Bedwrecker

by Kim Karr

  She raises an adorable brow. The fact that she is playful and bold at the same time turns me on beyond my control. “Do you have something particular in mind?”

  My mouth dips back down and hovers over her lips. “As a matter of fact, I do. Maybe we could say we have already gone on the date and this is the good-night kiss?”

  Her tongue sneaks out and licks my lips. “If that were the case, I’d have to close the door right now with you on the other side.”

  I snatch her tongue between my teeth and slide my tongue into her mouth. “Or, the date could have gone so well, you’re now inviting me in.”

  She reaches around and her fingers thread through my hair. “For a cup of coffee before I send you on your way?”

  “No, because you can’t keep your hands off me, my little bedwrecker, and you want to drag me into your bedroom to have your wicked way with me.”

  She laughs. “Oh, Keen, you have to do better than a lip-lock for that on a first date.”

  I bury my lips behind her ear. “You’re going to make me work for it, huh?”

  She steps back onto the pinewood floor and grabs her purse near the door. “You better believe it. I expect you to woo me. Now where are we going?”

  “Wait one minute! You get me all riled up and just like that you’re ready to go spend hours at a restaurant?”

  She bats those long eyelashes of hers. “Yes, a date is what you called this, and a date is what I want. Just because I let you in my pants before doesn’t mean it will happen again.”

  I yank her out the door and right up to my chest. “Good thing I have reservations at the perfect restaurant, then.”

  She straightens the collar on my plain white button-down. “We’ll see. I have very . . . unique tastes.”

  Lacing my fingers in hers, I lead her toward my car. “Yes, so I’ve observed.”

  For a moment her flirty façade slips and I get a glimpse of the real Maggie. The one that wants someone to understand her.

  Little does she know . . . I already do.

  Her façade goes back up within seconds of slipping. “Like I said, we’ll see.”

  This man might not be used to having to woo a woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.

  “Challenge accepted, Maggie May . . . I’ll have you begging for me by the time the night is over.”

  Guaranteed.

  Maggie

  Gracias Madre is beautiful.

  A cross between Mexican chic and Palm Springs casual, the restaurant is decorated with festive cushions and bold tiles, a gorgeous courtyard, and inside, high ceilings and a very stylish bar.

  Oh, and the guacamole is fantastic. For a Mexican restaurant (and a vegan one at that) to screw up guac would be enough to cause me to walk out, but considering it’s the best I’ve ever had, that’s not anything I have to worry about. And when coupled with their truly addictive house-made chips, my mouth was watering.

  I think I ate an entire bowl all by myself.

  Keen’s lips quirk up. “So, what do you think?”

  The small remaining piece of what was once quesadillas de calabaza on my plate should give it away. The butternut squash and salty caramelized onions tucked inside the tortilla were absolutely scrumptious, but rather than tell him that, I contain my glee. “It was good.”

  He raises a brow and those blue eyes gleam with cockiness. “Just good?”

  I push my plate away and have to smile. “Maybe better than good. How was yours?”

  He’d ordered enchiladas con mole, and the mushrooms and black beans that oozed out of it looked to die for. He looks down at his empty plate. “Pretty damn good.”

  I have three things I’m dying to admit. One, he looks sexy as hell and he isn’t even wearing a suit. Two, no one has ever willingly taken me to a vegan restaurant and no one I forced to go has ever liked it. And three, he was so in my pants the minute I met his gaze through my glass door.

  The waiter appears and saves me from spouting out what I really need to keep to myself. Taking our plates, he asks, “Can I interest you in dessert?”

  Keen sits forward and rests his elbows on the table. “We’ll have a piece of chocolate cake and a piece of java cake, and two coffees.”

  The waiter gives a small bow. “Coming right up.”

  I raise my brow. “What if I don’t like chocolate?”

  He shakes his head at me. “I already know you do. I saw you eating an entire box of chocolates, remember?”

