Starting Point (Doomsday Preppers)

by Elle Aycart

  “Wanted to catch up with an old friend. Make sure she was all right.”

  “I’m all right. As all right as I’ll ever be,” she whispered.

  Enough self-pity. She sighed loudly and stood up. “My bottle is empty. Do you want another beer?” She made her tone as perky as she could. God knew she had years of experience.

  “Sure. Hit me,” Alec said as she went to grab the booze.

  Suddenly she felt self-conscious about keeping him with her. “It’s getting late. Are you sure you can stay? Don’t you have anyone waiting for you? Wife? Kids? Girlfriend?”

  He shook his head. “No wife. No kids. No girlfriend. Candidates keep running away. I’ve been told I’m a bit overbearing. And that’s coming from Heather, who loves me, so imagine what the actual candidates had to say.”

  She sat down near him again. “Are you a major asshole?”

  “Nah, just a middling-size one. What about you? Any significant others?”

  “Nope.” Cancer had put a big damper on her love life. Most men bailed at the mere mention of the illness. One had stuck around, but not for long. “Last boyfriend—boyfriend prospect, really—made tracks before this happened,” she said, motioning at her chest. “Which was a good thing. He was a boob man. It would have been a deal breaker. A total tragedy.”

  “Moron.”

  His answer caught her by surprise. “Really? It wouldn’t have bothered you?”

  He winked. “I’m an ass man. You in any danger of losing the booty? Because then we got problems.”

  She broke into laughter. “I don’t know if I should be offended or amused.”

  “Now seriously, if the future of your relationship depends on a body part or a prosthetic, you are in the wrong relationship.”

  She frowned and yanked at his hair.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just making sure this hair is really yours.”

  He laughed and ran his fingers through it. “It’s getting too long.”

  “Really?” The brush cut might be one inch long. Might.

  He looked at her, his intense eyes smoldering. “Man, you are gorgeous.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn’t that long and slipped precariously. “What happened to your curls, boss?”

  She chugged down some beer. “Chemo fucked up my hair.” It required more than one hand to count all the frigging rounds of chemo she’d endured over the years. If you included all the other invasive treatments, she’d need both hands and a few toes. Her hair hadn’t been right since the first round. Now it grew however the fuck it wanted, and she was just happy it did grow.

  “Straight hair suits you. The platinum-blonde color too. It gives you an edge.”

  “I have an edge?” She had no clue.

  “Absolutely. A hard edge to your softness. Fucking hot.”

  “I still can’t believe you recognized me after all these years.”

  “I told you, boss, I’d recognize you anywhere. You were my first kiss.”

  “Really?” she asked, surprised. “A bad boy like you? You were light years ahead of me in experience.”

  He nodded. “My first kiss that truly mattered.”

  “So I wasn’t your first kiss,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Yes, you were,” he insisted. “A first kiss has to matter; otherwise it’s not a first kiss. It’s like fucking and making love. You can fuck all you want, but when you make love, you know the difference.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was the beers or the crackling fire or his words, but boy was it getting hot in here.

  “Everything with you was my first time. You were my first kiss, my first real friend. My first love.”

  “What did you do before then?” she whispered.

  “Survived. Do you know why I stayed put in NoName?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because you told me to.” He looked at the beer bottle, peeled the label. “I was so fucking nervous around you. Awestruck. It took me almost the whole summer to work up the courage to kiss you.” He lifted his gaze to her. “Didn’t you notice how clumsy I was?”

  “No.” She chuckled. “I didn’t know much to realize if you were clumsy or not. You were the first boy I ever kissed. And I was in my bad boy phase—I was starstruck too.”

  “I’ve learned a thing or two since that kiss. I’ve improved. I can show you.”

  She threw her head back and laughed wholeheartedly. “Jeez, I can’t believe you said that.”

