by K. L. Kreig
My body stiffens as I curse my empty release into a darkened room, wishing every bit of what I was conjuring was real. After I’m done, I lay still in a pool of my own cooling sweat and come, the edge barely taken off.
Until I met Willow, I hadn’t jacked off to thoughts of a girl since I was seventeen years old. Haven’t needed to. I generally have access to all the women I want.
But thoughts of other women don’t come remotely close to raising the flag.
That moment is when I know I should be just as worried as Willow. The warning bells that were noticeably absent earlier are now shrieking. Cautioning me to back off. Begging me to call one of many women who would be willing to drive over here and let me use her all night long; but not only does that sound repulsive, it also feels a bit like cheating.
No. I don’t want anyone right now but her, so I let all disturbing thoughts blow out of my lust-addled mind. I’ve taken everything I’ve wanted my entire life. Willow Blackwell will be no exception. I’m going to fuck her, a lot if I have my way. I’m going to simply enjoy these next long weeks, and then I’m going to let her go, just as planned.
Even as the thought makes my gut sink, I know that’s the way it has to be. The only way it can be. I don’t know how to do anything else.
15
“How are you feeling?” I ask lowly against the sleek column of her neck.
“Much better. I think I’m finally on the mend.”
Willow came down with a sinus infection the day after she met my parents and spent two days in bed. I wanted to bring her chicken noodle soup and nurse her back to health in the crook of my arm. I wanted to draw her hot baths and wait on her hand and foot. But I didn’t. I didn’t even mention it, in fact. I kept those unexpectedly tender feelings to myself for too many reasons to count.
“Tell me why we’re here again?” she whispers in my direction.
Because for some ungodly reason, I can’t get enough of you.
“To be seen, of course.” The hard catch in the back of her throat sets my skin on fire. I want to sink my teeth into the soft flesh there and see what other sexy noises I can draw from her.
“This seems like an odd place to be seen.” Her voice wobbles. I smile. “Since there’s no one here.”
“Have you ever been to the Giant Shoe Museum before, Willow?”
Her laugh lights me up like nothing else.
“Can’t say that I have. I’m not much of a sideshow person.”
“What?” I feign disbelief. “No Seattle native can miss this wicked collection of the world’s largest shoes. It’s sacrilege if you do.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve enlightened me, then. I’m not sure how I would have slept another peaceful night knowing there was a pair of two-foot clown slippers I’d been missing out on.”
“I’m glad I could help,” I quip. Plopping a quarter in the next slot, the curtain spreads to reveal a massive pair of loafers. “My father brought me here when I was eleven.”
“Really?” she asks absently, bringing her finger up to the glass protecting this grotesque blob of leather.
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “I constantly complained about how big my feet were. At eleven, they were size eleven, and he brought me here to show me that no matter what we think is wrong in our lives, it could always be worse.”
I’ve never told anyone that story. Not even Noah.
I feel her looking at me, though I stare straight ahead. It was such a stupid thing to be upset about, but my shoe size made me clumsy, and I wanted to play basketball more than anything. I wasn’t used to not being good at something. My body was disproportioned while it went through puberty. I didn’t make the sixth grade team because of it, and I admit, I’ve never been a gracious loser. I actually came home that day and cried. At eleven, even the most trivial things seem like a mountain you won’t be able to climb. Somehow that menial trip to look at ridiculous, oversized shoes made me feel a hundred times better.
“You think your feet are big, Shaw? Be thankful you have feet,” my father said as we stared at these exact same shoes.
“He always has a way of putting life into perspective, even something as simplistic as the inches of an appendage.”
She snorts at my joke. I turn to look at her, a smile playing on my mouth. Her eyes drop to my feet then draw slowly back up my body. I feel the ghosting of her gaze, like phantom fingertips trekking upward. I swear I feel them circling my cock, tugging playfully before landing back on my face.
“Hmm. It looks like your appendages are perfectly proportioned to me,” she says with a cheeky smile.
Metal digs into my dick as it hardens faster than I can blink.
“Oh, my innocent little Goldilocks.” Backing her into the closest wall, I push my groin into hers and watch her eyes drift shut on a ragged sigh. My lips only a hair away from hers, we trade oxygen infected with lust. “Looks can be deceiving. Maybe you need to check for yourself.”
Reaching between us, I take her hand from the wall behind her and wrap it around my rigid cock, squeezing her fingers with my own.
“God,” she whimpers.
Her hand flexes and grips and starts a slow, pulsing rhythm, guided by mine.
I forget where we are when my mouth captures hers in a starving kiss. My free hand wanders to cup her ass, pulling her closer to me, trapping our arms between us. The pressure of both her hips and her palm on my cock pushes me to places I can’t go here, out in the open, but fuck do I want to. Lucky for me, the sound of kids squealing makes me ease back before I do something that will get us arrested.
“So, ah…ummm…what’s on the agenda after the big shoe reveal?” she asks on a dazed, shaky pant.
“You hungry?”
Her eyes widen. Oh yes, I knew exactly what I was asking.
“I could eat something, yes.” Her smirk mirrors mine.
