by Brooke May
I’m a fucking dipshit.
Her lips quirk again, and her hand slides easily into mine; her smaller, tanned, and tatted one enveloped by my hulking one. I used to want tats on my hands, but when I settled on this profession, I knew it wasn’t a good idea. I’m slightly envious of her freedom to get ink wherever she likes.
What happens when we touch in the most innocent of ways is something beyond my comprehension. A new sensation takes hold of me; my chest pulls something from deep in my soul and it quakes to life in a way no other woman has ever done to me before. For the first time in years. I can breathe again, taking in fresh air previously denied to my body by the guilt consuming me. The damp air I was taking in feels moist, old, and dank as if I were locked in a musky basement for all this time.
My eyes strain to find any subtle nuance to indicate she feels the same as I do. But there is nothing. Her gaze is penetrating, but it seems my body is the only one with every single nerve on fire.
“Axle.” My name is deep, husky like a sex phone operator on her lips. The kind of voice made for rough, uncontrollable sex. My dick jumps in my trousers. It is a rasp compared to the yelling she was just doing.
Just as soon as I get her hand, it is gone and I realize they are all waiting for me to continue with our meeting. All three sets of eyes watch as I straighten back to my full height, tugging on my vest as I regain control of myself.
Clearing my throat, I drag my eyes away from the sea green magnets that have me captivated and focus back on the task at hand.
“Right.” I my throat clear again and compose myself to the best of my ability. Raising the clicker to focus on the PowerPoint, I pick up my proposal to get back to work.
But I’m not given the chance to do anything before Candy snatches it out of my hand. “Thank you, Axle.”
Fucking bitch.
“You could have tried to dress nicer.” Parker’s remark is laced with humor rather than being snide, and it halts any progress on my PowerPoint.
“You said to dress nice. This is fucking nice.” Turning back to the group, I find Paige’s gaze impassive even as she answers her brother. It is a little unnerving, but I’m intrigued at the same time. I’ve never met a woman before who does not outwardly express her emotions.
Focusing my gaze on the center of the table—that way I’m not driven mad from staring at the woman—I begin again. “From the numbers we received, we have discovered that if your former accountant had not have been embezzling from you, your resources could have broadened Piston Motor Sports far greater than you currently are.”
I’ll save you from the snooze-fest with the rest of the number talk because it will put you to sleep, and I don’t want that for you. I go on to explain how our firm can better help the twins with their business; the different ventures they can possibly explore, bringing in more riders from different motor sports, and of course, that we are the best value for the money. In other words, more bang for their buck.
We suck them off, and they can walk away with just throwing money at us like pretty little whores.
And somehow, I managed to get it all out of my mouth without stumbling over my words or getting tongue-tied. Paige’s eyes never wander off me even when she or her brother asked a question and Candy jumped in to explain.
We end my PowerPoint, and just as I’m about to give my proposal, Candy stands, effectively cutting me off.
Bitch.
I knew I should have never put in the effort like I did, knowing she would take it from me.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Ryan. I can take it from here.” Candy comes to stand where I am, bumping me back and effectively blocking me from doing anything more.
This is typical in my work life. I told you, I’m the fucking grunt.
“Right.” My jaw flexes under the pressure I put on my molars. Forcing a smile, I direct my attention to the twins. Parker is staring at Candy while Paige’s unwavering gaze remains on me. “Thank you for your time.” With a nod, I literally stomp out of the room. My size thirteen leather shoes would slap against the flooring if it wasn’t for the carpet covering it.
I’m a raging fucking bull.
The door is too light so my hostile jerk of it bangs it against the wall once more. It doesn’t bounce back this time; instead it stays locked with the wall. There is probably a hole, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck about it. I’m halfway to the lift when I hear Paige finally speak again.
“Why isn’t he finishing this?”
“Yeah, he was doing a great job.” Parker snickers as he again attempts to replicate my accent.
“Mr. Ryan has other matters to attend to. He specializes in …” The door finally clicks closed, and I glance over my shoulder to see Candy glaring at me from the wall of windows while giving the rest of her lame-arse excuse after she makes sure the door is closed.
What did I expect?
That this time would be different?
That I would actually get one of the accounts I helped bring into this firm?
“Yeah, fucking right.” My thumb slams the call button to open the lift door, possibly breaking it as well.
Thankfully, it is on this floor, so I step in quickly and head back down to my floor. I really need to think of changing my career or at least the firm I work for. But knowing the luck I seem to have anymore, it wouldn’t surprise me if I was blackballed in the rest of this town.
My blood thunders in my ears the whole way down and as I march my way back to my desk. I slam my colossus body into my chair, which is held together by duct tape and a ratchet strap.
Yeah, they really take great care of us here. Well, at least me.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I worked my arse off on that project the banshee bitch just stole from me.
Grabbing my pencil, I start flipping it from lead to eraser and back again several times, getting lost in thought of what I should be doing now. It’s Friday, so it makes no sense to start something new only to leave it for the weekend.
Minutes fly by and when I’m just about to lose my shit, Charlie, the wombat and the only other person to come near me, waddles over to me with his fat buck-toothed face smiling at me. He is the other who dares to speak to me, and I can’t fucking stand him.
