by Emilia Finn
She doesn’t feed it directly to Twain, and she definitely doesn’t let him eat from the bowl. There’s zero contact between them as he patiently waits for her hand to be clear, then he snaps his head down and gobbles the piece up.
And all the while, I rest my head against Miles’ muscled shoulder, I let my feet dangle off the end of the couch, and ten or so minutes into the movie, I move my hand into plain sight when I feel like he was searching for it.
He doesn’t say so, but I could feel his searching eyes, his thumping heart. The moment I touched his muscled thigh, he swooped in and picked it up in callused hands.
For almost an hour, he makes himself comfortable studying my fingers, the rings I wear, the bracelets that jangle together, and the purple nail polish on the tips. He says nothing, makes no moves except for his hands around mine, does nothing except settle in for the long haul and completely ignore the movie we’ve both seen a million times.
So when I’m not sure my heart can take it any longer, I tug my hand from his, shocking him from a gentle hypnotism, I think, when his eyes snap to mine.
Offended. That’s the word I’d use to describe his expression.
I make my way to my feet, give them a second, since they’ve been high on the arm of the couch for the last half an hour and need a moment to work through the fresh dump of blood, then when I peek at Lyss and note her complete absorption in the movie, I lift my chin for Miles.
That’s all he gets, the only hint. Because if he doesn’t know that means I want him to follow, then I’m not sure I want someone so clueless anyway.
I turn on my heels, press my hands together, since they tingle from his constant attention, then move into the front foyer of the house.
All of the homes on our estate were built off the same plans. They’re all the same build, the same layout, the same design, for the most part, so just like in my home, I know the laundry is toward the back, near the stairs.
I head in that direction, and grin when his racing feet announce he’s not clueless at all.
The movie remains on, and Twain’s heavy paws don’t follow, but I feel fire on my back, the heat from Miles’ stare as I open the laundry room door, step in, and hit the GO button on the dryer for a little white noise.
I turn and press the backs of my legs against the appliance, and I wait. I wait for him to follow me in.
Hands sitting on the edge of the dryer, heart pounding, I swallow when he comes through the doorway.
He’s large, broad, and muscled the way I swore wouldn’t impress me. I was raised in a world of fighters, so I was never enamored by muscle or skill in the octagon. But here I am anyway.
The irony is rich as my eyes scour his long body. Trim hips, wide shoulders.
But the best of all, the very thing that catches my attention every time he enters a room: his eyes, dark brown, deep, and intense beneath a heavy brow that casts shadows over his eyes.
He watches me now in that way he does, exactly the way he watches an opponent in the octagon.
Should that offend me?
I’m not sure.
Am I the enemy? Or something to be conquered? Am I a problem for him, or something he’d very much like to hold onto?
Again, I lift my chin – come closer – and lift my hands when he does just that. He steps into the room, and though he doesn’t close the door all the way, he closes it most of the way. He steps onto the tiles, ignores the pile of laundry on the floor, the clean pile stacked on top of the machine, and when he’s close enough for my hands to rest on his shoulders, his go to my hips.
I’m not sure he even meant to do it. I’m not sure he’s thinking at all. God knows I’m not. But his hands are broad, strong, and make me feel delicate enough that I grin and tug him lower until a groan rumbles through his chest, and his breath comes out to bathe my forehead.
“Brooke… I really don’t think—”
“Stop that.” I pull him the rest of the way to me, stand on my toes, and press a kiss to his stubbled jaw. “Stop thinking. You don’t have to do that right now.”
“Brooke…”
“Are you ready?” I nibble along his jaw, bite a little in punishment when he doesn’t lift and devour me yet. “Are you ready, Miles?”
“For what?” His voice is broken, gravelly, pained.
“To grab on. To ride this and see where it goes.”
I let my toes leave the floor when he stands taller to escape me.
