This tiny little thing gets to me in a way she doesn’t even know. Twisting me up in desire. Thoughts of her run through my mind most days. No woman has ever stuck in my mind as much as she has. I haven’t even known her that long—but do I really know her? She doesn’t talk to me about the same things she talks to Beau about. We mainly make smart-ass comments back and forth. Sometimes they’re laced with sexual innuendos, sometimes they’re violent. Either way, I like them all. For some reason, it’s starting to bother me that we don’t talk about anything else. No fucking idea why. I find myself wanting to know more about her, but not exactly sure what the fuck to do about it.
When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, her arms stretch high over her head as far as she can reach. Fuck me up against the wall—this girl is gorgeous, and she doesn’t even know it. No makeup, no fancy lingerie, no expensive clothes, just all-fucking-natural her. Keep it in your goddamn pants, Phoenix. You can look, but you can’t touch. Just keep reminding yourself of that.
“Good morning, sweet cheeks.”
“Good morning, Prince Charming. I see you’ve forgotten part of your pajamas this morning.”
Her face is flushed, and she’s fiddling with a strand of hair, staring at my bare chest. Yes, I decided to play dirty this morning. She isn’t wearing pants, so I’m not wearing a shirt. Now I won’t be the only one flustered and sexually aroused. I flex under her hot gaze, making sure she gets a healthy dose of my body. Making her feel just as turned on and tortured as she makes me feel.
“Thought it only fair. Your pants, my shirt.”
“Guess we make quite a pair.”
“That was the idea.” I lift an eyebrow and track her movements through the kitchen.
“So, what’s for breakfast this morning?”
“Banana. You want one?” I say suggestively, lifting the banana in my hand in her direction. I have a very large and hard banana in my pants—if she’s really interested. She turns to face me and gets her first sight of my banana. My pajama pants are lightweight, and I may have also decided against underwear this morning. So my rock hard length is very visible under the thin fabric.
“Oh. That’s a very large banana.” After taking a long, wide-eyed ogle at my very impressive banana, Clover turns on her heels abruptly and starts fiddling and preparing her own breakfast. A melody of mixed fruits.
“The largest.” I can’t help the deep rasp my voice holds when I speak.
“You might choke on a banana that large. Perhaps you should try something a little smaller,” She quips.
“Smaller? Like a peach?”
Her hand freezes mid-slice through a strawberry—a visible shiver runs up her spine. I got to her—the peaks of her nipples harden beneath her shirt. Her arousal only furthers mine.
“I like peaches. So sweet and juicy.” With her back turned, I take the opportunity. Standing from the couch, I start my slow descent on her. She keeps her back to me as she speaks.
“Sorry, but we don’t have any peaches.”
“Oh, we have one.”
“It’s not on the menu.”
“Peaches and bananas are always on the menu. All you have to do is ask.”
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
By this time, I’ve made it across the room and stand only a few feet from her. So that when she turns around, she’s surprised to see me so close. To see it so close. I don’t try to adjust myself or hide my erection. I simply let it stand tall, creating a large tent in my pants. Her eyes are glued to it. Wide and hungry.
“You know, you should really get that looked at. Uncontrollable erections can be a sign of an underlying condition.” She rushes out, trying to cover her obvious approval of said erection.
“You’re looking at it right now. Does it look like there’s an underlying condition?”
So much blood rushes to her cheeks. They turn bright red in seconds.
“I fear with all the blood rushing to your dick, there’s little left for that over-inflated head of yours.”
“There’s plenty of blood left for my large head, sweet cheeks.”
My deep husky voice is too much for her, and she turns back to her fruit on the counter. I reposition myself at her side, mere inches away from her body. Not touching, no touching. I never said anything about not smelling. She smells floral and something extra that is all her. It’s sultry and sweet and lures me to press closer.
She couldn’t move fast enough to assemble her plate of fruit and get away from me.
“Are you running away from me?”
“I’m eating my breakfast,” Is all she says as she sits at the dining room table and begins shoving slices of fruit in her mouth.