Now we’re talking.
As I lean back into her, she puts a hand between us and pushes on my chest. “Food. I could eat food,” she clarifies with a laugh. She sounds determined, so I let it go. For now. But we’re getting closer to changing the degrees of this vertical dance, and we both know it.
“Come on.” I grab her hand and lead us out the door and down the street a couple of blocks until we come to a little French café I like. It’s not fancy, but the outdoor seating is spectacular, and it’s on the corner of two busy streets. Great place to be seen.
We only have to wait a few minutes before we’re seated.
“I remember coming here as a kid every Mother’s Day. My mom loves this place. She said it reminds her of summers spent in France with her mother when she was little.”
She smiles. “Were you eating Nicoise and smoked salmon carpaccio at the tender age of five then?”
“You would think, right?” I wink, which gets me a light laugh, and in turn, my grin broadens. “No. My undeveloped palate preferred French toast and scrambled eggs. And profiterole, although I had to beg my parents for it every single time because I never finished my meal so I could save room for it.”
“I’ve never eaten here before.”
Something swells inside me that I’m showing her things she’s never experienced in a city we both call home. “You’re in for a treat then.”
We chat easily for the next hour, as if we’ve known each other all our lives instead of just a few weeks. It’s nice. Relaxing. Refreshing.
When Kellie, our waitress, comes back around, I order a profiterole, although I’m stuffed.
“Oh, nothing for me,” Willow says when Kellie looks to her.
“Bring two forks,” I tell her.
“Shaw, no. I can’t possibly fit another thing in my mouth.”
My brow curves, and I don’t bother fighting the grin splitting my lips. A beautiful blush creeps up her chest and face when she realizes what she said. “Oh…that’s not what I meant.”
“You should choose your words more carefully, Willow. A man may take a statement like that as a challenge.�
�
She leans forward, placing her forearms on the table, crossing one over the other. Her whole face sparkles. “Would this man?”
I match her position, our faces within inches of one another. I let my finger caress her cheek and my voice drop. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
I’m just leaning in to kiss her when dessert arrives. Damn the luck. Willow watches as I dip my fork through the flaky pastry and thick cream. I bring it to her mouth. Holding her stare as she holds mine, I spoon a forkful toward her; she opens and lets me feed her. It’s another intimate moment that makes my blood boil with crazy want for her.
Wrapping those luscious lips around my fork, she closes her lids on a moan. I have to reach down and adjust my pants. They’ve gotten unbearably tight again. I take my own taste and feed her one more bite before she holds up her hand to stop me.
“What do you think?” I ask, anxious to know.
“It’s divine,” she replies with a dreamy look on her face. “Thank you.”
I reach forward to wipe off a dollop of crème from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. I tap her lips until she opens and lets me slide it in. I actually groan when she closes her mouth and sucks. All I can picture is my cock sunk between her teeth. The way she’s looking at me tells me she’s thinking the same thing.
“Fuck, Willow.”
Reluctantly, I withdraw and lean back when all I want to do is throw her over my shoulder and drag her home with me so I can devour her until dawn. I told myself when I picked her up tonight I would not beg her to come home with me, but my mouth is open to implore her when I hear, “Summer, is that you?”
Willow’s face blanks and her head immediately snaps to the street where a tall, lanky man who’s spent too much time under the tanning bed stands. Another man who’s shorter and stockier but no less interested in her accompanies him. I don’t recognize either of them, but my blood is boiling now for an entirely different reason.
She doesn’t give me a second glance before standing and facing our intruders. She shuffles forward a few feet to the wrought iron railing that separates the sidewalk from the restaurant.
“Bill, how are you?” she asks sweetly before holding out her hand. The man named Bill takes it and brushes his lips across her knuckles. I want to thrust my butter knife straight through his beating heart.
“Couldn’t be better,” our interloper replies in an irritatingly upbeat tenor.
Right before my eyes, Willow transforms into someone else. She’s stiff and fake and withdrawn as she talks for a minute or two with these two men who clearly know her through her “job.” And not her day one.
When they finally walk away and she sits down, I can hardly contain my unreasonable fury. I knew who she was and what she did before I even agreed to this little charade, yet I can’t seem to stop the black hate I feel that other men may have enjoyed her presence as much as I have. And how could they not? I grit my teeth until my molars hurt.
“Old friends?” I fully realize I spat that with hostility and loathing. And those fighting words will be the catalyst to make me say a whole host of other shit I will come to regret. My only excuse is that no woman has ever made me feel so damn helpless before. It’s an uncomfortably hot place to be. “Cat got your tongue?” I clip when she doesn’t answer fast enough.
Willow’s cool gaze flickers to the street and back to me. “How did you find me? At Randi’s?”
Her attempted misdirection pisses me the fuck off.
“I’m asking the questions here, Summer.” Her fake name drips with condemnation.
Eyes that sparkled in want and delight just minutes ago turn hard as stone. “Why are you being such a dick? You reached out to me, not the other way around.”
I should stop right now. Shut my mouth and swallow this irrationality that’s clouded my judgment. Only I can’t. Steaming jealousy has caused fire to brew, the black smoke too thick to see through. “Because you sure seem to know a lot of men in this city. Job hazard, I suppose.”
