F Boy: Screwing the Boss series

by Michelle McLoughney

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Fuck Boy

  F*ck Boy

  Written By

  Michelle Mc Loughney

  Copyright © 20 Michelle Mc Loughney

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Fuck Boy

  AVA

  Prologue

  The rain pummels the roof, falling in sheets. I watch the lightning from the window. Touching a fingertip to the glass, I trace a droplet of rain as it runs down the pane.

  My mother was always so scared of storms. She would hide under the bed, Daniel and I beside her, our eyes filled with excitement and wonder. Every now and then she would peek out from under the dust ruffle to see if the storm had passed. A shard of light pierces the sky, bouncing off the small metal gate of the cemetery. The bolt hits the decorative wooden cross on the grave, splitting it in two.

  “Daniel,” I shout, running from the room, flinging open the main door and making my way out into the night. I throw a hand across my brow to shield my eyes from the heavy rain. Shit. I should have brought my phone, my shoes, a torch or anything to stop me ending up like the first dumb victim in a horror movie! Running across the grass, I slip and stumble my way through the squelching mud, the relentless rain making the ground soft and tacky underfoot. Damn it, it’s June! How the hell is it raining so hard? England still holds the ability to offer four seasons in one day, but this is ridiculous. Reaching the gate, I come to a grinding halt when I see a figure crouched down pulling the remnants of the aging wooden cross from the ground.

  “What are you doing? You don’t touch his grave. Never touch it. Only me. Do you understand?”

  When the man looks up at me, I pull in a breath. It’s Ridge, the groundkeeper boy who helps out during the summer months. Only, he’s not a boy anymore. I haven’t seen him in nine months, and the change in him is remarkable. He rises slowly from his knees and walks toward me, not an ounce of hesitation in his gait. All confidence and comfort within his own skin. I wonder if I looked like that at 19. Snorting lowly, I eye roll myself. No. I was probably less confident, and even more gauche than I am now. A bead of water drips from the peak of his cap to his thick black stubble, before rolling onto his chin. I shuffle back a couple of feet, stumbling on the curbing. Ridge grabs my arm to steady me. His calloused fingers are rough against my skin and my body shamefully explodes with need. I stare at his hand on my arm, my eyes slowly drifting over his defined chest straining against the drenched material of his t-shirt. I swallow when my gaze meets his. Oh Yes. Something has happened all right—something fucking crazy. Get your shit together, woman! I nervously glance down to my arm still in his grasp. Another bolt of lightning streaks across the sky and I catch the glint of my wedding ring. Snatching my arm away I sharply narrow my eyes at him.

  I pull at my nightdress, and groan internally when I see that the rain has made the light cotton material almost transparent. Underwear! Underwear would have been a good idea. My eyes are drawn to his face, the hardness of his features, and the intensity of his gaze. There is something so intimidating about him, something that draws me in. I move back a couple of feet stumbling on the curbing. Ridge grabs my arms to steady me, his fingers rough against my skin and my betraying body explodes with need. Flicking my eyes up to meet his, I watch them widen in response. Oh Yes. Something has happened all right. Something fucking crazy. Get your shit together woman! My eyes land on my wedding ring, and I pull my arms away sharply, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “Did you hear me?” I shout over the rain and thunder that rumbles like an angry beast in the distance. Ridge nods and glares at me, annoyance permeating from every pore.

  “Oh I heard all right darlin’ you want yer garden tended to, but not this part. Well maybe a bit of communication would come in handy m’lady. My psychic abilities are piss poor,” he says through gritted teeth. My temper immediately flares and it shocks me. I don’t think I was capable of feeling anger, or any emotion besides loneliness and despair. Well knock me down with a feather, the ice queen lives.

  “Are you mocking me? Do you know who I am?” I cringe internally when I hear the voice of entitlement that belongs to me. He’s making me act out of character, and with fear comes anger. He moves into me and grabs my shoulders shaking me gently.

