My heart rails against my chest. “Is that your pet?”
He strokes the long white mats in its fur. “This is Coco. She’s a cutie, huh?”
This is mean, but you know how every proud parent thinks their baby is the most beautiful even though half of them just look like red, wrinkly old people, but you could never say that, so you lie? That’s what I do. “So cute. Is she a...cat?”
Coco’s exaggerated frown, grumpier than Grumpy Cat’s, does not approve of my question.
“Yeah.” He twirls one of her dreadlocks fondly. “This is why I haven’t had you over yet. Come in.”
He steps aside and I enter the tiled entryway, feeling Coco’s unending stare on my back.
“I thought we were meeting at your place.”
“This is my place.”
“Excuse me? Isn’t this Mr. President’s house?”
He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Pres is my dad.” He holds up a finger when my mouth drops open. “I just needed to make sure we were solid before I told you. Someday I’ll replace him and things have to stay close to the vest. Get me?”
“Um, not really. You live here?”
“For now. Until I win my house back.”
“Win your house back?” I parrot, because this is a lot to digest.
“Yeah, lost it in a race to Jackal last week.” He shakes his head. “Fucking crazy. But I always honor my debts and next week, I’m going to get it back.” He’s confident, so that’s good.
“Why didn’t you want me to know you had…a cat?” My brain cannot come to terms with the fact that I am more surprised that Coco is a cat than the fact Dune wagered his house away.
“I don’t like to introduce her to people I don’t think will stick around.” He looks at me from beneath those thick lashes and utters the one sentence that can erase all the wild things he said prior. “It’s important to show your babies stability, you know?”
He said babies. The effect on my body from that word is tenfold compared to looking at his tattoos. An ovary explodes when a vision appears of leather-vested cherubs rushing to meet Dune at the door after a long day of biking. Gah. Another of Dune rocking a chubby version of himself in a Harley onesie has me surreptitiously rubbing myself against the wall of his temporary home so he’ll think of me coming and going. The other ovary remains intact, riddled with resentment, because it knows I’ve been home tending to our cherubs, a tired, hot mess, while he’s out seeking thrills.
“I’ve never had a pet.” And certainly not one with saucer-sized eyes that don’t blink.
“It’s a big responsibility,” he says. “Like having a kid.”
“Do you want kids?” spews from my mouth before I have a chance to close it.
He strides into the living room and picks up a plush fish toy from the hardwoods. “It’s on my list. Number three hundred.”
I perch on the arm of the sofa and rub my wrist along the back, marking it. “What’s the number before it?”
“Swim with sharks.”
My wrist marking halts. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
He ranks swimming with sharks above having children. Why is that troubling? I should be thankful he’s not someone who is ready to rush into anything, but—
I can’t complete that self-analysis, because he says, “Would you do it with me?”
“I’m guessing you mean swim with sharks and not sex?”
His eyes dart to Coco. “Yeah, uh, we can’t have s-e-x with the baby around.”
It’s cute he spelled out the word, if not a bit strange.
“Do you have a bathroom?” I need a private moment to process my feelings, which naturally means I need to text Charlotte. After he directs me to the hallway bathroom, I snap a covert pic of him with Coco and type out a message to Charlotte.
I can’t decide if this is the most hilarious or the sweetest thing ever????
SWEET GOD. That isn’t real! Did he hack that up? Was he grooming the beards of his motorcycle gang?
Charlotte is not helping. But I can’t blame her. It’s a lot to wrap your brain around. Especially when we move to the kitchen for a dinner of burgers and fries and I discover that Coco has her own seat at the table.
While Dune baby talks to her and she stares at me with unabashed hatred, I take another picture. I might be a little annoyed Charlotte couldn’t talk me down, but goddamn will we have fun making memes out of this later.
Ten
Dating Dune is good, mostly. It’s been a couple of months, and I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like. Translation—never. It’s summer, so he’s got lots of biking trips, and that’s cool, right? Gives me time with my friends and my art. And it’s nice to say I have a boyfriend but not have the time commitment. Or the Coco commitment, which is the one giving me cold feet.