Christ. The stunned look on her face before it masks over once again shreds me to ribbons. Saying nothing, she rises gracefully from her seat. Grabbing her purse, she starts for the outdoor exit. My temper flares back up at this distance she’s always trying to put between us. Things get tough, she takes cover. Well, it’s going to stop. This running she’s doing is not healthy.
“Where are you going?” I bark, uncaring that we’ve already drawn an audience from the tables packed around us.
“Home.” Her voice is sure and solid. She’s such a strong woman, and here I am trying to cut her down like a bastard. But does that stop me? Fuck no. It doesn’t.
“I say when you can leave,” I practically yell.
She freezes midstep. Her chin goes up, her slim shoulders heave, but she doesn’t respond. I stand and close the short distance between us, getting right in her face.
“You can’t walk out on me. I own you. For the next three months, you belong to me. You do what I say, when I say, how I say. That was the deal you fucking signed.” My sharp, muted voice sounds alien to me. Assholes have taken me over.
Her vicious glare gradually morphs into sweet and forgiving and in an instant I know what she’s doing. I’m paying her to do it. Hell, I just called her out on it, but to be on the receiving end of it guts me. Absolutely ruins me. Then she opens that bratty mouth I’m drawn to, and the tone she’s using may be all sugary, but the words behind them smell vile and taste bitter.
“Wow. Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Mercer. You may own my time. You may own how I dress, how I act, what I say, where I go. But to own is to possess. And I am no man’s possession. So, no”—in a calculated move meant to fool anyone watching, she leans up and places her mouth close to my ear—“you don’t own me. You will never own me.”
Then she kisses me on the cheek and says loud enough to be overheard, “See you at home, honey,” and walks away, leaving me to gape after her like a fish out of water, gasping for breath.
I’m landlocked. Completely out of my element.
No one defies me like that. No one plays me like that.
Fierce, barbaric resolve swells inside me until it overtakes me completely.
The fuck I don’t own her.
She. Is. All. Mine.
Guess what I want now? More than anything I’ve ever wanted?
A brand-spanking-new possession.
16
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is bright. The breeze is minimal. The air crisp, like fall is trying to push its way in already, but summer is keeping her out just a bit longer. And I want her to succeed because fall means we’ll be closing in on winter before we know it.
And winter means no more Shaw. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but as the days with him whiz by, I know I don’t like the disappointment stirring in my gut at that thought.
We are nothing. A job. A sham. And he clearly reminded me of that last night with his cold words at the diner.
I own you.
How fucking dare he? He may be right in many ways, but it was the way he said it that pricked my skin like a bed of thorns. It wasn’t said with the intense possessiveness of a man who wants a woman to truly belong with him. Quite the opposite. I was something to claim. To covet and flaunt until his use for me is over.
It stung, mostly because why should he feel any different? I don’t like that I wanted him to.
As if on cue, my phone rings for the fifth time this morning. I ignore it. To his credit, Shaw’s been relentless in his quest to apologize. I’ll eventually let him; I just need the hurt to ebb a little first. He’s judging me for something he knows absolutely nothing about, and while that’s not all his fault because I haven’t offered him an explanation, it hurts nonetheless.
This is not a relationship where we trade parts of ourselves that are deeply personal in hopes of injecting them into the other person’s life and ultimately their heart. We may be physically attracted to each other, but even I know what we’re projectin
g to the outside world is not real. As much as I’m starting to want it to be.
I flick my left blinker and wait for the cross traffic to pass before turning. Driving through the familiar wrought iron gates, I make my way slowly to my destination. Once I reach it, I shove the gear into “P,” kill the engine, and sit quietly, staring out the front windshield at the massive weeping willow whose curved branches seem to shield and protect.
Tears well. They always do.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw where my sister would be laid to rest for all eternity. My father stood beside me holding me up because my knees were too weak to do it on my own.
“I bought this plot six months before you were born, Willow.”
It was a weird thing to do, I remember thinking at the time. My father was young. He was a long way from dying. But that was my father. Always planning ahead.
“I had intended it for your mother and me when we passed, but now I think maybe I had some sort of strange foresight. I think this is a sign that she’ll be okay.”
I remember tipping my head back. Looking up into the green underbelly of the giant tree whose lush green leaves seemed to mourn along with us. Even at that young age, I got it. In life, she was my protector. In death, I was hers. I broke down. He had to carry me back to the car and sit with me for an hour before I was calm enough for him to drive us back to the funeral home.
The memory hits me the same every time I pull up to this spot. It’s been too long since I’ve visited. I don’t usually let more than a few weeks of time go by, but I’ve been so caught up in Shaw it’s distracting. It’s going on two months now. I can’t let that happen again.
Letting my gaze fall to the passenger seat, I scoop up the two small bundles I clipped from the backyard of my childhood home. Bringing them to my nose, I breathe deep, inhaling the strong scent of lavender and honeysuckle. I blink hard, letting sorrow burn a path down my cheeks for just a few seconds before I wipe it away.