Bedwrecker

by Kim Karr

  Under his heat-filled stare, it is hard not to squirm, but I manage. “Her voice is amazing.”

  He looks away, returning his gaze to the rain coming down in buckets on his windshield. And then his lips twist as he uses the controls on his steering wheel to turn the music down.

  We can’t have that, now, can we. I reach over and use the knob to turn it up, just in time for Carrie to sing about taking her Louisville Slugger to both headlights and then smashing a hole in all four tires of her ex-boyfriend’s pride and joy.

  Now, Keen is not my boyfriend and never has been, and obviously cheating isn’t an issue, but cowardliness is, and this song seems oddly appropriate. Besides, the look on his face is priceless as the lyrics sink in.

  Just for effect, I reach in my purse and jingle my keys as she sings about digging her key into the side of his car and then carving her name into his leather seats.

  My fingers twitch at the thought, and for a moment I get caught up in the idea of doing it. Not that I ever would—I mean it’s not the car’s fault that its owner is such an ass.

  The traffic starts moving and his leg jerks in an exaggerated motion to lay on the gas. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Dare what?” I ask while blinking in mock confusion.

  Those blue eyes pierce me. “You know what.”

  My stomach does that thing again, but I ignore it, and then give him one of my flirty smiles that I swear makes his eyes dance.

  It comes a little too late that my smile is not causing the gleam in his eyes. Rather, it’s Rod Stewart’s voice. “Maggie May” penetrates my ears, and it seems as if Keen somehow managed to fast-forward it right to the part where Rod sings about being kicked in the head.

  That bastard!

  My blood starts to heat. “That is really uncalled for,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He glares at me. “That’s inappropriate, but playing a song about wrecking my car isn’t?”

  “Ugh!”

  All of a sudden the car jerks forward and there’s this loud popping noise that eclipses even Rod’s vocals. Keen has a death grip on the wheel. “Hold on!” he yells.

  Shit, is this karma knocking at my door? If so, I had no intention of ever doing harm to his car, I swear.

  A set of headlights coming at us tells me we are heading in the wrong direction. “Watch out!” I scream, truly fearful that I am going to die an evil woman and forever have my ill treatment of this man on my conscience.

  As the car continues to spin, it pirouettes in such a way that I have to wrench my head around to figure the correct direction we should be headed.

  Seized by fear, I cannot open my mouth wide enough to scream as loud as I want to.

  “I got this, Maggie,” Keen says over the rain and the sound of his car losing control.

  My name on his lips brings me focus with a strange sense that he isn’t going to let anything happen to me.

  Jerking my head in his direction, I watch as he slams his foot down on the brake and then eases off it, pumping it with total competence. And then I watch as he somehow manages to pull the Porsche 911 over to the side of the road in order to avoid crashing into the car in front of him.

  The car comes to a screeching stop and I’m catapulted forward. There’s a weight on my chest that for some reason makes my breath come out in pants that I cannot control. And then my heart starts pounding, and I have some vague idea that my fingers are tingling.

  Rod Stewart’s voice has returned to high-octave level as he tells Maggie May that all she did was wreck his bed and in the morning kick him in the head, and then just like that the music stops.

  There’s a clicking noise. And then another, and then my seat belt is no longer across my chest.

  “Maggie, look at me,” Keen orders as he peels my hands off the dashboard.

  I turn to see his face etched with concern.

  His hands are now squeezing mine. “Tell me you’re okay.”

  Hot. My body is so hot, as if it is the middle of July. “What happened?”

  Those callused palms of his find my face. “A tire blew out. You hit your head on the dash. Are you sure you are okay?”

  “Why are your hands so callused?” I ask.

  “From rock climbing and the boxing gym.”

  I turn his hand in mine and run a finger over the rough calluses. “I was curious why a Wall Street wolf shows signs of physical labor.”

  With a shake of his head, he says, “I take it you’re fine?”

