Virgin Spark

by Celia Crown

  “It’s eleven fifty-eight,” she corrects, “And it’s a thank you for his help.”

  “Wait,” I narrow my eyes at the phone as I blink back to life when I tap on it, “The grouchy and rude Neanderthal is the person that you said was going to help me?”

  “His name is Luke, and yes. He is the one that helped you; now go give him whatever you are baking.”

  She hangs up without a goodbye, and I’m left gasping at the phone as it switches back to my screensaver of Leslie and me when we were at the opening of a new orphanage for abandoned animals.

  I just sit on the floor surrounded by boxes and stare at my phone. My mind is running through ideas of how I can get out of this without going to Luke’s unit with cookies. They’re mine; why do I have to give them to him?

  Yes, he did help me, but it’s midnight, and he’s asleep, so I don’t want to bother him.

  My heart skips a beat when the timer goes off, and I dash towards the oven to turn it off and pull out the cookies. My favorite state of the cookies is when they’re crunchy on the outside and gooey in the middle; they are the best when the chocolate chips are melted when I bite into them.

  Leslie’s voice echoes in my head, and I groan deeply. I know she’s going to nag that I’m being a bad neighbor for keeping my sweets to myself and it wouldn’t hurt to give a gift to our neighbor.

  We have many neighbors, and I’m not going to make cookies for everyone.

  I look down at the plate of cookies, and I eat one. It’s so good that I want to cry. The sweetness from the sugars and the bitterness from the chocolate chips balances each other; all I need is a glass of milk to put all of this together.

  I accept my fate and inwardly cries at the loss of my safe haven to a man riddled with prickly thorns and the tongue of a venomous snake.

  Chapter Two

  Luke

  My neighbor is too young. She’s barely legal from her appearance, and that girl ignites something in me that makes this fierce protectiveness flare like the flames of a burning house.

  I have gone into torched houses under intense fire that’s ready to consume me, and I would still have my head in the game, but she plays with the rhythm of my blood, and it scorches me with the need to put my hands on her.

  It’s dangerous, and I don’t want to burn her with this spark of thunderous heat.

  I’m too intense for her, and she can’t handle the things that I want to do to her; I’m twice her age and twice her size. I can easily break her with a form of abusive authority that people might assume to be manipulation.

  It wouldn’t be the first time someone accused me of manipulation. My demeanor is not the most amiable because I look angry all the time, and my tolerance isn’t the best when handling things with kids glove.

  I get complains about me using my status as a fireman to gain goods; it’s absurd because I don’t have contact with the people I save from burning structures after they’re out of danger. People I see daily avoid me as if I am the plague ready to wipe out their existence because I have an aura of death.

  Cowards, I scoff as I towel off my hair.

  I always fail to see why people can’t come up to me and tell their complaints to me, but they go the passive-aggressive way to prove that they aren’t going to stand idle while I take advantage of them.

  What a ludicrous accusation.

  I do my job, and I love the thrill of running into a fiery building, but I do not like dealing with people. They annoy me, and I’m not a people’s person anyway. The less I deal with them, the better it is for me.

  Seeing the fear in people comes with the job but seeing that little girl trying to hold onto her brave façade is amusing; it’s thrilling to know that I have that effect on her. I like having that power over her, and it’s gratifying when she tries to fight back with that sass.

  She’s small, but she can stand up for herself, and I admire that.

  I click my tongue when I remember she thought I was a serial killer; it wasn’t hard to deduce what she thinks when her facial expression is more exuberant than her tiny face can handle.

  She might have muttered what she thought of me on accident, but I didn’t bring that up to her.

  Another peculiar thing about her is the fact that she is able to live in this building. It’s a government-paid apartment complex for firefighters and police officers to have quicker access to the fire station and the police department in this particular grid section.

  It’s more affordable with the government employee discount on rent, and I didn’t really care much for where I live as long as it doesn’t hinder my job performance.

  Some people choose to live somewhere else to prevent a minimal level of cabin fever, but I don’t socialize, so it’s a bonus to me.

  That girl doesn’t look like she can carry a bag of sand which is a common training technique for warmups at the fire station and she also doesn’t have that instinct to go through police academy training.

  I have seen petite women make it to detectives, but this little girl doesn’t hit that spot for me. I don’t believe she is in any of the professions that can gain access to this building.

  It leaves one last option. She is either a family member or a close friend to someone in the building. There is a clause that is attached to the building units, and it’s that only family members can share a unit with a government employee.

  I have met the woman that’s going to be the new addition to the fire station, and this girl doesn’t look like she’s related to that Leslie woman. The only option is close friend, but from what I hear, they have been roommates for so long that they’re practically relatives.

  I guess the clause in the contract isn’t as strict as it sounds.

  As I pull my briefs on, the doorbell rings and I wonder who is at my door during the dead of the night. It better not be that one inconsiderate asshole in my station unit; he’s always trying to get people to socialize, and I end up being his lifelong project. He calls me a caveman, and I beat his ass on the training mat.

  I open the door with the intention of steering whoever is back to the elevator and never come back up, but my words are stuck in my throat when I lay eyes on a mop of black hair and striking amber eyes that render my body unable to cool down.

