by Logan Fox
“The one you bought me two weeks ago?” I snap as I stalk for the kitchen door.
“Clover—”
“No, Hunter, you don’t get to ‘Clover’ me, you piece of shit.” I spin around and manage half a gasp before Hunter has me against the wall.
God, he’s strong. And warm. And even more handsome when he’s pissed.
His brown eyes pin me as much as his hard body does, his normally sumptuous mouth a thin line. “It’s just dinner,” he says in a venomous whisper.
“That you planned three weeks ago and only decided to tell me about now.” I shove at his chest, but that only gives him an excuse to trap my wrists above my head.
I fucking loathe it when he does that. I loathe it so much it makes me want to sink my teeth into him and draw blood. I squirm, this time because my body’s starting to do what it always does when Hunter’s this close; he’s turning me on like a pilot getting ready for take-off.
“Why would—?”
“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” I know he hates when I interrupt him, but I want to rush this fight along so we can get to the make-up fuck.
After all, it’s the favorite part of my day.
He glowers at me and opens his mouth, but I don’t let him speak.
“That dress arrived two weeks ago. That means you already knew about this dinner before then. And since that dress is one of those fancy fucking things that probably takes some tailor in Italy several days to perfect, you had to know about this dinner at least three weeks ago.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And, knowing you, that probably puts it more at four or five weeks.”
I’m breathing hard; my tits flutter against his rib bones.
“Am I wrong?” I prompt, when he does nothing but stare down at me with intense curiosity.
“No. But your timing’s a bit off.” Hunter grabs the edge of the shirt I’m wearing and hikes it up to my hips. “It’s been six weeks.”
My lungs go tight. “Why do you keep doing this?”
His answer is to shove his hand between my legs and rake his fingertips over my underwear. If he’s surprised that it’s already damp, nothing shows in his eyes. I guess he wants to get to the good bit as much as I do.
“Does it give you some kind of thrill, dumping these things on me last minute?” I search his eyes and find nothing but hedonistic fascination in them. “Huh, Dr. Hill? Am I always just going to be a goddamn test subject to you?”
He jerks aside my underwear and groans deep in his throat when his fingertips brush my slippery folds. My eyes flutter before I can force them open wide. His touch coruscates through me in a hot, tingling wave that makes my core ache for him to be inside me.
Hunter puts his forehead against mine, then brings his mouth to my ear. “You would have found a way to cancel it.”
“Challenge accepted,” I murmur. “Now go call all your friends and tell them to find some other way to spend their evening.”
“No, Clover.” His lips tickle my ear, and I know he’s doing it on purpose.
He does everything on purpose, my Hunter.
“We are having dinner. You will behave yourself.”
“Or what?” But my voice lacks much of the vehemence it needs for Hunter to take me seriously. I can’t help it; he’s still teasing me with his fingertips, sending a deluge of lusty anticipation through me that’s making my core clench tighter and tighter.
“Or I’ll punish you.”
Usually, those words would have me spreading my legs like a junkie-whore several hours late for her fix. But, just like his earlier laugh, the promise rings false in my ears. Instead of opening for him, I slam my thighs shut over his hand.
Hunter rears back, eyes narrowed.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say, willing steadiness into my voice.
Frustration leeches from his face. He tightens his grip on my wrists and kisses me.
Fuck it.
What can I do but give in to him like I always do?
I lose myself in his possessive touch while mentally begging him to take everything I have.
I can’t help it.
He’s fucked me up soooo good.
Our kiss breaks off. There’s hunger in his eyes, and it has nothing to do with his abandoned omelet. I’m already dripping for him, but that single look makes me moan before I can help myself.
He grabs me around the waist, tearing at my shirt so the buttons pop off one after the other as he forces me out of the kitchen and into the living room.
I’m thinking he’s heading for the couch, but he detours, and heads for the stairs.
“Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” I breathe. I grab his dick through his pants, squeezing him roughly enough to make him grit his teeth at me.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says, pushing the words through his teeth.
A thrill chases through me, but I know better than to show him I like it when he commands me. Instead, I scowl and open my mouth for a retort.
The stairs slam into my back, winding me. I arch, and he takes full advantage of the reflex by ripping open the rest of the shirt and yanking it down to my elbows. I fight him, struggling for breath, trying to get my legs free from the tangle of our bodies, but he chose this spot too well. I’m pinned by the railings and his body. The only way out is up, and he grabs my throat in a hand before I can move more than an inch.
I hear his fly zip open. He burrows his face in my neck, biting my earlobe as he tightens the pressure around my throat.
He probably meant it as a warning, but all it does is spur me on.
I get my knee into his side, but he twists away before I can do more damage than that.
“Clover,” he growls.
Another warning.
Another challenge, which I graciously accept. I nip at his mouth and taste blood in my mouth for my efforts. He looks momentarily shocked, but then crushes his mouth to mine before I even get to gloat.
He snatches my underwear, tearing it as far down my legs as he can get it before I twist away.
He doesn’t fucking care. As soon as he gets one knee wedged between my thighs, there’s nothing more I can do to keep him out.
And, honestly, I don’t want to anymore.
