by Kim Karr
“You don’t get to have me,” he sneers at her.
“How about this, then?” she asks as she strokes his cock, which is still covered by his boxers, and then kisses it.
From the groan he makes, it sounds like he’s battling himself. “You don’t want to do this,” he replies, and something in the sound of his tortured, low, creamy voice sets my blood on fire.
She ignores his response and yanks his pants and boxers past his knees. No pants required for this act. And then without any more preamble, she takes him in her mouth and sheaths him with her lips. I can’t see his cock, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Really, I’m not a pervert. I’m not even the least bit kinky. In fact, I’m the opposite of kinky. I jill off with my fingers. I like sex missionary style, on a bed, at night, in the dark. And I’m not very good at blow jobs. I usually gag.
There’s a dull thud against the door, and I imagine it is Cam tipping his head in pleasure despite the fact that he’s mad at Megan with a B.
Why is he mad?
What did she do?
Who is she?
A random pickup?
His girlfriend?
His fiancée?
His wife?
I’m going with girlfriend. I feel like the intimacy she used to trace the letter on his chest meant something. Not fiancée or wife—I don’t see rings—but I guess if they are in a fight they might have taken them off. What did she do to upset him? Spend too much money? Get tipsy at lunch? Refuse to spread her legs when he wanted her to?
The act continues. Her long, dark hair bobs. His shirttails practically cover her head. And then his tie whispers across the hint of skin I can see between the folds of fabric, and I start to feel a little overheated. None of that seems to bother her, though, as she works him with both her hands and her mouth.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
My eyes feel dry. I blink them a few times. Damn contacts. The movement of my head causes the gemstone around my neck to fall and hit the side of the floor.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Like a clock, it moves until I grab it.
Suddenly, B stops what she’s doing and looks up at Cam.
Did she hear it?
I stop breathing.
“You like it when I do this. Admit it,” she purrs.
Phew. She didn’t hear anything.
Angry or not, I know I don’t imagine the sound of laughter he makes or the hand he puts on B’s hair as he pushes her head down. “In the condition I’m in tonight, sweetheart, any whore will do.”
Mean, vicious words meant to hurt, or is this just their way?
The use of the word sweetheart tells me he refuses to call her by name. Megan with a B doesn’t seem to mind, because soon enough the wet noise of mouth on flesh is the only sound besides my heavy breathing that I can hear.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Cam groans.
“I know how you like it,” B tells him, looking up again.
Okay, so at least they’re well acquainted. Again, I’m going with girlfriend.
Cam doesn’t seem to want to look into her eyes, because he once again pushes her head down. “Who wouldn’t?” he tells her, and for the first time, I hear the slur of alcohol in his voice.
Fascinated by the exchange before me, I’m more than aware that I shouldn’t be watching this or listening to this private moment, but I want to know if being an asshole is how he gets off, or if Cam is truly mad at Megan with a B.
A light flickers under the table and I grab for my phone. It’s another text from Maggie, same as before.
Maggie: Are you still out?
More soft, wet noises cover up the vibration. Thank God I turned my phone to vibrate earlier. With the screen covered with my palm, I try not to move or even breathe.
Cam is making a lot more noises now. Groaning. Swearing.
Why are his sounds turning me on?
Feeling a way I know I shouldn’t, I close my eyes, unable to watch anymore, but soon enough another thud against the door has me opening them just in time to see Cam’s back arch.
I know he’s coming by the way his body is reacting—the sounds he’s making, the curve of his spine, the sudden thrusts he makes into B’s mouth. “That’s it, right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”
Megan with a B swallows all of him to the last drop and from what I can see, she doesn’t seem to have a gagging issue.
Lucky bitch.
Right now, I’m more than a little hot and bothered. I know what I’ll be doing when I get home to relieve the ache I’m feeling.
Megan’s arm rises and she wipes her mouth. I wish I could hand her a napkin. Soon after, she gets to her feet and I can no longer see anything but the back of her red dress.
She’s the devil.
Or maybe he is?
“No,” says the very male, very drunk, voice.
No.
No to what?
Oh, God, I hope she doesn’t want to lay him down on the floor and fuck him, because if that happens, I’m so caught.
“No?” Megan with a B repeats in a questioning tone.
“No!”
“Wait. Let me get this straight—you’ll let me suck your dick, but you won’t let me touch your mouth with my lips?”
Cam’s polished shoes shuffle. He pulls his shirt together. Tucks it. Zips his pants. Then he moves away from the red dress in the high heels and opens the door. “I’m done letting you do anything else, sweetheart.”
Well, that is just rude.
“Camden,” she calls, sounding a little frantic. “Give me a chance. I want to make it up to you. I’ll do anything.”
“There’s nothing I want from you—that’s the problem.”
Cam. Short for Camden.
I rather like it.
Too bad Camden is a prick.
“Then why let me do this?”
There is no answer, just his feet moving out of my sight.
“You’re a fucking asshole!” she cries after him.
