I want to spin her around and bend her over the counter, smack that ass a few times for teasing me and let her know she’s never going to wear anything like that out in the world.
The last of the silverware and plates balance in my hands as I step back into the kitchen and I hear her humming Staying Alive and swaying, a few sing-song words coming out as she washes the dishes and the vision of standing next to her fifty years from now doing just what we’re doing right now, invades the lust, making me freeze in my tracks.
Not only have I never touched a woman besides a few stupid adolescent kisses that did nothing for me, but I sure as shit have never imagined myself with someone in any significant, future-planning sort of way.
“So…” Maggie flicks her sky-blue eyes my way as she spins a yellow sponge on a blue and white porcelain plate. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you earlier. Asking about your job, I mean. I should have known if you were a friend of my grandpa…”
“Don’t be sorry. You asked a question. I answered. I don’t get embarrassed.”
“Everyone gets embarrassed.” She smiles, showing those perfect white teeth, just the right amount of cute-crooked, and pink cheeks dotted with a few freckles I want to count with my tongue.
“I don’t,” I confirm, and the doubt I see in her eyes does nothing to lessen the straining skin on my blood-filled cock.
“Okay, then you don’t.” On a shrug, she nods to where wet plates are stacking up. “You gonna dry? Or just going to stand there watching me?”
“Oh, yeah, shit sorry. My real-world skills could use some work.”
I reach over, grab a towel and start drying the dishes and I fucking know she’s too good for me. Whatever this feeling I have, I fight the urge to push it down, chalk it up to too many years behind bars and my raging virgin hormones.
“So, can I ask you something?” A smile spreads across her face and instantly, my previous thought of this being some out-of-control hormonal event evaporates because her smile is the eighth wonder of the world.
“Ask away.” I run my tongue along the inside of my bottom teeth, tensing, ready for what I think is coming. My pulse pounds in my temples as I concentrate on setting down each delicate plate, already anticipating the questions she has every right to ask.
Why did you go to prison? What did you do? How long were you there?
She hands me the last plate, picking up a towel and drying her hands, then turns my way, leaning into the counter and my lust spins into a hurricane. I can’t pull my eyes from the swell of her tits teasing me behind that old, red flannel shirt. I wonder what her nipples look like, what they will taste like when they’re full of milk…because I’m going to put a fucking baby in her, Christ as my witness. My first time is going to be with her and I’m going to knock her the hell up.
Get a grip, West. Calm the fuck down.
“What happened to your hands? They look like they hurt. I could get you some ice and antibiotic ointment,” she says and I’m stunned into silence.
She cares about my hands? Which could mean, she cares about me…or I’m insane and have no idea how to read people on the outside. Especially ones that give me a hard-on.
I set down the last plate and regard my bruised and broken knuckles with indifference clenching and unclenching my fingers. “Thanks, don’t even feel it.”
Her eyes flit to mine and her scent of berries and the summer breeze is making me crazy.
She nips into her bottom lip and it takes all my self-control not to kiss her as I grind my teeth together, unsure what to say or do next.
One idea is to lay her out on the kitchen table, cut her clothes off with the steak knife sitting in the dish rack, then drive my tongue into her pussy. But I’m not sure she’s quite there yet.
She reaches my way, drifting her fingertips over my knuckles, and the contact is like lighting a fuse. The urge to grab her hair, pull her head back and mark her neck for the world to see is instant and almost uncontrollable.
“So…” She licks her lips, her fingers warm, looking like a porcelain doll’s hand against mine as my fingers twitch. “What do you feel?”
I grab her wrist and there’s this cute little yelp that catches in her throat. Then I grip the back of her neck with my other hand, squeezing, trying to figure out how to answer her question and wanting to keep her with me forever. I take a breath, trying to understand what it feels like to have anything other than rage.
What do you feel?
I swallow hard, her eyes are wide but I don’t sense fear. It takes me a moment, thinking how to answer, but since lying has never been my thing, I opt for the truth.
“I’m not sure…I’ve never felt whatever this is before, but I do know, I want more.”
She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, there’s pounding on the front door, then a man’s voice yelling, “Your damn dogs are shitting in my yard again!”
I release my grip, the moment lost as my head spins and my balls draw tight. Maggie’s sky-blue eyes are flicker as they stay locked on mine, then she blinks twice and turns toward the front door.
“I’m coming!” she says, one small glance back and she has no idea how much I want to hear her say those words again.
While she’s riding my face.
4
Jacob
I punch the heavy bag, sending a jolt through my forearm up into my shoulder as the chain holding it to the beam above creaks.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter through clenched teeth, imagining of my father’s face, allowing my memories of that day to return the way I do when I train and when I fight.
But, today feels different and those memories are a black intrusion so I shut the door and put them away. Today feels right, it feels perfect and I don’t want to ruin it even if it’s only for a few hours.
After Maggie left to go retrieve the dogs, I retreated upstairs.
Thomas told me the attic room of this house used to be his gym, and that Oma had been instructed to set me up in here. It’s a big space, with a musty, unused sort of smell but it’s well-equipped, especially given the poor state of repair of the house in general.