When he’s in town...well, that’s pretty good too. We’re getting more comfortable with each other in the bedroom. And by that, I mean I’ve sat on the bed and had numerous stare-offs with Coco while he showered. It’s all good. Except something is missing. In particular, his house. Jackal disappeared on “business” so Dune hasn’t been able to get it back. I’m currently living the plot of a romance novel. I know it’s my summer to be daring, but I’m not wired to keep up this pace.
Andrea, my favorite and also only co-worker at It’s Clay Time, had given me an idea for something I’d been searching for ahead of Charlotte’s wedding.
It’s an out of print book, a tongue-in-cheek retro guide to marriage, that I want to get Charlotte for a bridal shower gift, but it’s nowhere to be found. Something Borrowed is a pop-up that I’d completely forgotten about, but they are currently popped up in a bookshop I can easily walk to on my break. With any luck, I can manage it before my allotted fifteen minutes with Dune this afternoon between his club meeting and his club ride.
The morning class passes in a blur of ceramics, and after I tidy up and prepare to leave for my break, I walk out from the back to find Dune standing by the counter. It’s earlier than I’d expected. I am now distracted.
“Hi,” I say. “Already done with your club meeting?”
He turns to me, and good God in heaven, my pussy doesn’t stand a chance. He didn’t shave. The scruff that covers his jaw is begging to scrape my thighs.
“Hey there.” His husky voice grates against my nipples and a seismic tremor of guilt passes through my stomach when he says, “Had to drop Coco off for some behavior therapy. She’s regressed and keeps marking her territory all over Dad’s house. But I’ve got a few extra minutes now, if you don’t mind me joining your lunch break.”
Unfortunately, Lucy’s pheromone trick worked a little too well. Coco is now at war with me. I cringe and silently ask for forgiveness.
“You’re probably the one who will mind,” I tell him, linking arms and setting off down the road. “I’ve got a wedding book to find.” He just smiles like none of it matters.
A chime tinkles when we enter the store that’s hosting, and a petite woman with gray hair asks, “How can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m searching for an out of print book called I’m Not A Bad Wife, You Are. I heard the Something Borrowed rack might help?”
“Let me check. Sounds familiar.” She moves to a freaking rolodex, because bookstores live in the last century, apparently, and rifles away. “Yes, I have it.”
“That’s incredible.” I beam. “I can’t believe I found it. This might be the only one in existence.”
“Just follow the stacks all the way to the back. Shelf twelve. Alphabetical order. I’m Mildred. Let me know if you need further help.”
Dune trails behind me as my giddy feet carry me to the rear of the store. I scan the packed shelves and—bingo.
“It’s your lucky day,” Dune says.
“Shhh. Lower your voice,” I tease, pointing to a vintage sign that reads, “Whisper as if you’re in a library.”
His teeth capture his full bottom lip and then release it.
“Let�
��s see how quiet you can be.” He presses against my body and I grip the edge of the shelf. “You shushed me, like a naughty librarian. What a fucking turn-on.” All the hair twisted on top of my head, held prisoner by a thin black band, tumbles free with a tug of his hand. “I want to wrap your hair around my cock. Slide the silkiness up and down until I come.”
“Um, I don’t think we can do that here.”
He trails a finger up my quivering thigh, taking my skirt with it.
“Red lace,” he says, looking down at my panties. “So wicked.”
“Dune,” I whisper. “What are you doing?”
Apparently getting on his knees and spreading my legs apart.
“I’m going to eat lunch.”
Oh my. Fear of getting caught battles with desire when he glides a finger along the edge of my panties and pushes them aside to dip his tongue inside. One long, slow lick up to my clit.
Mmm.
I mean, “We can’t do this here.”
He buries his face, sucking the bundle of nerves while I grind my hips and peek through the shelves to make sure no one is coming.
