Badd Kitty

by Jasinda Wilder

  And then I remembered to go in after him, catching up as he set the bags down, along with my mail and my keys. My phone, for some reason, he still had in his hands.

  “How—” I blinked at him, summoning words. “You—”

  He just grinned. “Take your time, sweetheart. I’ve got all day.”

  Anger barreled through me, knocking loose the tirade. “How did you know which apartment is mine? How did you know which key was the right one? How dare you go into my apartment without asking, without permission, and without me? Why are you here? What do you want?”

  He was utterly unfazed by my outburst, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Whoa, darlin’, one question at a time.”

  “Quit calling me stupid, condescending, chauvinistic names,” I snapped, and immediately felt guilty for snapping at him even though I was proud for sticking up for myself. Which was confusing.

  He twirled my phone between his finger and thumb. “First, your address is on your mail. Second, you have three keys on here—one for your mailbox and two for doors. The silver one is almost definitely for the back door of Badd’s Bar and Grill which means the bronze one is for your door.” He shrugged. “Logic. Where was I? Oh yeah, third—I had all your stuff in my hands, so where did you want me to go? Somewhere else? Fourth, I’m here because I was passing by and saw you, a damsel clearly in distress and in need of my brave assistance. And as for what I want…”

  He pushed off of the counter and towered over me, his gaze blatantly tripping down to my cleavage, and remaining there. “Simple, babe—I want you.”

  “Me?”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. I sounded breathless—which I was—and baffled as to why he of all people would want me. Not like I had self-esteem issues or anything; I knew I was pretty, had a decent body, and that I had something real to offer the right kind of man. The doubt came in when I looked at Roman. He was the kind of man who picked up horny supermodels and ditzy sorority bimbos and slutty bar bunnies. Not people like me.

  Roman sidled closer, his gaze fixing on mine and not wavering as he reached up and stuffed my phone back into my bra—his knuckles seared against my skin as he tugged the cup away and tucked the device further in.

  “Yeah, Kitty. You.” His hand drifted up, his eyes skating over my face, down to my cleavage, and then upward again. With a single jerk, he yanked the ponytail holder out of my hair, letting my hair spill free of the messy bun and drape around my shoulders. “That’s better. You’re hot with your hair up, but you’re drop-dead fucking stunning with it down like this.”

  He stepped closer, and now his chest was pushing against mine; I stood my ground, but barely. My breasts pressed against his chest, flattening—a fact his wandering gaze did not miss. He gathered my hair in his hand, wrapping it around his palm twice—I’ve been growing my hair out my whole life, only trimming a few inches off the bottom now and again, so it’s down to my mid-spine, which seems to be its terminal length. He tugged my head back on my neck so I was forced to stare up at him—my breath whooshed out of my lungs, and my thighs clenched shut tight.

  Fear and arousal warred inside me.

  He was so huge, towering over me, his broad chest blocking out the apartment beyond him. His shoulders were like mountains, stretching the cotton of his black T-shirt, and his arms were as thick as my thighs, round and hard and veiny. His eyes were so blue they stole my breath. He had a forest green US Forest Service hat on backward, a tuft of his fine blond hair peeking out the opening of the snapback.

  I’d almost forgotten his grip on my hair, so lost was I in his eyes, his perfect cheekbones, his carved-from-granite jawline. He reminded me of this salient fact by tightening his grip, so my hair pulled at my scalp, and then brought me closer to him. Now my breasts were smashed flat, and I was up on my tiptoes, barely breathing, utterly and helplessly hypnotized by his primal, magnetic perfection, his captivating dominance.

  His lips brushed against mine, and my mouth tingled, my lips parted and my tongue fluttered against his, an automatic reaction to the tease of his kiss.

  “There she is,” he murmured, with a cocky chuckle of assurance.

  That broke the spell.

  I shoved at him, hard, heedless of his grip on my hair. Slapped him across the face as hard as I could, so hard the crack echoed in my small apartment. To my credit, his head snapped to the side from the force of my blow, and he actually staggered back a step.

  “Get out,” I hissed. “Get out!”

  He was rubbing his cheek with one hand, looking dazed. “Damn, girl, you can hit.” He said this with no small amount of awe—and, unfortunately, amusement.

