by Kira Blakely
M. Harper. I hoped this guy wouldn’t be incompetent. I had to waste gas driving to meet him at his stupid office in the middle of historic downtown Pelham.
Mr. Harper’s building was a Victorian-era home with the typical foyer and a narrow wooden staircase sweeping down into it. Off to the left was a small sitting room—seriously, people in the 19th century could have fit in my pocket—with a large desk and a bell sitting on it, one small loveseat wedged across from the desk. It was all that could fit in this crackerjack box.
I ducked my head and strode into the room, almost smacking my head on the slowly spinning ceiling fan.
I tapped the bell and waited, scrutinizing my surroundings.
The place was decorated like a psychiatrist and somebody’s grandmother merged and got into interior design together. There were leather-bound books and doilies everywhere.
“Sorry,” a musical female voice floated to me from upstairs. “I can’t actually afford a secretary! I’ll be right down!”
I settled onto a faded loveseat and stretched out my legs, consuming what little remained of this square footage. I rolled my neck back and forth and waited for this appointment to be over. The entire charge was a joke and now it was making me waste hours of my precious, shitty life.
I perked slightly at the sound of high heels drifting through the air around me and cracked open an eyelid to investigate the pair of voluptuous legs unveiling themselves inch by inch as they traveled down the stairwell, capped with a pair of pearl gray heels. Sexy. The matching wiggle skirt adhered to two thick thighs, shifting with her motion as her hips swished from side to side. Mama, have mercy. The seam on the skirt ran all the way up to the small of her back.
That round, juicy ass kind of reminded me of the ass on the woman from January—Michelle. I closed my eyes and reminisced to that chilly evening more often than I cared to admit.
A sheer, cream-colored blouse billowed around her torso, disguising the obvious curvature there. I detected the slightest hint of a slip beneath.
Call me a freak, but this body was familiar. Those tits had burned themselves into my memory. I still masturbated thinking about her nipples under my tongue, thinking about how tight she squeezed my member when she came.
I stood and adjusted my member to hide the erection blossoming in my pants at the mere memory.
My throat clenched as M. Harper took another step and revealed her face.
I fucking knew it.
M. Harper was Miss Michelle, the woman from that frantic, bizarrely satisfying quickie back in January. She descended the staircase with a polite smile of welcome frozen to her heart-shaped lips, one hand already in mid-air to shake mine.
As soon as her eyes connected with mine, one of her ankles bent and she staggered, tumbling the remaining four steps.
I lunged forward and caught her, invigorated by the weight of her breasts against my chest yet again, her sex pressed to mine. I didn’t know if it was her heart I could feel pounding like that, or if it was mine.
Her hair was pulled as tight as a drum and pinned perfectly at the top of her head, with the exception of a few wisps that had struggled free. Don’t, I told my hand, itching to tuck them behind her ears.
She blinked up at me in apoplectic shock with those haunting chestnut eyes, framed by a pair of clear-rimmed glasses. Her lips hung slightly open. Don’t, I commanded my fingers. Don’t touch her.
“Miss Michelle,” I breathed. Electricity danced in the space between us and my cock surged against my will. I could almost smell her all over again. Being inside this woman was impossible to forget. It was the story I was going to tell my priest on my deathbed, not as a sin, but as my truest accomplishment. I’d thought I’d never see her again when she slipped away in that rickety Volvo. Now here she was.
My attorney.
Michelle gazed back at me with her goddamn doe eyes, then shoved lightly on my chest, as if stung, and straightened herself. She squared her shoulders. I could see every ounce of effort she put into herself, her movements, her words. Wow. She must’ve been ready to blow when I slid into her last January.
“Mr. Bogart,” she announced in a tight, overly cheerful voice. “I didn’t realize you were also—um—”
“The guy who—?”
“Fixed my car,” Michelle supplied firmly. She broke eye contact and strode to the desk, putting it between us like we were playing some game of strategy. Like I was going to pounce on her.
“Definitely fixed something,” I agreed. “Your coil still running hot?”