When I refuse to let go, he snaps. That temper, the fiery blast, the twin groans of pleasure and pain as he lowers again and holds my hips so tight that he bruises me. His large hands wrap right around so his thumbs touch the front of my hips, and his fingers brush over the small of my back. His mouth slams down onto mine, anger, pain, and so much passion that my heart gives out.
He lifts me again, plops me onto the dryer, then he feasts. His hands come up to my throat, slide over my skin, my chest, through my hair. His mouth cruises over my lips, my jaw, my throat and ears. He grabs my chin, pushes my head back with a rough shove to expose my throat, then he dives in again until I whimper from the pain of his torturous teeth.
He was so worried I’d torment him, but here he is, taking the lead and sending me quietly crazy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers and tastes. Groans and samples. “So fucking beautiful, Brooklyn. Please don’t hurt us.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I push him away, but only to pull him in again and meet him, lips for lips.
His are firm, unyielding and demanding, where mine are curved into a playful smile as his eyes search mine.
I repeat, “And I never, ever break a promise.”
“We have ten minutes to make out before we have to go back,” he rasps.
“Sold.” I slide my hands beneath his shirt and swallow his growl.
Having a time limit makes this more urgent. It makes me braver than I would normally be. The risk of being caught by an unsuspecting little girl makes it all so much more dangerous, so I touch, I explore, and I swallow his moans as he tastes my flesh and likes what he finds.
I let my hands roam over his defined pecs, over his peaked nipples. Up, beneath his shirt, to his collarbone and throat, then back down again to explore his ridged stomach and that V line I spent so much time staring at earlier today.
Jesus, was that only this morning?
When his hands come down to my thighs, I wrap my legs around his hips. It’s natural, instinctual, just like it’s instinctual for him to hold them tight to him, to not let them fall. When I use that to pull him closer, I cry out at the solid mass in his jeans pressing against my core and promising things neither of us can say out loud.
“Ignore that,” he murmurs against my skin. “I swear I’m not asking for more than you’re—”
“Shh, relax.”
I slide my hands into his hair, tug so hard that he growls, then I pull a second time when his penis throbs against me.
My hips move, unbidden, without thought, to slide over what he has to offer. It takes me a moment to find my positioning, but then his erection presses the stitching of my shorts against my pulsing clit, and the contact, the fiery, electric contact, sends power racing through my blood.
“Jesus, Miles. Fuck.”
He chuckles, tugs my hair and positions my head wherever makes him happy. “You cuss when you’re horny.” He pulls my head to the left, exposes my throat and devours. “Say it again. It’s like dirty talk for me.”
I laugh, but that turns to a cry when he bites. “Fuck.”
“Mmm. There it is.” Hand in my hair, he folds my head the opposite way. “You’re a good girl, Brooklyn. So fucking sweet and pure, but here…” He places a flat palm over my chest, tweaks my nipple when he knows he has my attention, and draws a cry up my throat that he expertly swallows down. “You don’t have to be good when it’s just us. Fuck knows you’ll drive me crazy if you know how to be filthy.”
“Godddd,” I moan.
Taki
ng back some of my power, I pull my head out of his control, even at the expense of a few strands of hair, bring his lips back to mine, and since he’s still uncomfortably taller than me while I sit, I maneuver to my knees, force him to look up to me, and sigh when he buries his face in my cleavage.
His fingers hold onto the waistband of my shorts, dig inside on the sides, like he wants to tug them down and toss them aside. But making out is one thing. Fucking in his laundry is a whole other thing I doubt he’s willing to risk traumatizing his daughter with yet. And because I know that about him, I hold all of the power.
I fold my neck down so my chin touches my chest, cup his face, and draw him closer until our tongues clash and his breath scorches along my throat. He was being a gentleman in the living room. So much so that I would never have guessed he could be anything else. But the temper… it sits there beneath the surface, and is closely tied to his hunger for a woman’s body.
For any woman? Or am I special?
