He returns around lunchtime with a satchel, which he unpacks in the closet where my new and old clothes hang. I watch him silently and remain quiet even after he raises a challenging eyebrow. I’m still trying to figure us both out. Having him around more isn’t really a problem.
The next day, before Mom’s chemo session, he has Steve drive us to the Bronx Zoo. Chemo seems easier this time around. Hallie arrives to read another chapter, and I take off to do the day route instead of the late afternoon and evening. Despite being worn out, the following day Mom is upright and sitting in a chair out on the small balcony. The city noise is loud, but the cool breeze from Central Park is almost refreshing.
Mom loves Ian and he is incredibly tender and caring with her. My heart swells larger than my body can contain when I see them together, but it’s a sweet pain. The days go by swiftly as I look forward to going home and seeing Ian and a cheery mom. The nights are long and passionate. I’ve never been happier.
After a week of missing Ian in the morning because he gets up before the crack of dawn to go to work, I haul myself out of bed early, wearing my beater tank and a pair of panties that he bought. He’s lathering his face with a brush, raising suds as he works his shaving soap in a circular motion. Shirtless, but wearing pants, he leans against the counter toward the mirror, pulling down on his skin and making funny O’s with his mouth as he spreads the soap around.
His actions are mesmerizing, and I stumble into the bathroom for a closer look. Ian taps his brush against the sink and turns, lifting me onto the counter in a smooth movement. “Like what you see?”
“It looks like you have whipped cream on your face.” I draw a finger down a soap-lathered cheek, watching the flesh appear underneath.
“Don’t lick your finger. It doesn’t taste like whipped cream.” He flashes me a quick grin, his teeth gleaming whitely from between lips that look fuller and pinker in contrast to the shaving cream.
“May I?” I ask, picking up the brush. He clenches his jaw once, then nods and moves between my legs. The wooden soap dish is half-full, which seems to indicate that he’s been using it for a while. I sniff the brush and it smells vaguely of lemons. Slowly I swirl the brush in the soap. “Are the bristles soft?” I ask as I smooth the soap on, trying to mimic his earlier circular motion.
His hands are on either side of my hips, and he’s leaning so close to me that I can see the palpable beat of the artery in his neck. The air is thick around us and my mouth is inexplicably dry. I lick my lips and open my mouth to ease the ache in my chest, but the tension is choking me. Still, I keep rubbing the bristles along his taut skin.
The little bristles catch on his hair-roughened cheek and jaw. I swirl the brush in small circles, watching the soap lather up with each pass. My feelings for Ian are so intense and consuming. I want to do everything with him—even this small, intimate act. I wonder how many others have seen him like this. How many have run the brush across his jaw and traced the dip in his cheek?
“You’re it,” he says softly.
My eyes flick to his and all I can see is me. Me and sincerity. And because I’m tired of being alone, tired of battling by myself, tired of fighting, I give in. My hand creeps behind his neck and grips the nape, drawing him closer to me. From this distance I can smell the lemon and menthol. I can see the soft skin under his eyes, the hard line of his nose. His lids are at half-mast and his hands move restlessly along my outer thighs.
“Tiny,” he groans and then pulls me hard against his erection. His eyes are blazing. “I have no control when it comes to you.”
Without regard for the soap, his mouth finds mine. The suds smear across my cheeks and some even creeps between our lips, but I don’t care. It tastes like Ian.
His lips break apart from mine and trace a path from my jaw down to my neck. He breathes my name repeatedly like it’s a prayer. Tiny, Tiny, Tiny. I hook my legs around him, reveling in the feel of his hot, hard column of flesh rubbing up against my tender and wet parts.
My tank is pushed up and over my head, and then one breast is palmed and the other is taken into his mouth. Thank goodness for the wall that catches me as I fall backward. He sucks hard on my nipple, so hard I feel my pussy clenching with each long pull. I rub myself against him, wishing he wasn’t wearing his pants. Wishing that we were both naked.
“I need inside your pussy so badly,” he mouths against my breast.
“Yes.”