  “I do know who you are. You’re the property of that old bastard. I’m the hired help, neither better than the other, both just surviving. Now unless you’ve invented some cure for childhood cancers, then I suggest you take that as you please. I’m paid to do a job and I do that job well. If you require some kind of YES man then that won’t be me. If you were mine, I’d bend you over and smack your arse for you.” He leans into my ear and whispers. “And guess what princess, you’d like it too.”

  Raising my hand I slap him hard across the face, the rain making the sound echo and more violent. Lightning crashes in the sky and lights up his face, the vivid red line across his perfectly chiselled jaw line evident. I cover my mouth with my hand, mortified and confused.

  “I’m so...” I begin to speak, shaking my head, but stop short when his dark eyes open wide, and his lip curls. I push back my hair from my face nervously, and blow the rainwater from my lips.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he snarls, lifting me off my feet and dragging me back against the stone cemetery wall, his hands landing on either side of my head caging me in. Gasping when he pushes his leg in-between my thighs, I hold my breath as his knee connects with my pussy. The material of his jeans creates a sweet and torturous friction between us. The outline of his cock presses against my belly, and its rock hard and terrifying. Lifting my chin between his fingertips, Ridge stares into my eyes, his breathing rapid and heavy as though he’s struggling for control. I want to tell him that I feel the same, the anxious anticipation killing me also, but I don’t. Capturing my lips with his own, I’m thrown by the softness of them, his body soft and hard all at once. Struggling against him weakly, I push against his t-shirt and punch his chest. The scent of him all cigarettes and spice, the brute force of him consumes me, until I can’t resist any longer and grab at him fisting his hair and pulling him into me. It’s not enough. Nothing is enough, I want to be inside him and I want to feel him inside me. I grind against him, my panties growing hot and wet. Ridge responds by pushing hard against me, gripping my ass and bucking against my hips. My body tells me it’s so right, I feel so right, but my morals tell me that it’s wrong. He’s so fucking young, and I’m so fucking married.

  Even in the driving rain, I can feel the heat from him as he presses against me. Ridge moans into my mouth and lifts one of my thighs around his waist, gripping it so tightly that his fingers knead my flesh. Grabbing his belt, I find the buckle, my lips still plundering his mouth like a dying man gasping for breath. And then he pulls his head back, and he looks horrified. Mortificat
ion washes over me in waves. Christ he’s just a kid!

  “Ridge, I-”

  “No! Not like this!” He shouts, dragging me off him and running his hands through his hair letting out a string of expletives. And just like that, he steps away from me. I stand looking at him, my hands over my mouth panting and confused, which seem to be my go-to emotions when I’m around him. He turns his back on me, and stands hands on hips shaking his head.

  “I’ll have this fixed in the morning, Mrs Hartman. See that you have a shower when you go inside, warm yourself up. Do you hear me?” He says gruffly, picking up a torch and rope from the ground, still refusing to meet my eyes.

  I nod at him and shiver, my hair slicked down on my head like a cap and my nightdress clinging to every inch of me. I’ve never looked or felt more wretched.

  “Take this.” He says, handing me the torch.

  “Ridge-”

  “Go!” He shouts making me jump.

  Taking the torch from his outstretched hand, I feel his eyes on me as I walk quickly into the darkness. How can I ever look at him again? Or the damn groundskeeper, Featherstone? This kid has come here for two years, and I choose the middle of a torrential downpour to throw myself into his arms? I should feel more shame, I should feel a lot of things. All I feel is the urge to go to bed, to slip my hands underneath my covers and think about Ridge Franklin’s mouth on me. All of me.

  One year later...

  RIDGE

  “I’d fuck her into next week,” Danny mutters.

  I glance up and follow his line of sight. My eyes land on the figure standing at the window of the big house. Ava. The only thing in the world I want. The only thing worth my time. The only reason I’m here.

