by K. A Knight
“You ever come at me again, ever touch me again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” I warn and he laughs, his eyes watering in pain as he looks up at me,
“You wouldn’t dare, little girl.” He spits at me, blood hitting my cheek.
“Try me.” I press the scissors closer, drawing a drop of blood. “Now get out of my fucking room,” I demand. I step back, taking the scissors with me as he slowly climbs to his feet, clutching his broken nose. He glares over at me, his mouth opening for another vile comment. “Now!” I scream.
He leaves and I rush after him, slamming the door in place and engaging the lock. As soon as it’s in place, I stagger back, sagging as the tears come. I’m shaking, I’m that scared. It could have gone wrong, he could have overpowered me. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I wrap my arms around myself, the scissors falling from my shaking hands to the carpet below. My chin lowers and my lips wobble as I try and bite back the sob that wants to break free from my lips.
Sliding from the bed, I huddle on the floor with tears streaming down my cheeks as I face all the what-ifs. Now that it’s over, the adrenaline has left me shaking, and I’m more terrified than I was in the moment, my head replaying all the possibilities of what could have happened.
I sit there until my tears finally dry up. I allow myself this moment of weakness. My phone vibrates from my bag, but I ignore it, needing to gather myself together, sealing all the cracks so no one will ever know I broke down like this.
When I feel more human, I crawl across the floor to my bag. Books are spilling from the busted zip at the top where it was dropped after I brandished it as a weapon. I lift it up and groan when I realise the handle has snapped, brilliant. I search through the mess and find my phone before piling all my books and notebooks back up, ready for tomorrow. I can deal with it then. I don’t have the brain power or energy to do it tonight. I change in my dark room, slipping into my comfy jammies, feeling better with the soft, fluffy socks and pants encasing me, warming me before I crawl into bed, lay on my side, and check my phone.
The phone lights up my face, and the dark of my room makes me squint until I’m used to the light.
Unknown: Hey, hot stuff, guess who got your number? ;)
The message is from a random number—Randy?
I scroll down the other missed messages, starting from when I was with Max.
Randy: I texted myself from your phone, now we can talk all the time!
Randy: What are you wearing?
Randy: Oi, talk to me! I was thinking we could go out tomorrow, I’ll buy.
I roll my eyes, not bothering to reply to the messages, and just as I drop the phone to the bed with a sigh, it vibrates again, startling me. Shit, I’m going to have to block him or tell him to fuck off. But when I check my messages, I see there’s one from Max. Just one. Eagerly, I flip to my back and open it, holding my phone above my face as my heart races for a whole new reason, my lips curling into a smile just from seeing his name light up my phone.
Hottie Next Door: Goodnight, Scarlett.
That’s all, none of the flirting or games like Randy or other boys, just goodnight and my name, yet I want to squeal like a teenager, and I race to reply, nearly holding my breath as I do. The dark makes me brave, or maybe it’s the phone, but I find myself thumbing out a teasing message, one I wouldn’t dare say to his face.
Me: You said that already, missing me that much? :D
I wait with bated breath, wondering if I pushed him too far when the typing bubble comes up. He doesn’t make me wait long.
Hottie Next Door: Yes.
Hottie Next Door: Milo does.
The messages come one after the other and then a picture pops up of a sad-looking Milo staring right into the camera, making my heart clench. Then I reread his first text, one word, three letters, yet it means everything. Yes, just yes. Does that mean he misses me like I miss him? That he thinks of me like I think of him? Sometimes I think so, then other times I’m not sure.
Me: Uh-huh, using your dog as an excuse, lame. Tell him I miss him too.
I reply, unable to help myself. I wasn’t going to be able sleep anyway after what just happened, and even texting him is better than being alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts and memories, even though I wish he was actually here, like our whispers were lighting up the dark night. I’m aware of how little space separates us, just two walls…and a house, but technicalities.
Hottie Next Door: Me or the dog?
He replies and I almost laugh as I quickly thumb out a response.
Me: Both.
I see the bubble letting me know he’s typing pop up, but then nothing comes through. Is he trying to think of things to say, like me, to keep the conversation going? Is he craving talking to me like I am with him? The bubble disappears then pops up again like he stopped writing or deleted his message and started again, so I take pity on him.
Me: Thank you for today and the lesson.
He has no idea how much I mean that, especially after tonight, I wouldn’t have been safe or untouched without it.
Hottie Next Door: You’re welcome, I’ll prepare a plan for the next couple of months that will build up your muscles and strength.
The dirtiest image pops into my head then, of him as my teacher with glasses and everything, and I almost groan. My dirty mind knows no bounds when it comes to him. While I’m thinking dirty thoughts, another message comes through.
Hottie Next Door: I never told you, you looked beautiful today.
I blink, rereading the message again and again…surely he…my mouth goes dry and I freeze. He’s opening up, crossing a line.
Me: Thank you. I think that’s the first time anyone has ever told me that.
I admit it freely, wanting to reciprocate the intimacy he’s creating. In such a short space of time, he’s gone from Mr. Hunt, my hot next door crush, to Max, the guy I hope returns my feelings.