  I look up and meet his gaze. “I think I am, but I’m going to be late for work.”

  He grins at me. “You and me both.”

  “The store will be empty anyway. The torrential rain is bad for business.”

  Keen shrugs out of his suit coat. “That is why Internet sales is one of the first things I want to introduce to Simon Warren.”

  “I agree.”

  Next, Keen undoes the knot of his tie and pulls that off too. “Stay put,” he tells me and then opens his door.

  “Keen,” I call.

  It’s too late. He’s already striding to the front of the Porsche and opening the hood. Guess he has no intention of calling AAA.

  The rain is relentless, lashing the trees, the Porsche, the passing cars, and Keen.

  All I can see is a faint black shape.

  Five minutes.

  Ten.

  Fifteen.

  White bolts of lightning illuminate the sky between claps of thunder. Leaning forward, I squint my eyes and catch sight of his silhouette. Lightning strikes closer and I start to worry about him out there. I open my window and the rain assaults me. “Keen?” I call.

  No answer.

  All I can see is the movement of his faint silhouette.

  And then finally, he slams the hood closed, strides around to the driver’s door, and gets in.

  Rain slicks his hair over his forehead and drips off his nose. His clothes hang sodden, the white shirt made sheer by the water. Muscles bulging. Heart beating. He stares at me, but makes no sound except the slightly raspy hiss of his breath.

  I am already reaching for him when he pulls me to him. “Maggie,” he sighs.

  “Keen,” I whisper.

  His lips hover over my mouth. “You’re right, I was scared. I don’t know why, but I was.”

  I lick around his lip, tasting rain and him. “I was scared too, and I also have no idea why either.”

  Two truths.

  No answers.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Nothing matters anymore.

  Not the past.

  What he did.

  Or how I acted.

  It just doesn’t matter.

  The rain is cold, but he is hot beneath the wetness. With my palms flat to his chest, I begin to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers. When I finish, I pull it open, and for a moment all I can do is stare. I can look at him a hundred times, and I think every time will feel like the first.

  “You know what happened after you left New York? It wasn’t about you, right?”

  I nod.

  “So will you forgive me for shutting you out after New Year’s?”

  I give him a soft smile. “Yes, I think I do. I think I did yesterday. Keen, I get it. I don’t like it, but I do get it. My life has had its fair share of swings, but promise me, whatever happens in the future, you’ll talk to me.”

  “I promise.”

  I run my fingertips up and down his chest.

  “So where do these confessions leave us?” he asks.

  I look at him. “I don’t know.”

  He laughs deep from his throat. His damp hair clings to the sides of his cheeks and on impulse, I reach to smooth away one sleek piece. He turns his face to push his mouth against my hand. “Come here, my little bedwrecker.”

  I don’t know how it happens, but I’m on his lap before I can even think about it—straddling him with his face in my hands and his hungry mouth devouring mine. I taste coffee and rain and feel his wet
hair on the backs of my hands.

  My skirt rides up even farther as his hands slide up my thighs. His skin is like a furnace, burning with such fury that I expect to see steam.

  Keen’s hands cup my ass, pulling me closer. “I want to take you out on a date tonight.”

  My pussy grinds against his belt buckle, the cold metal penetrating through the lace of my panties. “A date, as in picking me up and taking me to a nice restaurant and then a good night kiss at the door?” I giggle around his hot kisses.

  Keen reaches to nudge open the buttons of my blouse and pushes his face against my skin. “I’m pretty sure that’s what a date is.”

  My nipples rise in taut peaks through the lace of my bra. “Yes, I accept your offer, but let’s be clear. A date means a date, and nothing else.”

  Funny thing to say with his hands all over me, I know, but he requested it, not me. “Yes, a date does mean a date.”

  “Just checking. Oh, and I think you should know, I’m not like most girls.”

  His tongue licks at my nipple. “Oh yeah, in what way?”