Those polished, very male shoes come flying into the room.
Hell hath no fury like a man scorned.
He steps very close to her. I imagine him tipping her chin up to look her in the eyes, although I can’t see up that high. “Just so we’re clear on this—I owe you nothing,” he seethes, and this time when he leaves the room he doesn’t return.
Ouch!
“But I still want you,” she whispers, more to herself.
I think she’s used to getting what she wants, and this Cam is it. I wonder how far she’ll go to get him. Wish I could find out.
Soon after, Megan with a B stumbles, and then slumps onto the bench at the table across from me. I can see her face now.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
Please don’t look this way.
If I can see her face, does that mean she can see mine?
It’s dark enough in the corner and I hope the glow of the pink lights helps to camouflage me, but if she looks hard enough, she’ll see me.
Sadness consumes her and her crying is as heavy as her breathing. She’s not looking anywhere but into her own lap. I feel a little sorry for her. I don’t know what she did to Camden, but it must have been very bad, or this is one really fucked-up sex game they’re playing.
Too bad for me I will probably never know because as if reborn, she wipes the tears from her eyes, takes a deep breath, and stands tall before she walks out of the room with a very steady stride.
Boy, does she put herself together quickly.
I could take a page or two from her “how to” book.
Hard to believe I just did that—watched a girl give a guy a blow job. Honestly, I didn’t see much, just the back of her head, but still, that has to count as anything but uptight.
Right?
When the coast is clear, I grab my phone, finally p
ress send with the one word, yes, to answer Maggie, and make my way into the lounge. There is no sign of Megan with a B, and although I’m uncertain what Cam looks like, something tells me he’s gone too.
“Happy” is playing and my friends are onstage moving like Pharrell Williams. Practically skipping toward them, I hop up and join in. Moving my hips, snapping my fingers, clapping my hands, I have no trouble belting out this tune all the way through.
“Clap along, if you feel like that’s what . . .” I finish the song on a high note, with my hands together and a sense of being reborn myself.
What I watched in that private room makes me realize everyone has issues, and everyone has a way of dealing with them—beg, cry, get mad, say things that hurt, curl up into a ball, and even have sex. However you deal, at least you deal, and I’ve done my fair share of all of that.
I’m done dealing.
I’m ready for tomorrow.
Ready to start anew.
Be a hot-air balloon, just like the song says.
Within minutes of our grand finale, I’m drunkenly hugging my friends goodbye.
“Don’t forget to call us!” they holler as I get into a cab.
“I won’t,” I answer, closing the window, and then turning around to wave goodbye as the taxi pulls away.
Slumping against the door, reality dawns. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be on a plane to Orange County.
I can’t believe it.
I’m really doing it.
New start.
New life.
New me.
California, here I come.
No Pants Required is Available Now
Read on for a Sneak Peek at Crush
Day 8 Continued
Logan McPherson
Say you wanted someone eliminated . . .
Killed.
It doesn’t matter who—your mother, your lover, your enemy.
There are guys out there who will do it for you.
It’s a fact.
Not someone from the Mob.
Not someone connected to the Mob.
Not anyone you know.
A hit man.
I’ve heard of ways to contact one. Someone who knows someone who knows someone.
Someone from the old neighborhood. Someone with prison tats. Someone with long hair. Someone with no hair. Who the fuck cares—he could look like Mötley Crüe. Hell, on the other hand, he could be a businessman wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit.
I really don’t give a shit.
What he looks like is irrelevant. It’s what he does that matters.
Sure, there’s a steep monetary price attached to the deed. That’s not what worries me.
I’d give every cent I had if it meant she’d be safe.
It’s what it would really cost me—how big of a piece of my soul it would take—that keeps me from making that call.
I re-read the note, “That E wasn’t meant for Emily.”
One thing was clear . . .
He knows about Elle and me.
Tommy Flannigan, my enemy, my foe, the Mob boss’s son, the one I have been forbidden to make contact with, knows I have someone in my life that I care about. He might even know I love her. And she’s not his sister. She’s not Emily. Because I defied him, because I dared to move on, I know he’ll taunt me, try to break me, try to drive me out of my mind.
For over a decade he’s loomed over me.
Like a shadow.
A black spot in my life that I always knew was there.
In the past he’d threatened me, mutilated a girl I’d dated, scarred me, but that was a long time ago. I hadn’t heard from in years, until just last week when he harmed someone he thought was Elle.
He was back in my life.
Everyone knew he was into drugs as a user, but not many knew he was a cutthroat player in the drug world; not even his old man knew to what extent he was involved. The thing was he was always crazy, but lately he’d been breaking all the rules. Homes. Women. Mothers. Children. Nothing and no one was safe from him anymore—it was like he had nothing left to lose.
With that, breaking the treaty forged years ago when it came to contacting me wasn’t a surprise.
I think I’d been waiting for him to cross that line for a very long time.