  He was also very clearly NOT leaving. Instead, he was grinning at me. “You know, you’re sexy as hell when you’re pissed. I mean, you’re sexy as hell regardless, but when you’re pissed?” He shivered in delight. “Mmmm-mmm-mmm.”

  “I told you to leave, Roman.”

  “But I just got here.” He faked a pout, making a pathetic moue with his lips, batting those big blue eyes at me.

  I put my face up close to his, kept my voice low and hard. “I said leave, Roman. Now.”

  He held up his hands and backed away. “All right, all right. I’m going.”

  I watched him head for the door, hating the way my body was still shell-shocked. Hating, as well, the fact that his compliments and flattery, as arrogant and crude as they were, had sunk a little deeper than I’d like to admit. He paused halfway through the door, just looking back at me.

  I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. “What now?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing, I just wanted to get one last look at you.” He swept a finger up and down, gesturing at me. “I suspected the other night that you were probably hiding a pretty damn amazing body under those frumpy work clothes, but goddamn, girl, I had no idea how amazing.”

  Half of me wanted to shiver at his words and preen and ask what else he thought, and the other half was disgusted and angry. “You’re a pig.”

  “You said that already.” He shoved a hand in the pocket of his khaki cut-off shorts. “But if appreciating a glorious female body makes me a pig, then oink oink, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t call me—”

  He held up a hand, forestalling me. “Sorry, sorry. Forgot.” He waved, pivoting out the door. “I’ll be seeing you around, Kitten.”

  “My name is—” The door shut between us, cutting me off. “Kitty, not Kitten,” I declared to the empty apartment. “And I hope not.”

  That wasn’t quite true, though. Some part of me did want to see him again. If I could lock that silly, horny, hormonal, weak part of me in the basement, I would. Because that part of me kept betraying me at the worst possible times.

  I’d almost kissed him, for crap’s sake.

  Why did that stupid part of me find the way he’d wrapped his hand around my hair and tilted my face up to his so darn hot? Why did that part of me want him to do it again?

  Stupid, that’s why.

  The door opened again right then, and I half expected it to be Roman again, but it was my roommates, Juneau and Izzy.

  “Oh—my—GOD,” Izzy said, trouncing through the door, her arms full of bags from The Plaza. “Kitty, you will not believe the guy we just saw. Seriously. He was, I kid you not, the hottest man I’ve ever seen in real life.”

  “She’s not kidding,” Juneau added. “He was pretty gorgeous.”

  I sighed. “Let me guess. Six-four, built like the Incredible Hulk, with eyes like Paul Newman’s and a face so perfect you either want to smack him or kiss him?”

  “Smack him?” Izzy stared at me, incredulous. “Kiss him? Shit, woman, I’d take him to bed and never let him leave—assuming I could get him even look at me. And you know what? Forget the bed, I’d take him on the floor, or up against the wall—shit, I’d fuck that man in a public bathroom.”

  “Izzy!” I said with a groan of reproach. “Don’t be nasty!”

  “Well, I would.” She
narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait. How did you know who we were talking about?”

  I sighed. “His name is Roman Badd, he’s the cousin of my bosses, and he’s as much of an arrogant jerk as he is pretty.”

  Isadora Styles, Izzy to anyone who actually knew her, was a true strawberry blonde—heavy on the strawberry, light on the blonde—with the creamy skin and adorable freckles to go with it. She had long, thick, wavy hair she almost always wore down and loose, hazel eyes that leaned toward green, and a body I suspected most men would happily kill for. At least, I knew I would. I mean, she was an inch taller than me, had a slimmer waist, a tighter butt, bigger boobs, and most of her height was leg. She was also a successful fashion blogger who paid the bills by managing an online couture-clothing store. She had impeccable taste in fashion and a flair for drama. And a potty mouth, and a sex drive that left me boggling, and few inhibitions…not to mention a trail of broken-hearted men that led all the way back to her childhood crush back in Memphis, Tennessee, which also explained her hint of a southern accent.

