Breaking the Seventh

by Allie Gail

  Then I decide I really don't relish the idea of having to explain my little prank to the neighbors or the fire department. So that’s out.

  No, this situation requires a more...delicate approach.

  The way I see it, I have a choice. And I need to make a decision fast, before she opens her eyes to see me gawking at her like a deranged creeper.

  Do I turn around and leave and come back later? Do I go outside and ring the doorbell of my own house, introduce myself, pretend that I've just now arrived?

  Or do I listen to the little devil on my shoulder and take a chance?

  There's really no question. After all, this is way too good an opportunity to pass up. What’s the good of catching Felony Melanie in a compromising situation if I can’t use it to pick on her a little?

  This may earn me a black eye but it’s worth the risk.

  Quietly, very carefully, I take a step forward and lower myself beside her.

  ~ Chapter Three ~

  I was having the loveliest dream.

  And I think maybe I still am, because even before my drowsy eyelids flutter open, I know that he’s here. The faceless man from my dreams. I can feel the heavy scratch of denim as his jeans press against my hip, and there’s a slight shift as he scoots his way closer. I release a sigh of disappointment, knowing that when I open my eyes the illusion will vanish.

  Because that’s the way dreams are. Just when things are getting good, you either wake up or the entire scene suddenly changes without warning. One minute you’re in the throes of passion with Thor, the next you’re stuck in quicksand in the middle of a creepy parking lot while a sock monkey driving a Zamboni tries to run you down.

  Makes you wonder whether your brain’s even wired up right if that’s the kind of random shit your subconscious comes up with.

  Reluctantly, I blink several times, and there he is.

  No longer faceless.

  Perched on the edge of the sofa beside me, strange but somehow familiar, the striking man with the flowing hair looks down at me with an almost amused expression. My first thought is that he resembles a rock star from a music video. I’ve never seen a man with hair like that, except on TV. It’s long and sleek and brown, the color of shiny burnished wood, and gives him an aura of raw sensuality and general badassery.

  Wow, if I came up with this one all on my own then I have to give my imagination a round of applause. Put in the simplest of terms, he’s hot. An attractively sculpted face with a faint shadow of scruff, bottomless dark eyes, a slender body that’s just buff enough to flaunt his masculinity without being pretentious. The tiniest little scar above one eyebrow is the only visible imperfection, and even that trivial flaw I find endearing somehow. If I touch it, will he disappear?

  I watch him expectantly, waiting for him to speak or fade away into the shadows. But he doesn’t do either. Instead he rakes his eyes down the length of my body, then leisurely draws them back up to my face. His only reaction is the nearly imperceptible curve of one corner of his mouth.

  Still, he says nothing.

  I sense that I haven’t been asleep for long, barely long enough to dream, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from the intruder to check the maritime clock on the wall.

  Trapped in the nebulous twilight between sleeping and waking, it doesn’t even occur to me to panic. Or maybe it’s the wine. I don’t know, I’m still trying to process what’s happening. Am I really awake? Or is this just the most vivid dream I’ve ever experienced? And didn’t I lock the front door? I thought I did. What the fuck is this? Men don’t just wander into random houses so they can sit and watch women sleep. Do they?

  Then I remember my state of undress. Oh, shit – no wonder he’s looking at me that way. Like he wants to devour me alive.

  And at the exact same time, I also realize that I’m definitely not dreaming. Because it just struck me where I’ve seen this guy before. The photo on the dresser of the bedroom I’ve been occupying. He isn’t a burglar or some weirdo off the street or even a figment of my sleepy imagination. He’s Leah’s brother, what’s-his-name. Butthead.

  I have to say, somehow this was not at all what I expected from someone with a nickname like that.

  This explains it, though. Why he looks familiar. But what’s he doing here?

  And why doesn’t he say something?

