Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  I feel so conspicuous standing in front of the Tower wearing my cartoon scrubs.

  Of course, I've been to Kiki's many times.

  Her studio condo put her back a million dollars. In my ignorance, I'd thought it was a penthouse at first. There is no point of reference when you've never had money.

  It's all just more. More than what I have.

  I know Mick McKenna will have a large bachelor pad.

  “I do, in a manner of speaking... but I am waiting for a new space to be renovated while I live in a smaller condo.”

  I look at his profile as Henry walks behind me, swinging the door shut.

  “Excuse me, will that be all, sir?” Henry asks.

  Mick shoots me a glance.

  “Yes,” he answers, giving me a wink. “I'll take care of Miss Mitchell.”

  “Indeed you will,” Henry replies, already moving around the front of the gleaming black limo.

  “Oh, you will, will you?” I ask in the coolest voice I can manage. Inside, a dozen butterflies beg for escape.

  Freedom.

  ~ 7 ~

  It's impossible to not look around in awe. I can't hide it, so I don't even try.

  His is the finest home I've ever been in.

  There are no walls, only floor-to-ceiling glass that looks out over Puget Sound. The challenge of catching the state ferry for a day trip to the hippie-filled Bainbridge Island is only a casual walk away.

  The reclaimed walnut floors gleam as the tall ceilings rise to open ductwork in brushed stainless. A beautiful wide staircase appears to grow out of the floor. A harvest of antiquated brick walls close in around us, lending a warm intimacy to the space.

  Mick watches me with a wary expression as I walk through his elegantly appointed smaller holding.

  As though I'll bolt.

  He knows me better than I think.

  Mick trails behind me and sets my duffle on a low-slung, soft black leather couch that narrowly hugs the rough wall.

  I stroll to the kitchen, where an island of black granite flows like sleek, sparkling oil. It runs underneath cabinets with a soap stone under- countertop sink, the deep bluish-slate perfectly picks up the midnight flecks within the dark sea of granite that surrounds it.

  “You like it?” Mick asks, studying my face with tender intensity.

  I nod and back away from the kitchen. My eyes sweep the high-end stainless appliances, and I spot a tea kettle. Pain cuts me as I recall the one that lies shattered on the floor of my apartment.

  “Yes,” I answer, my finger running along his living room couch.

  The couch is perfectly angled to see both the fireplace that bisects the large great room and the water of Puget Sound that appears like an ebony canvas through the acres of windows.

  I face Mick, and there's a stillness in his body—as there is in mine. As though time has taken leave of the moment.

  Then it breaks, and Mick strides to me.

  I brace myself like a beach when a tidal wave threatens. I watch the water suck away until the only thing left is the wave that is Mick crashing against my body.

  He moves in a rush of water as he flings his coat to the floor, his cufflinks scattering like platinum pebbles on the sand.

  My hand grips the couch as he hits me at full speed. Both of his hands find my ass, his lips slam into mine, and we fall backward over the arm of the couch.

  I cry out.

  Not in fear, but terror.

  Terror that what I want might finally happen.

  That I'm not ready, not in control.

  It's not on my terms.

  Somehow, through a coincidence of circumstance, Mick has me where he wants me. My heart beats with lust for what he can do, with fear from how I feel.

  Though I try to deny, deny, deny.

  “Faren,” Mick says as we fall into the couch.

  One of his feet hit the floor, stopping him from landing on top of me. His left hand hooks the back of my neck.

  He presses himself into my center, and I groan, deepening the ache that he started with his touch and the desperate way he says my name. He jerks his pants down, a button flying off and skating across the floor.

  His ownership of my safety sinks my caution like lead weights and I latch onto his penis with a grip that should hurt.

  I've lost my mind. My emotions are a tornado of uncontrollable lust and acute desperation as I squeeze him.

  He's impossibly hard, big.

  Mick hisses, and my hold loosens.

  “No.” His eyes go dark and he covers my hand that grips him. “I've been waiting for that... for what I know is really there.”

  Can't lose my nerve.