Chapter Two
Michelle
The little bell gave out its chime while I was writhing and panting underneath my own fingers upstairs, stretched out over a fluffy daybed, my high heels dangling loosely from my flexing toes.
I had completely forgotten about my appointment with the guy from Deputy Browntooth’s checkpoint.
“Damn it. Fuck.” I puffed a hard breath, stirring the random wisps that writhing against the pillow had loosened from my bun. The taut muscles of my torso all slumped, no longer chasing the ghost of an orgasm. I slid my fingers out of my silk panties, fragrant with the warm aroma of pussy, and I sat upright with a frown. Downstairs was the office, and upstairs, I’d shoved this daybed under a window in case I needed it sometime. Normally, I didn’t masturbate while I was here, but my pussy had been wet all day for no particular reason. My breasts tingled, and I kept needing to fan my blouse out. I was probably ovulating. I got restless and feverish like this every damn time.
“Sorry! I couldn’t actually afford a secretary!” I called down to Mr. Bogart, sliding heels onto my stocking feet again. I shook out my hands, swimming in my scent, and scampered to the bathroom. “I’ll be right down!”
I assessed my wild eyes and pouty lips as I rinsed my fingers in the sink. No one would be able to tell they had caught me masturbating. No one. I quickly dried my hands and headed toward the stairs, hoping I wasn’t wreathed in the fragrance of my own juices.
As I traveled down the narrow, steep stairwell, Mr. Bogart came slowly into view: leather boots and snug blue jeans and a crisp white t-shirt stretched over a broad chest. I pressed my lips into a polite smile and stuck my hand out, eschewing the coincidence that this man was built a lot like that mechanic I had—met in January. He had a hard, square jaw and a five o’clock shadow, too, but it still couldn’t be him. I must have fallen asleep while I was touching myself.
Warm gray eyes, dappled green, reverberating with every ounce of shock that I felt as they came slowly into view.
My ankle bent, and I lurched. The ceiling swung over me, and just as I thought that I was going to break a leg, I was suspended against a wide expanse of rock-hard white cotton. My eyes flicked up to his, and my lips cracked apart.
“Miss Michelle.” The rich baritone and that honeyed Texan twang made my pussy literally clench around nothing at all. Just the sound of his voice made me feel a little drunk.
“Mr. Bogart.” I was going to pass out, but at the same time, I had to get out of his embrace as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stand being pressed against him, feeling his shaft thicken up right between my thighs, right through the denim. It was too hot in here. I pushed him away and took a breath. Shit, I was dizzy. How could I have thought that I’d never see that damn mechanic again? How could I have been so stupid to think it was as simple as avoiding that one garage?
I strode to put the desk between us and tried to breathe around my shock. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t know him at all, but I doubted that he would play along. “Your coil still running hot?” Mr. Bogart wondered pointedly.
I looked at him like he was speaking Greek. “Yes,” I answered, unamused by the wordplay. I blinked and decided we would have to smother this smoldering flame between us and move past it swiftly. Acknowledge the history. Agree that it wouldn’t happen again. Focus our professional energies on the matter at hand. “Let’s just go ahead and get this out of the way.”
“Oh, tha
nk God,” Mr. Bogart breathed, fishing in his pants for his cock.
Part of me weakened instantly, but a stronger instinct swelled up and I interrupted him. “That’s not what I mean, Mr. Bogart,” I insisted sharply. I forced my eyes to meet his and commanded myself to be a lawyer in this situation. “Yes, we slept together once, a few months ago. I’d like to establish that it was a huge mistake, and we’re just lucky nobody got pregnant. Moving on, Mr. Bogart, I hope we can focus on the matter at hand and get these charges dropped.”
Mr. Bogart half-smiled and said, “Call me Mr. Bogart one more time and watch what happens.”
“Wh-what would you like me to call you?”
Hs eyes glowed as if the question gave him carte blanche, but he simply answered with, “Call me Andrew.”
