Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2)

by Nicole French

  "Don't you have anything less clunky?" Eric asked with a nonplussed shrug. "Stilettos would be hot."

  With a withering glance at Eric, Jane said, "Pay no attention to Justin Bieber. He liked his women teetering so they are easily immobilized."

  Eric scowled. "I resent that."

  Jane tipped her head toward my right foot. "Obviously the red. They go with the whole Bettie Page vibe you've got going on. Nicely done, by the way."

  Then she opened my nightstand drawer and threw a handful of condoms at Eric. Two hit him in the face.

  "Jane!" I yelped. "What the hell?"

  Jane smirked at Eric, who just glowered while he gathered up the multi-colored packages littering his lap.

  "I thought he needed some help with his accessories too," she said sweetly.

  "That's so thoughtful, Jane," Eric said as he dropped the condoms on my desk. "So kind of you to help a guy stay safe."

  "Oh, they're not for your safety," Jane retorted. "They're for whatever godforsaken girl you convince to let you up her skirt. Just remember, Eric, no means no."

  I rolled my eyes. "You guys are impossible."

  I pulled the boot off and grabbed the other sandal, opting for height since my date stood nearly a foot taller than me.

  "Come here, Ms. Pin-up," Jane said.

  She pulled her lanky limbs up from the bed and went to my desk, where I kept the small box containing my spare selection of cosmetics. She pushed Eric out of the seat and shoved me down in his place. Eric just scoffed and stalked out to wait in the living room, but I did catch his quick brown eyes flicker back to Jane for a second before leaving.

  "Mascara and lips," Jane dictated as she squatted down to fix my makeup.

  I obediently looked up while she touched on mascara. Jane was a whiz with cosmetics; she'd been fixing my face since we met.

  "Thanks," I said. "I can't go out anymore, you know, now that I don't have you to do this for me."

  She grabbed lip liner and lipstick and motioned for me to open my mouth slightly so she could apply them.

  "I have to make you miss me for something," Jane teased as she drew the bright red around my mouth. "Brandon's not going to be able to see anything else when he looks at you. The only thing that'll go through his head is 'fuck that P.I.'."

  I didn't respond. I didn't want to think about the fact that I wouldn't be able to go home with Brandon for multiple reasons. Jane had already heard all about our public relations problem. Just the fact that he had agreed to meet me in a crowded bar, no matter how dark it would be, was a risk.

  She pulled back with satisfaction, and I smacked my lips in the mirror.

  "You missed your calling, Janey," I said appreciatively. "You should have been a makeup artist."

  "Nah, I'm more of a glamor-by-night-only kind of gal these days," she said, looking at her work with approval. "I had to get rid of my streaks and cut my hair all the same length. Something about a preferred court attire." She scowled. "Fascists."

  I put the lipstick into the small cross-body purse I was bringing with me and stood up. "All right. Let's get Eric and head out. And you––be nice!"

  ~

  After finishing a short, but effective pub crawl that meandered through most of Allston, we ended up at Great Scott just after the warm-up act's set, around ten. Jane and Eric had gotten along surprising well all evening, and Jane had amazingly stayed with us the entire time instead of picking up men at the bars. It was ironic, really, that she spent so much time giving Eric shit about habits that matched her own.

  Considering that the band was only in the beginning stages of setting up their equipment, the venue wasn't terribly crowded, and we were able to find stools at one of the small tables in the middle, right next to one of the tall wood pillars that held up the roof.

  "Pitcher?" Eric asked, pointing two fingers at Jane and me.

  "I'll share one with you," Jane said.

  "I'll stick with whiskey soda," I said.

  Eric ducked into the crowd toward the bar, and I caught Jane watching him for a moment before she swiveled back to me.

  I raised a brow. "You're looking pretty hard in that direction, Janey," I said. "And the two of you have been awfully friendly tonight. I haven't heard you call him 'Petri Dish' once."

  Jane rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Please," she said. "Been there, got tested for it." She scrunched her face up, however, in a look that was slightly regretful. "It would help if he weren't so damn cute, though."