  I can feel his eyes on me, holding me motionless in their inky depths. My traitorous nipples pucker and stiffen in response to his fixed appraisal. I press my thighs tightly together, knowing the rest of my body will be just as anxious to betray me. I should say something, confirm his identity, ask him why he’s here, something, but I seem to have been struck dumb. Or maybe I don’t want him to say anything. Oddly, I have to admit that I am reluctant to have this strange spell broken.

  From the soft glow of the television, Amy Lee sings to us of paper flowers.

  So far his hands have been out of my line of vision, but now one reaches up to casually undo the first button of a shirt that’s the same charcoal color as his eyes. The situation is becoming very real, very fast, and he doesn’t miss the sharp intake of my breath.

  He pauses and tilts his head slightly, waiting for me to protest. When I don’t, he calmly continues, his long fingers moving in a way that’s surprisingly fluid. Who knew fingers could be sexy? I watch them, fascinated, until all the buttons are undone and the shirt slips quietly to the floor.

  He stands.

  Feral heat surges through me and I bite my lower lip. Beneath his faded jeans, I can already see the bulging outline of his erection. Am I really about to do this? It’s like I’m playing a part in a movie, only I haven’t been given the script. I’ve never been a reckless person – if anything, I’ve become way too reserved – but here I am, about to have sex with a total stranger.

  And I want this.

  Oh sweet Jesus, how I want this.

  Consequences be damned.

  He kicks off his shoes and slides the jeans down his legs, taking his black jockeys with them, and my breath quickens as the most intimate part of him springs free. Jackpot is the first thing that runs through my mind, the second being that it's weird how comfortable I feel with this person I've never met before. I don't even know him, yet I trust him. I'm not afraid. It's as if I've been waiting for him forever.

  Again, that could very well be attributed to the wine. I've always been a lightweight.

  Hesitating, he reaches back down for his jeans and digs a leather wallet out of the back pocket, fumbling through it for a condom. That's a relief – now I don't have to think of a tactful way to bring up the subject of protection. Leaning over me, he tucks it under the couch pillow beneath my head. His eyes meet mine as he does, and a whisper of a smile touches his lips. He's so close I catch a whiff of the subtle, woodsy scent of his cologne. I want to breathe this man instead of air, he smells so good.

  I wrap my arms around him, touching him at last, sliding my fingers through the silken strands that are as soft as they look. Then he's on top of me, and a tongue that tastes faintly of wintergreen is gently exploring my mouth while I grind shamelessly against him. His body is hard but smooth, all muscles and tendons and virile masculinity. I haven’t felt the touch of a man in so long. My God, I didn’t realize until now how much I needed it.

  I don’t think of later. Later may never exist. Right now is all that’s real, all that matters, and right now I am drowning in an ecstasy that’s far too intense to deny.

  He slowly trails kisses down my collarbone to my breasts, paying gentle homage to first one and then the other, his mouth warm and wet and skillful. I arch my back against the sensation, trying but failing to suppress a moan. I've never been so turned on in my life, never been overpowered by such pure, unadulterated lust. The impulsiveness of what I’m doing feeds my passion, spreading it until I’m burning and aching with a wild desperation.

  I shiver as he flicks his tongue across one of my nipples playfully, but if he could read my mind he would kno
w that I don't want tender kisses. I don't want soft caresses. I don't even want foreplay. I want this beautiful living dream buried deep inside me, pounding me hard until I scream his name to the night.

  Only his name is something I still don’t know.

  ~ Chapter Four ~

  I seriously should’ve picked up a lottery ticket today.

  I’ve never, and I mean never, been this lucky before in my life.

  The question is, does she recognize me? I can’t imagine her being this receptive if that was the case. Melanie Lane has always hated me with a passion. I was never exactly fond of her either, though to be honest in my case it was secretly something of a love/hate conflict. I’d never given a flying fuck what anyone else thought of me, but with her it was different. I don’t know why, but her scathing insults cut me. The words stuck to me, festering in my memory long after they were spit in my direction.

  Not that I was ever nice to her. In fact, sometimes I was downright mean. But then, she never gave me one single reason to play nice. She acted as if I was something to be scraped off the bottom of her shoe. Inconsequential. Stupid. Twenty thousand leagues beneath her.