The dryer spins beneath me, sending vibrations through my legs, tickling at my clit, before moving up into my chest. But when the hard surface beneath my knees hurts too much, I lean on him, wrap my arms around his neck, and let my legs unfold from beneath me until the tips of my toes touch the floor again.
From standing toe to toe, chest to chest, and lips to lips, I find myself spinning, my hands slapping down on the top of the dryer, and then his erection is pressing against my ass, his hands are on my hips, and his lips are on the exposed skin around my shoulders and neck.
“You taste better than I ever imagined,” he groans.
His hand slides around to the front of my shorts, clever fingers unsnap the button, and my breath comes to a complete standstill when he presses his hand between the denim and the cotton of my panties.
He doesn’t move his hand inside my panties – his way to respect my boundaries, I suppose – but it doesn’t matter all that much when his fingers tap my pulsing clit and send me bucking forward.
“Jesus,” he groans. “You’re wet, Brooklyn.”
I nod. Gasp for air. And nod some more. “For an hour, at least. For weeks, if I’m being honest.”
“All for me.” It’s not a question, but a statement of fact. “Thank god.”
“Daddy?”
He jumps off me like I’ve combusted, blindly fixes the button on my jeans, and clears his throat just as the laundry door creaks open. Gasping for air, I look over my shoulder to find Lyss and Twain.
“See that up there,” Miles points toward a blemish in the wall above my head, a hairline crack that I absolutely did not notice until just now. “I wonder if maybe we need to get an engineer in here at some point, just to check the structural integrity?”
“Um…” I can’t breathe. I can’t focus. I can barely fucking stand.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, baby?” Finally, he releases my hip, spins to his daughter with his hormones, I assume, under control – a skill I’ve yet to master – and stands between her and me, shielding me from her eyesight while I decide if I’m even alive anymore. “What’s up, Lyss?”
“The movie finished. You missed the ending.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” His body heat moves away from me until I’m left alone and shivering. “I wanted to show Miss Brooke the crack in the ceiling.”
“Is the house gonna fall down, Daddy?” From irked to doomsday worry, Lyss’ voice changes in an instant. “Oh no! My bedroom is upstairs.”
“It’s not gonna fall, babe. I just wanted to show—”
“Miss Brooke!” Tiny hands wrap around mine and try to tug me back. “Move out of the way, Miss Brooke. Maybe the house is gonna fall down.”
“Uh…”
“It’s not going to fall,” Miles ends Lyss’ panic with a sharp declaration. “I said there’s a crack. But that’s just for Mr. Kincaid to inspect when he gets a minute. The house is safe.”
The house, maybe. But I feel like I might collapse like a soggy deck of cards.
“It’s… uh…” Finally, I turn and pray my face is neither bright red nor ghostly white. “The house is fine, Lyss. Your daddy wanted to show me, but I think… I uh…” I clear my throat. “It’s fine. Come on.” And with that, I slide out of the packed laundry room just as the dryer beeps to a stop, and Twain’s heavy feet bounce against the tile as he follows.
“Would you like to stay for dinner, Miss Brooke?”
Lyss follows me everywhere I go in her house for hours. A repeat of Stuart Little, a second bowl of popcorn, and hungry stares from a man I would have fucked while being bent over a dryer only a couple of hours ago – what’s worse, I think he knows it.
She follows me the way Twain follows her. I swear I’m not trying to be distant, but I need a minute to work through my frustrations that refuse to abate.
You’d think the throbbing would ease, and every now and then, I wonder if it’s finally happening, but then I catch Miles staring at me, his devilish grin, his heavy eyes, and suddenly I feel his hands on my fevered skin. His breath in my ear. His erection pressed against my ass.
I’m going to have to use my stash of toys to help myself over the line when I go home tonight, and it’s all Miles’ damn fault. Or, ya know, mine, since I was the genius that led him to the laundry. But still!
I should call him while I’m touching myself, force him to live through the torment the way I have to. Let him hear me, but leave him unable to touch.
And he’s a toucher. He sure likes to touch; his hands refused to remain still while we were kissing.
