by J. A. Little
Matthew’s record is fairly clean. His report says “shy, detached, unemotional and unresponsive.” I don’t like seeing that. It means that someone’s writing him off.
I set the file down on the side table and close my eyes. I’m fucking exhausted. I should probably get up and change, brush my teeth—something—but I just can’t. I’m about thirty seconds from falling asleep when I hear the doorbell.
“What the hell?” I grumble, glancing at the clock. It’s four in the morning—I did fall asleep. If this is a ding-dong ditch, somebody’s getting his ass kicked. Standing up, I pad down the hallway to the front door. When I open it, I’m rendered speechless. Kayla is standing in front of me.
“Hi,” she says softly, stepping in out of the cold. “Look, we really got off on the wrong foot.”
I can’t move. I just stand, gaping at her. She looks up at me with dark-blue eyes.
“I thought you were just being an asshole at first, but…I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep. I had to come apologize.”
“Uh…okay?” I say like a complete idiot. I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger to make sure she’s really standing there. “Apologize for what?”
She slips past me and starts walking down the hallway toward my office. I have no idea what’s going on, so I just follow her. She made the trip; the least I can do is hear her out. Yeah, I can be a big asshole, but she’s a colleague. And she’s beautiful. And I’m really fucking weak at the moment. Just as I think she’s going to turn through the office door, she keeps walking down the hallway.
“Where are you going?” I ask, confused. Kayla turns her head and smirks, but doesn’t say a word. She disappears around the corner. When I catch up to her, she’s made it to my bedroom. As she stands in the middle of the room in front of my bed, I see her glance around. My mother decorated this room. It’s full of rich, dark wood and fabrics. She wanted it to fit the style of the house. I’m about to tell Kayla this when the movement of her hands distracts me.
She reaches for the belt of her long, red trench coat and unties it. When she slides it from her shoulders, I nearly choke on my tongue. She’s wearing black lace lingerie with a pair of shiny red-leather high heels that scream, “Fuck me!” Her body is absolutely stunning, her skin smooth and flawless.
“I’ve been thinking about you since I left,” she whispers, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “You put up a pretty tough front.” She walks toward me. Out of habit, I flinch when she reaches out. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her finger slips from my Adam’s apple to the waistband of my pants. “But I want to see the real you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. When she starts tugging at the hem of my shirt, I reach down, hesitating before yanking it up over my head. I really have no idea what I’m doing. Didn’t I just tell myself I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do this? I know it’s wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this, especially not here. But I just can’t help myself. Something other than my brain is driving me right now. I close my eyes and wait for her reaction, but she says nothing about what she sees. I hear a slight rustling, but I’m afraid to open my eyes. I don’t want to see the look on her face.
“Put your hands on me,” she pleads. When I open my eyes again, she’s moved away and is leaning back on my bed. She’s removed…everything. Everything but the shoes. Her legs are crossed, the one on top bouncing lazily. She’s teasing me.
I stare at her tits, which are just perfect. I want to put my mouth on them. My dick, which has been at attention since I opened the front door, begins to ache. This isn’t a good sign. I’m about to do something very bad.
I take a few steps forward and slide my hand from her knee to the outside of her thigh and then down in-between her legs. She watches my movements, her lips slightly parted. Fuck, she’s hot. She’s resting on her elbows, her hair brushing against the comforter on my bed. I can’t wait to tangle my hands in it as I’m pounding into her—and I will be pounding into her. I’m not even going to try to resist. I flick my wrist, pushing her legs apart.
One of her hands slides over her breasts, across her toned abs and down, down… Holy fuck! My cock feels like it’s going to tear its way out of my jeans. The sounds she’s making are enough to make me come in my pants. She writhes and whimpers as she brings herself closer and closer, but I need her to stop. I want to be the one who makes her cry out.