  He grimaced, but his gaze was amused. “Neither can I. It didn’t sound that corny in my head. I—”

  Whatever he was going to say was cut short. Megan leaned in close, their lips all but touching. She stopped, scrunched her nose, and shook her head. Before he had time to react, she moved away.

  “What was that? Some sort of test?” he asked in mock outrage. “Because if so, that was unfair. I wasn’t ready.”

  She couldn’t stifle her smile. “You always gave me butterflies just by being near me.”

  “Gave? Do you mean no butterflies now?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “I can do much better. I’ll butterfly the living shit out of you.”

  He tipped her chin up and nuzzled her nose, teasing. Then he brushed his mouth against hers and kissed her, deep and sweet, with the perfect blend of aggression and tenderness, until she was panting and light-headed and goo in his arms.

  “Butterflies?” he whispered against her lips.

  A whole swarm, but she kept that to herself. “Are you hitting on me, Bonehead?”

  “What do you think? That butterfly crack was an affront to my very existence. I had to. And I remind you, you molested me first.”

  She blushed. “I did. Sorry.”

  “I was more than willing, sweetheart. Still am.”

  He was flirting with her, which under normal circumstances would have freaked the hell out of her. Sex required explaining her scars and risking the guy freaking out himself. But not with Alec. He’d already seen her. He knew.

  She looked down, then into his eyes. “You’re okay with… everything?”

  “Well, there’s one thing I’m not too thrilled about,” he said, lifting her onto his lap.

  She froze. There it came.

  “You’re way too skinny,” he continued. “I’m going to fatten you up. Give me a week and I’ll get twenty pounds on you.”

  He should have seen her two years ago. He definitely would have freaked.

  His eyes lowered to her lips. His pupils were blown. He was definitely thinking about kissing her again.

  She moved closer and touched her lips to his—slowly, sweetly. When he opened his mouth, she mischievously retreated. This was her show. He caught on very fast, because he stilled, allowing her to take the lead, opening up for her while she licked the seam of his lips until she herself began kissing him more aggressively.

  “Wow,” he murmured afterward.

  “Butterflies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve learned a thing or two since that first kiss too,” she said, still so close to him she could feel his breath on her lips.

  “I thought you were a fantastic kisser to begin with, but now you butterfly the crap out of me.”

  She touched his rough cheek, five o’clock shadow already darkening his jaw.

  “I shaved, but it was this morning. And I showered.” He looked contrite for a second. “Sorry. I must have reeked the other day, coming out of the woods.”

  “You didn’t. You smelled like man and musk and outdoors. Frigging sexy.”

  He brushed her hair away from her face. “Have I lost all my sex appeal now that I smell like soap?”

  Megan took a theatrical sniff. “Nope. Plus you can still give me stubble burn.”

  “Good.”

  She stared at him as sternly as she could. “So you know, I’m not a charity case.”

  He lifted his hips, his prominent erection pressing against her. “Does this feel like charity?”

 
“Uh… no.”

  Alec cupped her neck and took her mouth, hard, while he caressed her hip. Without breaking the kiss, she reached for his hands and spread his arms across the sofa cushions. She intertwined their fingers, not letting go. At his inquiring look, she said, “Not big on being touched.”

  “That might make matters a bit difficult. Everything I want to do to you requires touching you.”

  “I do all the touching,” she stated, gathering her resolve. “And my lovers are tied up.”

  That seemed to catch him by surprise. “Are they?”

  “In my fantasies they are.”

  “And in reality?”

  Oh, he was so on to her. She shrugged, playing it cool. “In reality there haven’t been many lovers.” The ones she’d had were the agreeable type. She could trust them to follow her script. Alec wouldn’t follow a script to save his life. He wasn’t the kind to offer concessions, especially where sex was concerned.

  “So we’re in your fantasyland,” he mused.

  “We are.” She studied him. “This—me calling the shots—is out of your comfort zone, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not used to following orders in bed. Or being tied up. I run the show. Always.”