“How’s it going, mate?”
With Paige Bartin no longer watching me, my blood boils at his attempt. I bloody hate it when Yanks it’s awesome to use my country’s slang when they speak to me or about anything hailing from Australia.
“Bonzer.” I throw at him, biting it out. Knowing full well my answer will fly right over his head. However, I am not great at the moment. Does it count I’m giving him the two-finger salute in my mind? Because both those thick babies—my middle fingers—are waving at him right now.
“It’s been floating around the rumor mill there might be some layoffs soon.” I ignore my desk’s wail of protest as he leans against it, putting one of his legs on it.
Does anyone respect boundaries?
He fails to pique my interest. I usually am pretty good at paying attention to shit like this, but I’m over it right now. It happens when you know you could be shit canned at any time. I’m not completely sure how I’ve managed to stay afloat so far.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, if Candy can’t land the contract she is hashing out right now, there will be some major cutbacks.”
This is a well-to-do firm, so where the hell has the money gone? Mr. Havre, just like Mr. Bell, is just like Candy, fake and enhanced. They spend money like crazy, but I can’t imagine them dipping into the company funds.
“You mean if she doesn’t get Piston Motor Sports?” Oddly, I’m hoping she doesn’t. Fuck this job. Seeing her lose a contract would be oh, so worth handing out resumes.
“That one.” He snaps and points his engorged finger at me in confirmation. “It makes me nervous. Most of us have families and mortgages, and we can’t afford to lose our jobs.”
My eyes pinch together.
/>
See that?
Yeah, the pompous, self-righteous, holier-than-thou expression he has going on? He’s hoping I’ll be on the chopping block since I’m single, living in a flat with a roommate, and overall no good in his eyes.
Fuck you, you judgmental arsehole.
I’m done with this conversation. And since it is Friday and I have absolutely nothing fucking better to do, I stand from my desk and pack my shit to take off. I don’t say good-bye to him; I don’t even look at him because the man, if you want to call him that, isn’t one in my eyes. He is a lazy, overweight prick who cheats on his wife.
Yet I’m what is wrong with society. I don’t have anything aside from my keys and mobile to take with me when I leave for the weekend. I’m normally a hard worker and take something home, but today, I don’t give a flying shit.
It’s five, so I’m free to leave whenever I want. I don’t bother to put my jacket on and throw it over my shoulder instead while securing my piece of shit shades over my constant glare. Loosening my tie, I push the doors open and exit the building right into a cloud of smoke.
My jaw clenches and my fist tightens around my keys at the delicious scent of a cigarette. I haven’t had one in so long, and today, out of all days, feels like a good one to break my streak. The hot sun beats down on me and the other person outside the building.
Turning my head with a question of snagging a cigarette on the tip of my tongue, I freeze when I lock onto luscious, exotic red lips in a perfect pucker around the cancer stick.
Lucky little fucker.
Let me make this completely clear, no woman alive outside my mum has the power to silence me so completely and overwhelmingly with a single gesture. Paige pulls the cigarette from her lips, but the picturesque pucker stays firmly in place as she pushes the smoke out of her lungs and through her lips.
Holy fuck.
The magnificent shape is lost when one side of her lips lifts in a grin. On her, it is dark, sensual; nothing is light about this woman’s appearance or demeanor.
“Want one?” Her voice just reinforces the wicked promises her appearance holds. I want to know more; like a fish to a worm on a hook, I’m pulled in.
Clearing my throat, I look around because frankly, this kind of pisses me off. I don’t like acting like a tongue-tied teenager around attractive women. And Paige Bartin is one attractive woman.
“Looking for someone?”
“Umm …” Keeping myself from overheating or choking or some shit, I pop the button of my collar before looking back at her. The second my eyes land back on her, her gaze is drawn down to the small exposed flesh I revealed under my throat. A small glimpse of my chest tattoo. “Weren’t you in the meeting?”
Her thick lashes flutter as her eyes roll upward into her eyelids. “Fuck that shit. If I want to deal with a dog and pony show, I would just stay at the garage.” Her lips wrap around her cigarette once again.
“Then why wait around here?” I’ve never been this awkward before. That isn’t going to fly, kiddies. I always remain calm when it comes to talking to any member of the opposite sex. Right now, I’m fidgeting with my fucking keys like a girl at the end of a date expecting a foot popping kiss.
“Parker likes the show.” Taking one last drag, she flicks it to the ground and grinds the cherry out with the tip of her boot. I can’t help but watch how her leg arches out to spin on the tip and put the butt out fully.
Shit.
“Really?”
This is not how I thought my Friday afternoon would go. I’m growing hard for this woman, and I don’t even know her. My dick’s about to make a very fascinating moment in this interesting day.
“But he can just suck it.” My eyes close as they roll behind my shades, and I bite down on my tongue with those last two words. Never have I seen someone ooze sexuality like Paige.
The best part?
Ready for it?
She doesn’t give a flying fuck how turned on she is making me.
Yeah, I love that shit.