“You’re so fucking wet.” He inserts two fingers.
The smell of antique books and Dune are a powerful aphrodisiac. Almost as powerful as the orgasm that buckles my knees when he pumps his fingers and laps his tongue against my clit. He picks up a stamp sitting on a cart and presses it to the top of my pussy. “Marked as mine.” He rises. “That was all the time I had. I have to get going. I’ll call you later.”
I’m so breathless, I can only nod as he stalks away. He stamped my vagina. Like I have an actual date in ink. I reach down and lightly skim my fingertips across the area he marked. How sexy he marked me. And how wrong for me to think it’s sexy. I shimmy my skirt down and walk from between the shelves of books on rubber legs. And come face-to-face with Mildred. She looks particularly snappy with her pinched lips and stiff back.
“Found it. Woo-hoo.”
She crosses her thin arms and glares. “We can’t help you,” she bites out.
My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“This store is meant for reading, not sexual cavorting with the town bad boy.” Her frosty tone leaves no room for negotiation.
“I really need this book,” I plead. “I’m so sorry. I just...” Once again, let my libido overrule my head. “He’s got tattoos,” I whisper.
“Do you think that impresses me?”
I meet her icy stare and clutch the book in my hand. “I…I would like for you to give me another chance. It won’t happen again.”
She shakes her head and turns away.
In desperation, I quote a line from Motorcycle Mayhem, “You don’t understand what it’s like to be with a man like him. He’s a nomad, and I’ll never be able to hold on to him. So I’m greedy and take all I can when he gives it, because one day I know he’ll be gone. And I’ll have to survive on these memories.”
She halts and pivots on her loafer. “Did you just quote Motorcycle Mayhem?”
I crumple into a leather club chair. “Yes. I’m a sham.”
“Brilliant series. Read them all twice. I’ve learned a lot from those books.”
“Yeah, well, romance books may have helped me gain the man, but what now? Nowhere did they mention what to do to keep the man. The epilogue was s-e-x. Pfft. I need to know how they’re still together five years later, ya know? Where’s that book?”
“No one would read that.” She chuckles and then turns serious, “I had a man like him once, and besides that”—her eyes point to our clandestine corner—“what’s he doing to keep you?” She takes a seat opposite me. “That’s what they don’t write about. The mundane things, the stuff that makes them your best friend.”
Like mopping a floor while you read a book.
“I don’t think he’s very mundane.”
“Well, you just need to introduce it and see if he can handle it.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll test the waters.” Hopefully, they aren’t shark-infested. “What happened to your guy?”
“Left him when he accidentally set my hair on fire. I should’ve stuck with his friend. But we all have our one that got away, I guess.”
Wow, Mildred lived a triangle.
“I enjoy being alone, though,” she says, and man, that’s depressing, because the wistful look in her eyes says otherwise.
She rises. “Let’s ring up your book.”
Speaking of a bucket and a mop, it is really fortunate that Dune likes pussies so much.
Tonight, the hellcat is at a sleepover, and Pres is out doing presidential things, so our mundane night in is now a marathon to make up for him being gone. It’s going well—after oral satisfaction, my reverse cowgirl giddy-upped into doggy style. No offense, Coco. He drives his steel shaft into me at a frenzied pace, pushing me to the precipice of orgasm with his piercing. Shaft is another word I’ve underutilized until reading romance. In my head, it’s always penis, dick, or cock if I’m feeling spicy. Now there’s a plethora of words to keep it interesting.
A whole new column, so to speak.
Penis Words Besides Penis:
Love Rod
Pork Sword
Mushroom Headed Fuck Stick
As my orgasm crests, Dune pulls out.
“You ready to take it up another notch?”
“Another notch, and I’ll be on the moon.”
“I’ve been holding back until I felt you were comfortable.” With his condom-sheathed love rod leading the way, he walks over to the closet and returns with a large black box. “I think you’re ready.”