  Yeah—and if she let him, he would now, too. Tied or otherwise. He was intimidating. That was why she needed to restrain him. Otherwise she’d lose her shit and clamp her legs shut and the whole thing would go to hell.

  This was her chance to get the explosive sex all her books talked about. She had a hunk who made her wet with just a smile. She trusted him. Sort of. She was going to let it play out like a fantasy. After all, this trip was for her to experience as much as possible before it was too late.

  “I bet you like to run the show, but if you want to fuck me, it’s gonna go down my way.”

  She liked being in control. She had to be, in fact, if she was to have any hope of coming. She wasn’t great at sex. After all, she’d been off it for years. Sexy was a state of mind, and she hadn’t been in the right frame of mind for a whole frigging decade. Even after being told she was in remission, she’d stayed frozen. She’d only just started to think about that aspect of her life when the news that the disease was progressing again hit her.

  His smirk was full of dark promise. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying I can fuck you?”

  Was she? Hell, yeah, she was. She went for flippant. She could have pulled it off, no problem, with any of the other guys she’d taken to bed. With Alec, she wasn’t that sure. “We’re too old to spend hours kissing, aren’t we?” she said airily. “Besides, I’ve never had a bad boy. You’re on my bucket list.”

  He chuckled softly. “This is so not going as I envisioned it. I was going to romance you.”

  “No romancing.” She didn’t have the need or the inclination for that, much less the time.

  For the longest moment, he said nothing, just stared like he was trying to read her. It made her feel uncomfortable, as if he could see through her. She released his hands and moved to unstraddle him. “But if you don’t want me without it—”

  “Please, sweetheart.” He brought her hand to his crotch. “What part of me is telling you I don’t want you? I want you so fucking much, my hands are trembling. There’s nothing I’d rather do than fuck you. Thing is, I don’t have condoms.”

  She gave a sharp sigh. “You accept a dinner invitation from someone you claim to be your first love and don’t think of bringing latex? What kind of prepper are you?”

  He let out a dry laugh. “I didn’t want to presume. Never in a million years would I have imagined we’d end up in this situation.”

  “Why not?” Was he doing a favor to the sick chick? Because as cancer perks went, this was unacceptable.

  “I didn’t think I’d get that lucky, boss.”

  He looked sincere. Sounded sincere. A silence fell between them.

  “Are you clean?” she asked. The last thing she needed was an STD on top of everything else.

  “As of my last test. I had a full work-up six months ago. I haven’t been with anyone since.”

  “I’m clean too.” Except for the monster ravaging her insides, that is. But they were not splitting hairs here.

  “Still—”

  “We don’t need condoms, Bonehead. Infertility is one of the many joys of cancer. It’s your lucky day. You can fuck me bareback if you want to. Do you want to?” she whispered against his lips, relishing how his erection jerked against her pussy in response.

  “Fuck yeah, I want to. But the truth is I’d fuck you any way you’d let me.”

  “Even if I asked you not to come inside me? What if I want you to fuck me and make me come, but you can’t?”

  “I’d hate it, but I’d oblige,” he replied, his voice rough.

  “Again, it’s your lucky day. I had issues with the pill, so I always used condoms. I’ve never had a man come inside me.”

  “Bucket list?” he asked.

  “Bucket list.”

  His caramel eyes sparkled with amusement. “Not sure how I feel about being an item on a bucket list.”

  She pressed her core against his throbbing cock, which was getting bigger by the second. “I’d say you like it.”

  “So how do you propose we do this? Your show. Your fantasy. Order away.”

  She looked straight into his eyes, held her breath, and jumped into the pool headfirst. “I want you on that chair, naked and bound.”

  Chapter 5

  She wasn’t sure she’d meant to intimidate him, but if she had, it didn’t appear to have worked in the slightest. He pointed with his chin, arrogance on his face. “You mean that chair?” He lifted her off his lap, put her on the sofa, and stood up. “What’s the plan? You gonna handcuff me to it? You travel with a BDSM kit? Otherwise you should have warned me earlier—there were plenty of cuffs for sale at the Preppers’ Market.”

