by Cynthia Sax
“I really like cupcakes.” Lucy contributes. “Do you make those, Miss Jenella?”
“I make them for special occasions.” My to-do list is rapidly expanding.
“It’s my birthday in five weeks.” The redhead’s cheeks turn pink. “But that’s probably not special enough.” She stares down at her plate. “Never mind.”
Oh God. I want to jump out of my seat, run over and hug her. “Your birthday is plenty special enough, Lucy.” My smile is gentle. “What’s your favorite kind?”
“I like chocolate.” Her face lights up.
“Vanilla is better,” Tyrice counters.
“I had a gingerbread cupcake once and it was awesome.”
“That’s a Christmas flavor, goof. It’s not Christmas yet.”
Smoke’s employees, his chosen family, argue about the best flavors of cupcakes. My player fills my plate with chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans. Then he takes my hand under the cover of the table and we eat our dinner one-handed.
Nana Zaire’s lips curl into a small smile.
***
A little over two hours later, Nana Zaire has moved to a bench positioned in a sunny spot in the secluded backyard. “He won’t be easy to love.”
“No, he won’t be.” I’m not certain whether she’s referring to the man or to the boy leaning over the Lamborghini’s engine. It doesn’t matter. The same observation applies to both of them. “We’re taking it one minute at a time.”
“He needs to hear those words but they’re just words, aren’t they? You’re already talking about making dinner rolls for next week and cupcakes for Lucy’s birthday.”
She’s right. I can’t live purely in the present. “I’m trying.”
“He is too.” Nana Zaire nods at Smoke. “And he realizes he’s difficult. That’s why he brought you here.” She pats my hands. “You’ll need my help. You have my number.” She gave it to me after dinner. “You know where I live. You’re welcome here anytime.”
“Thank you.” I can’t imagine Edward’s mother ever making me this offer. “If you need any help, I’m here for you too.”
“I’m counting on that.” She turns her head, watches Smoke and Woofer fiddle with the sports car, their shoulders touching.
Woofer’s mouth constantly moves, as do his hands. Smoke deflects a waving wrench as it threatens to clunk against the immaculate paint job. The boy doesn’t notice this close call.
“I should talk to Woofer.” He’ll damage Smoke’s pretty car.
“No, you shouldn’t.” Nana Zaire stops me. “Smoke understands. Zanders, my husband, was a proud audiophile, a purist. He had a huge collection of LPs, premium vinyl, rare records that were difficult to find.”
“Smoke smashed it.” I don’t need to hear the entire story to know how it ends.
“If he told you that, he’s even more serious about you than I thought.” She studies me. “Smoke takes his pain out on inanimate objects. He doesn’t harm people.”
“I know.” He’d never hurt me, not physically. Smoke removes the wrench from Woofer’s hands and closes the hood. “The hurt has to go somewhere.”
“True.” Nana Zaire nods. “How does Woofer deal with it?”
“He works.” I consider my history with the boy more closely. “And he acts like he doesn’t care but he does, very much.”
“They all do.”
Smoke strides toward us, rubbing his hands on a rag. Woofer follows him, attempting to imitate his swagger. They’re so damn adorable.
I love them both.
“I’ll take you inside, Nana Zaire.” Smoke reaches down and lifts her to her feet, handling the elderly woman as though she’s a delicate piece of fine china. “Woofer, you have something to say to Miss Jenella.”
“Yes, sir.” He scowls behind Smoke’s back and crosses his thin arms, unhappiness radiating from him.
My lips twitch. I must be receiving an apology.
Judging by Woofer’s expression, it will be the most ungracious request for forgiveness anyone has ever received.
The boy waits until Nana Zaire and Smoke leave, then plunks his ass on the bench’s wooden slates. “Mr. Sheridan is making me do this.” He kicks a piece of gravel. “He says you care for me and I should care for you in return but I don’t.”
This isn’t anything he hasn’t said to me in the past, multiple times, in harsher, crueler ways. “That’s okay but Mr. Sheridan is wrong. I don’t care for you.”
Woofer’s face darkens. “I knew it.”