The thing he doesn’t get is I’m no longer fearful. That I’ll do the very same thing. As of right this minute, as far as I’m concerned, the rules of the street no longer apply to me. There is too much at stake for me to care about what could happen if I went up against the Blue Hill Gang. I have to think about what has to happen in order to keep Elle safe. And that’s one thing, and one thing only.
Tommy’s threat has to be eliminated.
Somehow.
Some way.
But murder for hire would have to wait.
Paralyzed.
Frozen in place.
I looked over into Elle’s green eyes.
Wide.
Scared.
Still beautiful.
I haven’t even known her for two weeks but she’s a part of me. I can’t—no, I won’t—let anything happen to her.
“Logan,” she whispered quietly.
Escaping from my thoughts, I wanted to say something. Something profound. Something that would make sense. Something that would make everything okay. But there was nothing.
Without hesitation I searched her face. As soon as I did, I saw the once glimmering green in her eyes was now dull, her skin pale, and her lips quivering.
The sight made my chest tighten.
But it was when I saw the apprehension in her body language, the hairs on her arm rise, the unsteady rise and fall of her breathing—the fear she didn’t want me to see, the fear she was trying to hide from me—that I knew what I had to do.
I had to find him.
Now.
I was going to settle the score with Tommy Flannigan once and for all.
Whatever the outcome.
The note crumpled in my fist and I let it drop to the floor. Tugging my shirt on, I once again looked over at her. “Stay here, lock the door, and don’t let anyone in. I mean it, not anyone except me. I don’t care who they say they are.”
“Where are you going?” Fear laced her voice.
“To find Tommy.”
“But the news, they said members of the Flannigan family had been arrested. Maybe he’s already in custody.”
I looked at the note on the floor. I had a gut feeling he wasn’t. This wasn’t something he’d send someone else to do. This was something he’d take too much pleasure in doing himself. “Maybe he is,” I said to help calm her nerves, “but someone arranged to deliver that note to this room, and I’m going to find out who it was.”
“Logan, no.” She reached for me as I slid my feet into my shoes.
I had to shrug away from her.
I had to do this.
On my way to the door, I stopped for just a single moment to look at her. In that moment there was nothing more I wanted than to feel her arms around me, press my body to hers, look into her eyes and tell her we were going to be just fine.
But that would be a lie.
And I wasn’t going to lie to her.
Not about this.
“Logan,” she pleaded.
I heard the pain in her voice and my heart stopped. Still, I kept moving. I had to do this—for her. For me. For us. The door closed behind me and the sound of the latch told me she’d be safe—until I returned or . . .
My despair was immediately replaced with rage as my eyes fell on the white jacket of the guy who had delivered the note. He was standing in the hallway with his back to me. Unable to control myself, I rushed for him, but came to an abrupt stop when I got a little closer. He wasn’t alone. He was kissing a girl, also in uniform. I waited. She giggled, smiled, and finally gave him a wave before she walked down the hall. As soon as he entered the waiting elevator, it started to close, and I darted for it.
My hands jammed b
etween the panels and the doors flew open.
There he stood.
Lipstick on his lips.
Smiling.
Like he didn’t have a care in the fucking world.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
I lunged for him.
Had his lipstick-stained collar in my hands so fast, I could barely see the fear in his eyes. “Who put that note on the food cart?” I hissed.
He was shaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a tug, my grip tightened. “I’m not going to ask you twice, who put the note on the food cart?”
There was a dripping sound on the elevator floor. I think he pissed his pants. “Some dude paid me fifty bucks to slip it onto your tray. He said it was a joke between you and him.”
I slammed him against the wall. “What did he look like?”
Mumbling, words barely cohesive, he answered, “Short, brown hair, piercings, and he had a limp.”
Tommy.
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he?” I asked again through gritted teeth.
The guy was crying. “I don’t know.”
I loosened my grip. “Where did you leave him?”
He crumbled against the wall. “Outside the kitchen door.”
I hit the service level. “Scan your card. Show me.”
Shaking, he nodded. “Look, mister, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. He said it was a joke. I believed him.”
My body went rigid.
A joke!
When I slipped my hand in my pocket, he raised his palms. “Don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Ignoring him, I pulled out my wallet and handed him a fifty. “Just show me where you saw him last. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Visibly relaxing, he scanned his card and the elevator glided down toward the service level.
Within minutes we were just outside the kitchen.
With a shaky finger he pointed. “He was standing right there when he approached me but once he gave me the note, he headed for the stairs.”
“Where do they lead?”
“To the lobby.”
I gave him a nod. “Thanks, man. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
His laugh was more like a cry. “Na, I wasn’t really worried,” he said.
Now that was a lie.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I pushed open the door and hit the service hallway. Once inside the Mandarin lobby, I scanned it and then swept the lounge. Nothing. No sign of him. I searched the bar. The restrooms. The offices. Nothing. I climbed the grand staircase and then combed the exterior of the building. Nothing. He was nowhere in sight.