"I noticed," I tease.
"But I needed my pickle," he says. "And we already spent way too much time making love wait.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lincoln
"Excuse me, sir."
Samantha and I break apart long enough to note the presence of the same skinny barista I noticed when Brad and I arrived. He has hipster hair that is shaved on the sides and stands almost on end at the crown.
We blink at him as if emerging into the light after a winter of hibernation. Samantha feels extra awesome sitting on my lap, making sexy little mewling noises as we make out, so I'm not happy to be interrupted during our makeup. My blinking turns into a scowl at the rude interruption.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" he asks. The subtext to his question really along the lines of, "Can you please take your sexy times elsewhere?"
"Um..." Samantha says, looking around the café self-consciously. Several pairs of eyes look away abruptly, a clear indication she and I have been providing entertainment to the other patrons.
"We're leaving," I say, helping a blushing Samantha off my lap.
We quickly gather her things. I leave a $20 bill on the table.
Outside, Brad and Peter Shark turn to watch us as we emerge from the café.
"Peter—" Samantha says, only to be interrupted.
"I'll have a look at the research you gathered, and we can talk about it next week?" Peter is all smiles as Samantha fingers her bottom lip. I imagine they must've seen us from the sidewalk vantage point.
We say polite goodbyes, and Brad, God bless him, says he'll take an Uber home.
In Samantha's unit, we tear each other's clothes off. Lips fused together, teeth clashing, noses and foreheads bumping, we are desperate to fuse our bodies together. I have her back against the front door, legs wide open and jeans dangling from one ankle, and when I bury myself inside her hot, tight pussy, the relief is impossible to put into words.
"Fuccck!" I say.
"Oh shit, oh shit," Samantha screams.
At first, I don't move, I simply savor the sensations, basking in the joy of being inside her again. I groan as she detonates around me, her pussy gripping my dick spasmodically.
"You feel like a miracle," I say against her lips. It's true, and I'm not afraid to say it. "I never thought I would ever be with you like this again. Say you'll always be my woman."
She's nodding before I even get all the words out. "I missed you so much," she pants in my ear. "I'm your lady. You're my man. Always."
"Say you love me," I demand. "Say it right now."
This all might sound like nonsense, but I don't care. I need it, and I refuse to accept anything less than all of this woman.
"You're my man, and I love you," her voice comes out as a pleading whisper. "Mark me. Fuck me. Don't hold back."
Holding back had not been my plan.
"Hard, rough, fast," I nod in agreement, punctuating each word with a swivel of my hips.
With her in my arms, I stumble and shuffle us to the bedroom, our bodies still connected, and when we crash into the bed, she makes a sound like, "Oofff!"
Startled, I go to pull away from her, but she wraps her legs around me, refusing to let me go.
"Hard, rough, fast," she reminds me, looking into my eyes. "I love you. Be my man."
I bend her legs back until her knees practically touch her ears. There is nothing like the feeling of Samantha's body surrounding me. Nothing better than having this beautiful woman take me into her body without reservation. She is hot, wet, and yielding."
"I love you," I grunt. I'm only dimly aware of the fact that we are both mostly clothed, and that makes it seem hotter. I've never been this excited about a woman in my entire life. For long moments there is nothing but the sounds of our flesh coming together, our heavy breaths, and the overwhelming sensations and emotions that come from connecting with the one you were meant to love. I don't recognize the feral man I've become, but Samantha is here for that man, and I'm giving him to her.
Samantha's shrieks become guttural moans when I change that angle of my hips. My cock slides over her g-spot, batters her cervix, and it feels as if we are one body. I hold off my climax as long as I can, ragged breathing punches a staccato rhythm into the quiet of her bedroom.
"All the way in," she whispers, her eyes drifting closed.
"Open your eyes, baby," I demand. "I need to see your eyes when I make you mine."
Her eyes pop open. She shifts slightly beneath me and my eyes roll back in my head when I manage to dig in deeper.