  I glanced back at Eric. He wasn't exactly my type: lanky and way too much of a player. But I could see the appeal, just like most of the other women in the bar appeared to see. The guy had charisma.

  "He's got a cute butt," I conceded.

  "Whose butt are you looking at?"

  I twirled around to find Brandon standing behind me, wearing a pair of black jeans, black Converse, and a plain white T-shirt. He looked like he had walked out of a James Dean movie. I wanted to devour him.

  "Hi," I said with a grin, while I completely ignored his question. "You're here."

  "I'm here." He said leaned down to give me a brief, urgent kiss that still managed to warm me to my toes. "Hey there, Jane. Welcome back."

  "Hi, Brandon," Jane replied as she accepted his polite kiss on the cheek. She looked him over critically, tapping her chin with a black-painted fingernail. "You going to a rumble later on? You look like a West Side Story extra."

  Brandon rolled his eyes, but stuck his fingers into his pockets. The movement made his triceps test the constraints of his rather thin T-shirt. "Glad to see you still have your unique sense of humor, Jane."

  "You just have too many people kissing your ass all the time, Sterling," Jane said sweetly as she slid off her stool. "I work for the government now, so you better be careful. You might have to kiss my ass one of these days."

  "Where are you going?" I asked. "You don't have to leave. This is our night out. He's just a bystander."

  "Thanks!" Brandon said, pretending to be hurt.

  Jane just smiled as she looked between the two of us. "No, it's okay. I'm toasted right now, so you know there's only one cure for that. Locate wherever Eric parked the pitcher and find some fun of my own."

  She turned and surveyed the club, which was quickly filling up with people, and zeroed in on a decent-looking guy about ten feet from us. He noticed her too, and held up his drink.

  "And there's my fun now," Jane said. "See you later, kids." And with that, she walked around Brandon, snapping her fingers as she sang: "When you're a Jet, you're a jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dyin' day!"

  Brandon watched with skeptical amusement until Jane had disappeared into the crowd. Then his blue eyes seared over me as he took in my uncharacteristically revealing shirt and Jane's makeup job. I blushed, an effect that was likely only exacerbated by the rosy hue already on my cheeks from having a few drinks.

  He let out a low whistle, his wide brow furrowed as if in pain. "God damn. I don't know if it's because I've barely seen you in the last two months, but...Jesus. You're not going to make this going-slow thing easy on me, are you, Red?"

  I gave him a shy smile and didn't answer, just reached over and pulled him to me by the edge of his shirt. Like Jane, I was a bit toasted too.

  "I said go slow," I whispered as he came close enough to be nose to nose, "not be monks."

  Brandon gave me a wicked grin. "Sounds good to me," he said, and lowered his lips to mine.

  "Ahem."

  We broke apart, somewhat irritably, to find Eric standing next to us with a full pitcher, two pint glasses, and my whiskey soda, looking obviously uncomfortable with catching his boss and his roommate making out for the second time in twenty-four hours. Brandon stepped away, and I gratefully accepted the drink.

  "Thanks," I said. "Next round's on me."

  "Uh huh," Eric said. "Where did Jane go?" He scanned the growing crowd.

  "She went...exploring," I said.

  For s
ome reason, it felt odd to tell Eric that Jane was chasing tail somewhere in the crowd. I knew he was under no pretense about Jane's nocturnal habits, but there was something about the way he'd been looking at her all night that made me hold back.

  Eric looked awkwardly back at Brandon and me, then gave Brandon a fake interview smile.

  "Mr. Sterling," he said. "It's nice to see you again."

  "Nice to see you too, Eric."

  Brandon shook his outstretched hand, then sat down on the stool behind me and scooted my seat backward so I was cradled between his legs. I settled against him, practically purring at the feel of his warm skin through his thin T-shirt. I leaned onto his shoulder, and Brandon wrapped an arm around my waist, tugging me even closer so he could gently kiss my neck.

  "Right," said Eric with thinly veiled discomfort. "I'm going to go bring Jane her beer."

  I couldn't blame him. It had to be hard watching your employer and your roommate cozy up together, but in my half-drunk state, I didn't have much of a desire to hold back. Not after craving this man's touch for over two months.

