by Gail McHugh
I attempt to ignore the sexual potency he exudes. The sexual potency I want nothing more than to absorb into my skin. Our conversation from the lake sparks through my head. “It’s human nature to lie. We pick it up before we can even walk. Still, none of my lies or secrets will ever . . . hurt you.”
Brock pulls me flush to his chest and nips my ear, the delicious sting causing my thighs to involuntarily clench. “Ah, I see. Now you have me wondering just how sweet your lies will taste on my tongue.”
Air punches from my lungs, my heart evaporating into a mist of crimson as the elevator doors part, breaking me from the ridiculous trance he so effortlessly put me under. He smiles, reaches for my hand, and guides me down the hall to his unit.
I glimpse a blade of light creeping from the kitchen as I step into his dimly lit condo. Still, I can easily make out claret-red walls, shadows slapping across polished maple floors as I scan the impressive space. It’s filled with what appears to be black leather couches and large mahogany furniture. Either he had a longtime girlfriend who spread her flair for design all over the place, or he hired someone to do it. Needless to say, the lavishness in which he lives nearly drops me.
“Welcome to mi casa.” His gaze slides from mine as he flips on a lamp. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable while I prepare dinner.”
Convinced he was ordering takeout, I cock a shocked brow. “You cook?”
“These hands,” he says, lifting both, “possess many talents. Cooking’s the most minor of them all. Stick around long enough, and I bet your body will agree.”
I shake my head. “You’re extremely sure of yourself.”
“In more ways than you could ever imagine,” he answers, an edge of playfulness in his tone as he takes my purse. Along with his keys and a knot of cash, he drops it onto a bar dripping with black granite. “In all seriousness, you’re hungry, right?”
I nod and walk over to a set of French doors, my eyes exploring a balcony overlooking the bay. “Depends. What are you cooking?”
“With the help of this here handy microwave and Orville Redenbacher, the popcorn I promised you when my ‘killer pickup lines’ won you over the day we met.”
I turn and, sure as shit, he’s pulled out a bag. “You’re kidding me.”
A chuckle barrels from his chest as he tosses the bag into the microwave. Flashing his pearly whites, he moves toward the refrigerator, pulls out a six-pack of Red Bull, and sets it on the island. “Do I look like I’m kidding, my mysterious Ber?”
I roll my eyes. “Why the need for a nickname?”
Cool amusement hits his face as he leans against the counter, his arms crossed. “Because it’s our secret joke, and you’re my . . . pet.”
“Your pet?”
“Yes. My pet.” Seduction laces his low growl. He steps in front of me, a soft smile sliding across his mouth. “Is that okay with you?” Before I can answer, he dips his head to my ear and whispers, “I handle my pets with special care, always making sure their needs come first.” He moves his lips to my jaw, his hands finding my waist. “Their pleasure is what brings mine. I fucking drown in it. Their soft moans.” He licks the contour of my jaw, a deep groan rumbling from his chest. “The way their bodies tremble.” He pulls me closer, his hardening erection pressed to my stomach. “The sweat glistening on their skin. Their sweet scent before, during, and especially after I place my stamp on them.” He backs me against the opposite counter, his lips landing on mine. “I’ll do anything to see them reach their . . . happy place.”
Delicious heat coils through me, my heart thwacking uncontrollably. Though my eyes slipped closed somewhere around “glistening skin,” I feel Brock’s smirk.
He grips my waist harder. “Do you like being in that happy place?”
“Yes,” I whisper, opening my eyes.
“Yeah? Because I can bring you there over and over and over again.” His voice is a low, primal baritone, causing my pulse to spike as his fingers play with the waistband of my skirt. “I don’t need much time to refuel. I also give extra treats to my pets who are good and do what I want them to.”
“Is that so?” I clutch the cool granite behind me, trying to exercise the control he’s stripping me of. “What kind of treats?”
