by Lane Hart
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Stomach not doing flips?” I ask.
Reagan rubs her palm over her flat stomach in thought. “Nope, just hungry. Wanna grab some lunch?” she asks. “I could really go for a roasted corn fiesta bowl from that Hawaiian joint down the street.”
“Ah, sure, but can we make it quick? I think Lawson’s waiting on me at the garage,” I say, a flush warming my face when I remember his parting words before he left my apartment this morning. “Meet me at the garage after you see your friend and don’t wear anything you don’t want me to tear off of you or stain.”
“Ugh,” Reagan grumbles as she grabs her hobo purse and keys. “You’re already one of those couples, ditching everyone and everything else to be together.”
“No, we’re not!” I reply indignantly. “It’s just really new and great and…don’t you have your soulmate to go find?”
“Yeah, you have a date with Mr. Perfect, and I have a date with destiny,” she says with an eye roll.
“Well, watch out, because that shit is liable to spank you in the ass when you least expect it,” I warn her with a little Freudian slip foreshadowing of how I expect my afternoon to go with Lawson.
“Don’t worry,” Reagan says as we step out onto the sidewalk so she can lock up the apartment door. “I’m ready for anything.”
“Ha! We’ll see about that,” I respond with a laugh.
Epilogue
Lawson
Three months later…
“We’re closed,” I huff from underneath the car, not bothering to slide out. Yet. “And you’re not supposed to be back here.”
“But…but I…I need my car,” she says with a fake stammer, and I can’t help my smile.
“Did we call you? Didn’t think so, toots, because it’s not ready,” I tell her when I roll out, unable to resist seeing her even though it’s only been a few hours since I woke her up with her legs on my shoulders, and her first words were to beg me to fuck her harder.
Taking her in now, my first thought is, It would be so fucking fun to dirty her up.
My second thought as I stare up at this beautiful woman is, I have a girlfriend, but hopefully not for much longer.
Josie’s tight, sky blue dress shows off every curve of her bangin’ body, and her mile-high heels make her lovely legs even more tempting. This was her first week working for her new boss, Clark Bell. After he took over all of her retired boss’s cases, he needed two assistants because he was already swamped with his own clients. Josie was so relieved that she gets to stay with the firm she loves; and I was, of course, ecstatic that she wouldn’t be leaving the city anytime soon.
It’s funny how things can change so drastically over just a few months. I went from stressing over my business and ignoring the bitch I was living with so that I wouldn’t have to deal with her, to everything working out just fine. All it took was a little help from my employees and implementing their ideas and my dad getting me a loan with a much better interest rate than five years ago for the building and land the garage sits on. I have to say that I was surprised by how much everyone wanted to help out. And then, of course, there’s Josie. The girl of my dreams, beautiful inside and out, with a killer personality and sense of humor.
Since we officially became a couple, I ended my lease and moved in with her, not to save money, but because I spent more time in her apartment than my own. When Josie told me she wanted me to make it official, even after the hellishness of living with my ex, I didn’t hesitate for a second before Josie and I became roomies. She’s my best friend. My parents and friends adore her, and I love her so much that it makes me crazy.
Maybe a love potion or fate or a higher power led her to me. All I know is that every day I’m thankful she unexpectedly walked into my life.
While she’s eye-fucking me in my coveralls that I intentionally pulled down to my waist, knowing she was coming by, I tell her, “Just so you know, I have a girlfriend.”
“Good for you, and her, too,” Josie says with a stunning smile, while licking her luscious lips. My cock jerks at the memory of just how good that mouth can make it feel. While the heat between my ex and I may have sizzled out quickly, I don’t see that happening with Josie, ever. “Your girlfriend is a very lucky woman,” she says when she moves over top of me, straddling my waist. I love how the move makes her skirt bunch up around her upper thighs, so far I can see that she’s wearing a matching sky blue, lace thong.
As soon as her heat grinds down on my erection, we both shout out a curse, hers louder than mine
“Watch your mouth,” I tell her with a smirk. “Or do you want a spanking?”
“You wouldn’t,” she replies softly, moving her hips on me so good I forget my own name. It starts with an L.
“Oh, I would,” I warn her, reaching around to lift the bottom of her dress higher. When her ass is exposed, except for the thin piece of fabric down the center, I haul back and smack it. That only makes Josie dry hump me harder. And the time for foreplay is definitely over.
“Please tell me you have a condom,” she says, because that’s how we roll. Sometimes it feels like the two of us can read each other’s minds. And since Josie hated the shot and just started birth control pills, we’re still using rubbers as a back-up. All my STD tests were thankfully clear, so in a few weeks I can’t wait until there’s nothing between us. But for now…
“I do have one,” I tell her, giving her ass a squeeze with both hands so that she has to hunt for it. “Front pocket.”