He doesn’t touch me – at all! – for the rest of the afternoon, but in my mind, I feel his hands. I feel his passion, his need, his desire.
Goddammit, Miles Walker.
I wanted to hold on, to ride this feeling. But the feeling I was expecting had something to do with my heart, not my damn vagina.
“Miss Brooke?” Lyss tugs on the hem of my shorts and stares up with an adorable smile, even as I think of her dad tugging on my shorts. “We’re making chicken salad. But it’s not boring salad,” she adds. “It’s yummy, and filling. And after, we could have freeze pops for dessert. I saved all of the red ones, because they’re my favorite. I save them for last, but you could have one if you want. If that’s your favorite, I can share with you.”
She nods. Like she thinks that’ll help me answer. Like she thinks I forgot how to agree to something. “Please, Miss Brooke?”
Miles, in all his cocky swagger and fiery eyes, moves around the kitchen counter, leans against the marble top, and grins. “Please, Miss Brooke?”
Shit.
“Um…” I swallow. “Okay. Sure.” I look to Lyss, and grin when she whoops, like cooking for an extra person is something to celebrate. “What can I do to help?”
“You could dice the chicken!” Taking charge, the girl drags me to the tall fridge and freezer side-by-side setup. Swinging the fridge open, she points at a plate with chicken breasts already defrosted on the high shelf. “Daddy cuts it up into strips. Then he dips it in some yummy herbs and stuff. Then we cook it on the stove.”
“Sounds amazing,” I concede.
Instead of taking the chicken out, I step around Alyssa and wash my hands at the sink. I wash them with extra fervor, pray that Miles will stop staring at some point this decade, then dry them on a clean towel that he passes after a moment of searching.
He likes having me off balance; retribution, I suppose, after my weeks of teasing.
“You okay, Miss Brooke?” His voice is low, deep, and so fucking delicious, I’m tempted to lick my lips. “You seem…” He shrugs. “Strung out.”
“I’m fine.” I pass the towel back with a snap, so the tips slap his hands in revenge. “Nothing my friend Bob can’t fix.”
Miles “Iowa” Walker is a possessive man. Easily led to jealousy. Because his eyes darken, narrow, and his lips no longer quirk into a grin.
“Bob?” He tilts his head to the side in a way that makes me his opponent in the oct
agon again. He’s about to slam me to the floor, twist me up until I tap and give him everything he wants. “I seem to recall a promise.” His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “A promise that promises you never break promises.”
I grin and feel the power swirling in my blood – power I stole right out of his hands.
“B.O.B. is an acronym, Miles. Perhaps you could take a moment to think about it while I cook dinner with your sweet daughter. Later, when you figure it out, you can call and listen as I finish something you started.” I tilt my head much the same way he does, grin, and take the chicken from the fridge.
Miles
Touché
Brooke doesn’t stay the night. Of course she doesn’t – that would be a little… fast – but damn if it’s not tempting to ask her to follow me upstairs.
She stays with us and helps Lyss make a salad that’s better than anything I’ve ever tossed together. And every single thing they add to it, every single ingredient, is something Lyss can have.
It would be simple for Brooke to make something for the adults and something for Lyss. Segregation. Or for her to serve the salad to Lyss, and add cheese to her own plate at the end. It would be simple, and fair enough for her to do that, considering no one ever said she had to eat what my daughter is eating. Just that she needs to be careful with what she exposes Lyss to.
But she doesn’t do any of that. She doesn’t add cheese. She doesn’t ask for bread, or salad dressing, or croutons. She eats only the things Lyss can, and makes it so delicious that no one even considers adding some of the banned substances.
She makes it so that Lyss can feel completely normal over a meal, when that doesn’t always happen.
I’m not as selfless as Brooke would have people believe. I eat bread. I eat cheese. I eat things Lyss can’t, but I do it in private, like a dirty little secret that I hide in the dark and pray my daughter doesn’t find out about.