“Andrew.” Even his name felt right rolling off my tongue. A sudden tug in the crotch of his jeans caught my eye. He had hardened for me again. I opened my mouth and tried to continue speaking, but the words jammed in my throat and I pinned my eyes to the desk, thankful for the opportunity to rifle through some paperwork. “So,” I redirected loudly, “it seems as if you had an altercation with Deputy Chet Browntooth at a checkpoint on Richmond Avenue, Mr.—” I cleared my throat. “Andrew.”
“Yes. Yes. He told me that sleeping with me was a huge mistake, so you can understand why I might be upset.”
My eyes flicked to him, and he grinned impishly up at me.
“Um,” I whispered. I didn’t know how to banter with this man. I just wanted to do my job. If I couldn’t do that, then I just wanted him to leave. “I don’t want to flirt with you.”
Andrew frowned and stayed standing on the other side of the desk. I wished this room were bigger.
“Are you married?” he wondered. “Is that what it is?”
“Yes,” I announced brightly. “I’m married to my work, Mr. Bogart.” I flipped open his file and forced my eyes to the paper. I settled into my chair and went on. “Obstruction of justice is a serious charge.”
“It’s a misdemeanor,” he corrected me warmly.
“It could have been a serious charge,” I said.
There were a few beats of silence, and then, “So, you’re not married.”
I looked up at him. “No, I’m not married. I’m just...” I tried to summon the words as articulately as possible. “I’m a lady.”
“And I’m not?” I curled an eyebrow up at him. “A gentleman?” Andrew added.
“Of course you are, sir. You’re just—not my type. That’s all.”
Andrew furrowed his brow and cocked his head to the side. “That’s funny, because you are the one who kissed me, ma’am.”
I pursed my lips. “Yes.”
“I’m the same man I was,” he reminded me idly.
“We had nothing in common then, and we have nothing in common now.”
“We were in a room with a desk then, and we’re in a room with a desk now,” he said, and both our eyes went glassy for a moment, lost in the fantasy of melting together in another office.
I forced a hard, mean smile onto my face. He had to stop or I was going to fuck the shit out of him and I did not want to do that! “According to Deputy Browntooth, you became irate at his knowledge regarding your girlfriend, refusing to provide the proper documentation to proceed through the checkpoint? The ticket says...” I tugged my carbon copy from the open file. “‘Irate with jealousy regarding girlfriend.’”
“No,” Andrew answered. “He never even asked me for my license or my registration. There was no girlfriend in that conversation. All that dickweed did was suggest—” Suddenly, Andrew froze and a pained expression flittered through his eyes, out of synch with the anger in his voice. His face relaxed again, and he settled down into the seat across from the desk again. Andrew continued, drained now. “Deputy Browntooth merely—overstepped his boundaries during our banter. He brought my daughter into it. Chet’s just an asshole, taking things too far.”
“What did he say regarding your daughter?” I asked.
“He claimed that she wasn’t my biological daughter,” Andrew said, and he gained a new dimension in my mind. He wasn’t just a persistent mechanic, a one-night-stand with whom I’d become trapped. He was a father.
I nodded emphatically, relieved that I had actually found a foothold in what seemed like a hopeless case. “If we can access that dash-cam footage, you might actually have a solid defense on your hands.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Andrew muttered. “I might actually owe him an apology.”
I hesitated in the middle of scribbling the note about requesting Deputy Browntooth’s dash-cam footage from the night in question. “Oh? Why is that?”
Only silence answered me, and I glanced up from my notepad. Andrew stared off into the distance, his eyes hard and empty.
I swallowed. “Andrew?”
His eyes wouldn’t focus. “He was right,” Andrew croaked.
My eyebrows bent in sympathy, and I placed my pen on the desk.
“My ex didn’t want to involve Connie’s real dad in her life,” he explained in a soft voice. “So she picked me—and I fell for it.” He scoffed at himself and I stood, slowly circling the desk. I could never stand to see people hurt without comforting them. “There were signs I ignored,” he whispered, seemingly to himself. “The timing was a little off. But—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, blinking hard. “I was happy. I wanted it to be true.”
I settled across from him on the loveseat, but he didn’t seem to notice. I smiled gently in case he did look up and stretched out a hand to his kneecap.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. My thumb absently rubbed over his thigh. “That’s really terrible.”