  He releases my hand, and I fumble with his belt. It jerks loose of the loops in a slithering hiss of cloth against leather. I fling the belt aside, and it clatters to the floor as he presses his knee between my legs.

  Edgy pressure grinds against my core. Heat floods me in preparation for what's to come, and I whimper. I’m so close to having what I want that I writhe underneath him.

  “Oh god, Faren.” Mick jerks his pants down further with one hand, freeing himself.

  I get a good look at him and gasp. I've seen a hundred bare cocks, but never one I wanted.

  Until his.

  Mick yanks off my shirt, my arms flinging backward to help him, and his hands latch onto my breasts with my smock still tangling my wrists.

  He squeezes them as his thumbs pivot to my nipples, his knee splits me further, and I cry out. A great throbbing pulse between my legs is connected to those thumbs. I abandon my will to Mick, my control.

  His eyes move to mine as I speak his name.

  I feel as though every lap dance I've ever done is coming back to haunt me. The sexuality that's been robbed from me because of obligation has been returned to me like a gift.

  “More,” I ask without knowing what it means.

  I hear my panties tear, and my eyes spring open as he maneuvers his head lower.

  Mick's eyes meet mine from between my legs, and I'm overcome with nervous embarrassment.

  Mick's hands leave my breasts and hold my thighs open. His eyes flick to mine. “I've wanted to do this since the first time I laid eyes on you.”

  I blink at him as he dips his head.

  I have a moment of hysterical realization that he just ruined my last pair of panties when I feel his hot wet tongue on my clit and my mind slides in a languid push of bucking hips and near loss of consciousness.

  My lungs burn as they beg to breathe, but I can't think of anything but Mick's mouth on me.

  It is the best feeling I've ever had, slick, hot, and so blindingly real. My body stills under the press of his mouth.

  He holds my hips down with his forearm and spreads my legs wider. He slides deeper into the cradle of my body, his hands going to my thighs and squeezing.

  His eyes flick to mine again, his tongue working the sides of my lips. As Mick sucks from the top to the bottom, my head falls back. A hushed whisper that's half his name and half-moan eases out of me. He continues to stare into my face.

  I latch onto his hands, my eyes wide, my breath coming in bursts that are harsh and needy.

  Our gazes lock.

  When his tongue spears me, my fingers dive into his hair and I scream, the echo striking us like an erotic slap of unsullied sound.

  Mick's thumb swirls the wetness from my entrance up to my clit as his tongue is buried in a deep pump.

  My eyes slam shut, and I release his hair as I break apart. The orgasm is so crushing, so vital, I cry helpless whimpers as he works between my legs.

  The pulses of my ecstasy are enhanced by his tongue in me, his hand on the swollen bundle of nerves.

  His face where no one has ever been.

  I lie naked beneath him, my wrists above my head in a rope of my uniform. One foot dangles off the couch, one bent leg is plastered against the back.

  Mick rises on his knees, and I watch my juices glisten on his jaw. His
powerful hips flex as he walks closer to me on his knees.

  I watch him bob, so rigid... so perfect.

  I haven't told him my state of innocence, but he'll soon find out.

  His hands come to my hipbones as he steers me toward his engorged penis. I shiver in anticipation, wanting every inch that stands at stiff attention.

  My cell phone shatters the silence.

  As does the doorbell.

  ~ 8 ~

  “Fuck me,” Mick seethes. He swivels, eyes tagging the door with a death glare.

  The bell trills like someone's laying their elbow against it.

  My phone vibrates across the glass coffee table.

  “Can we ignore this?” I ask, already feeling exposed. The tether of our almost-connection slips away like a rope of vapor.

  “McKenna!” a man yells, followed by a heavy fist.

  I almost recognize the voice, but I can't place it.

  Mick hops off the couch, jerking up his trousers, and I watch him stuff his semi-erect goodness away.

  The disappointment is a sucker punch. I feel dazed.

  I untwist my smock and notice my bra is hanging on by one strap. I heave it to the floor and tear my shirt over my head, accidentally tugging my hair.