“That sounds ominous.”
He opens the lid and no, I’m not ready for what I see lying on the velvet interior. A whip and a variety of sex products, some with metal pointy things, fill the box.
“Well, this is unexpected,” I say. And really, why is it? His need to have sex in the open was a big warning sign that Here There Be Kink.
“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you too bad. Pick a safe word.”
Why is life so hard? Can’t a girl just get an orgasm?
“Succotash,” is the first word that comes to mind, and I have no idea why. A line forms between his brows. And now I feel I blew my safe word choice. “No, wait...hm...pie chart.”
His cock bobs with approval. “Damn, it’ll be hard to stop, but I will. Let’s pick what you want to try.”
This is way beyond my wildest imagination, but I can do this. It’s like a game of trust, in a way. Not to toot my own horn, but it’s amazing how I can rationalize doing things I don’t want to do. There must be some kind of award for that? I deserve two of them.
“This gadget gives a shock to your nipples.”
“Oh, dear. What else do you have?” I’m not a bad girlfriend, you are.
He removes a roll of what appears to be duct tape. “This won’t stick to your skin.”
“Next.” I shake my head in disapproval as he goes through the products and God help me, I circle back and pick the nipple zapper. And it’s every bit as bad as I thought it would be. He moans at my discomfort and teases the tingling peak with his tongue.
“Pie chart,” I say when he zings my other nipple.
“Really?” he says.
I nod, and he drops it but things spiral further out of control when he kneels and pulls straps from beneath the bed. “Let’s try something different.”
He lies flat on his back. “Restrain me.”
Oh, okay. This I can do. In a few minutes, I have his hands and feet restrained. His erection points at the ceiling and I ease myself onto his thick length. He groans as I move up and down, letting his piercing work its magic. Until...
“Choke me,” he says.
“I don’t know that position.”
“Put your hands on my throat and choke me.”
“Like stop you from breathing?”
“Yeah. When I get ready to come, it’ll be a hundred times more intense.”
The future
flashes, and it ends with a horribly embarrassing obituary where he dies from auto-erotic asphyxiation and me explaining to our biker babies that mommy accidentally choked daddy to death. No way can I come with that thought in mind, and my tiny hands can barely make it around his neck.
“Count to sixty before you let go,” he says, after I continue letting go after only ten seconds. “Numbers are your friend, remember.”
Somehow he manages to finish and say nice things even though I know I failed at actually blocking his airways.
“We’ll work on it, babe,” he says.
I thought I was a liberal woman. But this is a problem. Because as much as I want things to work, I’m not sure if I’m into making this my lifestyle.
Eleven
I was today years old when I learned they make motorcycle helmets for cats.
“This is going to be so f-u-c-k-i-n-g cool,” Dune says, holding a helmeted Coco in his arms.
Why is it so adorable he’s spelling out the curse words? And why does a man so gentle with his cat want to electrocute my nipples? There has to be a happy medium, and I’m determined to find it.
“Ready to make some p-u-s-s-y pottery?” In what I think is a brilliant attempt to bond and introduce Dune to something I enjoy, I offered to make a clay likeness of Coco. Maybe my motives weren’t so pure, because I’ll do anything to avoid having kinky sex again. I’m still wildly attracted to him, even after the choke fiasco, but now it’s overshadowed by my fear of pain. Since I finished my romance series, and they are living happily ever after in their crime-riddled lives, I’ve reverted back to the internet for advice.
An interesting article on dating a bad boy pointed out that I’m probably most attracted to Dune’s sense of adventure and rebelliousness, hence why I keep coming back for more. Seems reasonable. Personally, I think it’s the tattoos, but alas, I’m not the internet expert. A reasonable adult would say the straightforward thing would be to tell him about my hesitation, and I pledge to do that, eventually. Right now, I’m content with avoiding it, because that’s what I do. I’m running out of excuses, though.
Summer Rebound (Dating Season Book 2) Page 7