  Juneau Isaac was the opposite in every way. Short, curvy enough to be just this side of plus-size in most stores, with raven-black hair she almost always wore in a thick braid, and dark brown eyes. One hundred percent Inuit, Juneau was shy, quiet, careful, and hard to read. She’d had one serious boyfriend that I knew of, and she’d broken up with him when he had pushed her for things she hadn’t wanted to do, sexually, something I suspected, but wasn’t sure of. She rarely brought anyone home, and only went on occasional dates which almost never turned into a second date. Juneau was the sweetest girl I’d ever known, and I was, in some ways, closer to her than to Izzy, simply because I was more like Juneau than Izzy.

  Izzy put a hand on her waist and popped her hip. “Katerina Maureen Quinn. What aren’t you telling us?”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Not even my mother uses my full name, Izz.”

  “Well I do, especially when you have dirt on a hot guy and aren’t sharing.” She smirked at me, taking in my appearance. “Must be laundry day, huh?”

  “Yeah, and Roman saw me in this too.”

  Izzy raised her eyes, knowing I tend to be pretty modest under most circumstances—I prefer one-piece bathing suits, rarely spring for low-cut tops or dresses, and keep most skirts mid-thigh or lower. This outfit, then, is something I never wear outside the house unless I have to, and today, I had to. I only wear it at home with Juneau and Izzy. Today was the first and only time I’d ever gone outside the house in it, and I felt naked and self-conscious the whole time. I was really regretting my error in judgment.

  I’d been too focused on the insane rollercoaster of feelings Roman instilled in me to think about it then, but him seeing me in this outfit…I was mortified.

  The full magnitude of it was just then hitting me.

  My eyes widened and I put my hand over my mouth. “He saw me in this,” I whispered. “Not even my own father has seen me in this.”

  “He’d tell you to go put on real clothes if he did,” Juneau said. “Even if you were home alone, he’d tell you to put on real clothes.”

  “Shoot me now,” I moaned. “I can’t believe he saw me in this. In fact, I can’t believe anyone saw me in this.”

  Izzy was unsuccessfully stifling laughter. “Oh my god, Kitty. You’re seriously panicking about this?”

  “Yes!” I cried. “I met him once, the night before last, at the bar. And he was an arrogant jerk then just like he was an even more arrogant jerk today. And he saw me in this outfit, which is the single sluttiest thing I own.”

  Izzy snorted. “Yeah, well, your idea of slutty is a lacy push-up bra.”

  I glared at her. “Not all of us feel comfortable wearing cupless bras and crotchless panties, Isadora.”

  She just shrugged. “I’m not going to apologize for being confident in my body, nor for wanting to flaunt it.”

  “I’m not asking you to apologize, just don’t make fun of me for not being the same way.”

  Juneau, ever the peacemaker and reasonable one, chimed in. “She wasn’t making fun you, Kitty. Just pointing out your differences.”

  Izzy lifted a finger. “Actually, I kind of was making fun of her. Just a little bit, though.”

  “Izzy, don’t be mean,” Juneau said.

  “I wasn’t being mean. Just teasing.” Izzy wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “So tell us about this Roman Badd of yours.”

  “There’s not much to say except he certainly isn’t mine.” I drew out the silence, knowing there was plenty. “Apart from having an overinflated opinion of himself and acting like a macho jerk all the time, he’s one of a set of identical triplets.”

  Izzy drifted, as if in a daze across the small apartment, and sank slowly down to sit on the couch, and put a hand over her mouth. After a moment, she stared at me, wide-eyed. “There are more? That look like that?” She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s not possible. It’s just not possible.”

  “I’ve met all three. Roman, Ramsey, and Remington.” I sighed, hopping up to plop my butt on the counter, kicking my feet. “And yes, they all look like him. And, from what I can tell, the other two have just as much cocky arrogance as their obnoxious jerk of a brother.”

  Juneau frowned at me. “Wow, he really rubbed you the wrong way, didn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this fired up before.”

  “Or, more accurately, you want him to rub you the right way, and you don’t know how to handle that.” Izzy grinned at me. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared of big bad Roman Badd, aren’t you? You want him, but he scares your sweet innocent little pussy into hiding.”

  “Izzy!” I scolded. “You are so crude!”

