Cherry Bomb: Forbidden Bad Boys

by Clara Leigh

  Chase has told a whole load of rubbish stories about how he came by his name, not one of them true. I know. I was there when his nickname came about, and it has fuck all to do with geese, grooves, or crossbows. He’s not a hunter. He’s the hunted.

  At 4:05AM when the phone rings and there’s no call recognition, I drag my sorry arse off the sofa onto which I’ve been wedged. “Gotta take this,” I tell the quintet of lovelies who try to pull me back into their embrace. I’m not sorry to escape their clutches, though I’m eternally thankful for the distraction they’ve provided.

  “Dare?” Flicka’s sultry whisper greets me.

  “Hey. I was hoping you’d call.”

  “Just after four, exactly like you said.”

  4AM is my favourite hour. It’s that point in time when anything goes, a twilight zone between what you did last night and what’s happening tomorrow.

  “Did you make it home yet? It sounds loud where you are.”

  “Not yet,” I admit. “I’m heading that way now.” Her voice is sweetly familiar, light and breathy. I can sense her excitement and her nervousness. Instantly, I develop a craving for Morello cherries.

  “Oh, right. Where are you exactly?”

  “Party at Jace Jones’s place.” More precisely, I’m stepping over the piles of entwined bodies in order to reach the door. If I was being polite, I’d describe the atmosphere here as hedonistic, but actually that gives the impression that what’s going on is somehow classy, and for all the designer frocks and thousand dollar suits, it seriously isn’t. Really, it’s a swinging club for wannabe stars, has-beens, and the fixers who feed off them. The only reason I’m here is because of the title negotiations. That and I live next door. It’s common courtesy to swing by when your neighbour’s having a get together.

  “So is it you I need to thank for the lucky break that happened my way tonight?”

  “What lucky break is that?” I can’t help teasing, just a little.

  “Accelerant. Post-apocalyptical, mystery thriller. Ring any bells?”

  “Accelerant, Jace Jones’s new thing? Nah, that had nothing to do with me. Must have been your guy, Tyler. Isn’t he playing the lead?”

  “Right,” she says, failing to keep the amusement and disbelief from her voice. “You want me to believe an A-list celebrity director suddenly decided I was the leading lady he’s been looking for, without me having met him, spoken to him, or even zapped a Day-Glo smile in his direction, just because Tyler asked him too? I’m not buying it. Somehow, I doubt I was even on his radar before tonight.”

  “Course you were. His brother Alfie’s a big fan.”

  That’s no lie.

  “Yeah,” she drawls, and I can picture the smile breaking across her face. “You’re a bad man, Dare Wilde. I know you’re responsible for this, so stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Jason Jones starred in Sunsetters alongside you. You’ve worked on about a million projects together. Tyler’s too in awe of him to risk sticking his neck out.”

  She’s right on multiple points, and I admit as much. “I didn’t say anything to Jace though. That was all his own doing. He saw us together and decided we have bankable chemistry.”

  “And is that what you think we have?”

  “I think it’s an avenue worth exploring. Hey, I work well with direction.”

  “I see.” She makes a soft hum, and I can picture her nodding her head. “So my sister was right, this is a 4A.M. booty call.”

  She has me there. I can’t deny it. I’m not sure why I’d want to.

  “Give me your address and I’ll come right over.”

  Her laugh warms my insides. It’s throaty and light, but no brush off. “Yeah—I don’t think that’s such a good plan. You’ve already got me into enough trouble tonight.”

  “That’s interesting,” I say, “Because I don’t think I’ve got you into nearly enough.”

  “Oh, God, you’re a devil. I’m not giving you my address, Dare Wilde. Whatever it is you were looking for by asking me to call, you’ll have to achieve over the wire.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer me to turn up with a strip of condoms in my pocket and a minty fresh smile?”

  “Quite sure; I share a place with my sister.”

  “Who I’m sure is the sole of discretion.”

  She chuckles some more. “Ain’t happening, Mr. Wilde.”