You’re not getting away that easily. This is just too much fun to stop now. Hell, if she keeps this up, I could easily come in my pants without her even touching me. That’s how much her petite body and smart mouth turn me on. No woman has ever been able to get me this worked up before without actually trying—or touching me, for that matter.
I step near, but not too close—because of my height. Her seated position puts her line of sight directly at cock level.
“Can you please put that away? I’m trying to eat.” She tries to sound stern and unaffected, but the slight hitch in her voice gives her away. She likes it.
“Sure, no problem.”
Reaching beneath the waistband of my pants, I fist myself. Damn, it feels good to give it a squeeze while she watches. My cock likes it so much, it twitches in my hand. I can’t stop myself from giving it one good long stroke as I pull it up till the head is held under the elastic band of my pajama pants. Her eyes never leave the movement of my hand. Which does not help my erection go down, but simply makes it harder.
“Better?”
“Yup, that’s great, thanks,” She says in a clipped tone, finally peeling her eyes away from my dick and turning it back to her breakfast.
“Oh, you are most welcome. I aim to please.”
“I bet you do,” She mutters.
Chapter 10
Phoenix
W ell, tonight was a complete and utter shit show. After that bullshit, I’m going to have to have a very long talk with the Syndicate council about stricter regulations and standards for new dealers. Zander, Arrow, and I had gone on a very large delivery of cocaine and ecstasy to a new dealer that we had never met before. I was told the delivery would be smooth and easy—standard shit. The extra muscle was simply because it’s our rule to send extra back-up on deliveries to dealers we’d never used before.
Thank fuck we did. This guy was strung out of his mind on who knows what. When we arrived, the guy was already twitchy, pacing the length of his car. His muscle-bound bodyguards standing close by, also acting a little sketch. Not completely unusual in our line of work. Tweakers and methheads are just part of the job description. These guys, however, looked more strung out than the average.
Ignoring the new dealer’s constant ticks in front of me, my cousins and I make our way farther into the empty warehouse for our meeting. After a brief introduction, we learn the dealer is called Chef. His goons are Porkchop and T-Bone. Ridiculous.
We get to work going over the product. He pulls everything out, laying it on a broken crate, counting the bags and pills. Again, not unusual but very fucking annoying. The dealers we work with regularly know we don’t skim. We don’t short them product—they don’t short us payment. They don’t walk away if they fuck with us. It’s just common knowledge.
Then the fucker does the unthinkable. He haggles price with us. Are you fucking serious? I don’t know this guy from the unnamed sap I taught a lesson to last week. One I left with eight broken fingers and one pulled tooth. Needless to say, we decline any of his subpar offers. Apparently, he doesn’t like my less than friendly responses to his insult.
When he doesn’t get his lower price, all hell breaks loose. Chef and his meats freak the fuck out on us. Screaming that he was promised a lower price for the pills. He is so strung
out he starts waving around his gun, then he sics his goons after us. It is pathetic and aggravating. There’s no way these meatheads can win against us, and they don’t.
I give them credit for giving it the old college try, but their skills are less than worthy. Porkchop, who looks like he shares the IQ of his namesake, comes at me first. Firing wildly while holding the gun sideways like some nineties gangster. I duck behind a cement pillar, and his bullets pockmark the crumbling structure. I circle around, coming at him from the opposite side. Clipping his knee with one shot and his shoulder with another. Not my best aim, but it puts him down long enough to allow me to descend on him.
Swinging a nasty right hook that cracks his jaw—breaking it, I’m sure—I knock him to the ground. His blood splatters across the grimy floor, creating a satisfying dark red pattern. I want to paint a Picasso with his blood, smear it using his severed hand as a paintbrush.
He’s not down yet, so I use the opportunity to kick his gun out of reach. Shifting menacingly to his back, I slide my hand under his chin, lifting him off the ground. He gurgles something unintelligible as I bend to grip both hands around his head, prepping my position. I lean down to whisper in his ear.