  I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from crying out. “I don’t drink fruity drinks, I can do a shooter ten times over, and I know what a combo is.”

  Keen leans his head back. “Do I even want to know what all that means?”

  “Listen to the song I was playing earlier, then you’ll get it.”

  “Later,” he murmurs.

  Tilting my head back, I say, “Can I ask you something?”

  He nods, licking around my nipple.

  “Oh, God,” I moan, distracted.

  “You were saying?”

  “If the date is later, then what is this?”

  His lips tighten on one nipple, the heat of his mouth a sharp contrast to the chill of his wet skin. “This is me needing to be inside you.”

  “Oh God,” I moan again, and just as I reach for his belt buckle the sound of a siren and the hint of flashing lights startles me, so much so that I hit my head on the soft top of his roof. “Crap.”

  “Your shirt,” Keen bites out.

  Scrambling to button my blouse, I ignore the fact that I hit my head.

  Fortunately, our heated make-out session steamed up the windows enough that even if the rain weren’t shielding us, the fogged glass will.

  I look down into Keen’s face as he looks up into mine.

  Even another blast of the siren warning us of the officer’s approach doesn’t change what I see.

  Hunger.

  Desire.

  A need so great, I pray I can fill it.

  I lick my lips and taste him.

  I feel him, too, between my legs.

  He licks his lips and I’m certain he can taste the remnants of my kiss.

  “I need to get into my seat,” I whisper.

  He nods, yet doesn’t urge me off him. Instead his hands caress my ass. Pushing me forward again. This time his belt buckle has warmed against me, and under me I can feel the bulge of his erection.

  A moan escapes from my throat at the memory of how good it feels when he’s inside me.

  He pushes a piece of hair from my face, and when he does his back arches and his mouth parts for a kiss, but instead of giving me one, he sits back. “Someone’s coming—you need to move back into your seat.”

  In record time I manage to do so. My skirt is twisted, my blouse disheveled, and my hair a mess, and I honestly don’t care.

  The knock on Keen’s window forces him to open it. An older officer peers in at us. “Everything okay here?”

  “Yes. Sorry, Officer,” he says. “I got a flat and I just finished changing it.”

  “In this weather? You’re crazy, son.”

  The rain is hitting Keen’s face. “It was me or someone else, so I figured I might as well take care of it myself.”

  The officer taps the window. “I’ll help guide you out with my siren. Just follow me.”

  “Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”

  Once he closes the window, Keen looks over at me and laughs. “I never had a police escort for trying to get in a girl’s pants.”

  “Excitement just seems to follow you.”

  He gives me a wink that makes my pulse race. “You got that right.”

  And I did.

  Finally.

  Keen

  West Hollywood is just far enough away from Beverly Hills that I don’t have to worry about running into Mommy Dearest.

  Yeah, I took some crap this morning from Brooklyn about not returning any of her calls, but fuck, I’m just not ready for that shit parade to begin.

  I pull onto Norwich Drive and stop for a moment to admire the architecture of the houses. I grew up in a high-rise in Manhattan. I never had a real yard to play in. Central Park was about as close as I got. New York versus California. I have to admit, that is a hard one.

  The thought has me staring for a bit at each of the homes on the street.

  After Maggie and I arrived at the Simon Warren flagship store this morning, I was whisked away to be showered, measured, fluffed, and folded. For the rest of the day, Maggie and I barely had two seconds to do anything but stare at each other.

  A little after five she informed me she was getting a ride to her mother’s house from one of the salesclerks, and then whispered in my ear with a slight purr that I could pick her up there.

  Talk about distracting.

  After getting steamrolled by the store manager into going out for a drink after he closed up promptly at 6 p.m., I didn’t have time to check into a hotel, or put my dick in check for an evening out with Maggie.

  She had made it pretty clear this date was going to end with just a good-night kiss.

  Let’s see who trumps whom in the willpower category.