“It’s okay,” Andrew assured me. “It doesn’t take anything back.” His hand smoothed over mine and an alarm bell went off in my head. “Thank you for your condolences, though.” His eyes finally focused again—on mine—and I forgot what we were even doing here. His thumb grated over my knuckles.
“Um,” I breathed, hunting for the right words.
“Obstruction of justice,” Andrew supplied helpfully. “Resisting arrest.”
“Yes! Thank you.” I nodded emphatically and pulled my hand away. “I’ll contact the sheriff’s office for that dash-cam footage, and I think we might be able to sway the sympathy of the judge on this one. What about resisting arrest?” I asked as I stood from the loveseat, smoothing my hands over my skirt.
Andrew stood with me, looming a full foot over the crown of my head. God, he filled this room up. I couldn’t move without bumping into him. My fingers went to my hair, self-consciously adjusting the few errant strands from my earlier foray into self-love.
“If you call getting elbowed in the face resisting arrest, then yes, I resisted arrest twice,” Andrew replied.
I paused and my eyes fluttered up to his. My hands were still smoothing over my bun, making my breasts protrude into his space. “He beat you?”
“Just a little. It was really nothing to write home about,” Andrew reassured me. He squeezed his index and thumb finger together to illustrate his point. “Browntooth is a small man. Tiny, really.”
I saw the way Andrew was looking at me—with too much warmth, too much fondness, we were complete strangers—and my hands came down from my hair, crossing instead over my chest.
“Here,” Andrew murmured, reaching forward and sliding one finger gently behind my ear. “You missed one.”
“Um,” I breathed.
My phone bleated suddenly, breaking the spell, and I scurried gratefully to the desk, where I could extract the cell from my purse hanging off the chair.
It took a few seconds for me to understand the graphic I was seeing on my screen, and I realized that this was an app I’d never actually opened before. I’d downloaded a home alarm system app some months ago and never received any alerts—until now.
Someone had opened the window from the front porch to the living room.
&n
bsp; “Uh, I’m sorry to cut our meeting short, but I’ve got to go,” I told Andrew, dropping the phone back into my purse and slinging my purse over my shoulder. I marched across the room but got stuck in front of Andrew again. “I’ve received a home invasion alert.” I moved sideways to scoot around him.
“What?” Andrew clutched at my arm before I could fully pass him. He held me gently in place and I scowled up at him like he was manhandling me. “Hey,” he said, and the space between us grew small and quiet, like we could just collapse into another world together, right here. “You’re really just going to go there and break up the robbery? With your glasses and your bun and your itty bitty hands?”
“Shouldn’t I?” I wondered in a small wisp of a voice.
“Fuck no, woman. Let me come with you.”
“The alert was already sent to the police station,” I explained. “Everything should be fine. I’m just going to go check it out.”
Andrew stared me down thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
It took me a second to recall that his hand was still holding onto me, and I placed my itty bitty hand onto his, pushing it away. I didn’t know Andrew—Mr. Bogart. Our work relationship was especially complicated. I couldn’t afford any possible repercussions from him knowing exactly where I lived.
“No,” I answered, maybe a little too firmly. “I’m fine. Thank you, Mr. Bogart. You can see yourself out, I’m sure.” I scooted forcefully around him, and our bodies brushed for a split second, then parted and I was free. I could breathe again.
I hesitated at the front door and looked back at him, unable to quell the urge to comfort Andrew. I saw the concern in his eyes. “I’m just going to see if the front window is really open.”
* * *
I slid my heels off and crowded into my car, turning the engine over. My heart pounded and I was thankful for the opportunity to get out of that pressure cooker and regroup. Don’t think about all that right now, I commanded myself. Right now, all you need to worry about is getting home and figuring out why that alarm is going off. My Volvo sweltered with the trapped heat of late June sunshine, and I unbuttoned and shrugged off my blouse while simultaneously rolling down the windows. I wore a thin white slip underneath and the kiss of the breeze on my skin relieved the humidity immediately.