  Face plant. Right! “What if I don’t want coffee?”

  He smiles, and it’s a gorgeous smile that chips away at the tension prickling my nerve endings. “Then don’t drink it.” He turns serious. “Who was he, Maggie? And don’t say me, because I know that isn’t true.”

  Truly confused, I have to ask, “He who?”

  Keen picks up the spoon in front of him and moves it between his thumb and fingers. He’s nervous to ask, and yet he does. “The man who fucked with your head so much that you have such a hard time letting your guard down?”

  Unease moves through me. I never, ever talk about my father. Ever.

  The waiter appears and this time he sets two cups down, then a white china pot, and the cream and sugar. Suddenly, I’m thankful Keen ordered for us. The waiter pours the hot liquid into our cups.

  Keen leans back and watches me, his eyes intense with scrutiny. I shiver and look away.

  Another waiter appears at our table and sets two pieces of cake down. The chocolate one in front of me and the java one in front of Keen. Flanked by creamy vanilla-bean coconut ice cream, one cake looks better than the other and vice versa.

  “Anything else?” the waiter asks.

  “No, that will be all. Just the check. And compliments to the chef. Everything was delicious.”

  “He will be thrilled to hear this.” The waiter sets the check down, gives another small bow, and then departs.

  I pour my cream and keep my eyes down, and then when I take a sip, I dare to look across the table.

  Keen remains unmoved. Leaning back in the chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee, he looks so powerful, it’s hard to believe he’s the same man whose touch can be so gentle, and voice so full of concern.

  “Who is he?” His voice is low, taut.

  I inhale sharply and set my cup down. “No one. I don’t know what you are talking about. What about you—who is it that caused you to build such a high wall and top it with iron spikes?”

  He grins, that wolfish grin that masks what he’s truly feeling so brilliantly. “You have quite a flair for the dramatic, Maggie.”

  Spooning a piece of cake in front of me, I say, “Do I?”

  Keen studies me for a long moment, watches me chew and swallow, and then uses his fork to lift a piece of cake to my lips. “Try this one—it’s coffee flavored, and I think you’ll like it.”

  I open my mouth and let him slide the bite of deliciousness inside. “Ummm . . . God, this is so good,” I say, covering my mouth. “You have to try it.”

  He shakes his head no and sets his fork down. “I ordered them for you.”

  “I can’t possibly eat two pieces of cake.”

  “Eat what you can.”

  “How did you know I’d like this place?”

  “Makayla told me you were a vegetarian who tries really hard to be vegan, but sometimes slips,” he laughs. “So it wasn’t hard to find the perfect place to take you out.”

  My heart rate spikes with an excitement that is hard to control. “You nailed it, Keen Masters,” I admit, dropping my gaze to the rim of my coffee cup.

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I really want to say I know I did, but instead I’ll just say thank you.”

  I give him a shake of my head and take another forkful of cake, mixing the two.

  Keen smiles as he watches me. His thumb moves back and forth against the inner skin of my wrist, and makes me melt a little more with each touch. When I look up after another bite, I notice his smil
e is sad. “To answer your question, I have a hate/hate relationship with my mother. And if you asked any of the dozen or so shrinks from my childhood, they would say I don’t trust women. Me, on the other hand, I say we’re all dealt a deck of cards called life, and we have to learn to play with the hand we’re holding.”

  I blink. Shocked by his candidness. Shocked that he’s admitting this to me. Shocked that he feels this way toward Emma Fairchild. “Keen, I don’t know what to say. I just assumed you and Brooklyn both got along with your mother. In fact, I thought she had to be the reason you two were so close, since you were raised so far apart.”

  “There’s nothing to say. It’s complete bullshit.” He drops hold of my hand and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, sliding out an American Express card and setting it inside the holder in the black billfold. The waiter is quick to retrieve it.

  With the billfold out of the way, I reach over and grab his hand. “What is complete bullshit?”