  The after effects of the cold shower don’t control my body’s reaction to seeing her again.

  A whiff of sugar hits my nose, and I glance down at her tiny hands, holding a flowery printed plate filled with chocolate chips cookies.

  I don’t like sweets.

  “I’m your new neighbor.” She holds up the plate of warm cookies.

  Her bottom lips wobble. She’s not looking at the freshly baked sweets that she probably worked hard on.

  “Keep it,” I grunt, knowing that my underdressed state is causing her cheeks to turn red.

  “I can’t,” she whimpers, “You have to eat them.”

  That stubborn pout makes my cock jerk in my tight briefs. I’m too hard, and she’s not making things easier when her teary amber eyes are on the brink of a waterfall.

  I’m a sick bastard. I want her to cry for me, and I’m not helping the situation at all.

  I sigh, “Come in.”

  She shakes her head and pushes the plate to my chest; the warm edge presses on my skin as I instinctively reach to hold the plate. Her hands retract as if she got burned, and she waves awkwardly. It’s too fucking cute to watch her frazzled hair and upset eyes roam back down to the plate of treats that I know I won’t eat.

  It’s a shame that she put work into it.

  Her hands are scrambling for my door and slamming it in my face. I hear her shoes smacking on the floor, but I don’t hear her door opening.

  My brows furrow and I look down at the plate, contemplating what the hell should I do with this. I don’t have the heart to trash it knowing that it’ll upset her more if she finds out, but I can’t just let it rot in my apartment.

  I’m too selfish to let others have it.
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  Stifling down a groan, it’s too late to think about this. When I’m about to turn back to my living room, two knocks on my door come, and my heart races with the same speed as my feet are carrying me towards it.

  I swing it open, and her startled face looks just like a doe-eyed deer caught in headlights. She shuffles her feet with her new attire that I just noticed. She’s changed into a pair of shorts that shows her creamy thighs and a big t-shirt that isn’t hers; it slips off her shoulder, and she pushes it up with a shrug.

  It doesn’t work, so she uses her hands while meekly smiling at me. My traitorous cock hardens further, and I’m running on arousal too similar to adrenaline. It’s almost the same high that I get when I escape from a burning building.

  “What do you want?” I ask, a bit too tactless as my voice is rough and unused.

  “Um,” she twists her fingers as an anxious act, “Can I borrow your phone?”

  I step to the side and signal her to come in with my hand. She steps slowly into my den, and I shut the door behind her. I guide her to the living room. I look over my shoulder to see her slipping her shoes off and stumbling on the floor to catch up to me.

  I drop the plate of cookies down on the kitchen counter. My palm is warm from the heated plate as I close my fist. The kitchen is connected to the living room as I cross over to pick up my phone from the coffee table in front of the couch.

  She follows me every step, not sure what she should do as I’m the true North to her compass. I think she’s more of a duckling when she follows me. Her big eyes are glancing around the apartment with interest.

  I have nothing too personal here. It’s just a place for me to sleep and a roof over my head. My job as a firefighter is my life. I haven’t really thought about what I would do when I can’t be one anymore.

  I’m just living in the moment.

  “Here,” I say as I hand her the phone with the passcode unlocking the screen.

  She murmurs a soft thank you before punching a phone number on the phone. She puts it to her ear, and I go to the kitchen to give her privacy.

  My ears pick up some of her words, and it’s not hard to put the pieces together. She forgot her key, and now she’s locked out, but she can’t call the manager for the spare key since it’s late at night and her roommate is at work.

  Her tiny feet slap the hardwood floor as she rushes up to me with a sheepish smile. I cock an eyebrow at her, curious as to what her solution is because she’s going to be outside for the night.

  Hell no! She’s not going to be defenseless and scared if I can help it. She can stay here until she can get inside her apartment again.

  This girl does bring a protective side out of me. I didn’t even know I had a side like that, but with one wobble of her bottom lip, I knew I was screwed the first time I saw her at the elevator.

  How can anyone not take advantage of her delicate manner?

  That’s a thought that doesn’t sit well with me; my jaw clenches at the image of another man touching her soft skin and seeing her vulnerable tears.

  “Um,” she clears her throat and shifts her little toes as they curl into the floor, “Can I stay the night?”

  My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. I thought I would have to fight her to get her to stay. Her attitude towards strangers is evident of how she’ll react when I tell her that she has to stay the night. It’s a shock that she would be willing to not put up a fight when she had just accused me of being a serial killer a little while ago.

  I bring up that point to see her cheeks go red and an apology flying out of her plush lips. She licks them and is spilling out excuses as to why she thought I was a serial killer while I’m distracted by the sheen of glossiness on her lips.

  My hand itches to cup my cock and squeeze to relieve the pulsing need to bend her over the coffee table. It’s going to finally be useful instead of being a decoration and a waste of space. I want the clear glass to reflect the fogged surface with my cum dripping from her little cunt that’s been fucked open by my big cock.

  “So… can I stay?” she asks nervously with a shaky grin.