  Pulling into the driveway, I look at Maggie’s mother’s house. I’ll give California this: they know how to build houses.

  Katherine May’s private residence is oddly modern and if the words fit together, calming at the same time. It is screened from the street by a dense olive grove. The light-dappled exterior makes it feel like the house is somehow removed from the surrounding neighborhood.

  Very private.

  Something I really admire.

  Talk about two different worlds—Manhattan and West Hollywood couldn’t be more different. And strangely enough, I’m finding myself being drawn into this world.

  City boy.

  California girl.

  Cocky versus sassy.

  Nah, it could never work.

  Jamming the Porsche into park, I want to slap my own face—man up, dude, and stop overthinking everything. You’re not a chick.

  I check my phone for the time.

  Dates are like meetings—you should never be too late or too early. Late screams disinterested and early bleeds of overeagerness. Six fifty-four. Perfect. A minute to get to the door and then five minutes early. Just like when I’d slide into the boardroom before my fall from Wall Street.

  The text I sent her an hour ago remains unanswered.

  Me: Dress down. And don’t wear a bra.

  Hmmm . . . I think I need to remind her that proper phone etiquette dictates acknowledging the receipt of a message.

  Yeah, yeah, I know, the pot calling the kettle back—but we’re over that.

  Opening the wooden gate, I step into a lit pathway that leads to an oversized glass door. At first glance through it, my heart thunders in my chest and I have to suck in a breath to control myself.

  Shit. There goes my dick again.

  Maggie’s in the kitchen, wearing a pair of skintight jeans and a bold printed top held up by thin straps on her sexy shoulders. Her hair is down and the front braided to the side.

  Fuck me right now, but I want to break out singing the Beach Boys classic “California Girls,” and yeah, maybe give that braid a tug from behind, with both of us naked.

  Refocusing, I look through the glass with the biggest smirk on my face. She’s standing at the kitchen counter and s
hooting a glass of what I have to assume is whiskey.

  She wasn’t kidding when she said she isn’t like most girls.

  Here’s the thing—that’s what I find attractive as hell about her. Like really fucking attractive.

  An overwhelming need to taste her overcomes me, and I ring the bell at the same time she brings her head forward.

  Our eyes connect, and I swear that the lightning I stood outside in earlier decides to finally strike.

  Setting her glass down, she walks toward me, and I notice right away the different-colored Converse on her feet. One green and one blue. Her quirky sense of style makes my wide-ass smirk even wider, if that is possible.

  She just has to be a rebel.

  Reminds me of myself, except I rebelled in very different ways. My anger about my mother leaving me behind was something I never could shake.

  Sure, the famous Emma Fairchild was involved in my life as far as sending a check to my old man to finance a nice place for me to live, my private school, and whatever shit I needed that he couldn’t afford, but that was about as far as her mothering went.

  So to get her attention, I acted out.

  Smoking pot in the bathroom during high school assemblies. Skipping finals just because. Fucking teachers because they were attracted to me. My mother never reacted, but it certainly left my old man pulling his hair right out of his head. Honestly, I’d take back all that shit I caused him if I could.

  The door swings open and all I can smell is Maggie. All I can see is Maggie. And all I can feel is Maggie. She has launched herself at me and thrown her arms around my neck, finding my lips in the heartbeat of a second it takes me to figure out this is real, and not some fantasy I’m imagining for jerk-off purposes.

  Of course in that fantasy she’d be naked, coated head to toe in whipped cream, and have cherries on her titties. Immature, yeah, I know, but it’s my fantasy.

  Panting and out of breath, I pull back. “Maggie . . .” I exhale slowly.

  Those bright blue eyes of hers sparkle when they lift. “Hi.”

  Taken completely off guard by this, my hands somehow end up on her ass, and I consider my options here.

  “Is your face going to remain the perfect picture of desire?”

  Decision made, I push her ass right into my straining erection. “Depends on what you do next.”