Cheddar, oh my God, I loved cheddar.
“Fuck’s sake, Sadie. Let go!”
“Why do you always ruin things, Tom?”
I hated that cat. For decades he’d chased me around, hitting me with a broom, setting traps, and making me homeless.
“Tom?” Tom growled. “Christ, pixie, you’re going to break the skin.”
A big hand shook my shoulder, making my teeth slip off the cheese as my eyes opened to glare at the bastard blue cat.
Instead, I saw green eyes glaring down at me as I unclamped my jaw from the skin on his bicep.
Oh, fuck me. Those fucking, fucking dreams.
“Uh, I have weird dreams?” I offered, smiling weakly at him.
Apparently, my explanation wasn’t sufficient. Then again, I had been eating him.
“And this?” he asked, thrusting his hips up into the hand that was under the waistband of his boxers.
I had absolutely zero control over my hand at that moment as my fingers spasmed around it. That’s when I woke up fully, realizing that I wasn’t just touching it, I had my full hand wrapped around it like a tart.
I was molesting the poor man in his bloody sleep!
Snatching my hand back, I gasped, “Shit on it. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Unfortunately, as I’d brought my hand away from him, the tight elastic waistband of his boxers had snapped down, smacking part of his penis if the low groan and slightly curled body was anything to go by. Basically, I’d just used his boxers like a slingshot to hit what I knew was one of the most sensitive parts of his body.
Shitting shit.
Still curled up, he pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes. “I didn’t have an issue with it until you did that,” he wheezed, making me wince.
Bollocks, I’d assaulted him in two ways, and I’d only been awake for a matter of seconds. Christ, make that three ways because I’d tried to eat him in my sleep, too.
“I’m so sorry, Elijah. I didn’t mean to do that or molest you.” Then I looked away from him, even though he was distracted by pain and covering his own eyes, and muttered quietly, “Or eat you.”
The last bit was enough to distract him from whatever was going on down south because one hand left his face as he wrapped it around my back and pulled me closer to him.
“How do you know my cousin?”
Frowning, I tried to jerk away from him, realizing slightly too late that his injured hand was clamped firmly on an arse cheek, and that it had zero intentions of letting me go. Bugger!
“Which one?” I mean, he had about a thousand of them, so being specific would help.
“Tom,” he whisper hissed, lowering the other hand from the eye it’d been covering.
“I don’t know Tom,” I answered carefully. “I’ve met his brother, Cole, though.”
“So who’s Tom?”
Feeling like we were talking in riddles, I replied simply, “Your cousin?”
Growling, he rolled onto his side so that we were face to face and pulled me closer to him. I swear my nunney started performing like the drummer of a rock band. The slag!
“Pixie, why the fuck are you dreaming about Tom?”
“Your cousin’s a cat?”
The low light in my room was sufficient enough for me to see him grinding his teeth. Then again, I’d have heard it even we’d had zero light at all.
“I’m nearing the end of my patience,” he hissed, making me wonder if he could hear himself most of the time, but wisely I didn’t comment on the fact he had shit patience. “Why are you dreaming about Tom as a cat?”
Figuring it was best just to get it out there, I sucked in a deep breath and let rip. “The Tom I was dreaming about was as in Tom and Jerry, the cartoon. I dream about weird shit a lot, and tonight I was Jerry, and apparently, you were Tom…” I trailed off and looked at his ear, not wanting to make eye contact with him, “…and cheese.”
A choking noise escaped from him, but I didn’t break my eye relationship with his ear and look at him because there’d be more than that coming from him in a moment. It always happened when someone witnessed me during one of these dreams.
In five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
Then he burst out laughing, rolling onto his back and taking me with him. I’d started counting too late, apparently.
It had to be said, lying half on top of him with his torso tightening and relaxing and bouncing me up and down as he laughed was far from shoddy. Cue the psycho nunney drummer.
Normally I’d be trying to find a place to hide with the embarrassment, but a laughing Elijah Townsend-Rossi was a beautiful sight. So, like a true twat, I just lay there and watched the show, wishing his thigh—which was between my own—would move the way his stomach was. It would be the bestest vibrator ever invented.
And that was a sad thought. No penis, just a thigh was all that I needed to tip me over the edge.
Oh, how low we sinketh, Sadie Odessa Dahl.
Determined not to drop to the lowest point and shoot into loser orgasm central, I shifted my hips slightly and waited for him to settle down. “Are you done?”
“No,” he chuckled, his voice sounding husky. “You dream about cartoons, baby?”