  I let her stew in her anticipation, staring down at her as she begins to shift stiffly. If I remember one thing from her rambling, it’s the odd introduction that had plugged into her explanation as to why I became a serial killer in her mind.

  “I-I’m clean. I took a shower! I won’t dirty your couch!” she blurts out, “Um, I can take the floor!”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She can’t honestly think I would let her sleep on the couch, let alone the floor. I may look like a man with no feelings, but she’s not aware of this simmering, wicked obsession I have with her, and I can’t explain it no matter how much I reason it with myself.

  She’s too young, too innocent for a man like me who is seen as a beast by many people. They’ll call the cops on me if I dare to breathe in her direction. They’ll think I’m trying to kidnap her to make her a slave of my desires.

  My cock doesn’t oppose that idea, but my brain keeps hounding me about her age.

  “How old are you?” I pray to god that she is not underage; this is a line that I will not cross.

  I will personally call the building manager for that spare key and dump her ass into her apartment if she tells me that she’s underage. I do not want to be liable for the label of a pedophile or a sex offender.

  “Twenty-one,” she says with an owlish blink of her amber eyes.

  “Are you lying to me?” I narrow my eyes at her, searching for the lie as her appearance is so deceptive.

  She’s maybe eighteen at the most.

  “No, I’m really twenty-one. You can call Leslie and ask her yourself,” she pouts and calling anyone is the last thing I would do to confirm her age.

  She’s telling the truth. I didn’t find any lies in her tone or her eyes. I drop my phone on the kitchen table, and my eyes find the plate of cookies. I still don’t know what to do with it.

  Maybe Anna will have it. She’s here, and she has to do something about her welcoming gift that I didn’t even hint for. I don’t want to be repaid for my work of taking two boxes up an elevator. I did it because I knew it’s dangerous for her to stay outside past nine o’clock.

  It’s a safe neighborhood with brothers in blue and red, but nowhere is truly safe as there are bad seeds in every place.

  “You don’t like cookies?” she asks, her amber eyes focused so piercingly on the plate that she’s practically grounding herself with her toes to not float towards the smell.

  I tell her the truth, “I don’t like sweets.”

  She whips her head up to mine as if I just offended her with my comment, and maybe I did when she gasps with so much shock that she pales even more from her complexion.

  Anna puts her fingers up to her rounded lips, “You don’t like sweets?”

  I don’t know why she finds it so shocking. I’m sure my appearance fits the stereotype of a bitter, black coffee man. It’s my preference that I stick to in the morning as a wake-me-up, and then I would gulp it down with breakfast.

  I drink a lot of water, though. I have to stay hydrated. My job literally drains hydration from me since we would have practices in controlled fires to better our time to rescue people.

  “Can I have them?” she asks with bright eyes.

  I’m saying yes before I know what I’m doing because my hand is on the small of her back, pushing her down on the chair with the plate in front of her.

  Her hands are grasping one and shoving it into her mouth. Her cheeks move like a chipmunk as she chews with abandon. It’s so aggressive that I can’t see her as anything other than a chipmunk filling her cheeks with acorns. I see no difference, and she doesn’t care what she looks like either.

  It’s a resemblance that I can’t ignore.

  Anna hums and giggles; it’s such a pure sound that my cock reminds me of its current state by sending me a strong twitch that has shivers running down my spine. I remember my underdressed
state, and she doesn’t seem too bothered by it; it’s as if she is desensitized by it for some reason.

  The ugly part of my mind thinks that she’s had men walk around her naked and she’s used to them. I’m not willing to admit that it’s a possibility because I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to know that another man has touched what my heart is obsessing over. Anna has already been branded with a stoke of ownership by my beating heart, and each heartbeat solidifies the perverted desire of spreading her tiny cunt with my massive cock.

  I want it to hurt and make her cry, but I want it to happen when she moans my name and beg for me to never stop.

  It’s these times that I thank my willpower to stop my hand from wandering to my cock and fuck into my fist as she’s eating a cookie, an act so innocent that’s going to be ruined and defiled by my vile act of a primitive yearning to rut her against my bed.

  “Do you want one?” she offers with one held up for me.

  I shake my head and lean on my elbow to watch her nibble on the treat. She might be thirsty from all that flour and sweetness. She needs something to cut the thickness away before she chokes from all the cookies down her throat.

  Getting up from my chair, I go to my cabinet to get a cup out to fill it with water from the refrigerator. The cool water hits my hand when I fill up. She doesn’t need more stimulants to keep her awake.

  She should be in bed right now and sleeping; it’s not good to be up late, and I have work tomorrow.

  I give her the glass of water and watch her gulp down the drink quickly. She licks her lips when she slowly lowers her head to the glass. Then she chokes when her eyes accidentally fall on my briefs with my cock tenting obscenely big that practically outlines the shape of it.

  Her eyes whipped up to mine with red cheeks. Her panicked amber eyes gawkily stare into mine as to not look at anything below my chest. She does go down a little bit when my tattoos grab her attention. Her expression changes to interest and awe when she runs her eyes down my arms and over to my chest.

  I crook my finger up for her to stand, and she does so somewhat clumsily; she almost falls from tripping on the chair as she stumbles towards me.