“I love you.” I wrap my arm around his shoulders and give him a side hug.
“You don’t love me.” He elbows me in the stomach. “You left me. You said you wouldn’t and you did.”
“The dinner is usually for club employees only.” I rub his arm. “Nana Zaire didn’t know I was a special case. She hinted that I should leave. I couldn’t stay where I wasn’t wanted so I left.”
“I wanted you to stay.” Woofer wiggles, trying to free himself. “Wasn’t I enough for you?”
He didn’t ask if his need for company was enough for me. He asked if he was enough for me.
“You’re enough for anyone, Woofer.” I squeeze him harder. “If I had stayed, I would have gotten you into trouble. I’d never do that. I love you.” He needs to hear that again.
“Stop saying that.” His movements grow more frantic. “No one loves me, not even my mom.”
I don’t release him. “I’m not your mom.”
“You must love everyone then.” His bony elbow connects with my ribs. I’ll be bruised by the end of this lovefest. “You’re one of those girls.”
“I love quite a few people,” I admit. “The heart is a muscular organ. The more you love, the bigger it gets and the more people you can love. I’ve been loving for a long time. My heart is huge.”
“I don’t love anyone.” Woofer is determined to be a pain in the ass. “Let me go.”
“You love Lamborghinis and oatmeal cookies.” I cuddle him closer to me, ignoring his squirming. “If you allow it, I bet you could love more things.”
“I’ll never love you.” Woofer wrenches free and shoots off the bench. “You’re old and fat and I’d rather die.” He rushes away as though the hounds of hell are after him.
The hurt has to go somewhere.
I add ‘insulting others’ to my list of Woofer’s coping mechanisms as I sit on the bench, contemplating the two males I love.
Nana Zaire is right. They won’t be easy to love but their hearts are worth fighting for. I care too much about them to do anything else.
The door behind me opens. I know without looking who it is.
“He fucked up the apology, didn’t he?” Smoke gazes down at me.
“He’s hurt that I abandoned him.” I share. He’ll understand why Woofer’s upset, having felt the same way when his parents died.
“He’s scared.” Smoke clasps my hand and pulls me upright. “He’s been hurt too many fuckin’ times.” He walks with me to the Lambo.
“Are you scared?” I hold his hand.
“I’m terrified.” Smoke shudders, hiding his emotions behind a joke. He isn’t fooling me. I see the truth in his eyes. He’s scared of caring for others, of caring for me.
He opens the passenger side door and I lower my ass to the seat, wincing as the leather pinches my hips. All of that delicious fried chicken isn’t helping me in my quest to fit into his beautiful car.
And I want to fit in, into his car, his life, his unusual family. Tonight’s dinner showed me what I want. Some day, I wish to be Nana Zaire, surrounded by people who love and respect me.
With this man by my side, this charming foul-mouthed former player who thinks I have magnificent tits.
Smoke slides behind the wheel. “I have to go to the club. Where should I drop you, baby?”
I’m not ready to end my time with him. “Do you need space?”
“I need a blow job.” He shifts in his seat. “I’ve been looking down your top all e
vening and I’m horny as hell.”
I laugh. “That’s convenient because I need practice giving blow jobs.”
He grins as he pulls the Lambo out of the driveway. “The club, it is.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Traffic is a bitch, throwing Smoke’s timetable off. He hustles me into his office, gives me a quick buss on the lips, squeezes my ass, and leaves, promising to see me as soon as he could.
Using the replaced guest tablet, I answer emails and get a head start on tomorrow’s workload. After a couple of hours, my eyelids grow heavy. I set the tablet on an end table, curl up on one of the couches, and prepare to take a nap.
Naps are wonderful, mini vacations in the midst of busy days. Tonight, however, I can’t get comfortable, can’t fall asleep. The suit jacket is constrictive, pulling across my shoulders. I remove it, my skirt also, lounging on the soft leather couch in my bra, panties, thigh-high stockings and heels.
This is very naughty. Anyone could walk into Smoke’s office, see me sprawled here, waiting for the club owner, horny for his cock.