“Ah, I can’t divulge that information.” A grin tweaks his mouth, his eyes flashing mirth. “You need—no, strike that—you will experience it firsthand.”
Beeeeeeeeep . . .
I almost mistake the sound of the microwave for the flatlining of my heart.
As though he didn’t have his fingers halfway to my “happy place,” wasn’t seducing me like a pro, and didn’t nearly have me hopping onto the counter—legs spread and ready for treats—Brock takes a measured step back, his grin holding steady. I pull in a pissed-off breath as he retrieves the popcorn from the microwave and pours it into a bowl. He watches me intently, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Open your mouth,” he says, nearing me again. “I want to give you something.” Though his voice is a whisper, the beautiful command in it stabs my ears.
Hands clutching the counter tighter, I stare into his eyes, my heart going nuts as I instinctively obey him.
With a triumphant smile, he places a piece of popcorn onto my tongue. “Does that taste good?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and chew. “You are talented. You’ve mastered the art of popcorn making. I foresee doing anything you want for those treats of yours. Anything.” I swipe my tongue across my lips for effect.
I get the reaction I’m aiming for.
Expression flaring with need, Brock watches me close my eyes in mock pleasure. When I open them, his gaze devours mine, stroking between my breasts and mouth. I flip him a wink, turn around, and traipse into the living room, leaving him hanging this time.
I’m also a pro. He just doesn’t know it yet.
I can’t help but giggle when I hear him groan. I deposit myself onto the couch, my own triumphant smile spreading as Brock wanders into the room like a lost, lonely child. Holding the bowl of popcorn, he grins and positions himself in front of me. I nearly lose my breath as he leans over me, stretches his arm, and rests his hand on the back of the couch just above my shoulder.
Oh God. His lips are within kissing distance. If I move an inch, I’ll hit the mark.
Like a true Southern belle, I bat my lashes and stare at him. “You have to give me your secret recipe. I mean, honestly, you’re going places with it, and I feel the absolute need to be included in your success.”
He cocks his head to the side, his grin broadening. “I’m all for partnerships.”
“So it’s a deal, then?” I try to concentrate on the smell of the buttery popcorn instead of his musky cologne. “I must warn you. I’d require fifty percent if we were to enter into a partnership.”
He raises a brow, his hand staking claim on the nape of my neck. “Fifty percent’s not cheap. But it’s me who must warn you, I’ll make you work very hard for that half.”
“How . . . hard?” A spark of excitement blooms in my stomach as I watch his eyes catch my innuendo.
“You have no fucking idea how hard.”
“Oh, but I think I do.” With a husky laugh, my gaze falls to his arousal beneath his jeans.
“Open,” he says, staring at my lips.
The heated cadence in his voice pulls me further into his spell, extinguishing my good friend mutiny. I once again obey his words. What the hell? Talk about the power of sexual deprivation. It’s been close to three months for me, and my body’s about to go bat-shit crazy if it doesn’t get what it needs to maintain a sense of normalcy.
Exquisite warmth slides up my spine as Brock places another piece of popcorn on my tongue. Our gazes lock, flames flickering in our showdown, but before either of us can take an uneven breath, the sound of Brock’s cell phone slices through the air. His movements
still, his body straightening.
“This is a joke, right?” I ask, honestly pissed off.
Brock sighs, a frown pinching his forehead. “I have to get it.” He touches my cheek, sets the bowl on the coffee table, and turns.
Dumbfounded, I watch him move across the living room to snatch the stupid phone off the kitchen counter. Anger punches me in the gut, my blood boiling. I’m about to yank the phone away from him, jet out to the balcony, and toss the fucking thing into the bay. I’ve decided the plan’s brilliant and go to act on it; however, my attention lands on an unopened DVD box set. The first season of Happy Days essentially saves Brock’s cell from a watery death.
Time warp. Now his texts make sense.
I can’t help but smile as I stand and pluck the several discs containing the only good memories I’ve experienced from the towering entertainment center. Brock’s kept his word.