  Without waiting for a reply, Eric started to weave through the crowd, clearly eager to be rid of us.

  Brandon chuckled. "I think we offended your roommate's delicate constitution," he said before biting lightly on my earlobe.

  His thumb started to toy over the bared skin of my stomach. I shivered, and not because I was cold.

  "He's not offended," I said, even as I leaned into Brandon's deft touch. "Just wait until he's found his girl-of-the-night. He's just weirded out because you're his boss." I closed my eyes briefly as Brandon’s tongue touched the soft skin right behind my ear. Then they opened again as something else occurred to me. "Why don't you tell him to call you Brandon? It might be less weird if he didn't have to say 'Mr. Sterling' every time he saw you."

  "I will, eventually. It's just kind of fun to fuck with him."

  I twisted my head around, and Brandon flashed me a wolfish grin.

  "You are so bad," I chided, even though I couldn't hide my own smile.

  Brandon immediately captured my chin with his free hand and pulled me in for another brief kiss. "Want me to prove it?" he growled.

  He kissed me again, this time much deeper and much longer. The arm around my stomach locked around my mid-section, a trap I didn't ever want to escape. Brandon's hand rested over my stomach, and his fingers teased the top of my jeans, dipping under the coarse material and then briefly back out.

  Brandon groaned and broke away. I turned in his arms to face him and leaned back against the table. He looked me over again and rubbed a hand over his face.

  "Slow, huh?"

  I just bit my lip and nodded, even though it was just as hard for me to keep my hands off him. Still, I didn't really have a choice, I reminded myself with a pang of guilt that I pushed away. This was just how it had to be for another week or two.

  He groaned again. "You're killing me here, Red. You couldn't have just worn a burlap sack or something?"

  I giggled and took a sip of whiskey. "I'll wrap a bedsheet around me like a toga next time."

  Brandon squinted, like he was trying to imagine me in the get-up, then shook his head. "Nope, it's no use. You'd be smokin' hot in anything." With another brief kiss and a frustrated grunt, he pushed off the table. "I'm going to get a drink."

  The lights in the club dimmed, and a cheer rose from the gathered crowd as the band took the small stage. I slid off my stool and stood as tall as I could, buoyed by the extra height of my sandals. The club was getting hotter by the minute, stoked by the crush of bodies and the hot stage lights.

  With the harsh thrum of the infectious baseline, the band launched immediately into a cover of "I Wanna Be Sedated," familiar enough that even punk virgins like myself would know it. I found myself bobbing my head in time with the music and finishing my drink much faster than I probably should have.

  A hand slipped around my waist; Brandon had returned, sipping on a pint of beer. He set another whiskey soda and a water on the table beside us.

  "Thought you might need a refill," he called into my ear.

  "Thanks."

  I took the water gratefully and drank half of it in one gulp. I was starting to feel pretty buzzed, but not so much that I was too out of it to have a good time. Brandon watched with clear approval as I downed the rest of my water before picking up my drink.

  "They're pretty good," he shouted.

  I nodded; it was really too loud to have any kind of conversation. Every so often I got a flash of Jane moshing at the front of the crowd while Eric lurked a few people back. Brandon's hand returned to my waist, and I was all too aware of the fact that there was nothing between my bare skin and the slightly callused pads of his fingertips. Despite the sheen of sweat on my forehead, I broke out in goosebumps.

  I didn't know most of the songs played, but the band was solid and full of energy. More and more, however, I became increasingly conscious of the play of Brandon's fingers at my waist. After he finished his beer, he had rested both hands at my hips, sometimes pulling me close to fold his arms under my breasts, but mostly just keeping me close while his fingers played with my shirt, my navel, the lines of my stomach.

  At one point, when the band broke into a slow cover of The Clash's "Lover's Rock," Brandon pushed my hair so it hung down one shoulder and gave him access to the other. His nose trailed up and down my neck. Suddenly I couldn't move, locked in his embrace and in the feel of his lips. His thumbs slid under the tops of my jeans, thumbnail grazing just at the edge of my lace underwear.