"Shit," I tell her. "So fucking deep. So fucking deep."
"I love you!" she cries. Her voice is a hoarse scream when she comes, and the spasms of her pussy trigger my own release. I am embedded deeper than ever when I orgasm so hard that my vision flashes black, then colors explode behind my eyes. I hold this position as all of my climax pulses out of me on a massive wave of pleasure.
When we are both spent, I roll off her and collapse on the bed alongside her. We are both breathing heavy, and the light sheen of perspiration cools on our bodies.
I look at her. She looks at me.
And we burst into laughter.
***
"You're not one for brevity, are you?" Samantha says. She looks up from the glowing surface of her tablet, dark eyes bright with mischief and lips twisted with a contained smile. She cocks an eyebrow at me and drops her gaze back to the Dear Ida column.
It is late Friday evening, a couple of days after I claimed her, and after a round of vigorous sex. We are settled in for an evening of Netflix and chilling. I'm in a pair of jeans and nothing else. She is bundled up in one of her atrocious blankets with sleeves, this one with Disney princesses printed all over it. She's stretched out on the couch, her feet propped on my lap. On the coffee table in front of us are the remains of a large half feta and spinach, half meat lover's pizza and two partially empty water bottles. Samantha is reading what I wrote to Dear Ida when I was busy moping about the fact that Samantha had stormed out of my life in a huff.
"I wanted to make sure I included all the information Dear Ida needed to render the best advice possible," I defend myself. My fingers slide under the ugly blanket thingie to stroke her smooth calf.
Samantha reads Dear Ida's response to my letter.
Dear Cooped Up,
There must be something in the water down there in Texas that causes otherwise sane, levelheaded people to make relatively straightforward dilemmas more convoluted than they need to be. I find it surprising that the solution to your dilemma did not come to you as you were writing your letter to me. It should be obvious to you or to anyone similarly situated, for that matter, that now is the time for groveling. You had no right to demand to know the gory details of your lady love's previous relationships.
Were you aware of the fact that short of a restraining order, there is no way to prevent someone from calling you, even if you block the person's number? Without trust, there is no love. If this woman is truly important to you, then you need to let go of her past.
And that starts with groveling. Don't be proud. If she's important to you, pull out the stops with a grand gesture to show her your love is true.
She places the tablet on the coffee table next to the pizza box and looks at me.
"So," she says, giving me a pointed look. There's a trace of her a smile on her pretty, full lips. "Where's my grand gesture, hmm?"
I frown. "I practically begged you to make up with me," I say. "And I haven't once asked you about that tool, he who shall not be named, nor why you allow him to keep calling you."
Samantha's face is carefully neutral. She has a look of someone who doesn't want to get exercised over nothing.
"I blocked him more times than I can count," she says. "My clients and future clients need to be able to get a hold of me, and I resent the fact that I'm expected to change my phone number to avoid speaking to one obnoxious person."
It is hard to argue with that. "Does h
e still call you?" I ask.
"He does," she says. "Usually as a result in some sort of triggering event."
We spend a few minutes discussing the employee profit sharing program her friend Tamara Knowles is advising me on, in order to fund the Linc's expansion.
"I honestly don't know why it never occurred to me before Tamara mentioned it," I say. "I was a social worker for many years, and there’s so much more work to do with giving individuals tools to improve their lives. Employee ownership of Linc's dovetails nicely with the needs of the corporation and my own personal values."
Samantha smiles at me.
We spend the next few minutes flipping through Netflix offerings in order to find something worth watching, but are interrupted when there is a loud banging at Samantha's door.
She swings her legs over the side of the couch and makes for the door, and I follow right after her. She looks through the peephole, frowns, and studies me with apprehension written all over her face.
"Baby, what's the matter?" I ask.
"It–it's Howard Becker," she says. Her eyes are wide with something I never want to see on her face: fear.
"Step aside," I say, going for the doorknob.