  “I’d break that pussy in two,” he groans, grabbing his crotch, and gesticulating wildly like the fucking fiend he is.

  Ava Hartman.

  A vicious rage coils inside me like a venomous snake, until it takes on a life of its own as it courses through my veins exploding into a guttural, primal moan.

  In an instant I’ve shifted and before I can stop myself, my large bulky body moves at lightning speed and barrels into Danny, lifting him off the ground by the waist.

  “Heyyyy,” he shouts out, as his back hits the stable wall with a thud, winding him. I push my body against his, my knees pressing hard against his thighs. My hands find his throat, and my elbows touch the wall behind his head.

  “What the fuc-?” He stammers, spittle hitting his chin.

  Snarling at him for a moment or two, I watch him sputtering, his hands clawing at my wrists pulling against them in vain while his feet kick at my shins. I want him to remember pain when he thinks of her, I want him to feel fear and never dare to have her name on his tongue. Her name belongs only in my mouth, where the sound of it inside my head is a precious thing.

  “Never. Ever. Talk about her like that,” I growl, punctuating each word by tightening my grip and shaking him. When he stops struggling I let him go, dropping my hands to my sides. Danny falls to his knees landing heavily on the whitewashed cement floor breathing heavily.

  “What the fuck? You’re crazy!” He wheezes and coughs, his eyes blazing while he rubs at his throat. Danny’s angry, but there’s something more powerful emanating from him. Fear. A man like Danny understands fear. He may be ten years older than me, but he’s no match for my brawn. And he certainly doesn’t stand a chance against my anger at his words, or the lust for Ava that consumes me. Clasping my hands together, I crouch in front of him and rock back onto my heels.

  “I said: don’t talk about her like that. She’s not a whore. She deserves respect. Okay? Good man,” I say, slapping him on the shoulder and walking away from him, before I do something stupid, something I’ll regret.

  Walking toward the house, I keep my eyes on her silhouette, straight like that of a dancer. She’s about a foot shorter than my 6ft 6inchs, and more than 100lbs lighter, but her legs seem longer.

  Maybe it’s the way she’s made, the curve of her hips, her plump arse tight in those jodhpurs she wears when riding, and her breasts high inside those white tight t-shirts she favours. Everything about this woman drives me crazy, just looking at her ties me in knots. Her face beautifully heart-shaped, and her lips lush and wide, like her eyes, green and framed perfectly by inky black lashes. For three years she’s had this effect on me. Three years of imaging her not married to someone as loathsome as Beaufort Hartman. Marry me! Choose me! Married to her, my body would be large and heavy on top of her, but, I would be gentle with her, as gentle as a man like me can be. I’d take her carefully, making her scream for me, feeling her pussy encase my cock like velvet. Ava deserves to be protected by someone who could crush those who would bring her harm.

  Three years of longing, and now Beaufort Hartman is dead. Now it’s my time. The taste of her still lingers in my mouth from last year. The torture increasing with every day apart from her, I should have taken her there and then. No. I close my eyes shaking my head. She deserves better, she deserves it all, not some fumble in the dark. Tell that to your raging hard-on, genius. Whatever my mind says, my body only has one thing on its agenda. Sex, hard and rough and endless.

  Three summers of wanting someone you can’t have does strange things to a person. It changes you, moulds you into someone dangerous, feral almost.

  The first summer, as a callow youth of 17, avoiding her not knowing how to react to her. Or how to walk around all day with a constant hard-on for a woman like her, and hide it. When my parents died not long after returning home to Ireland in September that first year, I thought I’d forget about her. That the distance and grief after the accident would play a part in getting over her. Instead, it had the opposite effect, I thought about her all the time. The smell of her long, silky, chestnut hair as she walked past, her body supple and soft, the way she moved, timid yet determined. I’d lay awake at night hearing the softness of her voice, imagining the brush of her hand in mine when I helped her onto her horse.