Hottie Next Door: You should be told it every day. I’ll make sure to do it from now on.
Such a simple message, but with a thousand meanings. One thing is for sure, there’s no going back now. Maybe this will end badly, maybe nothing will happen at all, but it’s clear Max Hunt wants me. I wasn’t sure, even when I did that little show for him hoping he was watching, but not daring to look in case he wasn’t.
Me: That means you will have to see me every day. I point out unnecessarily, but never wanting the conversation to end.
Hottie Next Door: That can be arranged.
Hottie Next Door: You should sleep, you’ll be up early for your run, you don’t sleep enough as it is.
My smile is so wide, my cheeks feel like they might crack.
Me: Goodnight, Mr. Hunt.
Hottie Next Door: Scarlett.
I can almost feel the growl on the words and the disapproving frown.
Me: Yes, Mr. Hunt?
Hottie Next Door: Don’t make me spank you.
Holy shit, my pussy clenches and my panties are toast as I imagine him following through on that threat. I love every side of Max Hunt, but I want to explore this one further—explore the fuck out of it. I wonder if he talks dirty. I bet he fucks dirty, the kind that would have you unable to walk after, with a well-used throat and sore body. Licking my lower lip, I reread the message like the needy bitch I am, living for his words. I can’t help it, we’re both flirting with this line, pushing and pulling, trying to figure out the other, the messages making us bold, and I want to push him as far as I can. I want this man to break apart and show me all that darkness and sadness I see lurking inside. I want him to use my body, to own me, fuck me, and make me his. I want to be his favourite pastime and his worst goodbye.
Me: Is that all it would take?
I hit send, holding my breath. Will he reply? Will he shut it down now like he always does, backing away and pretending like nothing happened? I would let him, just like I did in the club. I would question myself again, but then still come back for more. Sweet, hard, dark Max. One m
inute he’s hot as hell, and the next he’s back to ice-cold distance, but I crave both.
Will his reply melt me or freeze me?
Hottie Next Door: Fuck, Scarlett, you can’t say shit like that to me.
I suck in a hurt breath, but then another message comes through.
Hottie Next Door: Not when I’m in bed thinking of you.
Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I clench my thighs together, my pussy drenched as hell from his words. Rocking slightly, I debate how to reply, but my mind is muddled by lust. Fuck it, I’ve already pushed it, I’m not going to second-guess myself anymore.
Me: Thinking of me, or imagining me?
While I wait for him to reply, my hand wanders to my breast, gripping it as I pretend it’s him. His big hand spread over it, grabbing me hard, owning me. Those tattooed fingers playing with my body.
Hottie Next Door: Both, always both.
Hottie Next Door: Especially after that little show you pulled.
Fuck, he did see! Yes, fuck, that’s hot that he watches. I wonder…did he touch himself like I did when I got into bed?
Me: Liked it? How much?
I reply, swallowing hard, my hand strokes down my curved belly, pushing up my shirt as I play with the edges of my pyjama bottoms, watching the phone like a crazy person. My pussy has its own heartbeat now, clenching down on nothing, wishing he was here in body, not just in words. Imagining that thick, long cock I glimpsed ramming into me, stretching me as he fucks me.
Hottie Next Door: I came so hard I couldn’t walk.
A groan slips out as I imagine him touching himself as he watched me. I like that he doesn’t hesitate now, just admits the truth, blatant in what he wants—no hesitation, no holding back like he usually does.
Me: Me too, I was so wet visualising you watching me, undressing me with your eyes.
Each dirty secret has me nearly panting, needing to touch myself, needing him to touch me.
Hottie Next Door: Are you wet now?
Closing my eyes, I slip my hand into my trousers and past the barrier of my panties, stroking along my wet pussy. Fuck, I’m drenched just from his texts. I can’t help it, I rub my clit, gasping as I spread my legs to get better access as I rock up into my hand, needing more. The phone vibrates and I reluctantly look at it, holding it with one hand while the other plays with my pussy.
Hottie Next Door: Scarlett.
Me: Yes, I’m dripping.
I thumb out the message, taking longer with one hand, but I don’t want to stop touching myself. Arching into my touch, I spread my legs and prop up my knees, gasping at the different angle as I play with my pussy, imagining it’s Max. His thick fingers touching me, his mouth licking down my stomach, heading there, tasting me as he presses a finger inside me and then another.
Hottie Next Door: Touch yourself.
I can hear the demand, even through the phone. Rocking into my hand, I slip a finger inside before adding another.
Me: I am, are you?
Hottie Next Door: Yes, I’m so fucking hard for you.
Groaning, I fuck myself with my fingers.
Me: I wish I could see, wish you could see the way I’m fucking my fingers, wishing they were yours.
Hottie Next Door: Fuck, are you tight? Your pussy clamping down on you?
Me: Yes, yes, I’m aching.
Hottie Next Door: Fuck yourself harder.
I do, lifting my hips as I press my thumb to my clit, feeling how close I am.
Me: I’m so close.
Hottie Next Door: Come, now.
I do, exploding like his message was the trigger I needed, my pussy clenching on my fingers as I stifle my scream. My whole body jerks from the strength of my orgasm. Slumping to the bed, I pull my fingers from my pussy.