“Maybe you should have picked a better name than Porkchop. Maybe something that isn’t cut and eaten by predators. Like Broccoli.”
Not allowing him to regain his limited composure, I snap his neck in one practiced and fluid motion. Hearing the crack and feeling his body fall limp in my hands satisfies the fire inside me that’s constantly seeking its next victim.
I’m not given much time to enjoy my kill as a sharp sting shoots through my shoulder. Whipping around, I find Chef holding a short switchblade coated in my blood. Fucker has to pay for making me bleed. I’ll take his blood. Lacking patience for this asshat, I pull an Indiana Jones and bring a gun to a knife fight. Pressing the barrel of my Glock to his forehead, I squeeze the trigger. Satisfied as his lifeless body crumples in a twisted heap at my feet.
My cousins finish off the larger of the two meat morons—T-Bone. Zander takes his finishing hit—smashing the guy’s face into the ground. T-Bone’s face has been minced into ground beef. Arrow stands nearby, wiping blood from his chin. They really should have rethought their titles because this raw meal has been decidedly devoured.
We take our drugs, their wallets, valuables and then find the stack of money they brought as payment. Calling in the clean-up crew to dispose of the mess, we make an easy exit.
Fucking hell—my shoulder is killing me, my shirt is ruined, I’m far too sober, and the need to fuck my roommate keeps coursing through my veins. I just want to get cleaned up and hit the sack. Can’t this shitty night just end already?
By the time I make it home, it’s past three in the morning, and this whole debacle started at ten last night. Bleeding all over the floor, I grab two beers from the fridge, finishing the first before even reaching my bedroom door. The empty bottle ends up on the floor, along with my shirt and boots.
In my master bathroom, I wash the blood from my shoulder and check it in the mirror to see the damage done. That stupid grunt did more harm than I originally thought. Probably needs stitches, but I don’t have time for that. I’ll just have to clean and bandage it. It’ll be fine. Now, where is that peroxide and gauze? Not in my medicine cabinet, not under the sink. Wait, Mom gave me a medkit. I think it’s in my closet.
Off to rummage around in my closet—I know I put it in here somewhere. Tossing boxes and clothes out of the way, I find what I’m looking for—a white tackle box-sized case. As I fumble with it, I swear I hear something in my room. I pause and listen. Nothing. I keep digging through the case to see what my mother packed in here as I back out of my closet.
“Oh my god, Nix, you’re bleeding.”
Clover’s voice jolts me, and I spin, finding her standing in her standard pajamas—t-shirt and panties in the middle of my room, in the middle of the night. Looking all kinds of deliciously innocent and full of unattainable purity.
“Shit, Clover. What the fuck are you doing in here?”
“I heard banging and noises. I wanted to make sure everything was ok. Your door was open, so I came in. I called your name, but you didn’t reply.” Her voice is so sweet, and concern is etched into her expression. Is she worried about me?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to bed. Everything’s fine.” I don’t need her here now. Why the fuck is she here?
“Everything is not fine. You’re bleeding.” She tries to reach out and touch my shoulder. Instinctually, I recoil from her fingers. I don’t need her help. I don’t need anyone’s fucking help—especially a tiny girl with chipmunk cheeks and big concerned cobalt eyes.
Eyes that stare up at me, trying to persuade me to let her in. To let her touch me and care for me. I don’t need her care. I don’t need the concern etched in her furrowed brow. Letting her in will only cause her more pain than this stab wound is causing me.
“I’m fine. I don’t need your help. You can go back to bed,” I say firmly.
“Oh, you’re fine, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And how exactly do you plan on reaching that wound on your back?” She demands, hands on hips.
“Easily.” Actually, I’m not quite sure how I’m going to reach it, but I don’t need her to do it.
“I don’t think so. You need my help.”
“No, I don’t.”
I ignore her continued protests and return to my bathroom with the medical kit. She follows close behind me—right into my personal space.