  He might have said something else, but he yanked off his shirt and she lost her train of thought. Holy cow. Alec’s body was one huge expanse of hard muscle with thick, taut veins running the length of every limb. He had some scars—service-related, probably—but those only added to the picture. A flower boy, he wasn’t.

  “Boss?”

  “What?”

  “My eyes are higher, sweetheart. I asked if you travel with your BDSM kit.”

  She cleared her throat. Lifted her gaze to his. “No, I don’t.” She didn’t even have one. Besides, sex had been the last thing on her mind when she’d started this journey. Bonehead had changed that.

  She liked being in charge, but she’d always gone for men who would fall into line with one stern glare. Alec wouldn’t.

  “Me neither,” he said, taking her out of her reverie. “And I’m not asking the sheriff for handcuffs. We’d never live that one down, believe me. What’s it going to be, then—ropes?” His face was stark, his eyes flaring, dark, and intense.

  God no. She didn’t want to hurt him, and all those romances were very vague about how to tie a lover. She’d seen enough episodes of Sex Sent Me to the ER, thanks. She wasn’t going to tell him that, though.

  Time to wrestle back control of the situation. She reached for his belt and opened it. “We’ll wing it.”

  In romance novels, they used silky scarves as restraints when there was no hardware around. So classy. In her case, they would have to make do with… a pair of wool socks she’d left on the sofa.

  While she was busy undoing his fly, he reached for her zipper and she gave him one of those stern looks. As predicted, it didn’t do squat. He shrugged. “You can’t blame a guy for trying, right? Besides, it’s just for expedience’s sake.”

  “Right.” She gave a hard pull and his jeans and boxers came down, his erection jutting in front of her. She gulped. This was more than she’d bargained for. “Take the jeans off.”

  He did, chucking his boots and socks too.

  Man. Bonehead was gorgeously naked—arms crossed over chest, legs braced apart—and he. Was. Ma
gnificent. And tattooed and full of scars and big and scary.

  He must have read her, because he softened his stance and said, “Sure I can’t tempt you into changing the plan? Eating your pussy while tied up is going to be complicated. Not to mention it’s going to be a much better experience if I can use my hands. Think about it: my tongue on your clit, lapping at it; my fingers in your pussy, fucking you deep and hard. A much, much better experience.”

  The image made her shiver. She pictured his broad shoulders keeping her legs fully spread, forcing her to accept his ministrations. She could see the appeal in that. On the other hand, having him immobilized on his back with her on his face, controlling everything, had its appeal too.

  Before she would change her mind, she shook her head. Hand on his chest, she pushed him backwards into the chair. He went along. She grabbed the wool socks—still clean, thank God—and tied his wrists to the chair. She wished he was one of those guys to whom you could say “stay” and they would, but he wasn’t. Alec had that whole soldier-warrior thing going on. That air of command. The obey-me-or-else stance and tone. And yet, he’d let her tie him.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Are you still okay with this?”

  His expression was predatory, but his laugh was loud and sincere. “You worried you’re offending my tender sensibilities?” Yeah, he was tied, but he oozed arrogance. No sense of disadvantage whatsoever.

  “I wouldn’t want you to freak out. And consent goes both ways.” She grabbed his cock, palmed him roughly, and watched as he cursed and tensed. Good, he wasn’t Mister Detached after all.

  “I won’t freak out. And I consent. Do your worst,” he said, his voice gravelly.

  She shimmied her pants off and straddled him.

  He twitched. “Jesus, you were such a goody-two-shoes. Bossy, but a total straight arrow.”

  He was right; that had been her. All her damn life. Being nice and doing what was proper. Then she’d gotten sick and they’d treated her as if she were made of blown glass. Blown glass broke so easily—it had to be protected, never taken out to play. She was so tired of that. “Scared of me? Or is it your performance you’re worried about?”