Me: I did, so hard.
Hottie Next Door: Me too, my stomach is covered from imagining you, wishing I could taste you.
Licking my lips, I shiver at his message.
Hottie Next Door: I have to clean up, you drive me crazy, Scarlett.
I smile then, almost hearing the groan in his text.
Me: Enjoy your dreams of me.
I grin, feeling beyond confident as I hit send.
Hottie Next Door: Always.
I lock my phone and place it on charge, closing my eyes with a satisfied, sleepy smile.
Max Hunt hasn’t even touched me, yet he had me coming so fast and hard that I’m debating building a fucking church in his honour...picturing what it will be like when he finally does, because he will. I see that now. We are like two ships on a stormy sea, fighting to stay away from each other but pulled together by the current—we will hit eventually.
He will have me.
I will have him.
Chapter Thirteen
Maximus
The next day, I’m waiting in her driveway dead on time, with nerves running through me. Will she act differently after last night? I couldn’t help myself and she just stroked the fire until I was making demands, needing her to feel how much I wanted her. Jesus, I came like a teenager all over my own stomach again, imagining her feet away touching her pussy as she talked to me.
So much for keeping my distance, but maybe that was a pipe dream because I’m not doing well. I’m drawn to her, and I do and say things that I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it, and my little innocent Scarlett only keeps pushing. Wanting more, asking for things she shouldn’t, playing with fire. But I don’t want this to change, so like a fool, I turn up and hope she isn’t weird after last night.
Does she regret what she said, what she told me?
What we did?
In the light of day, will she be disgusted with me for pushing her, for talking to her like that? It races around my mind, and when her front door opens and she steps out looking as beautiful as ever, my heart smashes into my ribcage, trying to break free and get to her. She strides to the car, gets in, and then she looks at me with a smile curling her lips and happiness radiating from those eyes. She’s in jeans for once, ones that hug her shapely legs and arse, with rips along the front and holes...but they don’t seem purposeful.
“Morning, Max,” she greets, strapping in and waiting for me, acting like nothing has changed.
I blow out a relieved breath, and start up the car before passing her a to-go cup of coffee without speaking, then back out of her drive. “Morning, Scarlett.” Then I remember her confession last night, the one that floored me. No one called her beautiful. Fuck, what idiots had she been dating? She’s beautiful every day, all day, both inside and out, and she should have been hearing it daily, but she hasn’t. I can change that now, though, she deserves to know it.
“You look beautiful today,” I tell her huskily, looking over and meeting her eyes so she can see the truth written there.
Her cheeks pinken and her smile grows wider, her eyes locking on me. “Thank you, Max. You look very handsome, I like the shirt,” she comments, and damn if I don’t sit straighter in my seat for it. She thinks I’m handsome. I know I’m good-looking, not boastful, just true, another weapon in my arsenal. People trust good-looking people, they tell them more information, and I’ve used it before, but knowing she finds me attractive has my ego nearly tripling.
“Have you had breakfast?” I ask gruffly.
“Nope,” she answers.
“I’ll take you,” I offer, changing lanes and heading to a cafe I know.
“Are you asking me on a breakfast date, Mr. Hunt?” she teases and my lips shift.
“No, I’m telling you that I’m taking you on one. Now, be a good girl for a change and drink your coffee, I’ll get you more when we’re there,” I tell her, watching the road as I drive.
She giggles, but sits back and drinks her coffee while I find a spot and park. I grab the keys and get out, heading to her door and opening it before she can. She grins and slips out, pressing against me as she passes. I nearly groan at the contact, my eyes locked onto the Jeep, but it turns into a frown when I spot the s
tate of her bag. It’s ripped and all the books are spilling out. She needs a new one, not that she will buy herself one. I shut the door and stride to catch up to her where she’s waiting near the door to the cafe. It’s no boho cafe or uptown one, but I like it. It’s quiet and no one bothers you, they have the best coffee and cake, and they never give me a second glance, even when I’m covered in bruises.
I don’t know why I brought her here automatically. Maybe it’s another way of letting her close, letting her see more of me without speaking. This is another sanctuary of mine. I’ve spent many after missions here, sipping my coffee and just decompressing, and now she will be here with me, and every time I’ll come here after today will be changed.
I open the glass front door, the bell chiming and announcing our arrival, and guide her to the empty counter—apparently we’re early for the morning rush, or late, who knows. The counter is a deep cherry wood with a computerised till system and a glass counter with all the cakes, paninis, and sandwiches on display to the left. The walls behind the counter have the menu artfully scrawled across them in chalk.
Small, intimate tables litter the inside, with big, comfy brown chairs. Exposed beams cover the ceiling and walls. It’s cosy and snug without being overdone. At night, fairy lights brighten the whole place without it being cliché. “What do you want?” I ask, placing my hand on the small of her back as I press close behind her, almost caging her against the counter, not able to be away from her for a second without touching her—any excuse, really.
“May I have a tea with semi-skimmed milk and a garden omelette, please?” she orders, smiling at the young man serving. He nods brightly, his floppy black hair covering one eye.