“Yes, you do, you stubborn ass. Now sit down and let me do this!” She practically yells at me. No one yells at me and tells me what to do in my own home.
“Make me. Oh, wait, you can’t because you’re a ninety-five-pound midget with no muscles that can’t even reach my shoulders.” Her relentless badgering is pissing me off. I don’t have the patience for this tonight. Can’t she just leave me alone?
“I am a hundred and fifteen pounds, thank you very much, and I have plenty of muscle. If I want to reach your shoulders, I will climb you like a monkey up that tree you call a body to get there.” Her small hand is shoved in my face, pointing her finger at me like a ninety-year-old grandma scolding a child for eating a cookie before dinner.
Don’t tempt me to let you, sweet cheeks.
She is not going away, and the pain in my shoulder is only getting worse with all this movement. I need painkillers. I know I have some in here. Ignoring her and shuffling through my cabinets, I find what I’m looking for. A few oxy should make it better.
“What are you taking?”
I drop four in my hand and pop them in my mouth, swallowing them with a chug of beer.
“That’s too many, Nix.”
Is she my mother now? “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
She just stands and stares at me. Her eyes wander over me and come back to pierce into mine. What is going through that pretty little head of hers? She looks so torn inside. There’s more to this girl than meets the eye. More beneath her silky skin and wild red hair. Why the fuck do I find myself wanting to know what it is? Wanting to make that pain in her eyes go away. I can’t keep looking at her like this. So, I give her my back as I turn my attention back to the medical kit. There has to be something in here I can use. Mom stocked it well, with things not in a normal med kit. She knows we have to tend to wounds more serious than a scraped knee and a bloody nose. There’re needles, thread, medical tape, tweezers for removing bullets, and even skin staples. Thanks, Mom.
I can feel Clover moving around behind me — see her reflection in the mirror. She obviously wants to approach me, but I give her a firm look, warning her to stay back. She does. I continue rummaging.
“Oh my God, Nix, this is a stab wound. You need a hospital.”
Her soft hand touches my shoulder, setting my skin on fire. To feel her touch, so soft and tender. I don’t need it; I don’t deserve it.
“I don’t need a fucking hospital. Too much paperwork.” I want to shake off her touch, but for some reason, I can’t. I crave it.
“Don’t you guys have a family doctor or something you could go to? This needs stitches.”
“No, it doesn’t. If you wanna help find the peroxide and gauze. That’s all it needs.” Why won’t she drop this? Why is she still here—why does she care? All we do is bicker at each other; I’ve never given her a reason to be nice to me. So why? This is why I don’t get close to women. They want to mother and help and be involved. If she only knew what being involved with me truly means.
“You can’t just slap a band-aid on it, Nix. It needs stitches.” Pushing around me, she shoves me out of the way to get to the medkit. I don’t know how, but she actually moves me out of her way. The momentary touch of her hand on my chest distracting me. Not just my cock, but my whole body. My chest heaves, and my heart pounds harder. My blood is boiling—fingers itching to reach out and run through that long alluring hair of hers.
She moves around and positions tools and things in a neat line on the counter. Pulling a towel off the shelf and placing the small stool in front of her.
“What are you doing?”
“Sit down.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit. Down.” With the tone of her voice and silent pleading in her eyes, I do as she commands.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stitch you up.”
“You’re going to give me stitches?”
She has to be kidding. No way I’m letting her stick a needle in my skin. I’m the tattoo artist. I’m the only one who sticks a needle to the skin. I wouldn’t mind sticking my needle to her skin and that unfinished tattoo on her arm. Complete it. Maybe that can help complete her. I can tell she’s been broken since her mother died. Beau had told me about it, but that day she yelled at me when I asked about her tattoo was the only time Clover had brought it up. Wait, why the fuck am I thinking about completing her? This is so not me, and I don’t like where my thoughts keep leading me when I think of her. I’m getting in too deep, and soon I won’t be able to dig my way out of her bottomless baby blues.
Phoenix (The Colton Cousins Book 1) Page 7