Knocked Up by the Master: A BDSM Secret Baby Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  The only thing to do now is push Cynthia to making a date so my hands will be tied. If he falls for her, he’ll be off the table, and I’ll be able to move past this stupid mix up and get on with my life and my career. But what if I don’t want to move on from Lucas?

  I push it all down, trying to quiet my thoughts so I can just think. “When you find him, you need to talk about something. Small talk is fine, but it’d be better if you could get him to talk more. Ask him some questions, make him talk about himself and make sure he sees you’re interested. Mimic his body language if you can--it’s a subconscious cue that you’re interested in him.

  “Okay,” she says. “I hope you have some tricks up your sleeve, too, or you’re going to be packing your bags tonight.”

  “Bitch,” I mutter, but I’m careful not to press the key that activates my mic. “Yes, Miss Styles,” I say into the mic with forced cheer. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get you another date, and a dance.”

  “Good,” she says.

  A few minutes later, after a lot of rustling sounds from her microphone, Cynthia finds Lucas. “Hey you,” she says in a bubbly cheerleader voice that screams of fakeness.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he says. I catch myself leaning in close and pressing the headphones to my ears. Does he sound upset? Is he still thinking of me?

  With considerable mental effort, I stop trying to think about him as the guy I just slept with last night. I totally need to stop thinking about his big strong hands. Those work rough fingers pumping in and out of me… that wicked tongue… I definitely shouldn’t think about the vulnerability I saw in his eyes as he talked about his dad. I can’t let myself think of him as my Country. I have to start thinking about him as Lucas, the target. He’s just the guy I’m trying to get my client a date with. That’s all. Nothing more.

  “Remember, no mention of the missed date,” I say.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” she says. “You never come to these things.”

  “Yeah, well there was someone I was hoping to see,” he says. I can hear the pain in his voice and it rips at me.

  I did that. I hurt him. I chose my job over him.

  “Oh?” asks Cynthia. “Well I guess it’s your lucky day, because… Tada!” she yells obnoxiously.

  I clap a hand to my forehead in frustration, trying not to picture the grimace Lucas is likely wearing right about now. “Remember. Focus on him. Ask him about himself.”

  “So,” Cynthia says quickly. “Do you still do the whole rodeo thing?”

  “Not since dad died, no,” he says stiffly.

  Damn. He’s totally trying to get out of this conversation. A stupid part of me does a little happy dance, because I don’t want him to get over me. But that’s selfish. I made my choice, so it’s not right for me to hope for him to pine away for me. Besides, he’s barely known me two days. It’s just a fling. That’s all. He’ll get over it and I’ll get over it. Probably.

  “Change topics,” I say. “Ask about his cows,” I suggest, even though it feels like a shot in the dark.

  “How are the cows doing?” she asks, failing to sound interested.

  “Well, Missy is back to her usual nonsense,” he says. His voice is stiff at first, but a little bit of amused energy starts to enter his words as he talks about the cows. “She’s been sneaking out of the fence to get at some of the wildflowers, and now she’s trying to convince the others to go rogue with her.”

  Cynthia laughs in a totally unconvincing way, but Lucas doesn’t seem to notice as he goes on for at least five minutes about his cows. I can’t help listening dejectedly as I imagine him smiling and laughing with her. Why isn’t he picking up on how fake her responses sound? Why is he enjoying himself with her?

  Even though I start to feel serious temptation to sabotage her chances, I stay focused on my job when the conversation about his animals dies down. Most of his good humor seems to slip away when the subject changes as well. “Okay, here’s your chance,” I say. “Ask him if you can meet him tonight at his place. Make sure it doesn’t sound like a date--just coffee and a chance to catch up.”

  To my surprise, Lucas grunts his agreement when Cynthia fumbles through her attempt to invite herself over.

  I sit back with a mixture of relief and disgust while Lucas makes his excuses to head back home and Cynthia says her goodbyes.