  His laugh is harsh and cold. “My relationship with my mother. She is not the reason my brother and I are close. It’s my father who made certain we saw each other. He’d fly Brooklyn out to see me, make the phone calls every week so we could talk, arrange for him to meet us on vacations. Fuck, I think my father was more of a father to Brooklyn than his own.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. Like I said, you work with the cards you’re dealt.”

  “But life isn’t one giant poker game, Keen.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I sip at my coffee and contemplate this. “You know, in some small way you just might be right.”

  “It’s all or nothing, Maggie, all or nothing.”

  I study him. His expression is impassive. The mask in place. “Is that how you feel about you and me?”

  He whispers without hesitation, “After everything I put you through, and the fact that you’re sitting here with me right now, I have to say that I honestly have no fucking clue.”

  I laugh, and say something so not me. “Me either, but I want to find out.”

  “Me too,” he answers. Taking his credit card back that the waiter has just returned, he pushes to his feet. Then he walks over to me, pulling my chair out and offering his hand. I take it and suddenly I am pressed against him, his fingers kneading into the skin beneath my top, and his mouth at my ear whispering, “Let’s go.”

  There is a slight crackle in the air, a subtle tension that screams to be released. I look into his eyes and see a reflection of exactly what I am feeling.

  Need.

  Desire.

  And hope.

  It’s the last one that will either topple both our walls or crumble them.

  Maggie

  At ten years old, this house isn’t old and isn’t new.

  It has its issues, though.

  The lock sticks. There is a trick to getting the key to slide in just right.

  No pun intended.

  I’ve told my mother about it. It doesn’t seem to bother her. Then again, I spend more time here than she does. She hasn’t come home much since moving back to New York City last year.

  In fact, lately, I feel like I own two houses—this one and the beach bungalow in Laguna.

  I fiddle with the lock but don’t seem to be able to make much progress with Keen’s hands on my hips, his body pressed against mine, and his mouth buried in my neck.

  The car ride back to my mother’s house was done with the radio off. Hard to believe. Instead of listening to music we talked about everything light, as opposed to the heavy conversation at the restaurant.

  He put the top down and turned the heater on.

  I’d say it was romantic, but I don’t usually think in those terms. Besides, I think he probably does that often. I don’t mean with a girl, but whenever he drives at night. He seems to really enjoy it.

  With the night stars above us, he took the long way home, and we discussed silly things like how basketball is his favorite sport and if he could be anything in this world, he’d be an NBA star. How Makayla and I despised cheerleaders in high school and used to write our own cheers, about them.

  Eventually the conversation turned to more serious things. He told me why he had to shut everyone out of his life when he was fired, about his father dying of a sudden heart attack at sixty, and his need to succeed in life for him. And in turn I told him about Makayla’s mother dying and her moving in with my mother and me as a teenager.

  Me fumbling at the door is becoming very familiar. He bites at my earlobe, and bolts of pleasure are spreading electric tingles that start somewhere in the vicinity of my belly and quickly move lower.

  I turn. “Stop it, I can’t concentrate.”

  “I can’t stop. I want you.”

  “What makes you think I’m inviting you in past the front door? Good-night kiss, remember?”

  “Screw that, I’m coming in.” His voice is hoarse, raspy, and makes my knees go weak.

  “You’re pretty certain of yourself.”

  Keen whirls me around. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I breathe in.

  I breathe out.

  “I can’t.”

  Our eyes lock, and it’s right then that he takes hold of the back of my neck and brings my mouth to his in the most passionate way. His straining cock pushes against the denim of my jeans and I can’t help myself. “Oh, God, can you please get the door open?”

  Keen shudders. Opens his eyes. Leans back. Licks his lips. Blinks.

  I hold my breath.

  And then that very annoying smirk crosses his lips. He cups his ear. “What did you say?”

  I say nothing.

  He doesn’t move.

  What is this—a game of chicken?

  I still say nothing.

  When he leans toward me smelling so good, I think I might lose my mind.