When I grab her wrist, she looks at me in confusion. Smirking, I bring her fingers to my lips, licking them before sucking them entirely into my mouth. I watch as her eyelids flutter, and I can’t get my pants off fast enough. When she realizes what I’m doing, she sits up and helps me. She unfastens my belt and then the buttons. When she yanks them down, she smiles. My erection is in her face, and I see the look of yearning in her eyes as she reaches to touch me. I groan. It’s been awhile since I’ve been touched like this.
I want her to suck it—to suck me—but I’m already about to blow, and I don’t want to do it in her mouth. Not yet. Maybe later. Definitely later. Her fingertips dance over the head, which is leaking in anticipation. I hiss as her tongue darts out to collect a taste.
I cup her chin, and she looks up at me. God, she’s beautiful. When she lies back down on the bed, I cover her with my body. I’m already in position, but I want her to feel the heat of me on top of her. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I can feel the tips of those pumps digging into my ass. It hurts, but in a good way. A way that says I’m about to fuck this girl six ways from Sunday.
I reach down, making sure things are nice and wet so I don’t hurt her. I want to do this again. And again. And again. Glancing at her face, I see that she’s not looking at me; she’s looking down to where I’m slowly entering her. I watch, too.
Looking back up at her to make sure she’s okay, I see her cheeks are tinged pink, her lips slightly parted. I’m not really moving anymore, because I’m all the way in, and I don’t want to leave.
She begins to move beneath me, making sexy little sounds—gasps, whimpers. They aren’t words, but I know what they’re asking me for. I pull out almost all the way. I can feel her walls clenching, trying to force me to stay.
Making short, quick thrusts, I give her just enough of my tip to drive her crazy. I could probably come like this, but not this time. After a few minutes of pure erotic torture, I finally give in to my urge and just drive into her. She cries out, her hands flying to my shoulders, nails digging into my flesh.
I unwrap one of her legs from around me and push it up. Gripping her calf with my fingers, I drag my tongue over the smooth muscle. She’s flexible. That’s a good thing. One of the red fuck-me pumps is in my line of vision as I move inside her. I’m gonna fucking steal those shoes and make her wear them every single time.
“Good God, woman, you feel incredible,” I groan as I thrust into her over and over. I want her to talk to me—to say nasty, filthy things. But she’s just staring at me.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. I need to hear you,” I plead. But she says nothing. I’m gonna come, I know I am, but I want her to get there first. “Baby, please.”
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say,” she moans.
“I do. I want to fucking hear you.”
“Are you sure?” she purrs.
“Yes, baby, anything.”
She looks at me coyly and bites her lip.
I can’t hold back. “Kayla, please, something.”
She lifts her lips to my ear and whispers, “Wake up.”
“Oh, shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I’m gasping for air as I come all over the inside of my jeans. I’m on my stomach, in my bed. Alone.
I fucking hate my life sometimes.
* * *
“Dude, Dean. Why are you so pissy this morning? I swear you need to get laid,” Jax, one of our boys, says as I toss my plate down onto the table in a huff.
He’s right. I’m being a total bitch, but I can’t help myself, not after the most erotic experience in my existence turned out to be a fucking d
ream. And he’s unknowingly emphasized that point. I spent an hour trying to pound my frustration out on the heavy punching bag in the basement before breakfast, but it didn’t work.
“Jax,” I warn.
“Aww, come on. Seriously, man, how long’s it been?”
All the boys perk up as if I’m really going to give them that piece of information. Truthfully, it’s been too fucking long. I can’t very well bring a woman to Wyatt House. I have my apartment, but there’s no way I’m about to show a chick who’ll fuck me twenty minutes after meeting me where I really live. I don’t go home with girls, either. They expect too much. I don’t do all that cuddly bullshit. I’m in and out, literally, as quickly as possible. I’ve gotten a few blow jobs here and there, but, for the most part, I’m very good friends with my right hand. The last time I actually dipped my wick in an honest-to-goodness warm-blooded pussy was over six months ago.
“Dude,” I mimic him. “I am not your buddy. Shut up and eat your breakfast.” The room fills with snickers as I smirk at Jax and shake my head.