  Maybe not tonight, Miss. Caine, but you’ll come round. And yes I am big-headed enough to believe that.

  “So, are you planning on going home any time soon?” she asks.

  “I’m already out the door.” I stroll across the hallway that separates our apartments, and enter home sweet home. Inside the air con has been ramped up to full, but the chill factor is a blessing after the stifling crush of bodies next door and the heat I’m feeling around my collar. I pull off my jacket and bow tie and leave them on the sideboard by the door. The walls are thick enough that there’s no noise seeping through from the party, which means I can hear the soft staccato puffs of her breathing. Flicka Caine is eagerly waiting for whatever comes next, and I’m equally eager to determine what that might be. “Have you been to bed yet?”

  “I went, then got up again. Couldn’t sleep. So I passed the time watching you.” She coughs. “By which I obviously mean I watched one of your films, not that I got out the binoculars or hacked your building’s security system or anything.”

  I’d ask which one, but it’s not as important as the fact that she’s craving the sight of me.

  “I guess that means you can’t see that I’m taking my shirt off right now.”

  “Damn. Guess so.” She laughs. “Tease.”

  “Oops, it’s off.” I drop it on the floor.

  “So you’re flashing skin and ink? Shoulders? Washboard abs.”

  “Yup.”

  “Little, tight button nipples.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What sort of ink?”

  “Ah-aa! That, you have to discover for yourself.”

  She goes quiet and I can imagine her drawing her teeth over her plump lower lip as she flirts with the idea of undressing me and then tracing her fingertips all over the lines of my tattoos. Mostly they cover my upper arms, but I have twin guns either side of my abdomen and some words and scrollwork over my ribs on the right hand side. I shiver as I imagine her hands covering the pistols, and then sliding lower to where the waistband of my trousers sits. Jace is right. There is chemistry between us, and it requires urgent attention. If this was purely up to me, I’d be with her now, exploring it in beguiling detail. But it’s not. She’s hesitant. I can sense that. I don’t know if she’s typically this cautious about being with a guy, if she’s wary because of my rep, or whether it’s Chinchilla strong-arming holding her back. Whichever it is, I need to find a way around it and fast.

  “What about you, Flicka? What are you flashing?”

  “Legs,” she blurts. “A whole lot of leg. I’m wearing a night shirt. Very short. Kinda stripy.”

  “With panties or commando?”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “Knickers on,” I respond. This is the opposite of what I think she expects me to say. “Obviously.”

  “I don’t see why that’s obvious.”

  Of course she doesn’t.

  “I like to leave some things to the imagination.” Also, if they’re on, I get to be the one who decides whether to peel them off, leave them dangling around her thighs, throw them in a corner, or stuff them into her pretty mouth to use as a gag. It’s surprising how versatile a scrappy piece of silk and lace can be.

  “Oh,” she says, like the concept is revolutionary. Maybe the guys she’s used to, men like Tyler Beauford, like to bypass the imagination department on their quests to get laid, but me, I recognise that it’s not what I’ve got between my legs that grants me access to ladies beds.

  “Dare,” she says quietly. “Are you picturing me in my panties?”

  Damn! Now who’s bein
g a tease?

  “Possibly.”

  Too damn right I am. I can picture her so clearly, perched among her crumpled bed sheets, shirt skirting the tops of her thighs, and her blonde hair tousled. “Tell me what colour they are.”

  “Um.” I hear her moving so that she can check. “They’re kind of a pearly-pinkie ivory colour, with some darker bits of lace, kinda similar to the dress I was wearing earlier.”

  Nice. Girly and pretty, just like her, but with just enough sexiness to hint at the vixen that’s buried underneath the crushing weight of Chinchilla purity.

  “Are they damp?”

  She goes quiet, and I swear I can feel the heat of her blushing from across the city. “Uh, yes, I guess they are a little.”

  “Are you touching yourself, Flicka?” I ask, making my voice low and husky.

  “No,” she replies, far too urgently, giving it away as a big fat lie. Not that I call her on it. I just offer her room to manoeuvre in.