There was a safe answer and an honest answer. Hesitantly, I went with a safe one. “Not always, but usually when I’m stressed or have an anxiety attack, I have weird dreams. Sometimes they can be funny like flying with Minions, other times they’re seriously weird.”
Sobering up, he scanned my face. “You have nightmares, too, don’t you?”
Chewing on my lower lip, I nodded, watching as the tension filled him again.
Finally, he rolled us back onto our sides, right back into the position we’d been in before, including his thigh between mine. Balls!
“Full disclosure, I know some of what happened,” he said quietly, and my eyes closed of their own volition. “Pixie,” he shook me gently, waiting for them to open back up again before he continued. “I only know what was reported in the local newspapers from the area you lived in that I could find online. Even then, they didn’t give a name because of your age, but I put two and two together.”
I could lie, but I didn’t want to. “I sometimes have nightmares about it, and I don’t usually sleep well at night.” Usually being the keyword here. Last night I’d managed to fall back to sleep and had slept deeply and soundly for the first time in forever.
Seeing this on my face, he nodded and kissed my forehead softly. “I slept better last night than I have in months, too, baby.”
“Even though you got the shit beaten out of you?” I snickered, gently tracing over one of the bruises on his ribs.
“I didn’t get the shit beaten out of me,” he snorted, gently tucking a chunk of hair behind my ear. “The other guy got it worse.”
That I could believe. “If you say so.”
Pressing another kiss softly on my forehead, he picked up a strand of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “I can’t believe you’re naturally as blonde as this. Don’t women pay a lot of money to get this shade?”
“They can have it,” I muttered. “I couldn’t get an appointment to get my eyelashes and eyebrows dyed, so I look like a freak. And don’t even get me started on how many times I get asked if the carpet matches the drapes at work.”
Wrong thing to say. “What the fuck? Who asks that?”
Wincing, I went to pull away from him, but he tightened the muscles in his arm, holding me hostage—the big bully.
“Just people”—twats—“and women being bitchy.”
Angling his head down, he stopped when his nose was almost touching mine. “You working today?”
Shaking my head as much as I could, I saw him drop the hair he was still holding out of the corner of my eye, and then his arm moved to join the other one around my back.
“Good. Elijah and Sadie’s day of fun.” The tone he said it in wasn’t sug
gestive, but that didn’t stop my brain from turning into some sort of porn channel, each movie starring Elijah and me.
Not wanting to give away any more secrets because my face was expressive, and that sucked, I heaved out an exaggerated sigh and pushed against his arms. “I guess, seeing as how you got the shit beaten out of you, I can do that.”
Then he went and pushed his luck too far, tickling me in the side. I hated to be tickled—hated it with a fucking passion—so I kicked out and started slapping him on whatever area I could reach.
It was when I raised my knee to move away from him that I discovered something that was well hidden on Elijah—either he had a killer case of genital warts, or he had a piercing.
Here was the other nugget of information that hit me during the discovery, I was disappointed. Yeah, I was that shallow.
See, men got their peckers pierced through the head, right? A Prince Gilbert, or something like that. Well, where I’d felt it was relatively close to where his balls were, which meant that the god Elijah Townsend-Rossi, had a teeny weeny.
And wasn’t that just the cruelest thing in the world?
Unable to stop the words tumbling out, I mumbled, “You’ve got your weeny willie pierced.”
His mouth open and closed a couple of times before he sat up and glared down at me. “It’s not small.”
Figuring shrugging was a sympathetic and blasé move to make, I did the best I could with one shoulder buried in the mattress. “I’m sure. I mean, men are small until they’re hard, so…” I waved my hand around, cringing when it skimmed the area in question.
Narrowing his eyes, he ground out, “It’s not fucking small.”
Why wouldn’t this conversation just end so I could open up a pack of toaster strudels and eat myself into a depressed coma? We didn’t have those back home, so sue me—I was eating them every day because I loved them so much. That was the definition of comfort, and I needed a lot of it after this.
“Did it hurt to get done?”
A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth, but I can’t say it made me feel comfortable. More likely wary of what he was about to divulge. “I’ve got two.”
I’d heard rumors and read books about how good a penis piercing felt during sex, so maybe that was his way of rectifying the small issue at hand?
“I’ll correct my wording. Did they hurt?”
“The single frenum piercing didn’t, but the apadravya hurt like a fucker,” he said matter of factly like we weren’t discussing needles and metal in his torpedo.
Shuddering at the mental image of a thick needle going through the poor thing, I made a mental note to look up what both of those were. Don’t judge me, I didn’t have space in my tiny brain to store information like that away.