There’s a heavy bag, a smaller punching bag, also an older sort of rowing machine and a bench with some weights and dumbbells. Against one wall there’s a double bed with an antique head and footboard outfitted with clean white sheets and pillows. Next to it sits a matching antique dresser, a lamp and a tired-looking but comfortable upholstered chair with a footstool. It’s as much as I need and more than I deserve.
Jabbing at the bag, all I can think of are those horrible red panties that clung to every bump and ridge of a cunt that I can only imagine tastes like Maggie flavored sex candy.
I pummel the bag. I go faster and harder until sweat covers me, trying to get a grip. I’m stepping around the bag, ducking, weaving, throwing a hard single strike, then three fast shots, over and over but no matter how hard I hit, she’s in my head.
Her fucking perfect face is what I see but just when I think I’ve put away the sins of the past, her image morphs into my mom. They have the same eyes. Bright blue like you could believe in something.
It’s my mother’s face I see, the way it looked all too fucking often when I’d see her in the mornings, before she could put on her makeup to try to cover the bruises.
My dad was a piece of shit of the highest order. He’d lash out at her for saying the wrong word, looking at him wrong, for trapping him when she got pregnant or any other excuse he could come up with just to release his bullshit on her.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The idea of what my fists could do to a woman scares the shit out of me, another reason I’ve stayed away from getting entangled, knowing anyone I got close to would be taking a risk. A risk that my rage and my genetics, were too close to his.
But, Maggie, fuck, she makes me think I could try.
Her strawberry-blonde hair, eyes that looked not just at me, but inside of me and don�
��t get me started on her ass. And, Jesus those tits. Her smile. I could barely stay in my chair at dinner. I wanted to grab her soft hair, tangle it in my fist, her blue eyes looking up at me from her knees as I drag her across the room, crawling as I tug on her like a caveman, first burying myself in her pretty face, watching tears flow down her sweet cheeks, then planting her pretty pussy on my mouth before I fuck her without remorse.
But, the thought remains I’d ruin it sooner or later. Even if I managed to prove that I’m not my father, I’d feel so possessive over her I’d probably keep her locked up in a bunker twenty-feet underground. She’d think I was a maniac.
Because I am.
What’s making it worse, is the horrifying realization that if I don’t claim her, someone else could, and that has me punching the bag until the vinyl splits.
My head is a fucking mess, and I spend the next hour hitting the bag until the blood from my knuckles drips onto the wooden floor along with the sweat streaming down my face, making alternating dots of crimson and black on the floor. But, nothing’s changed.
My cock is still hard.
Fuck, I’m in deep.
5
Maggie
“Magdelena Laska,” I say to myself, as I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. “You forget about that man, he is no good.” I say in a whisper, doing my best impression of Babka’s Polish accent, thinking I should add a couple curse words to make it more realistic.
After dinner, while Jacob and I did the dishes we had a moment.
God, what a moment it was. I knew when I wore those cut-offs with no panties under to dinner I was asking for trouble. And trouble is named Jacob West.
Maybe it was divine intervention when Mr. Polanski from next door knocked because the dogs had dug under the fence again. They prefer using his yard as their dumping ground, so it gave me a chance to break away from Jacob and get the lust fog out of my head.
I do not need a man in my life right now, that is absolutely sure. Watching my parents was enough to scare someone off relationships forever. But, my mother always told me to be sure I could do for and pay for myself before I ever got involved with someone. She hated how she relied on my father. She got pregnant at sixteen and never even finished high school. She made sure to instill in me to never put myself in that same position and I intend to honor that lesson.
So, no relationships for me right now. Especially not with an ex-con and God knows what his crime may have been.
But, Lordy, he’s going to be living here and being around him for just a few hours I was ready to lay back on the altar of my virginity and offer myself no questions asked.
Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I check my emails, trying to stay focused.
I’ve applied for a management job within the nursery where I work. They’re building a new greenhouse in Woodville, which would mean relocating to Ohio. But the new place is even bigger, and my boss, Helen, has put in a good word for me. If I get the job, I’d make sure my Babka could still visit my grandpa, but it would mean we could get away from this neighborhood and start fresh.
I don’t have any management experience, but I have my horticulture Associates Degree from the community college and I’m one of the best workers they have. I’m never sick, never late and my co-workers have dubbed me the plant whisperer because I have an uncanny knack for knowing the right light, fertilizer, water and whatever to make plants thrive like they’ve never seen before as well as bring back the ones that look as though they have checked out. The big bosses came to interview me a few days ago and I have a good feeling about it.
I want the job for the money and experience, but really, my dream one day is to have my own business installing ponds and teaching people all about koi, natural swimming pools, plants and everything that goes with it. But small steps.
First is to get myself and Babka out of this house that’s falling down around us and the neighborhood right along with it. Save some money and start my own thing.
I know what she would say, which is why I haven’t told her about the interview. She would say the neighborhood just needs people to start caring again and houses can be fixed.
I put the phone back when I see no new emails, listening instead to the creak of floorboards and the grunt and pound of Jacob as he works out in the attic right above me.
