Beauty and the Barbarian

by Nikki Winter

  “Ashleigh—”

  He held her there. “So you warn, Frost; send a text, a flare, a fucking carrier pigeon, I don’t care. You make sure he knows that he’s not a welcome distraction anymore. You make sure that he understands I will physically pull the ground up around us before you take one step down the aisle. I will break him, Mackenzie. And I’ll have no regrets about it.”

  Ashleigh pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, turned her around and firmly pushed her towards her door. “Go to bed, plums.”

  She turned back. “Ashleigh, wait, you can’t just—”

  “I’ll fuck you if you don’t,” he growled. “I’ll fuck you and we both know you won't deny me. So go. To. Bed.”

  In an instant she was gone, the door locking behind her.

  He pressed his palms to the wall and sucked in several deep breaths until the ringing in his ears stopped and he had control of himself. Ashleigh hoped that she was ready. Because tomorrow he wouldn’t be so charitable. No, tomorrow would mark the first day in his quest to make sure she understood exactly whom she belonged to.

  Eleven

  “He’s there? With you? For how long?”

  Mackenzie bit her thumbnail and answered the lobbed questions coming from the other end of her phone. “It hasn’t really been said. He’s um…the hotel he normally reserves a suite with had this entire convention happening and they weren’t able to—”

  “Millions,” Michael cut in. “He makes millions. And you’re telling me there was nowhere else in the entire city of Charlotte that he could have stayed?”

  “There was a storm,” she tried explaining. “I didn’t really want to send him back out into that and Arista’s gotten adjusted to having him here over the last few days. I just sort of…allowed it,” Mackenzie finished lamely.

  She was truly awful at this, wasn’t she? Reassurance? Yeah. It was pretty shitty. She couldn’t rightfully blame Michael for the skepticism shooting down the line, because the situation she was facing wasn’t ideal.

  “If you think that I’ll watch you walk away from me a second time you’re wrong.”

  Four days and those words were still ringing like a gong in her skull. The very second that they stopped, that she thought it was over, he’d coil one of her locs about his forefinger and tug, reminding her all over again of his presence. It was driving her insane. Searching for a voice of reason hadn’t even gone as planned, because as soon as she’d calmly explained to Nala what had taken place upon the night of his arrival—minus a few sordid details—her degenerate of a friend had simply asked, “So when you rudely assaulted that man’s face with your biscuit, how well did he butter it for you?”

  Mackenzie had gladly, and quickly, left her own office. Because…no. What she’d done was nothing to be proud of. But she damn sure couldn’t sweep what had taken place with Ashleigh up under the proverbial rug. No matter Michael’s faults, they didn’t warrant her cheating. It was such an ugly way to describe a brief moment of indiscretion, but that didn’t make it any less true. Mackenzie had cheated. And the consequence was this yawning pit of guilt in her belly. It honestly had nothing to do with the act itself and everything to do with her ability to beat her own psyche until it was bloody.

  She’d never been an unfaithful person. It simply wasn’t a quality that she possessed and yet, Ashleigh somehow bypassed every defense she’d come to put into place. He had, once again, made her forget herself. Something that was upsetting to say the least. She’d run herself down after standing inches away from him and revealing every secret thought that had haunted her over the course of their relationship. Each word was a needle that only stuck deeper the more she talked. And when she was done, her heart hemorrhaging on the floor at his feet, he’d said something that she had been waiting to hear since she made the decision to hand him back the ring he’d given her—“I should have fought.”

  Those words, the admittance of his shortcomings, had turned her into this spineless piece of useless, big breasted flesh that she couldn’t respect in the slightest, because…what the hell? How was she supposed to remain impartial and hardened when he could stare at her with all that sincerity and finally lend her a balm that she’d been searching for? When he was invading her careful shroud of indifference and disinterest? Trying to break down walls that she had gleefully built without even a whisper of hesitation. Those walls kept her from flinching when blog reports scrolled across her timeline on various social media outlets, delivering rumors about whom he may or may not have been sleeping with. They kept her from questioning if he also had a hidden box sitting in the corner of his closet at home, tucked away from view but never forgotten. They shut down the memories surrounding his agile mouth and hands; memories that he’d dredged up, leaving her on fire.

  Three times this week she’d awoken to squealing. Squealing that she couldn’t rightfully yell about because it was done after ten a.m. She’d been allotted the chance to sleep in without the worries of schedules and practices or tutus and toe shoes, because someone else was here. Someone else had been here diligently keeping the pace of his daughter’s every day activities without breaking out in the slightest shudder.

  He was in her space, in her home and in her head. He never said much but each time he spoke it was full of promise. Every glance was brief but meaningful, and when Arista wasn’t looking, there were touches that could be deemed sexual harassment in the work place if they had been in an office setting. Mackenzie had packed an overnight bag twice to run away from home. She never got far. As soon as she went to zip it she would hear Arista’s giggles shouting down the walls and Ashleigh’s laughter following. Or she’d smell something amazing wafting up from her kitchen. Or the oversized eejit would come and ask her where to find the detergent so that he could make sure Arista’s swimsuit was clean for class the next day.