Turned on by this thought, I brush my face and chest against the cushions, breathing deeply as I undulate. The leather smells like Smoke and it feels like his bare skin, the combination wetting my panties, tightening my nipples.
I pull the cups of my bra downward, freeing these taut tips. Then I rub them against the couch, the exquisiteness of the friction warming me, making me tremble. Needing more, I glide my fingers under the waistband of my panties, play with my clit, circling this little bud. My ass wiggles in the air.
“Fuck, yeah.” Smoke’s voice comes from behind me. “All those curves, baby, and me with no brakes.”
“Then what are you waiting for, player? Take me.” Doesn’t he see how badly I want his cock?
“Remove those panties. Leave the stockings and heels on,” he instructs. “I have a confession to make. I took a few items out of your sex shop stash before I sent it to you.”
“Oh yeah?” I pull the piece of silk down to my knees, lift one leg and then the other, removing my panties completely. They’re soaked, my musk filling the air.
“I have the butt plugs.” Smoke sweeps his hands over my ass cheeks and I quiver with happiness, his touch setting off sparks within me. “And the thin dildo.”
“Because you didn’t want another man to take my ass.” I smile over my shoulder at him. “You’re a possessive son-of-a-bitch.” And I love it.
“I’m only possessive with you.” He dips his fingers into the crevice, strokes my crack up and down, up and down.
God. This was worth waiting for. I arch my back. His caresses feel amazing, pleasure rippling from his fingertips.
“This ass will be mine.” Smoke prods my puckered hole with his thumb and finds resistance, my body clenching shut. “Once I’ve trained it properly and earned the right to fuck it.”
“It’s ready to be trained.” I lower my shoulders, offering my ass to him.
“Look at me, baby.”
I gaze behind me. Smoke licks the brand new butt plug, flicking his tongue over the silver surface, wetting every inch of it.
“You’re so dirty.” I squirm, anticipating this erotic invasion.
“I’m dirty.” He spreads my ass cheeks. “This is clean.” Smoke pushes the butt plug into me, stretching me open, the fit almost unbearably tight. “Wear this as much as possible.” He presses a kiss to my skin, his mouth hot. “I’ll send you instructions on how to care for it.” He pats my ass, his touch light and playful.
“Instruct me, oh great-and-powerful one.” I tease.
“Fuck you.” Smoke chuckles, skimming his palms over my stockings. “And that’s exactly what I plan to do.” He runs his fingers along my wet folds, brushes against my clit, and my smile fades, decimated by renewed passion.
“I thought you wanted a blow job.” I close my eyes, concentrate on his hands, on his warmth, on his rosemary-and-nutmeg cologne, the scent strong, recently reapplied.
“I thought that’s what I wanted too.” A buckle clinks. A zipper rasps. A package crinkles. “I also thought one night with you would be enough and that I was happy with my one-and-done plan.” His latex-covered cock head bumps against my pussy lips. “I know fuck-all about anything.”
“You know a lot about fucking.” I sway backward, taking him inside me, his slow penetration of my pussy different, better, more, my body tight.
“Yeah, I know a lot about fucking.” Smoke slides deeper into me. “How does this feel, baby?” His voice lowers, rolling over my spine. “Is it as good for you as it is for me?”
“I’m full.” I moan, feeling everything, the bloom of his tip, the pulsing of his veins through the thin layer of condom, the tickle of his coarse private hairs, the hardness of his hips against my curves. The pressure in my ass accentuates every sensation. “Stuffed.”
“Show me your appreciation.” He lowers his chest over my back, his silk shirt separating my skin from his, adding a layer of decadent softness.
I ripple my inner walls along his shaft, my intimate petting pulling a soul-deep moan from his lips. This man is mine and I’ll please him, using all of my newly learned skills. I roll my hips, grinding into his groin.
“My God, the way your ass moves.” Smoke rocks into me, adding more motion to the mix. “I don’t know if you’re watching your figure but I sure am.”
I squeeze him, hard, punishing him for the bad line. He jerks, spewing curses, and fucks me faster. Our bodies smack together, a bass underlying the musical score.