“That long, huh?” he mumbles under his breath. I take the opportunity to launch a breakfast sausage at his head, hitting him in the temple.
“Boys!” Tracey shouts. “Stop throwing food at each other. I worked hard on it, and I’m not making any more.” She flicks me on the nape of the neck, and I duck away with a laugh. I look up just in time to see two new faces entering the room. I recognize them, but only because of the pictures in their files. The Davidson boys.
“Come on in, guys.” I lift my hand and curl my fingers quickly. They do as I say and sit down at the table. Normally, the rest of my boys would be making snide comments, but the older of the two newcomers, Logan, is one big dude. I don’t think they want to see how riled up he can get. Not yet, anyway.
“Logan,” I say, thrusting out my hand. He slaps it with his own and lifts his chin in greeting.
“What’s up, man?”
“Matty.” I do the same thing and the younger boy shakes my hand timidly. “I’m Dean Wyatt. That’s Brayden, Jax, Edgar, Eric, and Curtis.” I point to each of the boys, and they lift their hands as I call their names. “Boys, this is Logan, and this is Matty. I expect you all to make them feel welcome. This is Mrs. Tracey Halloway,” I continue. “She and her husband, Bill, cook and do a lot of the maintenance work around the house.”
“Hello, boys,” Tracey coos, setting full plates down in front of our new arrivals.
“Don’t get used to that,” I laugh as Logan raises his eyes at his brother. “Today will be the one and only day she will serve you. Isn’t that right, T?”
“Unless you have two broken legs or arms, you’ll get it yourself.”
“We’ll go over the house rules when you get back from school this afternoon. My brother, Aiden, will also be here, so you’ll meet him, too.”
“Whatever,” Logan says with a shrug as he and Matty start digging into their breakfast. I shove one last bite in my mouth and pick up my coffee, taking a huge swig before standing up. I can hear the boys asking the new kids questions. Only Logan is answering.
“Whaddya make of him?” I lean back against the counter and whisper to Tracey. She turns to look at Matty.
“He’s used to taking the backseat to his big brother. I’d venture a guess that he feels like they’re in foster care because he did something wrong to begin with, and that he has no control over anything.”
I nod. I love having Tracey around. She has an insight into people that’s different from mine. She’s forty-five with blond hair and long legs. She’s a little on the heavier side, but it suits her. Her tits are huge, which is always fun when we get new kids in the house. It doesn’t matter what she wears; the boys always stare. She’s patient and nonjudgmental, but she doesn’t take any shit, either. I wouldn’t be able to survive without her. None of us would.
Tracey and Bill started working for my father about ten years ago. She does a lot of the cooking and cleaning for the house, but she makes it a learning experience for the boys. She’s always teaching them how to take care of themselves. Most of the boys can do their own laundry now, and they take turns cooking on the nights that Tracey has off. Bill does all our maintenance—plumbing, electrical, and minor construction. He’s really good at showing the boys those things as well. Our goal is to ensure that when they age out, they’ll be fairly well-rounded men. And they will age out. Not many people are willing to take in boys like these. Wyatt House is usually a last resort before juvie or prison.
“You’re going to have to break him out of his shell, Dean,” Tracey says softly.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know.”
Chapter 4
Dean
By the end of breakfast, Logan is one of the crew. After putting their dishes in the dishwasher, the boys disappear upstairs to finish getting ready for school, laughing and joking. Logan, at least, seems to fit in perfectly. Hopefully it will be enough to make him want to stick around. I scratch my arm and ignore the little voice inside my head that tells me there’s an additional reason I want the Davidson boys to stay. A beautiful, roughly five-foot-four-inch brunette reason. I get hard just trying not to think about her.
The doorbell rings and I hear the thumping of feet.
“I’ll get it,” Edgar’s voice booms.
“Fuck you, I’ll get it,” Eric yells.