  “I’m imagining you touching yourself,” I tell her. “Putting your hand inside your pearl-pink panties and rubbing all that wetness that you find there against your lips and your clit. Wasn’t that what you were doing while you were watching me earlier?”

  The sharp intake of breath tells me I hit both nails bang on.

  “You know what I’d like, if you did touch yourself right now. Rub yourself and imagine what’s going to happen between us the next time we meet.”

  “What is going to happen?” she murmurs.

  “A kiss won’t be enough, next time,” I explain. “I already know how you taste. I need more than that now. I want more than that from you. I want to touch you in more intimate places.”

  I pause to adjust my fly, so there’s room for my rapidly growing wood. Sex talk always gets me horny.

  “I’m going to tease your nipples with my tongue and suck them into my hungry mouth, and I’m going to slide my big man’s hands inside your pretty panties and show you how good I can make you feel with just two fingers.”

  “Only two?”

  “I’d consider adding a third, but I think you’re too tight for that. I’ll have to stretch you open first, get you used to the idea of me slipping something thick into you.”

  “Oh,” she gulps.

  “It’s okay. I realise our experience levels aren’t entirely matched.”

  “That’s true. I’m...I’m still a…What makes you think I’m going to let you be my first? You’re not exactly going serious material.”

  First? Shit! Lorne was right. She is wading out of her depth. The fact that she’s inexperienced doesn’t dampen my ardour. It just means when it happens, I’ll adjust my actions accordingly.

  “The sounds I can hear you making right now tell me you’re more than a little curious. You’re tempted, don’t pretend otherwise.” She’s touching herself. The sound of her masturbating is unmistakeable. “You’d like to know how perfectly we’d fit together. In fact, you’re getting yourself off right now to the very prospect of it.”

  “Totally am not.”

  She might have slowed the circling of her finger over her clit right down, but I can still hear it.

  “Good girls don’t masturbate.”

  “In my experience they do. They just don’t advertise it. In any case, you’re no good girl. You’re a bad one in disguise. A good girl wouldn’t have come to my club, sat on my knee, and ground her pert arse against my cock. A good girl wouldn’t have snogged my face off while I was snoozing, and she definitely wouldn’t still be touching herself now in a way that makes her breath catch when she’s sworn she’s not frigging herself.”

  The silence from her end is deafening. My ears strain. Finally, she squeaks, “I only did that stuff in the club because Lorne told me to. I don’t normally behave like that.”

  There are two aspects of her assertion that warrant further exploration. Firstly, agreed, I don’t think she does normally behave like this, but that’s only because she’s watched near 24/7. The fact that she’s choosing to behave in this way now, with me, is why my knuckles are aching from gripping the phone too hard.

  As to the second part—I’d love to find out exactly how far we could run with the concept of “Lorne told me to.” Lorne’s even more of a dirty fucker than I am.

  “If Lorne told you to get in a cab and come right over here, right now and fuck me like a pro for the rest of the night, would you do it?” I wonder aloud. “If he told you to strip when you got here, to get down on your knees and suck my cock, would you do that? What about if he suggested you gave us both messy hand-jobs and licked up the mess?”

  “Jeezus!” she hisses.

  “Just trying to determine if you’re willing to do everything Lorne says.”

  Closer to home, there’s a grunt of “Holy fuck!” from across the room. “What crazy scheme are you involving me in now?” It seems the apartment isn’t as empty as I’d supposed—Lorne’s home, along with company. Not sure how I failed to notice him before. His jeans are around his knees and his bare arse moons me from across the room. He’s fucking some girl over the surface of the breakfast bar. I shake my head at him and mouth “Flicka” then put a finger to my lips to indicate for him to keep quiet.

  He gets it. Thank God.

  I give Lorne and his pick-up some space, and head over to the panoramic window. The lights of the City stretch into infinite below.