With a growl, Ian attacks my other breast. The soap on his face is nearly all rubbed off into my skin, but apparently he doesn’t mind the taste either.
My hands fumble at his waistband, but I manage to unbutton and then unzip his trousers. Delving inside his briefs, I release a moan of delight at the feel of his heavy cock in my hands. God, had it only been a few hours since I touched him last? It seems like months. As Ian lavishes attention on my breasts, I encircle his cock with both my hands. The wetness on the tip exhibits his desire. I want more of that. I want all of him.
His mouth is back on my neck, sucking hard. The suction sends a shudder throughout my body. Ian lifts me against him and walks into the bedroom, following me down onto the bed. With swift kicks, he rids himself of his pants. I can’t stop touching him.
“Need to taste you,” he grunts, and pushes down my body, ripping my panties down my legs. Without any preliminaries, his mouth is on me and his tongue is inside me. Bells sound in my head followed by the rasp of a heavy guitar. Wait, a guitar? I manage to roll my head toward my nightstand where my phone is ringing.
“Don’t answer it,” Ian orders. He’s on his knees now, braced over me. His mouth is slick from my wetness, and he’s replaced his tongue with two of his fingers. I turn away from the phone. Malcolm can wait. Reaching down between us, I pull out Ian’s cock. Saliva pools in my mouth. I want his thick length in my mouth, down my throat. I want his balls in my hands. Tugging on him, I sidle downward and he reluctantly lets me. I can tell he’s torn between wanting to be in my mouth and wanting to finger me, but it’s my turn.
The phone rings again. And again. And then there’s a knock on my door. “Tiny,” I hear my mother say. “Malcolm’s on the phone and he says it’s urgent.”
I drop my hands from Ian’s body and he groans in dismay. “Jesus. I hate your brother.”
“Me too,” I sigh. If it weren’t for my mom, I’d ignore the call and finish stripping Ian’s clothes off. I pick up the phone and hit the call button. Immediately Malcolm starts yelling.
“Why aren’t you picking up? I’ve got four fucking angry customers that need their deliveries. Are you going to get your ass in gear and make deliveries for me, or do I have to get someone else?”
“Get someone else,” Ian barks because Malcolm is speaking so loudly that the people in the apartment next door can hear him.
“Is that fucking Kerr? Are you fucking him?” Malcolm is pissed off.
“None of your business, Malcolm,” I shoot back, but I’m up and moving toward the closet. Ian curses and heaves himself out of bed. His cock bobs angrily in the air as he wrenches on his discarded boxers and then his pants.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth to Ian, and he gives me a tight smile. His pants are tented out, and Ian grips himself and then heads into the bathroom.
“I’ll be there in thirty,” I say, and hang up before Malcolm can shout any more obscenities.
“I don’t like that you do deliveries for Hedder,” Ian grits out while he begins shaving once more. I intentionally keep my gaze away from him because he’s angry and because he looks so goddamn sexy shaving. I kind of resent how intensely attractive I find him.
Ian stomps around some more, picking out a tie and then wrapping himself up tight. He picks up the same mother-of-pearl cufflinks that he wore the other day, which I find odd given that he has so much money one would think he’d have dozens of cufflinks. He seems to have a huge number of ties in
my closet alone. Who knows what he has stored at his Bruce Wayne fuck pad.
“Yeah, well, I need the money.”
“You work for me.”
I ignore that and get dressed. Out of the bedroom, the living areas are empty. My mother has made herself scarce. Ian’s right behind me.
“I can get you a different job. A permanent one. You wouldn’t need to ride bikes in New York’s insane traffic where any number of cabbies are hoping to knock you off the street.”
“Like a made-up one?” I mock because there’s no job in the financial sector where someone like me could work. “Tell me what company. What would I be doing?”
He shrugs, and I know it’s a fake job. “I’m not sure. Let me look into it.”
“I don’t know.” I’m reluctant to give up the income that Malcolm’s drop provides. “I’ll think about it.” I grab my pack and make sure my headphones are inside of it.
“You do that.” He gives me a hard kiss and then pats my butt.
