Charity Case: The Complete Series

by Piper Rayne

  Why didn’t I suspect foul play from him? Because I’m too busy being enamored with him.

  “Well fuck a duck.”

  Mikey laughs and his friend slides into the booth, bringing along two girls, all their hands full of beers.

  The girls instantly cozy up to Mikey and his friend. Feeling like a fifth wheel, I figure I’ll call it a night.

  “I’m heading home.”

  Mikey sits up to attention. “I’ll get you home. It’s late.”

  I stop outside the booth and shake my head. “I’m the older cousin, remember? I can get home myself.”

  “You sure?” he asks as the girl’s hand rubs along his stomach.

  “Yeah, stay put.” I tuck my purse under my arm.

  He slides out of the booth giving me a kiss on the cheek. “You have your pepper spray?”

  I giggle at his assumption that I can’t handle myself. “I’m good. See you tomorrow night.” I kiss his cheek. “Don’t bring her,” I whisper in his ear.

  He just shakes his head at me.

  “Have a good night.” I wave and then walk off while his friend eyes me one more time like he’s committing my body to memory.

  Then I vanish into the throngs of people and head back to my place that suddenly feels very lonely.

  I’m not home for more than five minutes before I’m back to where I was hours before. My time out of the house was a nice reprieve from the burning desire to watch the DVD.

  “Fuck it.” I plop down, grab the Rambo DVD, the plastic creaking in protest when I open it. Before thinking twice, I put it in the DVD player, head to the couch with the remote and press play.

  The music starts, and I roll my eyes as a smile crosses my lips remembering how much work Dean put into it. Lights of the Las Vegas Strip shine out the window of our hotel room.

  There’s me naked on a bed with a sheet over me, holding my hand out with my ring on it for his viewing.

  “Say your name,” he jokes.

  “Chelsea Bennett,” I say, my voice innocent and lovesick.

  “Wrong.”

  He yanks me by my ankle down the bed and I giggle not protesting one bit. “Do you need me to spank you?”

  The camera shakes from him laughter.

  “Please,” I pretend to beg.

  “Say your name,” he repeats, and I hold my arms out.

  “Mrs. Dean Bennett,” I say on the video.

  I inhale a deep breath and suddenly I’m that girl again. Naive and pure and a true believer that my forever just got etched into some imaginary book of destinies. That Dean and Chelsea Bennett would live happily ever after.

  Maybe that’s why the crash back down to earth was so painful.

  “What do I get for saying it?” I tilted my head to the side into a sex kitten look with hooded eyes.

  The sheet slides over my lower half and there’s my much younger pussy on display, freshly waxed. Ah, the good old days.

  His hand comes into view, his middle finger running up my folds, his thumb pressing lightly against my clit. My gasp audible.

  “Already wet.” Although he’s behind the camera, I can still remember his satisfied smile.

  “Am I the best husband?” he asks.

  “You are.” I’m panting as his fingers manipulate me.

  “Are you going to come for your husband?”

  “That depends.” I squirm on the bed, my body growing hotter.

  “Oh, I gotta hear this.” He chuckles, pushing a finger into me and my body stiffens, then relaxes.

  “Put that phone down and join me.” Again, I hold my arms out, practically begging for his body against mine.

  The picture moves off me and to the ceiling for a moment. A small patch of Dean’s dark strands and half his eye show before the camera shows the entire bed with me lying on it.

  Damn, I looked good. Not trying to be conceited but Jesus, where did that body disappear to?

  The camera shows Dean’s tall, muscular body climbing up the bed as I inch up toward the headboard. His hands slide up my legs, parting them while his mouth teases me with kisses along the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs.

  My head falls to the side, my eyes closing and just like that, I’m in that too-expensive-for-college-kids-hotel room after coming back from eloping at a chapel in Vegas. Our two duffle bags sit on the chairs by the table. My fanciest dress balled up on the floor, my panties on the side table. My bra hangs from the headboard. The floral scent mixed with citrus and cedarwood fill the room and I’m with Dean all over again.

  His five o’clock shadow prickles my skin, his thumbs opening me for his viewing pleasure. His dark eyes promising an orgasm that will have me tearing up the sheets. His tongue searches out my most sensitive area and I rock my hips to his rhythm, but his strong arm holds my pelvis down to the bed.

  I always loved him walking the tightrope between being loving and firm with me. He knew what I wanted and made sure I ended up completely spent.

  His tongue torments me and he shoves two fingers inside of me, arching them to hit my G-spot. My body protests, my hips grinding out of control, wiggling to match the speed of his fingers.

  He moans, and I become greedier and greedier to have him. His fingers aren’t enough. I want his body on top of me. As though realizing it, his fingers slide out of me, his thumb continuing to play with my clit as he uses one muscular arm to hover above me until his cock rests at my opening.

  “Protection?” he asks.

  I remember being scared. Up until then, we’d used condoms. I’d gotten on the pill three weeks prior. At that moment, I didn’t want anything between us. It was just a piece of latex, but I thought I’d made it to heaven as Dean looked down at me, hope sprung in his eyes.