  She just snorted. “You need to loosen up, Kitty. There’s nothing crude about the word ‘pussy.’ There just isn’t. It’s not like I’m saying cunt. That’s a little crude, and it’s a term I reserve only for the bitchiest of bitches. Like my evil stepmother.” She shuddered, and we all shuddered with her, having met Tracey—who was, legitimately, the source of inspiration for the evil stepmother in Cinderella, and possibly the witch queen in Snow White. “But for real, what would you call your lady parts? A vagina? That may not be crude, but it’s so…formal, and archaic, and…boring.”

  I sniffed primly. “I wouldn’t refer to myself in that manner at all.”

  She just stared at me. “So…how do you talk dirty, then?” She faked a breathy moan, speaking in an overly dramatic fake-sex voice. “Oh, Roman! Put your manhood into my womanhood! Yes, right there in my womanhood, you handsome gentleman, you!”

  “You’re such an idiot, Isadora,” I said, rolling my eyes at her even as I had trouble stifling a laugh. “Dirty talk isn’t necessary for a meaningful and intimate sexual experience.”

  “No, but it sure is a lot of fucking fun.” She shook her head. “Seriously. You need to get with a guy like Roman just to see what else is out there.”

  I knew where she was going with this. “Izz, don’t. Please don’t.”

  “I’m just saying—Tom was a great guy. You were good together. You cared about him, he cared about you. I’m not knocking your relationship with him at all. But honey, he was your first serious boyfriend, you were with him for eight years, and you haven’t really done much by the way of dating since you and Tom broke up.” She lifted her eyebrow, and I knew the real doozy was coming in her next statement. “And knowing what I know of Tom Holbrook I have to admit that I doubt you guys were very…erm…adventurous, sexually.”

  “What if we liked it that way? What if I don’t need sex to be some crazy adventure? What if I like it to be meaningful, and intimate?”

  “And boring, and predictable?” She shrugged. “I’m not saying break out the handcuffs and anal beads, Kit-Kat, just…get outside your comfort zone a little.”

  Juneau spoke while staring at her toes. “It has been almost a year since you and Tom broke up, Kitty. It might do you good to…I don’t know, look beyond the average fish in the se
a, I guess.”

  I frowned at her. “You’re turning on me too? You’ve been on, what, seven dates in the last year?”

  She lifted a shoulder, offering a shy smile. “Seven that you know of. I went on several more dates with one of the guys I brought over, but I just kept it quiet and met him after work.” Her shy smile shifted into a mischievous smirk. “And then we met a few more times, but I wouldn’t exactly call what we did dating.”

  “Juneau!” Izzy shrieked. “You little minx! You never told us this!”

  “Who was it?” I asked. “Wait, don’t tell me—it was that one with the long hair. Chris?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, Chris.”

  “You slept with Chris?” Izzy asked, leaping up off the couch to join us in the kitchen. “What was he like?”

  Juneau shrugged, glancing at the floor again. “Sweet, at first. And then, once we’d been together a couple times, he got pretty—well, he liked stuff that I know you wouldn’t call kinky, but for me were pretty out there.”

  “Like what?” Izzy demanded. “Anal?”

  Juneau looked suitably horrified. “Oh god no! That’s virgin and staying that way. Yuck.” She shook her head, shuddering. “Just…different positions and stuff.”

  “Don’t knock anal till you try it,” Izzy said. “So are you still seeing him?”

  Juneau shook her head. “I’ll leave that to you, Izz. And no, I’m not.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Seems like you liked him and had fun with him.”

  “It was a lot of fun, and I did really like him. But he…we were at his place, hanging out. We got a little tipsy and, unbeknownst to me, he invited a friend over. A girl.” She hesitated, still gazing at the floor. “She walked in without knocking, took one look at me, and started taking off her clothes. I asked Chris what was going on, and he said he figured I’d be down for a threesome. I guess because I’d been willing to try pretty much everything he’d wanted up to that point, he figured I’d just go along with a threesome.”

  Izzy stared expectantly. “So? Did you? Was she hot?”

  Juneau and I exchanged looks. “No, I didn’t have a threesome!” Juneau exclaimed. “That’s gross. No way. And yeah, I suppose she was pretty, but I’m not into girls, or sex with more than one person.”