Josie’s palms caress down my chest and abs until she gets to the front of the pulled down coveralls and starts digging in my pocket. When her breath hitches and her eyes widen, I know she’s found more than what she was looking for. Now, her forehead is creasing like she’s debating whether or not to mention it. Curiosity gets the best of her, though, just like I knew it would, and soon she’s holding the black jewelry box between us.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Oh, shit. I forgot about that. I found it in one of the cars I was working on today and wanted to keep it safe,” I tell her, biting my cheek to keep from smiling and giving myself away when her shoulders slump forward in disappointment.
“Oh,” she mutters, twirling the box around in her hands silently for several long seconds. “Think it’s okay if I look inside?”
“Go for it,” I tell her with a slap to her ass that gets a small smile out of her.
Popping the lid open, she sucks in a breath. “Wow! It’s beautiful.”
Thank fuck.
Lifting my head from the roller, I take a peek inside at the blue sapphire I know is surrounded by diamonds. “Yeah, it’s nice, I guess.”
Josie’s fingertips brush over it in what I suspect is longing while she bites down on her bottom lip. “Lucky girl.”
“Try it on,” I say and her eyes flash to mine in hesitation. “You know you want to,” I tease her. Unable to resist, she pulls the ring free from the box and slips it on her left ring finger before holding it out in front of her to admire it.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says softly, and I know without asking that it fits perfectly. “And it looks like an antique.”
“Yeah, from nineteen forty-eight,” I tell her.
“How do you know?” she asks, her brow furrowing again when she looks back down at me.
“Because that’s the year Grandpa bought it for Grandma Andrews.”
“Oh,” Josie says with a nod as she glances back at the ring. Then her eyes flick right back to mine in understanding at the same time her mouth falls open.
“Spewing a bunch of mushy words isn’t really my thing,” I confess. “But you already knew that. I hope that I’ve managed to show you each and every day for the last three months how much I love you, so that you’ll agree to marry me anyways.”
“Yes,” she replies instantly with a smile and watery eyes.
“Fuck yes,” I mutter, pulling her against my chest and letting out the breath
I’ve been holding since she walked in.
“But…” she says with a sniffle against my neck. I already know what she’s gonna ask. “What…what if the potion runs out?”
“It won’t,” I assure her. “Because there’s no shortage of single people in the world. Just look at how many couples have you and Reagan to thank for passing it to them.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“Abso-fucking-lutey,” I tell her with a kiss.
And then, I do what I always do when she starts to worry about anything. I shove my hand down her panties and take her to orgasm heaven.
What?
That’s what you do when you love someone, right? You have mind-blowing sex, and then you live happily ever after.
The. Fucking. End.
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Jax
A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel
By Lane Hart
Chapter One
Page Davenport
I tap my perfectly manicured nails rhythmically over the laptop keys while watching the clock. I'm bored out of my mind waiting for this “urgent and extremely important” meeting to commence. The one my father's secretary said would begin promptly at three p.m. sharp.
And he's late.
But really, what else is new?
Ever since I started full-time at the firm I've felt like dad's errand girl. While some of his requests have actually involved trips to the United States Attorney's Office, my responsibilities in the building only included delivering or picking up documents. I've also been assigned the extremely important task of hole-punching a thousand pages of discovery before organizing them into binders. And last, but certainly not least, to remind me I'm the lowest on the totem pole he's actually sent me out to pick up his freaking lunch! I keep wanting to remind him that there is in fact a law degree hanging in my office, just like the one in his. I may have only recently graduated and passed several state bars, but being treated like a freaking intern is getting tiresome.
"Page," my father says when he breezes quickly into the room. "Sorry I'm late, got held up on a conference call. We may have just settled our trade secret violation case with SynTech for a million."
"Good for you," I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. It's not much, since I know our clients are making a killing stealing their old company's ideas.
My dad, Miles Davenport, has always specialized in corporate law. My older brother, Logan Davenport, is an expert at patent law. My uncle, John Davenport, has been doing wills and estates for twenty-five years. All three areas of law put me to sleep faster than an elephant-sized tranquilizer dart. I'm still trying to figure out my specialty; what cases I'll actually enjoy doing for the long-term.
The senior Davenport settles into the rolling chair at the head of the conference room table, slapping down a brown accordion file in front of him with a thud. Could it be that he's actually going to give me a real case to handle on my own? Usually the closest I get to a case is when I'm assigned research projects for him or my brother.
"Our three o'clock is late, not that I'm surprised. His father just posted his bond this morning, so they probably got held up at the jail," he tells me while checking his phone.
Oh no, no, no. I'll practice any area of law, but I won't do…
"It’s a new criminal case," my father says, grinning greedily from ear to ear.
Criminal?
Represent miscreants? He can't be serious. There are two attorneys in our firm who do all of the criminal work. Ryan handles the state court cases, and Mark takes all the federal cases. So why the heck is my dad, a corporate attorney, talking to a potential criminal client?