When I get to Queens, I’m ten minutes past the thirty I’d promised and Malcolm is seething. He throws the packages at me when I cross the threshold. “You are so fucking dumb, Tiny.” He paces in the living room as I unzip my bag and stuff the five envelopes inside. He recites the addresses to me, and I’m grateful that they are all grouped together over in Brooklyn. Park Slope moms who can’t stand their kids, I think.
“I’m dumb because I overslept?” I ask. I hate being called dumb, and Malcolm knows it.
“If you’re letting Kerr in your pants, it’s the fucking stupidest thing you’ve ever done. And you’ve done a lot of stupid shit in your life.”
The accusation stings because I rarely do stupid shit. I lived a quiet life with my mom before she got sick. I didn’t start doing stupid stuff like working with Malcolm until I had no other recourse.
“Screw you, Malcolm. What’s it matter who I sleep with?” I turn to go, but Malcolm grabs my arm.
“He likes to fuck around. I read up about him. He’s thirty-two and never had a single solid relationship. He’s the type who’s always got some new piece in his bed. Guys like Kerr think that women are good for one thing only. And you’re disposable to him. Like Kleenex. He’ll blow you once and then throw you away.”
I give him a tight smile, trying not to show how easily he’s hurt me. “You get all that from the Internet?”
“Page Six has a dossier on him. If you could read, you’d know.”
I gasp at his low blow. “You know nothing about us.”
This generates a mean laugh from Malcolm. “If you think there is an ‘us,’ you’re already done for. You want to be a toy for a rich man? Fine. Enjoy it, but know that you’re one of a thousand plastic Barbies he’s sticking his dick into.”
“Jealous much?” I retort. Shouldering my pack, I roll my bike out the door. This time Malcolm doesn’t stop me. When I turn back, his expression is unfathomable. For a moment I think I see pain and then worry, but a sneer and his next words erase that thought.
“Hope he’s paying you well. Might as well get double time on your back.” He slams the door in my face.
I don’t get why Malcolm is being so hateful. Is it jealousy? Like, he wishes he could get paid the money to lure Richard to his demise? I want to tell him that it’s no fun. The really disturbing thing is that Malcolm and Richard have both claimed that Ian is a lothario, but it doesn’t match what I’ve seen of him or what he’s told me.
There’s no reason for Ian to tell me that he wants me, that he cares about me, because he’s already gotten me into bed. I’m a sure thing. Yet he still keeps coming back. I can either buy into the negativity that Malcolm and Richard are selling or trust Ian.
Maybe it’s stupid and foolish, but I’m going to trust Ian.
There are no bike lanes or paths from Queens to Brooklyn. Instead I have to take Atlantic Avenue, which is getting busy by the time I hit the road. Malcolm is right to be mad at me. It’s far more dangerous to be biking now than it would be earlier in the morning, but the first three deliveries go fine.
The fourth delivery is in Brooklyn Heights. The address recited to me by Malcolm leads me to a five-story Greek Revival townhouse. Its gorgeous all-brick exterior is framed by bushes on either side that are starting to flower. The lower windows are grated, but the upper windows are large and sparklingly clear. Shaking my head, I wonder briefly why anyone who is able to live in such a gorgeous place would need anything Malcolm is selling. I lean my bike against the front stoop and head down a short flight of stairs to the basement entrance. Deliveries aren’t usually made to the front door in homes like these. Not even the type of deliveries I’m making.
I knock and ring the doorbell but no one answers. I can’t very well tuck this envelope in the mail slot, so I head to the main entrance. The door is big and painted black. There are no sidelights, so I can’t even tell if anyone is home. I ring the bell and then try to lean over the side of the stoop to see if I can see any movement from the front windows. I wait what seems to be a long time but is likely only thirty seconds or so. Maybe I have the wrong address. I pull out my phone and am in the process of pulling up Malcolm’s phone number when the front door opens, revealing a husky man of indeterminate age, dressed in boxers and a short robe that hangs open.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarls at me. I start to reach into my pack when he grabs my wrist. “Were you taking a picture?”
“No,” I answer and try to wrest my wrist away. “I was calling Mr. Hedder to see if I had the right address.”