  And yet I was constantly drawn back to this girl. I couldn’t leave her alone.

  Inevitably, she despised me for it.

  So why, when she opened her sleepy hazel eyes, did she look at me that way? Practically undressing me with her eyes. She acted as if she was not only expecting me, but glad to see me. How does that make sense? I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here, not even Leah.

  I’m not sure what to make of this. Her reaction was the last thing I would have expected. I thought for sure she’d freak out when she saw me. And when I started taking my clothes off? I was waiting for her to slap me. Toss me out on my ass. Threaten to call the cops. Or at the very least, ask me what the fuck I thought I was doing.

  Apparently, however, little Felony Melanie has grown into one wild and unpredictable woman.

  My God, but she’s beautiful. Even prettier than I remember. So soft and curvy and irresistibly sexy.

  When I kiss her she responds enthusiastically, adding more fuel to my ardor. I've fantasized about this so many times. She never knew, of course. I’d have twisted my own balls off before admitting that shit to anyone. I hated that I wanted her. Sometimes, I even hated her.

  But the past is the past, and right now she tastes so good I could lick her all over. Which, come to think of it, isn't the worst idea I've ever had. I love the way she smells, kind of an exotic blend of Hawaiian Tropic, vanilla and salty beach air.

  She moans softly, thrusting her hips in an effort to grind that smooth little pussy against my cock and it’s all I can do to keep from blasting my load all over her. Holy shit...what's gotten into this girl? She's on fire. I have no idea what's up with that, but I do know I won’t last long at this rate.

  Trying to distract myself, I lift my head to kiss her again and notice that her lips taste faintly of alcohol. Yeah, there’s the empty wine glass right there on the coffee table. How many has she had? Fuck it all, I shouldn’t be doing this. Not if she’s been drinking.

  Naturally I ignore my killjoy of a conscience and instead focus my attention on her gorgeous tits. So round and soft and creamy...just the way I always envisioned them. I used to try and sneak covert looks down her shirt whenever I got the chance, but I never had much luck. And now...

  Now I've got her writhing in pleasure beneath me while I suck those perfect pink nipples into hard little pebbles.

  This is too damn good to be true.

  “Please.”

  It’s the first word she's let slip, and the whispered plea is far more than any red-blooded male could deny. I slide my hand beneath the pillow to retrieve the condom stashed there, cursing the fact that I only have the one.

  Better make this sucker count.

  But I know the instant I slide into her tight, slick heat, there’s no way I’m going to last long. She is pure nirvana and my horny cock is banging on the gates of paradise. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on moderating my thrusts, slowing them to a gradual rhythm that’s sheer torture for me. The fact that she’s clearly getting off on this is shredding what's left of my self-control.

  “Fuck, baby,” I gasp, and her fingers tangle roughly in my hair as if she can’t get close enough to me.

  In spite of my attempts to slow things down, it seems like only a matter of seconds before she reaches the brink. Her thighs quiver against me and the shuddering cries of her orgasm send me chasing her straight over the edge. Unable to hold back any longer, I drive my length as far inside her as I can get, again and again, hammering that hot little pussy fast and hard as the climax I’ve kept at bay encompasses me and I come like I’ve never come before.

  Oh, sweet mother of fuck...

  That's it. So long, world. I've died and gone to heaven.

  Waves of intense pleasure ripple through me for a surprisingly long time, draining me dry, until every nerve ending in my body is painfully sensitive and I'm completely and thoroughly depleted. Pulling away from her just long enough to remove and tie off the condom, I shift my weight to squeeze beside her on the sofa, holding her close. Her body is pressed so tightly against mine, I can feel her every breath.

  And I wait.

  I wait because I know if I give her enough time, at some point she’s going to open up with the obligatory I’ve-never-done-anything-like-this-before, what-must-you-think-of-me speech. And I am really looking forward to that. To hearing her try and come up with an explanation for this…insanity.