  “I did it!” she squeals into the mic a few moments later. “You had better hope he shows up this time,” she says, switching from giddy to bitchy in a surprisingly short amount of time.

  “He will,” I say. Because he won’t be eating me out in a lake at sunset this time.

  My stomach lurches when I think about him, especially when I think about the possibility that he could somehow fall for Cynthia, that he might put his hands on her and make her feel the way he made me feel. I can’t stop the selfish thoughts. I don’t want him to make anyone else feel that way. I want that to have been our moment. I want it to be special and perfect and one-of-a-kind, because I know I’ll never experience anything like it again.

  I sink forward, cradling my head in my hands, wondering how I managed to get myself into a mess this big. I pull out my phone and my thumb hovers over Cynthia’s name in my contacts list. Just call her. End this whole thing. Come clean with Lucas.

  I shake my head at myself. This is ridiculous. I’m a professional and I can do this. There are other attractive men out there. It’s not worth throwing my business away because some cowboy from the middle of nowhere charmed the pants off me--literally. Except he doesn’t flirt, apparently. He wants. And he wants me. At least he did want me. I hate how even the thought of him sends butterflies through my chest and makes my fingers tingle.

  I’m going to do the smart thing. I’ll wait in my room and I’ll be ready to help walk Cynthia through the date. Probably.

  49

  Lucas

  I come back inside about thirty minutes before Cynthia’s supposed to show and strip off my clothes, which are filthy from the half hour I just spent tidying up Missy’s latest escape attempt. Agreeing to let Cynthia come over will hopefully be a way to get her off my back. She has never been one to take subtle hints, so I’ll have to find a way to make it painfully clear to her that we’re never getting back together.

  I briefly consider skipping a shower in hopes that the smell alone would scare Cynthia off, but if I’m too obvious in my attempts to shake her loose, she’ll know. I have to play this thing perfectly to get her off my case once and for all. I have to be myself, but I also have to make sure she never wants another date. To be honest, that shouldn’t be too hard. “Myself” can be a real asshole.

  I step in the shower, not even waiting for the water to get hot. The cold water makes my lungs contract and gives me a welcome shock, soothing my exhausted muscles and fighting back the heat a day of honest work built up.

  I idly soap my hair and body and without realizing it, my mind starts to wander to Mila. I think about how she looked on the bench by the park, just sitting there with her head tilted back and her eyes closed. I’d never admit it, but I was heading the other direction when I saw her and wasted a lot of effort cutting across the main street and doubling back to go talk to her.

  I think about how her pussy felt against my tongue and how it gripped my cock, about how her dark nipples pressed so fucking perfectly through her shirt once I got her wet.

  City girl or not, I’m going to need some cold ass showers to keep my mind off of her, and even that’s not doing the trick. I grip my swelling cock, thinking about her and not even caring that the water is icy. I picture her in the park again, remembering how she seemed so out of place, how I wanted nothing more than to pick her up like I did when she turned her ankle, except this time I wanted to carry her to the barn and toss her down in the hay. Hell, I would’ve settled for setting her down in the mud if it came to it, but I’m not complaining about the way things turned out.

  My cock is stiff as a rock at the thought, an
d just when my hand starts to slide up and down my cock in a steady rhythm, I think about everything that’s happened in the last few months. Dad dying. Ronnie making threats. The fucking sounds I’ve been hearing at night just outside my window. The footprints on my property. All of it.

  I don’t need to be lusting after some girl. Especially, not some city girl who isn’t going to stick around. Maybe she seems worth my time right now, but you can’t trust women from the city--always some fucking agenda with them. And Mila can’t be any different. She’s hiding something from me with the way she slipped away that night after the lake, and the way she tried to break things off today at the festival. I know I should stay away, but somehow I know I won’t. I know I can’t give her up, secrets or not. I want her too fucking badly.

  I plant my palms on the wall and let the cold water wash away the embers of my arousal. Not now. Not tonight. Not ever.