  It was all so domestic and so, so wrong. Because she knew what he was doing. She knew what he was doing. But she felt powerless to stop it. Or at least that was what she told herself. That she was powerless and Ashleigh had simply rode in on a sturdy jackass, refusing to be moved.

  “You allowed it,” Michael repeated slowly. “But I’m not allowed even a corner of closet space and a spare drawer.”

  “Michael—”

  “I haven’t even been gone a week yet, Mac and he’s already managed to find his way in again, hasn’t he? Playing Daddy so that he’s got a solid anchor to latch onto.”

  Bristling, Mackenzie felt her fingers tightening around her phone. “I’m sorry, did you say playing Daddy? Ashleigh doesn’t play—nor has he ever played—Daddy. That’s who he is. That’s who he’s dedicated his free time to being. Because he lacked that. He lacked the example, and yet he’s managed to beat every statistic and stereotype pitted against him to make sure that Arista knows she’s one of the most important goddamn people in the world to him. What you will never do is say that Ashleigh is using our daughter as a pawn to get an underhanded advantage on you. That is the most vainglorious shit I’ve ever heard in my life and it’s gross, Michael.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he swore. “You and I are talking. You and I, Mac. Like adults. Alone. Together. And I can’t say anything evenly remotely critical about a man that you’re supposed to be over.”

  “When that critique is based on some horn butting, contrived competition you’ve manifested and involving the mention of my child? No. You can’t. You will never get away with that. Despite my personal relationship with Ashleigh, I won’t let anyone else call into question his motives for spending time with Arista. I’m the only one between us with intimate knowledge of that relationship, and it really fucks me off that you’d go that far. Also, while we’re on the subject, your not having a corner of closet space or a spare drawer doesn’t compare to Arista briefly being able to wake up to the both of her parents under the same roof again. We make joint decisions for her well-being. He’s in a guest room down the hall.”

  She was wrong. Very wrong. But from another perspectiv
e, what had she done to ever tip the scales of Michael’s trust in her? Absolutely nothing. Whether he could sense something other than co-parenting had taken place or not, he had no right to say that Ashleigh was assuming a role. He wouldn't do that just to get a chance at…well graphic things she had considered in the privacy of her own bedroom. It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay in the least bit.

  “Everything is a fucking fight with you!” Michael countered. “Every. Goddamn. Thing. I’m pulling my hair out! When can I shed an opinion on your choices, Mac? When I start funding camps and vacations? When I make sure that your parents never have to make another mortgage payment again? How much money do I have to spread out for you to acknowledge that I have a dick so you can stop swinging your own around at every opportunity?”

  Just like that, she shut down. A switch flipped, and Mackenzie could vaguely remember feeling this way as she filled up boxes and taped them shut three years ago. There was a resignation that occurred. One that she could never quite unsettle from her shoulders once it was in place. She didn’t even try to shrug it off this time.

  “I think,” she said softly, calmly. “That when you come home we should talk. I also think that for now, we should take a huge step backwards from previous plans and consider that perhaps, we have two different outlooks on what it is we need from one another. Obviously if I’m in the market for respect, I can’t find that in you at the moment. Apparently my sex means I should walk five paces behind you with my head down and my shoulders hunched just so you can feel like a man.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, Mackenzie. I didn’t mean that,” he tried. “I was frustrated and I said—”

  She hung up and pressed the reject button as her phone began to ring again. When that wasn’t satisfying enough, Mackenzie chose to temporarily block him. At least until she could speak to him again without making him cry because that was the next course of action.

  Flopping backwards onto the throw pillows behind her, she gazed at the ceiling, waiting for the urge to do irrevocable damage to pass. She was about a minute into her silent prayer when her front door opened and in strolled the jackass rider himself, using the key that she’d handed over earlier in the week. Why? She wasn’t particularly sure. He was supposed to be gone today along with Arista.

  Mackenzie was supposed to have time to get her thoughts in order and relax. The process of that had started with a hot bath, the careful application of her favorite skin and hair products and a sinful breakfast made of pecan French toast in a bourbon maple syrup. Following this was going to be her favorite guilty pleasure collection of films. Michael’s call had cut into all of languid indulgence, and now she was staring at the large head of her child’s father, considering the possibility of using it as a target.

  He stopped a few steps past the couch and gazed down at her. Those steely and disconcerting eyes made a trek from the top of her bun to the soles of her feet, moving up again until they hit her thighs. That was where they stopped. “What’cha doin’?” Ashleigh queried, sounding far more like Arista than he had a right to.

  “Trying to relax,” Mackenzie gritted out. “So,”—she made a shooing motion—“grab whatever it is that you came back for in your perpetual state of forgetfulness and go away.”

  His focus never deterred. “This is you relaxing? You don’t sound relaxed, plums.”

  “Do I sound borderline homicidal?” she questioned, peeking from beneath the forearm shielding him fully from her sight. “Because that’s what I am. On the verge of murder in the first.”

  Two strides and he was closer, his eyes still on her thighs. “I’m sorry,” Ashleigh said.