She frowns at me. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to handle this, once and for all," I say. I grab her by the elbow and hustle her away from the front door. No one fucks with my woman. It's time this little weasel had this point made to him.
"Don't hurt him, okay?" she begs. I give her a hard look. Does she really care what happens to this clown? "What I mean is, I don't want to bail you out of jail." A slight smile curves my lips.
"I won't injure him," I say.
I rip open the door, and there stands Howard Becker, clearly inebriated and swaying on his feet. He's wearing a rumpled dark suit, his tie gone and the whole ensemble rumpled. His blue eyes are unfocused, and he reeks of whiskey.
He lurches forward, but I stop him from entering by giving him a stiff arm. He stumbles and sways a little more. Slurring his words, he demands, "Where's Samantha? I'm here to see Samantha!"
"Buddy, Samantha doesn't want to see you," I tell him, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind me. "And neither do I."
The fool attempts to steady himself on his feet. I wonder what Samantha ever saw in this man, but decide it doesn’t matter. It is time Howard Becker got the message.
"I just want to talk to her for a minute," he says.
"Too bad," I say, advancing on him. He moves away from me, his hands up, until he’s backed into the wall facing Samantha's front door. "Like I said, no one here wants to see you, talk to you, or spend any time with you. If you don't leave, I'm going to have to make you leave."
He attempts to straighten himself, squaring his shoulders and making a show of pushing his chest out. "I want to hear it from Samantha."
"She's not returning your calls, buddy, because she doesn't want you anymore." I get close enough to intimidate him. I am taller and more muscular than he is, and I see trepidation in his eyes.
"I love her! And she loves me. Get out of my way!"
This is the last straw. I've had enough of this dude's pathetic whining, and I want to be with my woman. I wrench his arm around and have his cheek to the wall before he can say anything more.
"What do I have to do to get you to leave my woman alone?" I hiss in the man's ear. "Am I going to have to break something you'd rather keep intact?"
"Let go of me!" he whines.
"Answer the question!" I demand, leaning into the folded-up arm. Howard grunts with pain.
"Let me go!" he repeats, trying to struggle against me. "I'll leave, okay?"
"Not until I know you understand what's going on here," I whisper in his ear with menace. To further emphasize my point, I yank the pinned arm again.
"Samantha! Samantha!" he yells. Samantha must be able to hear this fool, but she stays in the apartment like a good girl.
"Aren't you cute?" I tease him. "Why don't you call for your mommy while you're at it?"
I lean into the awkwardly positioned arm, and he screams. One of Samantha's neighbors pokes her head out of her unit to see what is going on. Howard sees the woman and yells, "Help! Call the police!"
I make eye contact with the neighbor. "Feel free to call the cops," I say. "I'm sure they'd like to know how much Mr. Becker likes to stalk ex-girlfriends. Isn't that right, Mr. Becker?"
He struggles with his face still smashed against the wall. He is breathing hard, but as drunk as he is, I’m not sure he feels any pain. That being the case, it is important that he experience a fraction of the humiliation Samantha had felt when she was unfairly put out of her job.
Howard attempts to push away from the wall, but I hold him firm.
"Are you done harassing my woman?" I ask.
"Yes," he whines. He's weepy now, and I'm reasonably sure he won't be bothering Samantha any longer, calling her with dummy phone numbers, or showing up on her doorstep. If I have my way, she will soon be living with me, anyway.
"Good to hear," I say, releasing him. "I'm so glad we had this chat."
He scampers away on shaky legs. He never looks back.
I turn back to Samantha's condo. The door is open, and she's looking at me, a curious expression on her face. She steps back to let me in. Once I'm inside and the door is closed again, she takes my face in her hands and gives me a long, sweet kiss.
"Thank you for looking out for me," she says. "But maybe next time, try a little less violence."
She crosses the room to lounge on the couch again. I sit next to her and place her feet on my lap again. She picks up her water bottle, unscrews the cap, takes a long sip, then sets it down again. Our gazes lock.