Popcorn, Red Bulls, and Mrs. Cunningham.
Charmer.
I can’t say I’ll keep mine. There’s no way I’m singing for him again. Impatient, I glance around and locate the remote, deciding to open up the box and pop in the first episode. Just as I reclaim my seat on the couch, and Happy Days’ infamous “weird” melody streams from the speakers, Brock once again graces me with his presence.
With his hand buried in his hair, he casts me a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry.” He sits next to me, sliding his arm across the back of the couch. “I was waiting on a call.”
“Apparently.” I lean forward for a piece of popcorn and toss it into my mouth, my concentration aimed at the television and not his beautiful face. On a sigh, I lean back, accepting that if I continue to see him, the constant interruptions are something I’ll have to learn to tolerate.
Silence stretches for a few seconds before Brock lets out a light chuckle.
“What?”
He twirls a piece of my hair. My shoulders go slack, every muscle in my body relaxing.
“The first episode was always my favorite,” he says.
“Wait.” My attention floats between him and the television. “I just opened the DVD. How’s it always been your favorite if you’ve never seen the show?”
A guilty smirk lifts his lips as he leans in and whispers, “Did you honestly think I grew up with the last name Cunningham and had no idea the show existed?”
I feel dizzy, thrown off-kilter by the sweet warmth of his breath. I rake my eyes over him.
His smirk turns into a boyish smile. “With the exception of the first one, which I actually liked, my mother made all of us kids suffer through every episode.”
“You bastard,” I huff, playfully swatting his arm. “You lied to me . . . again. Maybe my nickname for you needs to be Pinocchio?”
“Maybe it does. But that lie got you to sing for me in public.” Amusement lights up his face. “It also has you sitting next to me now, so it’s a lie I’ll never regret telling. When I want something badly enough, I’ll do whatever I have to do to get it. It usually works in my favor.”
“A little high on ourselves, are we?”
“No,” he whispers, his expression striking hot with want.
His eyes shift to my lips, and he slides his thumb across my mouth. Other than the pounding of my heart, I’m positive every organ in me has ceased functioning properly.
“There was a tiny piece of popcorn hanging out on the corner of your lip.”
“Oh,” is all I manage. I watch him suck the minuscule piece of popcorn off his thumb. I’m suddenly jealous of both his thumb and Orville Redenbacher’s creation.
He stares at me a long moment. “Are you mad at me?”
“I am, but I think you know how to seduce me into forgiving you.”
His grin drips sex. “Do you like when I seduce you?”
“Yes, to a point.”
“I do too,” he whispers, lifting his knuckles to my cheek. The featherlight touch sends goose bumps along my skin. “You’re very reactive to me. But I want your forgiveness without having to seduce it out of you.”
“Then you should stop touching me.”
He drops his hand, his grin widening. My attention flits to the screen. It’s the part where Richie finds out Potsie’s fixed him up with Mary Lou.
I bring my eyes back to Brock’s, a weak smile on my lips. “Happy Days has helped a little in the forgiveness department.”
“I thought it might.” He studies me another long moment. “There’s more behind why you like the show as much as you do, isn’t there?”
“No.”
“I think you’re telling me another lie.” He lifts his hand again, this time massaging the back of my neck. I shiver. “Whatever it is, why are you hiding it from me, Ber? Do you not trust me with it?”
“I do, or will eventually. I’m not sure.” I take a breath, a shrug tugging my shoulder. “But we’re all allowed to keep pieces of our pasts to ourselves. If not, what would there be to run after?” Or in my case, run from?
“You think that’s why I’m coming after you? Because you’re keeping pieces of yourself from me?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know why you’re coming after me.”
I honestly don’t. The only thing remotely appealing about me, other than being able to spit my fucked-up past onto paper faster than a writer smoking crack, is that I can fuck, suck, and swallow better than most porn stars. I’m convinced Hugh Hefner would promptly acquire me as his next barely legal wife if he saw me in action.