  If I know what’s good for me, I’ll stop finding excuses to go up and talk to her, too. Then again, if I’m not around to give her a push here and there, she may end up settling in out here and becoming a permanent buzz in my head. Can’t have that…

  Someone knocks at the door loudly enough for me to hear over the water. Damn. Have I been in here that long?

  I shut off the water and snag a towel. I do a half-ass job at drying myself off and swing the towel around my waist before stepping into the master bedroom and looking in the closet for something to wear.

  “I forgot how gorgeous you are,” Cynthia says from behind me.

  I turn to glare at her while wearing nothing but my towel. “The fuck are you doing in my bedroom?” I growl.

  “You didn’t answer when I knocked,” she says. “I wanted to come in and make sure you hadn’t collapsed in there or something. I know CPR, you know.”

  She’s moving deeper into my room and making no attempt to hide the innuendo in her words. She pauses though and makes that same strange face from before. Her eyes go up and to the right for a second. Cynthia sighs, turns, and leaves without another word.

  I’m left standing in front of my closet confused as hell. One minute she’s throwing herself at me, the next she’s storming off. Great. I guess I can add crazy to the growing list of adjectives I attach to Cynthia.

  I throw on some clothes and remind myself I just need to suffer a couple hours of this shit. If I play my cards right, I’ll get her off my back once and for all.

  She’s waiting at the kitchen island when I come out of my room fully dressed. She’s looking up and to the corner again like a scolded teenager, clearly annoyed. A little confused, I move to the fridge and grab a beer for myself. I could offer her one, but if she wants one badly enough she can damn well get it herself.

  She opens her mouth to speak--something bitchy if the way her eyebrows draw down is any indication--and then clamps her mouth shut and forces a creepy, fake smile.

  “Okay,” I say, twisting the cap off my beer and throwing back a quick swallow. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  She raises her eyebrows and shrugs like she has no idea. “A date, I thought. But it looks like you didn’t even plan for me to come over.”

  “You said coffee,” I say. I can feel my nostrils flaring in annoyance, even though I knew from the start she’d call this a date. “Just to clear the air, remember?”

  “I remember. So, where’s the coffee?”

  “Yeah,” I say, unable to even pretend to sound sorry. “Forgot that part. You can grab a beer if you want. Or there’s water in the sink if you’re watching calories.”

  I’m baiting the hell out of her, and the old Cynthia would’ve already blown up on me by now, but for some reason she’s controlling herself--barely. Her lips are a tight line as she walks to the fridge, grabs a beer, and plops down at the kitchen table.

  “Well?” she says. “Are you going to sit or just stand there like a barbarian?”

  “I always admired barbarians,” I say, taking another swig of my beer and not moving an inch.

  Cynthia lets out a long breath and closes her eyes briefly. It’s eating her up not to lose her shit on me, and I’m actually finding myself enjoying the experience a lot more than I thought I would.

  “I came to apologize,” she says stiffly. “I know I wasn’t the best girlfriend in the past. I wasn’t the best... friend, either. I want to change all that.”

  “Got a time machine?” I ask, interrupting her.

  “Lucas…” she says darkly, and I think she’s finally about to blow, but she reverts back to her stiff, almost mechanical tone. “What I’m trying to say is I want to be a better person. Going forward. I regret… how I was,” she says.

  She waits a second and then makes an annoyed face, eyes looking at something distant.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “What’s what?” she asks.

  “What you just did. That thing you keep doing. Like you’ve got voices in your head or something.”

  She opens her mouth to speak and then clamps it shut, eyes fixed on me but wide, like she’s been caught.

  I move closer to her, scanning her from head to toe, not sure what I’m looking for but…

  I notice a small, transparent little wire going from her earring to inside her ear, where a transparent earpiece rests inside. She turns her head when she notices me looking, but I already saw enough.