  I marvelled at how much time she spent at the grave of her brother, Daniel. Watching her from hidden places, talking to him, crying to him, other times just lying there across the grave, so still as though she were asleep. I ached to go to her, to comfort her, but she wasn’t mine to touch, not yet. Instead, I’d go back to the cottage I shared with other grooms and lie in the darkness, my hand twisted around my thickening cock. I imagined myself plunging into her, again and again, burying myself to the hilt and listening to her call my name. A woman like Ava is a prisoner in a place like Rosemere. I’ve spent the last three years waiting for the summers to come, fucking other girls with long chestnut hair. Girls who remind me of her, but never feeling satisfied. Waiting. All the time waiting. Waiting to claim what is mine.

  The second summer I spent as her personal groom, helping her with her horses, watching the kindness and care with which she treated them, like friends. Hours watching her, every single nuanced movement of her body locked into my brain, and by the end of the summer I loved her. I knew it implicitly. The lust I felt was still there, as strong as ever, but deeper. I loved her, in a way that would shape the rest of my life. No one would ever come close to Ava Hartman.

  This summer she is a widow. Beaufort is dead. This summer, I make her mine. I take what has always been mine.

  My cock stiffens with urgent need, and I fight the urge to rub my hand down the length of it. Soon. Soon. Being around her and not having her is torture.

  AVA

  I stare out a second storey window, and sip a sweet mimosa. The continuous pattern of the lawn sprayers holds me captive, hundreds of streams of waters hydrating the acres of manicured lawns below. Picture perfect.

  Bollocks!

  If I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s that pictures, like people, lie. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is ever perfect. I snort when my eyes fall on him. Perfection right there. Ridge Franklin. I shouldn’t even know his name, or care. Knowing his name would have got him fired in the past, when Be
aufort was alive. Knowing the taste of his lips would have gotten us both killed. Beaufort is dead. Breathing in deeply through my nose, I close my eyes and relish my newfound freedom.

  Ridge makes his way across the gardens to the house, and I marvel at the shape of him, huge and imposing, I’ve never seen anyone as big as him. His huge frame seems in direct contrast to how he was when I first noticed him. He’s no longer a boy, now a fully grown man and his dominant maleness is undeniable. There’s a darkness about him that I’m drawn to, both physically and something deeper, something brutal simmering inside him. The height of him used to make him appear skinny and out of place, now that he has filled out his body is more that of a gladiator, ready for battle.

  Ridge Franklin. I mutter his name, and my breath hitches in my throat as he approaches the house. His arms are muscular and bulge from honest work, the muscles on his neck chorded and thick, like rope. I bite my lip to stop from wondering about what lies beneath his jeans, his legs tanned and hard, his cock long and thick. Shutting my eyes I shake my head. I’ve no business even thinking about a man 15 years my junior. I’ve no business remembering what happened in the cemetery, on the night of the storm last year. No business remembering how thick and long his cock felt, how hard it felt pressed against my belly.

  It doesn’t stop the shameless fantasies though, or the way my body reacts to his, a frenzy of built up tension and sexual desire whenever he’s within reach. His eyes always following me, dark and soulful, dangerous, his lips full and soft against a face of hard angles and plains. His stubble-covered jawline a little too severe to be considered classically beautiful, oh he is handsome, in a nonconventional way though, something about his face too hard, too unyielding. The strength of his hands when he lifts me into my saddle is evident. His jeans brushing against my backside as he lifts me onto my horse. He teases me, just by existing he torments me. My nipples peak painfully at the memory of his smell, masculine, no scent of cologne from him just soap and man, work and sweat and I crave it. It taunts me, like a punishment for all my desires. The memory of a bead of sweat trickling its way from his neck down the front of his t-shirt, flashes into my mind, and has me clenching my legs together. I swallow deeply, feeling like a perverted old lady. Hey, you’re 35, not dead.