  “You’ve gone awful quiet, Flicka Caine. Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here. I am touching myself,” she admits. “But that doesn’t mean I’m the person you seem to think I am. I’m neither repressed nor looking for an opportunity to go off the rails and scandalize people with my wanton wickedness. I’m just a regular girl who happens to be enjoying a late night chat with a film star.”

  “My regular fans don’t masturbate while they’re on the phone to me.”

  “Are you sure? Have you conducted a survey?”

  No I haven’t. Cheeky bint.

  “I’m going to conduct a complete topographical survey of your arse if you’re going to be bratty.”

  “I’m not trying to be. It’s nerves. In any case, how many of your fans have you ever spoken to on the phone?”

  She’s got me there. “If we’re talking genuine fans, and not just women chasing me because they’re after something, this might be the one and only time.”

  “I’m a genuine fan, am I?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “How do we tell? Is there a quiz or something I have to pass?”

  “Have you imagined me going down on you and licking your pretty pink slit? A) Never B) Once or twice C) All the time or D) I’m doing it right now.”

  “You know I’m not going to answer that.”

  “Question two. Do you want me to fuck you until you’re so dazed and exhausted you can barely remember your own name?”

  “Oh, God, Dare…”

  “It’s a yes or no answer.”

  “Nnnrr,” she groans, which I take as a denial.

  “You’re saying you don’t want me to worship your cunt and do you so good that you come so hard that you gush all over my cock?”

  “Is that even a real thing that happens?”

  “Real and more than a little fantastic,” I promise. “Just give me the word and I’ll prove it.”

  “Shit! If anyone finds out about this call, I’m going to be wading in so much poo. I’ve already been warned over the kiss, and now you’re making promises that I can’t possibly let you keep.”

  “You knew exactly what was on offer when you called me.”

  “Yes.” Her breathing grows rougher. “Yes, I did.”

  “Which tells us that at least on some level you wanted this…That you want it.”

  “I do.”

  “Yeah. Put the phone where I can hear the sounds you’re making properly. Now, tell me exactly what it is you need. Whisper your dirtiest fantasies right into my ear. I’m right here and desperate to hear them.”

&
nbsp; “No.”

  “Pretty please.”

  “You’re trouble, you know.”

  “That’d be why you haven’t hung up yet.”

  “Big trouble.” Her voice is super soft. “Okay, if you really want to hear it. I want your touch. Instead of it being my fingers circling my clit, I want to feel yours stroking me. I want you to put them inside me, like you said, so you can stretch me and get me all ready for you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Oh, God! I can’t believe I’m saying this. I want you to get me so wet and horny that I’m begging you for it. You’re holding me and I’m begging you to just put it in, but you won’t. You keep on saying it’s not time yet, I’m not slick enough, even though I’m so wet it’s all over my thighs, and every bit of me is aching and aching for you.”

  Her fantasy is one hundred per cent reflective of her, an intoxicating mixture of repression and desire. This isn’t a scenario she’s inventing on the spot. It’s familiar. It’s something she’s run over more than the odd time or two. It’s going to be an honour to finally give her what she needs.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart,” I say, playing along. “You have to know that I’m aching for you too. I’m so ready for you, but I want it to be good for you your first time… so good, but if we go too fast—”

  “We’re not going to go too fast. It’s not going to be too much. Fuck me, Dare. I want you to do me so good. I’m going half-crazy here. I just need to feel you.”

  I reposition the phone so that I can more easily rub my hand across the front of my fly, and give the thickening rod lying directly behind it a swift squeeze.

  I’m a horny sod. It doesn’t take much to get me going. That virginal Flicka Caine can do it for me with words alone tells me how effectively she has me hooked. In my head, I’m right there in her girly bedroom with her, my body stretched out above hers. Her hands are all over me, touching my face, clasping the back of my neck, and then clawing at my shoulders. My cock’s so hard that the mere brush of anything against it is going to be borderline painful.

  “Please Dare, please…Just push in a little way. Give me taste. I want to know.”

  Give her a taste. She has no idea what she’s asking. Once I’m notched at her entrance, there’s no way I’m going to be able to hold myself back until I’ve utterly possessed her.