  “No. We’re good,” I say, opening my thighs up more. “I need to feel you.”

  He smiles that genuine one he reserves for me.

  I always felt like we were sharing something special between us when he did that.

  As he pushes inside, I feel myself stretch from his girth. Inch by inch he eases inside of me. It wasn’t our first time together, but something felt unique and rare that time around.

  His eyes swim with mine as we move from lust to love, the camera long forgotten.

  He rolls over onto his back and his hands mold to my hips. “Ride me like you want to.” His voice holds pride and a promise—that I will always be his number one.

  My hand plants on his firm pecs and I rock back and forth, up and down. Our breathing grows faster, our moans hammering out a melody between us, the bed protesting our movements.

  Eventually, his hands hold my breasts, his thumb and finger tweaking my nipples until I fall slightly forward because I might die without his lips on mine.

  He lifts his hips to get as deep as he can while our tongues mesh together in a frantic and chaotic dance.

  My body begs for release, becoming unnerved and chasing my orgasm that’s right there.

  Dean holds my face to his and rolls us so I’m on my back, pumping into me over and over again, never letting up until my hands fist the sheets. My legs tighten around his waist to make sure he doesn’t stop.

  My breath hitches and my climax hits me like a bulldozer. Hard, heavy and leaving me dazed as he slows our kiss, his tongue exploring rather than conquering. A few more pumps and he moans out his own orgasm, coming inside me. The beads of sweat slide off our bodies to the wrinkled sheets as we lay there catching our breath.

  “I love you, Chels,” he says and kisses my forehead. “Always will.”

  Dean picks me up, and carries me into the bathroom, leaving the camera on. Light laughter echoes until the video ends. He edited out the last fifteen minutes of just listening to the two of us talking in the shower.

  As I lay on my couch remembering one of the best nights of my life, my phone flashes next to me. Speak of the devil.

  I press ignore.

  A minute later a text comes through.

  Minute Man: I’m sorry. You
know for what.

  I hold the phone in my hand, staring down at the words that never came out of his mouth years ago when they would have mattered.

  Minute Man: That’s all. Have a great life, Chelsea. You deserve it.

  My heart thumps. My hands itch.

  The damn video is giving me a soft spot. A soft spot that’s taken over my common sense.

  Me: Do you want to meet?

  Chapter Nine

  It takes all of one second before his answer comes through.

  Minute Man: Name the time and place.

  Me: Lunch tomorrow.

  Minute Man: I’d prefer earlier. Breakfast?

  Me: I’m extending an olive branch and you’re playing tug of war with it.

  A few minutes go by and my thoughts drift to what he could be doing. Changing for bed? Is he out drinking with his buddies? Who are his buddies now? Is he home alone? Did he just watch his copy of our sex tape?

  “UGH!” I scream from wanting to know more than I should about his life.

  Minute Man: I’m an impatient man.

  Me: I’m aware.

  Minute Man: Do you ever wonder how we know each other so well from such a short time together?

  Me: I try not to think about our time together.

  Again, there’s a long pause. Again, my mind wanders to wondering what his apartment looks like. How well is he doing as a tax attorney? Is his family still in that small Indiana town? What made him come to Chicago?

  Minute Man: That’s below the belt.

  Me: Maybe, but it’s true.

  Minute Man: Let me make it right.

  I drop the phone to my chest, clutching it like his words can speak directly to my heart.

  Me: You’re asking for a lot.

  Minute Man: I’m a desperate man.

  Never in my time as Mrs. Bennett was I ever privileged enough to see this side of Dean. Maybe he’s just different over text because he rarely ever let his cocky and arrogant facade fall. Even with me. Up until the end, he held on to it.

  Me: I’m not a desperate woman. I have many options to choose from.

  There you go, Chels, act like you’ve got great guys waiting outside your door.

  Minute Man: Give me one breakfast. After that, if you want me out of your life, I’ll walk.

  My thumbs hover over the phone and then I put it on the coffee table, and put my head in my hands, pulling at my blonde strands. I shouldn’t be so surprised that he wants so much from me.

  Me: Fine. Ann Sathers at 8.

  Minute Man: I had other plans.

  I drop the phone, my hands rising in the air like I’m asking for Jesus Christ to save me. This guy never changes. Picking up the phone off my coffee table, my thumbs press hard on my screen.

  Me: Of course you do. Name it hotshot.

  A knock hits my door and I look around like there’s someone else who will share my bewildered expression.

  Oh no.

  That son of a bitch.

  I stomp to the door, rising on my tiptoes to look through the peephole. Already hearing me, he lifts a box of donuts, a gallon of chocolate milk, and a bag of McDonald’s.

  “Breakfast,” he says casually as if I should expect my ex-husband at my door when I never gave him my address.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You agreed to breakfast.”

  “Dean.” I shake my head, my body wanting to disobey my brain’s strict instructions.

  “Come on Chels. You’re awake, I’m awake, let’s talk face-to-face.”

  “I told you tomorrow at eight.”