“You can’t take fucking pictures.” he rants and squeezes my wrist a little tighter.
“Sir, you are hurting me. I promise I wasn’t taking any pictures.” But my words don’t penetrate.
He repeats his claim, only this time there is white spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. He grabs my other hand and yells again, shaking me hard. “You shouldn’t be taking pictures of my fucking house.”
My heart is pounding, but I try to stay calm. “I wasn’t, sir. Really. Let me get your package.”
I should’ve noticed the wild, dilated pupils. Maybe the flushed skin was a warning, or his disheveled appearance, but none of it registered so when the slap comes across my face, I only respond with dazed surprise.
The first blow is followed by another and then another. I’m trying to pull from his grip, but he has both my wrists captured in one hand. My legs kick out, but he’s unmoved. There’s a ringing in my ears and my face is on fire. I try to hold my hands up to avoid more blows, but he’s relentless. Suddenly he releases me, and I fall backwards down the stairs. I try to catch myself, but I’m so, so dizzy. The ground rises to meet me.
And then he’s on me again, bludgeoning me with his fists on my face, my body. The pain is piercing and pulsating and I can’t breathe. I curl up and try to avoid direct hits to tender organs and then suddenly he’s gone. There’s a shout and a scuffle. I hear thuds. He’s away from me, so I try to crawl in the opposite direction of the noises. If only I can get to my bike. My hands scrape against the concrete, and I feel as if I’m leaving bits of me on the sidewalk, but I’m OK with that. I need to get to my bike.
Despite my blurred vision, I think I see the curved back tire maybe ten feet away. I pull myself up on my hands and knees and start forward until a big hand drops on my back. My immediate reaction is to collapse into another ball. Raising my hands to cover my head and drawing my knees up, I cower. “No more, please. I wasn’t going to take a picture,” I sob out.
“Victoria,” I hear a deep male voice say. “It’s Steve. You’re going to be all right, sheila. Ian is on his way.”
Steve’s voice, so distinctly not American, is comforting in its familiarity.
“What’s a sheila? Is that like a girl kangaroo?” I ask, catching my breath. My fingers run over my helmet, and I cringe at the long crack I feel on t
he top of the plastic. My bike helmet helped cushion my fall, but it obviously didn’t make it through unscathed. I’ll have to get a new one before I show up downtown at my job. Struggling to my feet, I fight back a wave of dizziness. In the back of my mind, the presence of Steve niggles at me, but I can’t think about that. All of my concentration is on not puking my guts out. I try breathing through my nose.
“Nah, it’s like the opposite of bloke,” Steve answers. “Maybe you should sit down before you—”
My sudden retching interrupts his words of advice and I puke right into the front bushes I was admiring. Groaning, I lean forward and rest my hands on my thighs. Lying back down on the pavement seems like a good idea. My legs buckle, but Steve is there to catch me before I do a header into the plants. He presses a white cloth against my forehead.
“You hit your melon pretty hard falling down the stairs, so you need to stay awake, girl.” He snaps his fingers in front of me. I decide that I no longer like Steve and his nasally accent. Jerking my head away is a mistake, though, and I close my eyes, hoping that the darkness will make the pounding go away. Wish he would let me go.
Is it OK for me to sleep on the sidewalk in Brooklyn Heights? There’s probably a homeowner’s association policy against that sort of thing, and really, I need to get to Neil’s. I can’t afford to be late.
Heaving a sigh, I try standing upright using Ian’s driver for support. “What are you doing in Brooklyn Heights?” I ask, trying to figure out why there’s two of him. “And stop moving,” I order. He’s swaying so much that the motion is creating a double vision.
A squealing of tires followed by the hard slam of a car door grabs my attention, but when I turn toward the sound, nausea rises up and I bend over to avoid another bout of vomiting. Heavy footsteps slap against the asphalt as if someone is running and then I feel Steve move aside and a new, familiar body settle next to me.
“Ian.” It’s funny how much being next to him makes me feel better. He strokes my back in sure, comforting movements.
Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1) Page 19