I feel my underwear stretch to max capacity as I open my legs for him, and he weighs me down with his body, scooting me up so I’m sitting a few steps up from the ground floor.
He switches his grip from my throat to my hair, yanking a fistful of it so I’m forced to stare at the ceiling instead of him as he rams his cock inside me.
“Hunter!”
God, but I love it when he fucks me so hard. I’ve got my nails in his shoulders, but I can’t damage him through his shirt. It pisses me off, but I’m too busy being fucked to care.
“Are you wearing a rubber?”
He pauses, exhales a hot, frustrated breath over my neck, and pulls out. The hand in my hair tips my head forward. He studies me, and slowly his expression turns into a grimace.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I murmur sourly. “Did my need not to get knocked up take all the wind out of your sails?”
“I told you, I’m not getting you pregnant.”
I squirm under him and grab a handful of his hair. He doesn’t seem to notice, the thick-skinned bastard. “And I told you, pills aren’t a hundred percent. I don’t want—”
But instead of letting me finish, he just thrusts into me again. My protest cuts off in a mewl and then I’m barely hanging on to reality as he slams into me hard enough to think that maybe — just maybe — I’ve really pissed him off.
I know we’ve had the talk, but fuck it if he’s one stubborn mule head. Claiming that the pills he gives me ‘does exactly what’s intended’ is not good enough. I’ve had mates on the pill fall pregnant; it ruined their lives. I mean, I don’t even know where the fuck this thing of ours is headed — why the hell would I want to get shackled with a kid?
Admittedly, the feel of his naked cock ramming into me is the most delicious thing
I’ve felt today, and I’m not about to protest again.
Instead, I let him take what he needs, as rough and as hard as he needs it.
He comes seconds later, thumping into me with a deep-throated groan that I feel vibrating against my stomach. He kisses me again, hard enough to bruise, voraciously enough that I can taste the split lip I gave him.
He’s still inside me, softening but buried deep, when he strokes my clit with his thumb.
I whimper, my head falling back as I try to catch my breath. He massages me mercilessly, swiping away my hands when I try to make him speed up or press harder.
When my interference becomes too much, he grabs my wrists and holds them between my breasts, watching me as he brings me to a frustratingly slow climax.
And when I’m almost there, he begins thrusting in and out of me. I hadn’t realized he’d hardened again, and the delicious fullness of his cock shatters me.
I call out his name in a breathless pant, and he captures it with his mouth as he draws out my climax.
We lie there for minutes, breathing each other’s air as we try getting our bodies under control. My back aches where the steps are digging into it, but I wouldn’t move if Armageddon were on the way.
“When will you start trusting me?” he asks.
There’s such sadness in his eyes, I can’t keep looking at him. I clear my throat, snag my underwear, and drag them up my sticky legs.
“I’m doing my best,” I say, my voice too husky. “But you make it very fucking hard.”
Chapter Three
Hunter
My cellphone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and glance at the notifications.
“They’re here,” I call out.
I allow myself a smile when I hear Clover’s frustrated growl from upstairs.
Hell, but I love it when she’s pissed off. I’ve never known anyone as magnificent as Clover in all her fury. I’m getting a semi just thinking about the way she fought me earlier, how she forced me to hold her down and take what I wanted.
What I needed.
I bring the glass of scotch to my nose and inhale deeply.
That memory might be the last of its kind; a thought which saddens me more than it should.
Christ…have I waited too long? Have I become too attached?
Tires crunch over gravel.
I turn, watching Kane’s sand-colored Jeep pull into the driveway a few yards away from my front door. I coat my tongue with scotch, willing the sudden uneasiness in my belly to subside.
I almost manage, too, until the driver’s side door opens and Kane steps out.
He goes around and opens the door for Zee. She jumps out and spins around, then disappears around the car. I hear Kane yell something indistinct after her.
I take another deep breath and go to the front door.
Deja vu encloses me in a cold, sticky embrace. Is he wearing the same clothes? No; I’ve never seen him in this blazer before. But Zee looks exactly like last time…or is my mind playing tricks on me? It does so love a good fucking prank at my expense.
If I were stoned, then I wouldn’t be having all these schizoid fucking thoughts flashing through my head a mile a minute.
I open the door, giving Kane as best a smile as I can muster when he looks up. For once, he’s not smoking; perhaps I’ve just caught him between cigarettes. But even when he reaches me and we stand awkwardly with our hands half-out, I can’t even catch a hint of cigarette smoke on him.
I still have my hand out when he grabs my elbow and pulls me into a hug. We slap each other’s backs and immediately step back. He rakes a hand through his hair — it’s shorter, but still hangs over his forehead — and gives me a lopsided smile.
“She’s exploring,” Kane says, stabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “She can’t get lost, can she?”
“She definitely can,” I say, and there’s an unexpected laugh in my voice. “I don’t have fences.”
“Fuck.” Kane turns away. “Better go fetch her then.”
And then he’s gone.
I’m still standing there when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
This time it’s Alexa.
I stand in the doorway, feeling even more awkward than before as I wait for my sister’s car to pull up. She drives an M4 convertible — with a custom paint coat in rose gold — and a vanity plate that reads ‘LEXI FTW’.