  “What is this?” I ask again, voice dangerous now. My heart is thrumming like a well-oiled machine, and adrenaline floods my body until I feel like I could flip a fucking semi truck with my bare hands.

  “It’s just like a hearing aid. I don’t have--I just--”

  “Did Ronnie put you up to this? You want me to say something that incriminates me so he gets the ranch? What’d he promise you, twenty percent? Thirty?”

  Cynthia buries her head in her hands and actually sobs. I take a surprised step back, feeling most of my anger simmer down into something cold and hard.

  “I hired a matchmaker. Okay? She was supposed to help me win you back. I just wanted to be together again.”

  “A matchmaker? You’re serious?” I ask.

  Her only response is an unapologetic glare.

  I lean close to Cynthia’s ear. “You enjoying the show, lowlife?”

  “Lucas…” says Cynthia. “Let me explain.”

  “I’ve let you do enough,” I say. “Shut the fucking door on your way out.”

  Cynthia sulks, but she storms out of the house like I asked, not bothering to hide the fact that she’s yelling at whoever is listening through the surveillance equipment she’s hooked up to. “You’re fucking finished,” she yells. “...not paying you a cent for this, and if you--” the door slams, dulling her words into a low mutter that I still hear trailing away outside.

  I grip the countertop so hard I think I might crack the wood. This is what I get. It’s exactly what I get for trying to let her down easy. Every time I trust a woman, even an inch, I end up looking like an idiot.

  I was going to save the tidying up I needed to do in the barn for morning, but I need to take my mind off this or I’ll end up breaking something before long. I grab my coat, hat, boots, and head outside. The air’s cold enough to turn my breath to mist, and I find the cattle and goats all huddled in the barn, nestling in the hay together for warmth.

  It’s not long until I’ve put most of the anger from my mind, between hanging up saddles, tucking away buckets and tools, and sweeping stray hay into the stalls, I’ve managed to let everything settle down into my gut where it simmers away slowly, instead of the hot boiling rage I felt half an hour ago.

  I hear dry grass crunching outside and stop in my tracks. As quietly as I can, I move to the far wall, grabbing a metal pitchfork and looking out the window. The glass is too dirty to see anything, so I move to the edge of the open barn doors and look across the pasture toward the house. The light of the barn behind me is so bright I can barely see anything except the vague outline of my house across the darkness.

&nb
sp; I flip the lights off, squinting into the dark. I’m about to give up watching and write it off to a stray goat when I see a dark shadow move just outside my bedroom window. My hands clench around the pitchfork. What the fuck?

  My eyes adjust more to the darkness until I see the shape of a man wearing all black. He waves his hand and two other men creep toward him, sliding around the side of my house. One of them pulls something from the back of his pants--a handgun--and stands slowly to peer through my window.

  I think back to the sounds I’ve been hearing around the house and feel my rage boil over again. I’m so pissed at the thought of these assholes creeping around my property and peeking in on me while I sleep that I don’t even think about the guns or the fact that I’m outnumbered. I take off toward the house at a full-out sprint, pitchfork held high over my head. I plant my foot and hurl it like a javelin when I think I’m close enough. I let out a furious growl of effort and watch it sail through the darkness in complete silence, only to thwack into the wood siding of the house just inches above one of the men’s heads.

  They turn toward me in surprise. The man with the gun takes aim, but one of the others reaches to his arms and pulls them down, shaking his head. They’re too far for me to hear what they say, but I see the two men argue for a couple seconds, then they all take off running.

  I stand watching them flee, chest heaving, fingers still tingling from the wood of the rake handle as it slid from my grip.

  “Lucas?” asks a timid voice to my side. “Did you just--”

  I jump like someone just shocked me with a cattle prod. “Jesus Christ!” I roar, rounding on her. “Mila? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I came to… um, well. There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should’ve told you before now. But if you’re too busy throwing pitchforks at your house, I could come back another time,” she says with the shadow of a smile on her lips.