I remember hearing my Grandpa up there doing the same when I was little and would come here to stay when my mom and dad needed “time to deal with grown-up things”. He always made me feel safe. This place always made me feel safe, so when…well, after everything that happened…little ten-year-old Magdelena came to stay with her babka for good, she was more relieved than apprehensive.
Jacob gives me that same feeling, which is ironic. He’s frightening and I have no idea what crime or crimes he committed. Yet, I can’t stop feeling he’s here to protect me. Protect us.
I hear a grunt through the floor and my insides feel like they are twisting around themselves. I remember how Jacob smelled standing next to me doing the dishes. It was an unusual, intoxicating scent like danger and foreboding with a hint of Irish Spring.
I listen to another grunt, muffled but it still tingles my lady bits as I push my head back into my pillow and close my eyes, imagining him on top of me. His monstrous body heavy and hot, three times my size, making me feel small and delicate as he breathes in my ear saying the most wonderful, horrible things.
Would his grunts sound the same as he pumped inside me? Little lightning bolts dart over my skin, the same as they did when I touched his hand. I thought my nipples were going to stab their way through the fabric covering them to make their introduction, and I’m still lightheaded thinking about it.
This has Titanic level disaster written all over it, I tell myself, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to ignore my own advice. Especially when I think of the outline of a cock I’m sure is dubbed pussy destroyer and don’t get me started on his mouth. Because those lips, gah. They were made for kissing. Everywhere.
I let the fantasy take me as he pummels the bag above. Pretending all that grunting, sweaty effort is for me instead of the bag. I imagine licking him…over the thick muscles of his stomach, his pecs, his shoulders. His body is hard, strong, but not like a gym rat. He’s thick and ominous with a layer of fuck you on top of each sinuous muscle.
Oh, god. I shouldn’t be doing this, I think as my hand slips down, between my breasts. The soft cotton of my nightgown brushing against my nipples, pulling them to peaks, and I think of how he grabbed me in the kitchen.
What if Mr. Polanski hadn’t knocked? I mean, he just got out of prison, he’s got to be horny has hell. I’m sure he would have bent me over the counter right there if he’d had the chance.
Wait, what if he’s not into girls? I banish the thought, right now it is time for fantasy not potentially soul-crushing reality.
“No, Jacob, we shouldn’t,” I whisper as I run my fingers down, between my hips, under the edge of my panties, brushing through the soft curls of hair. “Jacob, no, don’t. We should stop....” I’ve always had these fantasies…
Not of being forced, really. But, maybe coerced? Okay, I admit it…sometimes it’s for sure forced. It’s wrong, but I can’t help it, it turns me the fuck on and right now, with Jacob making all those grunting sounds, it’s all my lust-filled pea brain can focus on.
I listen to him above as I slide my fingers along my damp lips, biting into my lip as I swirl my fingers on my clit. “Mmm,” I moan into the emptiness of the room, imagining that he can hear me through the ceiling.
Slipping my fingers just inside, I rock my hips, arching my back, my orgasm just on the other side of my fantasy. I palm my clit, my middle finger pumping into my opening.
What’s it like, to have a man inside you? I’ve had fleeting thoughts about it before but nothing like this. And, truth is, I don’t really want to know what it’s like to have a man inside me…I want to know what it’s like to have Jacob inside me.
My fantasy takes flight and I almost feel his weight on me as I close my eyes and envision him, his thick, powerful frame…his hands holding me down.
“Please, don’t…we should stop. I don’t…”
“Fuck, I can’t stop. Wearing those shorts, teasing me, trying to push me to this. This is your fault.:
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it…”
“You meant it, you’re a tease…but I’m not going to hurt you Maggie. I’m just going to rub the tip on you...”
He’s on me, hard, brushing the swollen, dripping head against my clit, then holding it right at my opening.
“Fuck, you feel good. Just a little more, just inside…”
“No…we shouldn’t…”
“Shh. Be still.” His hand’s over my mouth, I can’t breathe. “Spread your legs,” he grunts and I do as he says, not understanding why I’m giving in. “Fuck, wider…”
I yelp into his palm, feeling the brush of him against me as he pushes just inside, the pain I feel as I squirm to get away but it only opens me up more. He’s not stopping…my nails rake on his shoulders as he holds himself up, eyes glaring into mine. I’m on the verge, God, I like this, I hate this…what’s wrong with me?
“This cock’s going inside you, when I said just the tip, I meant it. The tip’s going all the way in…you know it’s what you want. Pretend all you want…I know better.”
I close my eyes, my fingers working my clit in circles, imagining his grunts as he forces himself in and out, in and out.
The beast-sized cock opening me, burning, tearing through my virginity.
“Oh, god,” I murmur, loving the feeling but hating myself for the sick fantasy.
My hips move faster, my palm grinding on my clit as I bring myself close, clenching my thighs together and I hear his pounding speed above me.
Thud, thud. Thud, thud. Thud, thud, thud.
It echoes inside me deep down, like a drumbeat building as I finger myself, mouth clamped shut against the scream that is threatening to burst loose. I’ve never felt like this before when I masturbate, never felt like shouting out…
One Shot (The Anti-Heroes) Page 3