She parks — terribly — beside Kane’s Jeep. I can hear her before the door’s even open, laughing with the enthusiasm of a braying donkey. When the man in the passenger seat opens his door and steps out, I wonder if it’s him she’s laughing at. He’s dressed like an accountant; a poor fitting Dunhill suit and a dress shirt without a tie. He’s older than her — a fact I was already familiar with but still can’t quite grasp — and looks meek as fucking milk.
Alexa slams her door and charges up to me, her bangles clanging almost as much as her necklaces. Her style of dress is what I can only presume she would describe as Bohemian; a loose fitting gypsy-style top over a layered skirt that brushes her sandaled feet. It should have been modest, but everything clings to her just a little too much.
She throws her arms around my neck and gives me a loud kiss on my neck. “Long time, no see!”
“Long time,” I manage, doing my best to extricate myself from her clatter of bangles. One of her necklaces has even managed to get caught on my suit jacket’s button, and my teeth are gritted in frustration by the time I get it free.
“This is Josh,” she says, flinging a hand to the man who walks like a long-legged chicken up to my door. He ducks his head, gives me a weak smile, and sticks out his hand. I take it, shake it. He returns a surprisingly firm handshake, and I frown at the back of his head as Alexa tugs him inside my home without bothering for an invitation.
Not that she ever waited for one.
I hear Kane’s voice — low and urgent — and turn to see him herding a sulky-looking Zee in front of him.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” Kane says, pushing Zee through the door when I step aside to let them in. “Damn kid almost landed herself in some poison ivy.”
I close my eyes and attempt to summon strength.
I fail.
“Where is she?” Alexa asks the instant I close the front door behind me. I pause with my hand on the door, lifting my eyebrows. “Her!” Alexa says in a stage whisper. “I wanna meet her, like now!”
“Lexi,” the guy beside her murmurs, wrapping his hand around her arm and pulling her against him. She wriggles, gives him a frustrated look, and then crosses her arms over her chest.
“Fine.” Her eyes dart to the nearby dining table. “Ooh, wine!”
Josh flicks a lock of hair from his eyes when she scoots away to the table, and we happen to glance at each other while we’re both rolling our eyes.
I guess the poor sod’s realized what he’s gotten himself into. My sister exhausted everyone in Hill house’s patience when she was younger. I think that was the main reason my mother sent her off to boarding school.
That and my father, of course.
Because if Alexa wasn’t home, he couldn’t harm her, could he?
Her hair is sugarplum pink today, and somehow the color suits her better than the pastel blue-purple gradient did back in the day.
“So, Lexi says you’re due for a promotion or something?” Joshua asks, tugging at his collar like he’s wishing he’d worn a tie after all.
I’m in an immaculately tailored Tom Ford and one of my favorite red ties; but that’s only because I don’t really have anything in between shorts and a power suit.
Maybe something I should have considered when I was ordering Clover’s dress from my tailor. But honestly, the thought never even crossed my mind.
I already had a red tie.
Kane’s wearing a dress shirt with his blazer, but with black jeans and polished boots. It’s probably the most formal thing he owns, and in a way, I’m glad he didn’t spring for a rent
al.
It would have looked too fake and would have made this entire evening feel like a sham.
Which is the last thing—
Coldness splashes over my wrist. I look down and stare at the dark slash where the arm of my Tom Ford is drinking down the red wine Alexa just spilled on it.
“Oh, fuck me,” Alexa blurts out, her eyes going wide. “I’m so sorry, Hunt!”
I clench my teeth and lift a hand — the other one, of course — and start taking off my now-drenched watch.
“No worries,” I manage.
“Was it expensive? Of course it was expensive. And the suit? I’ll pay for dry cleaning. Or, hey, just sprinkle some salt over it. Salt and vinegar! And yeah, put that watch in some rice. Works for cellphones!”
I turn away before Alexa can give me any more dry cleaning advice and then stop.
Clover’s standing at the top of the stairs, watching us.
An all too familiar anger bubbles inside me, and at the same time, my cock is suddenly nudging at the seam of my suit pants.
She’s not wearing her red dress, the one that matches my tie.
Oh no.
My little Clover’s gone and helped herself to another of my shirts. This one’s a lustrous black and just long enough to reach a few inches above her knees.
A belt cinches her narrow waist, emphasizing both her wide hips and her generous breasts. Which are almost popping out of my shirt, because she’s only buttoned the bare minimum to keep the shirt from flaring open, of course.
It doesn’t help that her make up is flawless.
Her tall black heels only serve to highlight her long, strong legs.
And her hair?
Altogether, it’s as if she’s just climbed off the bed I fucked her on, threw on my shirt, and has now decided to waltz downstairs to greet our guests.
I want to fuck her so badly, I can barely breathe.
“Hunt? Hunt, I said I’m—” Alexa begins, but then cuts off.
Clover starts down the stairs, blinking doe-like eyes of innocence at me.
“I hope you don’t mind, sweetie,” she drawls, not even bothering to glance in anyone else’s direction. “But I’m not really a fan of red anymore.”