  He hummed low, vibrating his stubbled cheek across the soft skin just under my jaw. I couldn't help but arch against him, pressing against the hardness I could now feel very clearly against my back.

  "You're playing with fire there, Red," he murmured.

  The light scratch of his stubble made me arch again, and this time a low moan escaped my throat. His hands clenched at my jeans, then moved around my waist and down to squeeze my ass.

  "Brandon," I breathed suddenly unable to speak clearly.

  All of me seemed to be standing erect for him; I was glad we were in the middle of a dark room, since my skin was likely the color of my hair. Brandon moved his hand back around my waist, up to the edge of my cropped tank, where his fingers slid just under, teasing at the edge of my bra, and then back down again to tug on my waistband.

  "What is it, Red?" he asked as he continued to torment.

  The band didn't exist anymore. No one existed anymore. And I couldn't take this torture for one more second.

  I turned around in his arms, and wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Although he was surprised at first, it didn't take him long to get equally wrapped up in me, reaching down to grab my ass hard as his mouth opened hungrily. We were so eager to get closer, uncaring of the fact that we were basically devouring each other in a room full of people.

  The song came to an end, and Brandon stopped with it. Even in the dim light of the club, his eyes flashed and it almost looked like he was vibrating. "Come with me."

  Without waiting for a response, he practically dragged me through the horde of bodies. We continued past the entrance of the club where a doorman was still checking IDs, and down a dark hallway. Brandon shuffled past the bathrooms, turning knobs on other doors, checking for someplace, any place where we could escape.

  The fourth door in the hall opened, and we tumbled into a closet that seemed to be filled with shelves of music equipment and cleaning materials. Brandon grinned with a lopsided smile that was equal parts lust and mirth. I opened my mouth to protest, but he wasn't in the mood to listen. He shut the door, enclosing us in darkness. Then he attacked.

  While his fingers had only flirted earlier, now they were everywhere: in my hair, down the back of my jeans, under my shirt. My shirt was yanked up and over the lace cups of my bra, giving Brandon access to the soft, sensitive nubs that hardened under the thin fabric. His lips fastened to one,
sucking while I pawed at the hem of his T-shirt. My fingers met thick ridges of muscle, and when I moaned at the contact, he returned to plunder my mouth again. He palmed my breasts roughly, grunting against my tongue while our bodies banging into the shelves and knocked over invisible objects.

  "Fuck," Brandon gasped against my lips. "Fuck, I want you so fucking bad right now, Skylar. You have no fucking clue."

  Then he broke away, his hands drifting down my ribs and waist like he was tracing the shape of Coke bottle.

  "I want to make you come," he said as his hands found the zipper of my jeans.

  The deep timbre of his voice seemed to fill the small space and vibrated through my chest. The first time we'd ever completely had sex had been in the deserted stairwell of an MIT building, where he'd turned me against the wall and taken me, suddenly and forcefully. I hadn't argued. But the frank admission of his intentions now turned me on even more.

  "Do it," I murmured as I pulled him down for another deep kiss.

  Brandon didn't need any more encouragement. His hands were frenzied storm, undoing my jeans in a few quick, torrid movements and wrenching the coarse material to my knees. He soon found me, playing briefly over my clit before dipping down with the clear intent to slip inside. I stiffened slightly and urged his hand back up so that he only touched what was safe.

  "Just there," I said in between kisses.

  Brandon's mouth stilled for a moment. "You sure?" he asked even as his fingers started to find a consistent rhythm that definitely worked.

  I arched against his hand, my eyes fluttering in the dark at the familiar pulse growing inside me. At some point, Brandon had learned to do this better than I ever could, and it was getting hard to think straight.

  "When you're inside me, I want, um, you inside me," I fibbed through shallow breaths.

  I wanted that to happen right now more than anything, but I had to wait. I couldn't see what he looked like, and maybe it was for the best he couldn't see me. He would probably see the guilt written all over me, fighting with the desire his quick fingers were creating.

  "Your wish is my command," Brandon said as he quickened the pace.