I open my mouth to tell her that I had to do it, I had to put an end to the harassment. I can't tell from her expression whether she thinks I went overboard in giving Becker the message. I won't apologize, though.
"Baby, I—" I say.
"That was some alpha display you put on there," she says, her lips twisted in a smirk.
I study her face, trying to get a read on where her head is.
"Do you mind?" I ask, sliding my hand up her calf.
"Not at all," she says. "Hopefully, he'll stop now. Also, as far as grand gestures go, that one was pretty convincing."
I can't help my elation. I grin at her. "I wonder what made him start harassing you after all this time?" I ask.
She shrugs. "His so-called wife put him out," she says. "She came by to apologize and offer me my old job back."
"And you never told me?" I ask. I wonder whether she still has issues trusting me with such things.
"There wasn't anything to tell," she shrugs again. "I'd rather keep doing what I'm doing. My business is going well, and thanks to this new client who insists on paying double my going rate, I now have the capital to invest in an app. Who knows, I might even be able to start hiring a staff."
"Highway robbery, is what that is," I say.
"Nope," she says, giving me a toothy smile. "It's just what I charge my toughest customers."
Epilogue
"There's a delivery for you, ma'am," says my assistant Keisha Wright, who stands in my doorway with an expectant look on her face.
"Hm? Did you need me to sign something?" I ask. My eyes are trained on my computer screen, and I answer Keisha without looking up. Not sure why she's telling me this, because just about fifty or so people in the GoForYou offices could just as easily sign for whatever it is that's being delivered.
Keisha doesn't answer me. I finish the email I'd been composing and look up to see if the young woman is still there. She's not.
Frowning, I heave myself and my eight-months-along belly out of my chair, then waddle to my reception area. Keisha is nowhere to be found, but I see there's something better waiting for me in the reception area: Lincoln and our first-born daughter Harper, who turned two last week. She's dressed as Princess Tiana, in a green and purple dress with a volum
inous tutu. She has my reddish curls and bronze skin, but everything else is all Cooper. I like to tease him that Harper is a female, biracial version of her daddy. I'm hoping the girl I'm currently incubating will look a little more like the Macks.
"Hey, baby!" I say, crouching and holding my hands out to grab her. She flies into my arms, and I kiss her cheeks and neck as she giggles like a hyena. Lincoln stands behind her, carrying a picnic basket. When he sees I'm having issues getting to my feet again, he's there to haul me up and guide me to the reception couch and make me comfortable as he sets out my lunch. He sits next to me on the couch. I stroke his beard-roughened cheek and give him a lingering kiss.
"Hey, other baby," I say. "You didn't have to do all this! I could have had something sent up to me. Where did Keisha go?"
With the expansion of Linc's, the offices above the flagship restaurant were no longer big enough for The Cooper Restaurant Group home office. My stubborn husband finally conceded to the need for a much larger home office for the business. This led to the first-ever restaurant to be housed in an office building. The corporate offices took up three floors of an office building near the Tollway. On the first floor of the building, the newest and biggest outlet for the chain opened a year ago.
Lincoln's old office space turned out to be perfect for my fledgling business, which he has leased to me for the princely sum of one dollar a year.
"Keisha decided to take a lunch break, like most normal people do," he says, frowning. "You're in your third trimester, woman. Since you won't take any time off, it's my job to pamper you."
He picks my feet up and places them on his lap, inspecting my ankles, which are really more like cankles at this point. He hands me one of Linc's specialty sandwiches, turkey with a smear of guacamole and dried tomatoes. He pulls a pint-sized chair up to the coffee table for Harper to sit. He ties a large bib around Harper's neck, and opens a small covered dish of spaghetti and red sauce for her to nosh on. My baby girl claps her hands and grins when the food is set before her, before feeding herself handfuls of the pasta.
"Daddy, this is spicy!" she declares. "Don’t do that next time."
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 21