  Mick's almost to the door and I hear my voice mail chime alert.

  I'm naked from the waist down, my pussy catches a breeze and my wet passion tickles as it cools. I scan the floor and grab my smock pants, kicking my ruined panties off to join the bra. I jerk on the pants as Mick turns around, sees my state of more or less dress, and looks through the peephole.

  I know it's bad when he leans his forehead against the door.

  “Fuck,” he says with feeling and unbolts the door.

  He sucks open the door, wearing no shoes, no shirt... just his pants. Hopefully minus the hard-on.

  It's Tagger.

  I want to die of embarrassment. Twice.

  Tagger does a head to toe sweep of Mick's... general disarray, and smirks. “Catch ya at a bad time?”

  Mick holds onto the door, blocking Tagger’s view of my body. “Yeah, kinda sucks. What do you need?”

  “I'm surprised you don't have a butler and the whole nine yards.”

  I can see Mick's face shut down.

  “You said Faren Mitchell would be with you.”

  “Yes,” Mick answers, giving him nothing.

  “Is she here?” Tagger presses.

  “Yeah.”

  “May I come in?”

  Mick exhales. Moving aside, he sweeps his hand to the right, and Tagger walks in. His casual clothes look out of place in Mick's expensive digs.

  Of course, I still have my physical therapy uniform on.

  Sans panties and bra.

  Oh god. My chin drops when I catch sight of my underwear. I give what I think is a subtle swish of my toes in an attempt to bury them underneath the couch.

  “There you are,” Tagger says.

  My stomach clenches. He sounds so much like the men who speak to me at the laps.

  Horrible condescension and assumption rolled into neat little judgment with a bow on top.

  My eyes meet his, my teeth setting together in a pre-grind.

  Mick sees my expression over Tagger's shoulder and frowns. “Okay, you've seen her. Now you can go.” Tagger must know he walked in on something, and it’s even more obvious that Mick's pissed about it.

  Tagger turns to Mick, his eyes roving over shoulders hardened through grueling work outs. My eyes follow Tagger's and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out he’s jealous. About what? Neither confirms knowing the other, but I don’t think it’s just about male posturing.

  Tagger breaks his stare with Mick and moves to where I stand, trapped between the coffee table and couch. His watery green eyes move down me like they did Mick, and his lips flatten into a grim line.

  He gets to my naked toes, and I blush when he sees my torn panties as the crotch flirts at him from underneath the lip of the couch.

  I want to crawl in with my discarded underwear.

  Instead, I stand there and stare at him as he puts the pieces of our evening together.

  I don't know what he sees in my face, but it makes him turn to Mick.

  “Tell me this girl isn't one of your playthings, McKenna. Not her.”

  I frown. Okay, definitely knows Mick. I'm spot-on with my earlier assumption.

  Mick's chin jerks back, and he folds his powerful arms over his bare chest. His eyes narrow on Tagger. “Listen, Jake, I've got you.”

  My eyes widen, moving between the two.

  I move away from them, wondering what’s going on and hoping I'm not going to find out.

  “You're pissed because of who I am,” Mick says.

  Tagger moves into Mick's grill and his jaw flexes. “I'm lit up because she doesn't know who you really are, how we suffer over your sleazy bullshit. What's happened.”

  Oh no.

  “Does she know?”

  Mick shoots this out-of-line cop a warning look.

  I'm pretty sure I know what Tagger's going to say. If he does, I’ll have to play a role or it'll come off weird. I don't want to.

  Not now.

  His timing is criminal.

  “What... what should I know?” I ask.

  Mick looks into my eyes as Tagger drops the news like a bomb.

  “Prince Charming here owns the hottest strip clubs on the west coast.”

  My eyes slide away to stall while I gather my will, my expression. My words.

  I work at one of his clubs. I work at Thorn's illicit club that Mick doesn't know about. I remember picking up that sweaty pole money at his feet like it was yesterday.

  It won't be my repulsion that drives me away, but my own guilt. I keep my head down and slide by the men.