“See you around, Oz.” She pulls her shades from her jacket pocket and walks away, swaying her fine arse over to a pitch black Suzuki Hayabusa and straddling it. A low, nearly silent whistle passes through my lips as I take in the bike.
It’s a nice bike, a fast bike, and top it with the woman driving … it will make one for my spank bank.
Oh yeah, I’m jerking off tonight.
When she pulls a blacked-out helmet over her head, my daze isn’t broken; I’m just pushed further into intrigue. I remain unable to move to my truck when I really want to crawl on my knees to beg this woman to bed me.
I will never go that low.
Sex should be easy, and nothing about this woman screams it would be easy. Hard, dark, deep, punishing, and maybe a little BDSM in there, but not easy.
Once I’m in my truck, the heaviness I felt seeps back into my soul. Starting up the truck, I look out the windshield and see Paige still on her bike. Her helmet covered head is facing me, but I have no way to know if she is looking at me.
Putting all my weight into the clutch, I throw my truck into gear and drive off, deciding to stop and grab some beers for the weekend because Jax and I finished off what we had last night. I’m going to avoid the heavy shit this time, but I need something to drown in.
Instead of listening to music, I roll down my window and just let the wind whip around the cab. I don’t think about anything because really, what can I possibly think about that I haven’t already thought of a million times over?
My instincts take me to the convenience store I frequent close to the flat. I lurch to a stop, slide my massive frame from the cab, and head into the store to grab a case of whatever shit I feel like consuming tonight.
“Hey, Ax.” The clerk waves to me, not really paying any attention as he sits on his stool behind the counter and works on a crossword puzzle.
“Clark.” Nodding to him, I make my way back to the coolers. The chilly air blasts across my face when I open the door and bend over to grab a case. Making my way to the counter, I pass through the magazines and find one that catches my eye.
Maxim.
And it is an issue I haven’t seen yet. It’s the sexiest women in motorsports feature, and right there on the cover, straddling the bike I just saw her on, in nothing but a G-string and a tiny arse bikini top straining against the heaviness of her breasts, is Paige.
Fuck the spank bank.
Chapter Three
The old truck moans and in a good way when I stop us in my designated spot in the car park by my flat. The old girl lurches to a complete stop, jerking my body forward. Normally, I sit for a moment to decompress from all the events of any given day, but tonight, I don’t give a flying fuck.
Grabbing my purchases, I head into the ground level flat I share with Jax. Certain lifts in our complex were equipped for wheelchairs, so. Jax had tried to convince me we could live on a higher level, but the ground felt better for me. There wouldn’t be a chance I would take a leap off the top if we were any higher.
Turning my key in the lock, I don’t hear the normal click that always follows. When the door swings open on its own accord, I step in the threshold and stop.
Wait a tit …
Soft melodies of some crap Megan likes to listen to drifts from somewhere in the flat. Grunting, I drop my head back to rest on my shoulders. Blinking up at the top part of the doorframe, I shake my head.
Fucking bonzer.
Just who I didn’t want to deal with tonight.
Tilting my head farther back, I’m not surprised when I spot Megan’s little lavender Faut—also known as the beer can—parked down in a guest spot.
You may be thinking; hold a tit, who is this Megan? Doesn’t he have enough interesting women in his life already?
Your answer would be no— no, I don’t, and at the same time, yes, I do. See, I don’t have the right woman in my life yet. I know she is out there. I’m sure there is a woman out there made to put up with
my bullshit. Hell, look at my mum. That wonderful woman can put up with my dad with no problem.
It gives me hope because I am much worse than my old man.
But back to Megan.
Megan Welan was one of the first girls I met when I moved here. Thin, with barely a curve, a nice B-cup, her face was round with freckles on her upper cheeks, and deep strawberry blond hair. I thought she was a magnificent person and not a bad fuck either.
We had developed a fun friendship; one that entailed I could fuck her brains out with no strings attached whenever I felt the urge and didn’t want to work for pussy. Fuck buddies, friends with benefits, whatever the fuck you want to say about us—that’s how we have worked for the past few years.
Until recently …
So why am I griping about a sure thing waiting for me in my own home? Possibly cooking a nice dinner for me before offering her body to me?
Simple really.
It’s the same old song and dance that happens with relationships like this; one person gets clingy while the other still doesn’t give a fuck and lack what the other needs.
In the past year, dear sweet Meg started to develop stronger feelings for me and has been showering said feelings on me.
I don’t like it.
At all!
Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great person; kind, sweet, and a big heart, plus she has a tight pussy and can handle all of me.
Don’t look at my dick!
Don’t be a freak.
Yeah, I don’t look like much. I’m a grower, not a shower.
Anyway!
Give me a moment and you’ll see what I mean.
Pursing my lips, I trudge into the flat; the very one Jax is conveniently not in at the moment. I curse the man for giving Megan a key in the first place. She’s been pushing to move in with us or the two of us finding our own place for the past couple of months. I need to fuck her brains out, steal the key back, and then claim innocence when she asks what happened to it.
Or change the locks.
Tossing my keys and shades into the bowl next to the door, I make my way to the back of the flat where the kitchen is located. Humming along to one of her girly songs, Meg is bent over, pulling something from the oven when I enter.