  Her blink was slow and owlish. “For…?”

  “For whatever it is I did that has you contemplating the separation of my body and spirit, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

  Urgh. And he meant it too. That was his I-really-mean-what-I’m-saying murmur. Fucker.

  Mackenzie placed her forearm back over her eyes and waved her free hand. “It wasn’t...you didn’t…” Sighing, she sat up a bit and rested on her elbows. “My homicidal compulsions aren’t directed towards you. You just happen to be standing here at the moment and…why are you looking at my thighs?!”

  His throat worked as he swallowed. “Those socks, how many pairs do you own?”

  She frowned and glanced at the thigh-highs she’d slid on after a thorough rub down in her favorite coconut and hibiscus body butter. “About ten or twelve? I dunno. They’re a part of one of my lines at She-Devil, and because I generally get samples of whatever I incorporate into my products, I found out how comfortable they are. Then I asked for more.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he hummed. “Your choice pairings with these are generally the oversized t-shirt and…?”

  “Your sudden interest in my lounge wear disturbs me. Are you wanting some to wear with your panties?”

  “Boxer briefs,” Ashleigh quickly countered. “And no, no I am not. I just want to know if you’re wearing panties? Because to be quite honest, you and those,”—he motioned to the thigh-highs—“have had my dick bent like a boomerang for the last several weeks. When I inevitably break down—which I determine will be somewhere within the next twelve hours—and decide to finally resort to the romance of my own hand, I want a clear and purposeful visual.”

  “Wow,” Mackenzie released after a long pause, annoyed with the fact that her clit had swelled so quickly that it was probably the size of a strawberry at the moment. She didn’t even want to discuss her nipples. Wanton, betraying little bastards. “You just really put it all out there, don’t you?”

  Those canyons he called shoulders rolled in an easy shrug. “Yeah. It’s become a habit.”

  She grumbled a little under her breath. “Well quit it.”

  His brows flicked. “Why?”

  “It's inappropriate.”

  Smoldering eyes rose. “Is it? Or are you concerned with your own reaction to me?”

  Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms about them and shook her head. “I don’t have a reaction to you.”

  “Liar,” he taunted, prowling closer. “And an awful one at that.”

  Another head shake. “Not a liar. Not about this.” She was such a liar.

  “So you don’t want to tell me if you’re wearing panties right now?” Ashleigh queried, cocking his head.

  She didn’t dare answer that. “Go away, Ash.”

  “Nah,” he drawled, kicking off his Converse sneakers. “I’m pretty okay with where I happen to be.”

  “Well I’m not so…wait…where is your shirt going? Put that back on!”

  Again, all she received was, “Nah.”

  The white V-neck tee was flung across the room, leaving him in a pair of slim fit, gray canvas shorts. The band of his underwear rose over the waist just a bit, the cuts of his pelvis revealed. She stopped her eyes from roaming the expanse of muscle staring at her along with the light trail of hair that skittered over his pectorals, past his abdominals and downwards.

  “Ashleigh—”

  “Show me,” he commanded.

  Her startled gaze shot upwards towards his face. “Huh?” was all she managed to push out.

  Coming forward, he rested the palms of his hands on either side of her hips and stared directly at her when he demanded, “Show me whether or not you’re wearing panties.”

  Holy. Shit.

  Hell in a hand basket. Ashleigh was prepared to split the gates of the underworld wide open. However at the moment, he really couldn’t think past the minute pulses in his groin. All good intentions had been speared and thrown from him on a javelin of his own making. He was supposed to be leaving her alone. He was supposed to be giving her space to adjust to the realization that what they had—what had been birthed the first time he'd felt her mouth curve under his own—couldn’t be shoved away. It had a heartbeat, this silly teenage crush turned obsessive adoration. There was no escaping, no outrunning the wave. So he chose to drown. It was a fate that he welcomed. Mack
enzie was all. And he couldn’t even fathom ignoring the low hum of her siren’s song.

  His intent had been simple. Come back and ask her to go to lunch with him, just the two of them, no rambunctious, chattering baby-doll. He wanted to be alone with her, hold her hand, and make her give him that lazy grin that sparked the filthiest of urgencies. But then he’d come through the door to her sprawled on her sofa with those goddamn thigh-highs on. All innocent desires had fled, leaving this demanding delirium vibrating in his hands. They needed to be on her skin, filled with every inch of flesh that he could touch. He needed to hear that husky, gasping cry that had driven him out of his fucking mind on so many occasions.

  Ashleigh had managed to restrain himself, but those cinnamon brown eyes were rounded now and her gorgeous were lips parted in an unintentional invitation, making him forget all reason. He wanted her. He’d have her. She’d love it.

  “Open your legs, Mackenzie,” he told her, settling on his knees, the plush area rug beneath them.

  The dilation of her pupils announced that her next words would be a lie before she even spoke, so he took the choice from her. “Do I have to say it again?” Ashleigh asked lowly. “Because we remember what happens when you make me repeat myself, don’t you, plums?” He rubbed his hands against her outer thighs in warning.