  “Faren,” Mick says, and I can still feel that sensation of his mouth on me.

  I won't stay here because I can't hide what I'm doing forever.

  I slip my clogs on and grab my purse off the couch by the front door.

  “You simpering dick,” Mick says to Tagger.

  I feel a hand wrap my elbow and turn me around.

  My eyes move to Tagger's. I don’t like his hand on me one bit.

  “I can get you out of here, Miss Mitchell.”

  We stare at each other. “I can get myself out, Officer.”

  He smiles, and it feels off. He’s completely fine with wrecking my evening with Mick because he has some kind of ax he wants to keep grinding. Is his hard-on for Mick so important that my supposed need for protection plays second fiddle?

  I jerk my elbow out of his hand, and his smile widens.

  Uneasy, I watch Tagger move to the couch. I studiously avoid Mick's eyes, but I can't ignore his presence.

  His existence consumes me like lava. It spreads over me, and I can't breathe through the suffocating warmth.

  “Get out of my house, Tagger,” Mick says. I feel his contained anger, frustration and remorse in his bitter tone.

  Tagger scoops something off the floor with his stylus. “Don't you mean where you bring your clients?”

  I look at my panties hanging off the end of that slim instrument.

  Clients?

  My eyelids tingle as my eyes fill with tears.

  Is this some kind of fuckpad? How many girls have been on that couch? I don't know which to feel more hurt by, his lie by omission or his revolving door of meaningless flings that Tagger seems to be so intimately aware of.

  Tagger strolls toward us. I give hurt eyes to Mick before I can stop and back away from them both.

  Mick’s jaw looks like granite. “I said Get. The. Fuck. Out.” His eyes roll over my panties in angry possession.

  “Evidence, McKenna,” Tagger says in a satisfied tone, holding up the panties.

  This guy's like a Jekyll and Hyde. My money's on Hyde.

  “What?” Mick asks, clenching his teeth.

  “I obviously interrupted an assault in progress...”


  “What?” I echo. My voice sounds as though it's been torn from my throat in breathy pieces. Mick didn’t rape me.

  If anything, in some twisted way-- I'm the user. But Tagger doesn't intuit that.

  Mick snatches the panties from Tagger. “I've never forced any woman in my life. You know that.”

  Why is Mick defending his honor?

  “That past of yours though.” Tagger wags a finger like it's a good bit of comedy, though we stand around like shell-shocked survivors. “It wouldn't take anything for someone to snap after what you've been through... do the wrong thing here.” He spreads his hands inoffensively.

  They glare at each other, the atmosphere thickening.

  “She's coming with me, McKenna. I'm getting Miss Mitchell's statement, and she can't make one with you standing over her after an alleged assault.”

  “I don't need to make a statement.” I back up farther, my butt pressing against the cold metal of the doorknob.

  “You're making one, Miss Mitchell.”

  What the hell is going on? How did this cop go from showing up at the scene of my demolished apartment to accusing Mick of attacking me?

  My back's literally against the door, my heart hammering as Mick clenches my panties.

  “No,” I say, “nothing... happened here. Mick didn't hurt me.”

  I meet Mick's eyes, and his are sorry. He didn't want me to find out about the strip clubs from the mouth of a jealous cop.

  I'm betting he never wanted me to know.

  Tagger shakes his head, reaching for me, and I panic. I hit him with my bad hand because my right holds the strap of my purse.

  Tagger grabs my bad hand, biting into the carnage of nerve damage.

  I cry out, and even to my ears it's sounds like a wounded animal.

  Mick doesn't hesitate.

  He steps forward like a dancer in the first blush of movement. His fist lashes out in a natural strike, the knuckles set and turning as he pivots into Tagger's face.

  Tagger's face rocks back, his hand convulsing on mine, and I scream Mick's name as the pain rips through my palm.

  Mick swivels, his hand coming down as he turns, and hammer chops the cop's forearm. Tagger reflexively releases my hand.

  Mick turns to me, my hand a shaking nightmare and wraps his arms around me.