“I thought it was obvious why I’m coming after you,” Brock says, his voice soft. “You think I intrigue you, but it’s really the opposite.”
“Right.” I nod. “My unseen pieces.”
“No,” he whispers, sliding his hand to my chin. “The beautiful ones you’re unaware you’ve already shown me.”
It’s my turn to stare at him a long moment. Before I can think of a remark psychotic enough to let him know I’m not a mental mess he needs in his life—no matter how clotted up his is—Brock curls his hand around mine and stands me up with him. I pull in a staggering breath, my eyes pinned on his lips.
“You know I’m gonna decode you, right?” He moves a lock of hair off my shoulder. “I hope you do.”
I bring my eyes to his, my words shaky. “You think you can?”
“I know I can. No matter how hard you make the ride, I’m not getting off, so stop trying.” He drags his hand down my waist. “I’m a fighter, and I won’t rest easy until I know I’m securely in that heart of yours. You’re a challenge. Nothing short of trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. I like that about you.” He searches my face, his hold tightening as he presses his lips to my forehead. “I think we’re alike in more ways than either of us realizes. That by itself is gonna make us work. Just let it happen.”
He takes me in a second before leading me toward the balcony, my heart thumping with every step. A sticky breeze hits my skin as he pushes open the French doors. The cloudless sky—pregnant with a full harvest moon—casts a silver glow on the harbor below us. Small waves rip against the docks as Brock gestures to a rattan chair. I sit, my body taut with a nervous energy I’m starting to realize comes from being around him.
“You need to learn to relax.” Brock pitches me a playful look as he sinks into a chair on the other side of a marble table. “You think too much.”
“Why are you always trying to read me?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You make it impossible not to.”
I prop my feet against the railing. “How so?”
“You always look like you’re thinking.”
“Aren’t we all always thinking, Einstein?”
He chuckles. “True. But there are several ways to help you tame those bad boys.
He reaches down to his side and brings up a black-and-silver glass-blown bong. Producing
a lighter faster than I can produce my next breath, he lights the bong and takes a long pull. After a few seconds, he coughs, blowing out the smoke. I watch it curl away like a ghost, its odor colliding with the scent of the harbor and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass.
“One of them being this.” He hits the bong again, then he slides it in my direction. “The other’s a combination of sweaty body parts, a healthy dose of sheet-clawing stimulation, and me deciding if your lies taste bitter or . . . sweet.”
“Bitter or sweet?” I stare at the bong, my heart firing off warning shots.
“Yeah. Bitter or sweet.” Another smirk kicks up the corner of his mouth. “However, I’d bank my life on the latter.”
I wonder if he can see the debate settling over my face. I’ve never smoked weed. Hell, I barely take anything for a headache. I slowly bring my eyes to his half-mast ones. His gaze is stuck on mine, and it feels like a wrecking ball to my gut. Anxiety piles thick in my throat as I try to level my breathing.
“I’ve never smoked weed,” I blurt, prudence glued to my statement. “I’ve consumed enough tequila that I was sure my skull was splitting in half the next morning, I’ve gone skinny-dipping at a house party in front of the entire student body, and I’m almost positive my foster parents’ chinchilla tried to rape me one night.” I take a shaky breath, my voice a whisper. “But I’ve never smoked weed.”
Tension fills the air as Brock watches me carefully, his smirk sliding away. He stands, rounds the table, and squats before me, capturing both my eyes and waist. Nervousness punches through me, tightening my chest to the point where I feel like I can’t breathe.
Brock stares up at me, his brow lifting. “I’m definitely feelin’ the skinny-dipping part and look forward to seeing that for myself. But I can’t say the same for the chinchilla. It’ll now be my life’s mission to find the little fucker and beat him to death. Fuck animal cruelty. He fucked with you; I fuck with him right back.”