  I stare at him and breathe him in.

  He’s still cupping his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Please,” I say at last. “Please . . .”

  He has my keys in his hands before I can finish asking him nicely, and he has my door unlocked with the both of us standing on the other side before I catch my breath.

  In less than three quick movements, he closes the door and locks it, then turns around and actually takes a minute to look around. “This place is really fantastic.”

  My imagination is running wild and although I know it, I can’t seem to stop it. I imagine Keen and me naked in the forty-eight-foot saltwater pool fucking, me leaning back on the tiered platform stairs to the kitchen and his face buried in my pussy, him clinging to the tile of the ultra-secluded master bathroom, which opens to a private courtyard. “It is. My mother did a fantastic job. She has an eye for design.”

  The staircase is within my sight. And it leads to the loft, which leads to my bedroom. Feeling a little desperate for him, I take his hand and tug him along. My room overlooks the Hollywood Hills and the pool. It’s the only view that comes close to comparing to that of the ocean.

  Curling my fingers around his, I can feel his rough calluses and remember instantly how good they feel against my body, and can’t wait to be naked with him.

  We walk, me leading him.

  Him following.

  After a step or two, his lips brush my earlobe. His breath is so intense it pushes at a few stray tendrils of my hair. And that’s all it takes for my entire body to light up like a million shining stars. His presence, plain and simple, drives me wild—into a frenzy of need that only he can make me feel.

  Just before hitting the landing, I turn around and look at him. My shudder of breath echoes in the loft space and my lips barely move as I whisper to him how I feel. “I want you, Keen, and I think you should know, you were getting in my pants even if I hated the restaurant, which I absolutely loved by the way.”

  Looking rather smug, Keen doesn’t waste any time with words. He moves against me so there is nothing for me to do but let his mouth pr
ess to mine. The kiss is short and sweet, so unlike his usual kisses, and then he breaks away, eyes closed, not moving more than a breath from me. Close enough that I can see the fringe of his dark lashes.

  His hands move over my breast, belly, hips. One centers on my lower back as the other cups the back of my neck. His tongue, seeking mine again, strokes me.

  I don’t have time to count even a heartbeat before he is kissing me again, harder, rougher, more intense. This time as my mouth opens, I slide my hands up and over his firm chest to link behind his neck.

  We kiss until we are breathless, and once neither of us can breathe, he whispers in my ear, “I think you should know, the things I want to do to you have only multiplied since last night.”

  I swallow, my pulse racing. “Tell me.”

  He steps around me, leaving me, and finishes leading us up to the landing. Over his shoulder, he casually tosses, “I’m going to rub the head of my cock back and forth over your clit until you’re dripping wet for me.”

  I can’t move. I’m under his spell. I grip the railing for stability, although I know he’d never let me fall.

  And then with a slight tug, I’m up against his hard body on the top of the landing and he’s breathing more hot, filthy words against my ear. “Back and forth, so slow it drives you crazy. I’m going to tease you until you beg me to fuck you.”

  With a slight step back, I bite my lip and ease us toward my bedroom. “I don’t beg.”

  He takes my hand and puts it on the front of his jeans. On his cock, thick and hard beneath the denim, and oh, God, I think I just might beg.

  His gruff voice breathes into the darkness. “Did you receive the text I sent you earlier?”

  My eyes dart to my purse at the bottom of the stairs where my phone is. He could easily pull it out and look. “I did.”

  “Anndd?” He stretches the word out, rubbing my palm back and forth over his erection.

  I gasp at the feel of him. “I don’t take orders well.”

  “In the future, I’d like to be acknowledged.” His hand brings mine lower, low enough to curl my fingers around the bulge of his balls.

  My sigh is soft, and I know he’s right. I’d be pissed as hell if he didn’t answer my text. “In the future,” I repeat, wondering if I might laugh, and trying really hard not to, “I will answer your texts, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do what you demand all the time.”