I can hear them bickering, scuffling, and then…silence. I glance at Tracey. She shrugs before going back to cleaning up the kitchen. I turn the corner to see both boys standing in front of the open door. Their faces are almost comical. I would laugh if the object of last night’s wet dream weren’t standing there.
I scan her up and down. She’s dressed nicely—professionally—though a long coat covers most of her. My mouth goes dry as I focus on her feet. She’s got on a pair of red-leather high heels. They look just like the red fuck-me pumps that I dreamt were digging into my ass as I… Shit, I need to stop thinking about that. I know they’re not the same, but they look the same. It’s freaky, and I’m wondering how in the hell shoes I’ve never seen before worked their way into my dreams. I would have noticed them yesterday if she’d been wearing them. She wasn’t.
When I finally stop ogling her long enough to look at her face, she greets me with a very irritated expression.
“Guys,” I yell. “Let her in.”
“Hi,” Edgar says, attempting to switch into his pimp mode.
“Hi,” Kayla answers, obviously not impressed. I approach the door and shoo them out of the way.
“Go get ready for school.”
“Dude, I’m trying to get my mack on,” Edgar protests.
“She’s way too old. Now go,” I say, watching as they both run up the stairs to finish getting their shit together. I turn back around and motion with my hand for her to come in. “Hello, Kayla,” I say. I realize too late that I sound as smooth as Edgar.
“Mr. Wyatt,” she says curtly. She’s nothing like the woman from my dream, and yet she’s everything like that woman. I really must have been more of a dick than I thought last night to get this kind of reaction. “Now, tell me, Mr. Wyatt—”
“Dean,” I insist.
She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “Just how old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Twenty-four?” She looks young, but I can also tell she’s not new to her job, so my guess can’t be far off. She opens her mouth and points her finger at me briefly before pulling it back into a fist and scowling. She’s mad at me. I kinda like it. I should be more professional than this, but being pissed off makes her lower lip stick out a little and her nose wrinkle in a really fucking cute way.
“I’m twenty-seven,” she answers. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Wow. You’re ancient,” she deadpans.
We stand there kind of staring at each other until I hear a throat clear. I turn to see Tracey looking highly entertained.
> “Hello.” She grins before reaching her hand out to Kayla. “I’m Tracey. I guess you can call me the house mom. Or one of them, anyway.”
“Kayla Brooks. Logan and Matty’s social worker,” Kayla says, reaching out to shake Tracey’s hand.
“Ah, yes. We’ll be seeing a lot of you, then?”
“Hopefully once they get settled, no. The more you see of me, the more that means there’s trouble, and I don’t want any trouble.” Kayla’s eyes flash to mine and I feel my dick twitch. I could certainly give her some trouble. I could give her a lot of fucking trouble. I shake my head and hear Tracey chuckle as she excuses herself. Twenty seconds of silence later, Logan bounds loudly down the stairs, followed by Matty.
“Let’s get this fucking show on the road,” Logan bellows. “There’s all sorts of new pussy waiting to be discovered.”
“Logan,” Kayla sighs.
“I know, I know.” He grins. “I won’t make you a grandma before you’re thirty. I always wrap it up. Double on Sundays.”
“Are you ready to go?” she asks, ignoring his comment. The way the two of them interact fascinates me. It reminds me of the way the way I deal with a lot of the kids, particularly Brayden. You can’t change them, so you don’t even try. You meet them on their level.
I know eyebrows rose when I joined my brother at Wyatt House. A lot of people thought I wouldn’t be a good role model for the types of boys who find their way here, but I’m exactly what they need to see. I’m a fuckup, pure and simple. I caused trouble, I made mistakes, and I did my time. I’m still doing time, even if I’m not behind bars anymore. People look at me, and they see my past.
There’s a loud ruckus, and both Kayla and I look up to see a slew of teenage boys pushing and shoving their way down the stairs. They stop dead in their tracks when they see the beautiful woman standing in the foyer. Did I mention the red fuck-me heels?