brandon even had a chance to pull his pants up, I fled.

  "Skylar!" his voice rang out just before the heavy door slammed shut behind me. Before he could open it again, I had raced down the three flights of stairs and into my apartment.