"I'm sure you've heard of him, Jackson Malone, the famous MMA fighter?" he asks. I probably dislocated my jaw based on the speed at which it hit the wooden table. "His head coach, Don Briggs, and I grew up together. Don called me this morning and asked if we'd take his case."
"You mean Jackson ‘The Mauler’ Malone, the man who raped and strangled a woman?" I ask in horror. It's been all over the news ever since the story first broke three days ago.
"Innocent until proven guilty, remember?" my father says, finally glancing up at me to raise a condescending gray eyebrow that matches his perfectly combed hair.
"Yeah, that's the motto of all criminals," I snort. "So what am I doing here?"
"You're going to represent him," he says, sliding the file across the table to me.
"Like hell I am!" I exclaim, jumping to my feet and raising my voice at my father for probably only the third time in all my twenty-four years. "I don't have any criminal law experience other than a summer internship with the DA's office, and even if I did have experience, I wouldn't represent him!"
"You are," he says with the narrowed cobalt blue eyes I inherited, and the cold tone of finality I've always dreaded. It means he isn't going to budge and there's no convincing him to change his stubborn mind. "This is going to be a huge case. Not only is he going to pay us a small fortune, but the national publicity we'll get will be incredible! It's also exactly what you need, to put yourself in the spotlight to boost Elliot's campaign."
Oh please! Like I give a rat's bare bottom about Elliot's campaign. I don't even bother responding to that nonsense.
"There are nine other attorneys in this firm, why can't one of them do it? You know, maybe one that has actual criminal courtroom experience," I argue.
"You and Logan are the only ones who've passed the bar in New Jersey, which has jurisdiction in this case. And you're the only female in the office. It'll look better to the media and the jurors to see a woman sitting beside Mr. Malone at the defense table. Don't worry, Ryan will carry the brunt of the load."
Oh no. Now I'm starting to understand. My father isn't giving me this case because he thinks I deserve it. No, he wants me to be the sacrificial lamb. The woman the media and feminist groups will all tear into for representing a chauvinistic pig. He really doesn't give one shit...ake mushroom about my reputation. After this case, I'll be nationally known as the idiot woman who represented the rapist jerk. Speaking of…
My dad's secretary cracks the conference room door, and announces in her nauseatingly sweet voice, "Mr. Davenport, the Malones are here."
I have a slight dislike of Margo. Okay, maybe a tad more than slight. She's so freaking nice, it's obviously fake. As soon as her back turns her smile falls and is replaced with a gaping maw of gossip, spewing filth to anyone who will listen.
"Show them in," my father instructs her while straightening his blood red tie, the color appropriately representing his strict conservatism. Then he turns to me, and says, "Be nice, and don't you dare fuck this up," sternly through his clenched teeth.
I make an attempt to ignore the knife sticking out of my chest from the second half of my father's directive, and instead try to come to terms with the idea that he wants me to be nice. Be nice to a ruthless, cocky meathead who thinks that since he's all rich and famous because of a brutal, barbaric sport that he has the right to do whatever the heck he wants with women and get away with it.
Maybe my uncle will hire me if I get up and walk out the door. Sure it'd be boring work filling in blanks on templates for old people, but at least I wouldn't be stuck working with an actual hard core, violent criminal.
An older man, looking roughly in his fifties with shaggy black hair and a beard sprinkled with a dusting of white, steps into the conference room first. The heavy bags under his hazel eyes and his deep frown lines make him look tired, and highly annoyed. I paste on my fake smile and reach across the conference table to shake his hand.
"Mr. Malone, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Page Davenport. Page, this is Martin Malone and his son. I'm sure you'll recognize Jackson Malone from his outstanding MMA career," my dad says when he makes the introductions.
"Nice to meet you," I lie as I hold out my hand to the older man. Shaking it, he gives me a polite nod of his head while assessing me. He's not looking at me in a creepy, sexual way, but his eyes are narrowed and his crinkled brows meet, making it obvious that he's asking himself, ‘Is she really old enough and experienced enough to represent my son?’ Of course not, and everyone in the building knows that.
My curious eyes finally dance around the older man to the one standing behind him. The spacious conference room, that can easily accommodate ten ego-inflated attorneys, suddenly feels too small. Intimidating doesn't even begin to describe the vibe this man is putting off. He practically comes with his own flashing neon sign over his coal colored pompadour cut that says in big, bright letters, "Danger! Stay back at least 100 feet!"
It isn't necessarily the guy's size that makes him scary, even though he’s built like a tank at more than six feet tall, with a wide, muscular build. But when you add in his black bottomless-pit eyes and tight, unshaven jaw...he looks like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Violence and tension radiate off of him in waves that are almost visible. In nothing special faded jeans and a plain white tee contrasting nicely with his tan golden skin, he's absolutely, without a doubt, the most…scrumptious looking man I've ever laid eyes on. His mug shot photo plastered all over the television and Internet doesn’t do him justice.