  But no, she's not that predictable. Instead of stammering a string of insincere excuses like I expected, she simply presses her cheek against my chest and I feel the soft breath of a sigh. I drop a kiss on top of her head, inhaling the sweet, fruity scent of her hair.

  And for a while, neither of us says a word.

  I could get used to this.

  Eventually, however, I figure it's about time to come back down to earth. One of us has to break the ice here.

  Guess it’s up to me to break out the ice pick and start chipping.

  Brushing back her hair, I clear my throat and say in a low voice, “That’s one hell of a way to make a man feel welcome, Melanie.”

  She lifts her chin to gaze up at me. Her smile is shy but genuine, and it occurs to me that this is the first time she’s ever smiled at me like that. Other people, sure. Me? Oh, hell no. Shane Becker was never worthy of a smile. Not like this.

  And then the dreamy afterglow in her eyes seems to cloud over with suspicion as something suddenly occurs to her.

  “I never told you my name. How did you– oh! Leah must have mentioned it, right?”

  I hesitate, wondering how much my sister has told her about me. “Leah?”

  “Yeah. You’re her brother, aren’t you?”

  I can't help it. A wicked smile creeps its way slowly across my face.

  “You don't remember me, do you?”

  ~ Chapter Five ~

  “Shane Becker?!”

  Jerking bolt upright, I stare at him in open-mouthed dismay, not even bothering to disguise my look of horror and disgust. He can't be serious. He can't be! I mean, this has to be some kind of joke, right? No way this is happening. No way he could possibly be...him.

  As much as I want to deny it though, the more I look at him, the more I see it. And now that I think about it, I realize that's why he seemed so familiar to me. Not because of the photograph, but because this man, this beautiful stranger I've just had incredible sex with, is none other than him. Shane the Pain. My erstwhile mortal enemy. Biggest braindead fucktard to invade and defile the halls of Crestview High.

  He looks…well, I have to admit he looks different.

  Oh dear God. I just let Shane Becker have his way with me.

  I want to die.

  But first I probably need a flea bath and a lot of disinfectant.

  Jumping to my feet, I do my best to cover the strategic areas with both hands whi
le glaring at him angrily. I think it’s the smile that pisses me off the most. That smirk that implies he knows he’s got the upper hand. I’d like to knock that smug grin right off his face. That asshole sonofabitch thinks this is funny!

  I don’t find it amusing in the least. On the contrary, I’m mortified enough to start screeching at him like a banshee. “You have got to be fucking kidding me! Shane Becker? Are you – what the hell are you even doing here? How'd you get in?”

  He looks at me like I’ve just asked him to draw a diagram explaining where babies come from. “With the key. I do own this house, you know.”

  “Then you are Leah’s brother?” I relax, but only slightly. So far none of this is adding up. I don’t remember the Pain having a sister, not that I ever really knew anything about his personal life. And Leah’s last name is Whitfield, not Becker.

  “Stepbrother, technically. But yeah.”

  Ohh. Well, I guess that makes a little more sense. “I had no idea. I mean…she mentioned a brother, but she never told me your name.” It’s becoming very clear to me now why she always referred to him as Butthead.

  “So I gather.” Raising an eyebrow, he casually tucks one arm behind his head. He doesn't seem the slightest bit embarrassed that his goods are laid out on display.

  “Okay, fine, so we’ve got that cleared up. Leah is your stepsister, and believe me, for that she has my deepest sympathies. Now how about explaining to me just what the fuck you’re doing here! Didn’t she tell you she rented this place to me?”

  Pausing, he gives me a probing look, and I get the feeling he's considering lying. But surprisingly, he doesn’t. “Yeah. She told me.”

  “Well? Do you normally just bust up in on your tenants in the middle of the night?”

  The dark eyes roll upward. “First of all, it’s hardly the middle of the night. It was barely even dark out when I got here. Second of all, I didn’t bust up in anywhere. I didn’t see a car in the driveway, so I figured no one was home. I just came inside to wait.”