“There’s no hurry, baby.” I throw his previously spoken words back at him, panting between each syllable, my desire rising quickly, primed by my self exploration on the couch.
Smoke slows for one, two, three thrusts. “The hell there isn’t.” He speeds up once more, pitching my form forward. “I’ve been hard for you for hours. Cock-teases have to come when I do.”
“Cock-teases come whenever they want.” I slide my palm between us and cup my mons, splaying my fingers around his shaft. Unable to brace myself upward with only one hand, I fall into the cushion.
“You can be such a bitch sometimes.” He continues to hump me, hard, the momentum dragging my face back and forth, back and forth, over the leather. “It shouldn’t make me this hot.” Smoke grasps my shoulders, stopping the sweet punishment.
“But it does.” I gasp, each thrust pushing the air from my lungs. “You like that I don’t put up with your shit.” I’m becoming as crude as he is. This should worry me, not turn me on.
“Yeah, I like it, baby.” Smoke huffs against my neck, his breath hot and ragged. “I can push you and not worry about you breaking.” He skims his lips over my skin, setting off tremors with me.
These build and build and build until my teeth clatter. I need to come but I know when I do, he’ll return to work, leaving me once again.
“Can’t. Last,” he warns.
I know him, know his talk is just that—talk. Smoke might be a player but he isn’t a selfish ass. He’ll stave off his own release as long as possible, trying to satisfy me.
I won’t hurt him like this.
I press down on my clit. Smoke drives into me, his shaft rubs against this pleasure nub and I splinter into pieces, screaming, constricting around him, fireworks exploding in my brain.
His roar joins my cry. He pushes deeper, his muscles flexing against my softness, his grip on my shoulders bruising, holds this position for endless moments as I gyrate, dancing under him.
Then he collapses, pinning me with his body. I don’t protest because he’s right. I won’t break, my extra curves accommodating him. I’m also exhausted and sexually sated, my limbs limp.
“Fuck, Jenella.” The pressure on my back lifts. He flips me over and presses his face between my breasts.
“I’m here.” I pet his black hair, wide shoulders, back, his scars concealed by his silk shirt. “I have you.” He has only fucked me bare-chested once. I suspect not many women have se
en that part of him.
Other than me.
“I won’t ever hurt you, Smoke,” I vow, kissing the top of his head.
“You will.” His voice is muffled by my curves. “But I no longer care. I lost all sense of self-preservation the moment I saw you standing defiantly in front of my club, not at all intimidated by my doormen, feeding them cookies and being your sexy self.” He mouths over my right breast. “And how could I resist tits like these?” He emotionally retreats, using flippancy to hide his fear. “They’re magnificent.”
“Don’t forget my ass.” I play along.
“It must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t shake like that.” Smoke grins against my nipple.
I smile down at him. “That’s an oldie.”
“It’s a classic, been working since the forties.” He licks my skin.
“My, you’re ancient.”
“It’s been working for other players.” He chuckles, his body shaking mine. “Though, according to Woofer, I am ancient, not as old as you are but still ancient.”
I laugh. “According to Woofer, no one is as old as I am.”
I hold Smoke. I expected my player to immediately dress, to return to his club, to the VIP club kids waiting to be greeted, the staff requiring answers to their questions.
Instead, he lingers, resting with his head on my chest, his body covering mine. We talk about foolishness, the conversation flowing easily around items we consider classics. Smoke’s list is music-based. Mine includes television shows and movies.
He fidgets more and more. When my man shifts against me for the fourth time in two minutes, I accept that our private time has ended.
“It’s okay.” I smack my lips against his forehead. “I know you have to go.”
“Yeah.” Smoke reluctantly peels his form away from mine, tucks his shirt in, pulls up his pants and boxer shorts. “It might be late when I come back.”
“If that’s the case.” I stretch my arms above my head, giving him a show, my body remaining naked. “I might be asleep when you return.”
Smoke zips his pants, buckles his belt, putting his beautiful self to rights. “Then you might wake up with my big dick in that hot cunt of yours.” He dons his black jacket.