  I hear a noise, so I glance out the peephole again, and all I can see are his long legs. His feet tucked into a pair of slider sandals. Same Dean.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just getting comfy. The floor could have more cushion, but I’ll manage. I wouldn’t object to a pillow though.”

  I fall back down to the heels of my feet. My hand on the doorknob, my teeth biting my lip.

  “Do you really think I should let you in?”

  He chuckles. “In my opinion, yes, but I get your hesitation. I’ll be here at eight.”

  I slide down the opposite side of the door and I’d swear the smell of him permeates through the small sliver of space at the bottom. Like he’s freshly showered.

  “Dean?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is nearer than I expected, as though he’s right next to me.

  “Is this all a coincidence?”

  “What?” There’s shuffling on the other side of the door.

  “You being the tax attorney for RISE?”

  Silence grows between us and as if that wasn’t already my answer, he eventually talks.

  “Chels,” he sighs.

  “I take that as a no.”

  “Just listen.”

  “Why?” My voice is curt. How could he purposely seek me out just to hurt me all over again?

  “Just relax.”

  “Explain, Dean,” I bark out.

  “Stop talking and I will.”

  I thump the back of my head lightly against the door. “You sure are taking your sweet time.”

  “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  There’s silence between us again and it takes me a minute to gather my thoughts after that declaration.

  “If I was, you wouldn’t have done what you did,” I say.

  “I was a dick.” His playful tone has disappeared.

  “Yeah, you were.”

  “Let me apologize face-to-face.” His large hand lands on the door and it jiggles against the lock.

  “I’m not sure I can handle that,” I say honestly.

  He chuckles. “Just some donuts and a conversation. That’s all I want.”

  I pull my knees up to my chest, my mind a jumbled mess. Like a word search puzzle and I’m struggling to find the right words on a sheet full of letters.

  “Fifteen minutes,” I finally say.

  There’s movement on the other side and I expect he’s on his feet.

  “Do I get brownie points if I’m under?”

  I inhale the deepest breath I have since the moment I stared at him on our wedded bed five years prior. My shaking hands slide the lock and I open the door to a smiling Dean.

  Bad idea.

  Such a fucking bad idea, Chels.

  You’d expect someone begging for forgiveness to walk into my apartment, dragging his feet and with his head down. Not Dean. His back is straight, and a smile plays on his lips.

  “Nice place.” His eyes scour my apartment.

  “You mean your search didn’t come with pictures?” I shut the door and flick the lock. I live in a safe apartment complex, but I don’t want any drunken guys or girls getting confused about where they live.

  “Just an address.”

  “And a phone number.”

  His smirk grows wider and he shrugs. “Yeah, and a phone number.”

  “Great to know that anyone can find out anything about me.”

  “If only we could figure out how to report feelings and moods with an internet search. We’d be filthy rich.” He smiles, signaling to the couch.

  I nod.

  His large frame sits, placing the donuts, milk, and McDonald’s on the coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t lean back into the sofa but sits on the edge, his hands clasped together between his muscular thighs hidden under a pair of gray sweatpants. I’d forgotten how good he looks when he’s dressed comfortably like this.

  “Do you want me to fall to my knees?” he asks.

  “If you’re going to continue making jokes, you can walk back out the door.” I sit down in the chair, pulling my legs to my chest. I need a barrier between him and my heart.

  “Donut?” He opens the box and holds it out as an offering.

  I roll my eyes at the same time my heart drums. All chocolate Bavarian cream. My favorite. I should have expected nothing less.

  “What did you do order them special?”

/>   “I make friends easily.” He sets the open box in front of me. “Mind if I grab some cups?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he rises to his feet. I’m not used to having anyone over and he eats up the minimal space.

  “You’re not even going to wait for an answer?”

  “I figure you want the chocolate milk?” He leans over the edge of the chair. “Am I wrong?”

  I scoff. I can’t go letting him think he can read minds or something. Needing him away from me, I nudge him in the shoulder with my foot.

  He backs up and disappears into my galley style kitchen.

  “Cabinet next to the fridge.”

  “I figured.”

  He acts like we were married for twenty years or something. How does he know I didn’t have them above the stove, or on the other side next to the pantry? Damn know-it-all.

  The clanking of glasses alerts me that he’s returning. I straighten in the chair, crossing my legs. The smell of the donuts is driving me crazy with want.

  He sits back down, except this time he takes the opposite side of the couch. The one closest to me. Setting the cups down he smiles like this is an everyday occurrence. Him in my apartment, eating donuts and drinking chocolate milk. Live in fantasy land much, Dean?

  I try to ignore the pull toward him as the muscles in his forearm flex when he picks up the gallon of milk. I let it roll off me how neatly manicured his nails are, wondering where the boy with dirt under his fingernails from hours on a ballfield went.

  “Here.” He hands me the cup and I almost spill it so that our fingers don’t brush. “Got it?” he asks.

  “Thank you.” I sip it, placing it on the end table.

  He leans back on the couch, his long legs parted as he drinks out of his own glass, smiling at me after he swallows.