“When did you get them done?”
“The apadravya was done five years ago, and the frenum piercing was done last year.”
The next question was pertinent, and there was no way anyone wouldn’t have asked it. “Why did you get them done? I mean, if someone came near my poor vagina with a needle, I’d kick them in the face and run.”
He’d been smirking when I’d first started talking, but by the time I finished, he was glaring at me. Squinting, he suddenly rolled us so that he was on top of me, momentarily giving me all his weight and making the air squeak out of my lungs.
Seeing my predicament—if suffocation was classed as a predicament—he braced his forearms on either side of me on the mattress and lifted his upper half off me. This still left with his petite pee-pee pressed against my slut of a vagina, though.
“Let’s get a couple of things straight, shall we?” he started, and I bit back the sigh that automatically wanted to burst out of me at those words. I hated it when people said things like that—generally because I was in trouble, though. “One, I don’t want to hear about anyone touching your vagina. Not for piercings, not for a doctor's appointment, not even because you let some fuck head,” he growled the two worded insult, “touch you in the past. Do you understand?”
I might be blonde, but I definitely wasn’t stupid, so I nodded quickly.
“Two, I don’t have a small dick. The piercing you felt was the frenum one, and it’s halfway down.”
If I didn’t know that I’d look like the biggest loser in the world, I’d have burst into tears with relief at this news. Instead, I tried to do the math in my head. If that was halfway down and he wasn’t hard, then… ohh!
Seeing my expression, and again reading it correctly, he nodded. “Yeah, and now,” he ground down into me, letting me feel the piercing and how hard he was now, “you get it. Although, this one,” he pulled his hips back until I felt the hard tip pressed against my panties.
Pushing it forward again, he showed me the other piercing by skimming it over nerves that I swear were just begging for him, “is hard to miss. It feels better when the mid-shaft one follows behind it.” And then he proved it by gently rubbing them back and forth a couple of times.
Swallowing, I tried to find the ability to talk, but it was gone. I really needed to look up what they looked like.
Not liking the smile he was giving me because it was too smug, I stuttered, “D-do you have a… oh shit… a bar or a…” an embarrassing sound came out of me as he increased the pressure slightly, “a r-ring?”
He was just about to answer when there was a loud knocking on my door, and someone pressed the bell. Hiding how disappointed I was, I cleared my throat and squeezed his side. “I better g-get th-that.”
His smile widened into a full-on grin as he rolled off me and onto his back.
Cursing whoever was at the door at this time of day, I scooted down to the bottom of the bed and reached for the pair of sweats that were sitting on the chair next to the door, only realizing too late that they were Elijah’s.
With a groan, I rolled the top up until I was in danger of advertising a camel toe no woman wanted—well, few wanted—and opened my bedroom door.
I’d just taken my first step into the hallway when he called my name. Looking over my shoulder at him, I tripped when I saw him holding his penis up for me, and even the massive dressing on his hand couldn’t have distracted me from it. “That’s what both of them look like. Now you don’t need to look it up online and see another dude’s cock.”
Penises are ugly. Let’s face it, all genitalia are ugly. When they do so much for us and bring us so much pleasure, I've no idea why they weren’t beautified during the human creation process. Evolution had brought us from primates to humans, but they couldn’t make a pretty penis or vagina? Fuck’s sake.
But it had to be said, Elijah’s cock with sparkling silver jewelry through it? Now that looked pretty. Like when you put decorations on a Christmas tree, it goes from plain to beautiful. Well, Elijah’s pecker was my Crimble tree right now.
That’s why I didn’t take my eyes off it as I walked toward the door and ended up flipping over the back of my couch and landing on my shoulder. Like that wasn’t bad enough, thanks to his sweats being a million sizes too big around my waist even with them rolled up to camel toe proportions, they slid down my legs until they dangled off my ankles.
I probably would’ve wanted to die from embarrassment normally, but I couldn’t get the mental image of what I’d just seen out of my head. It was playing on repeat, and now the curious side of me wanted to know what they felt like.
More knocking at the door reminded me why I was walking away from the pretty pecker in the first place.
Using my shit upper body strength, I began to push myself up so that I could stand when two large hands wrapped around my sides, and I was lowered onto the floor with my back against his front.
“Answer the door, pixie,” he whispered in my ear, making goosebumps break out all over my arms. “Don’t forget, I’m your dirty little secret for now,” he added, smacking me on the arse and snapping me out of my dirty daydream.
Shooting him a glare over my shoulder, I yanked the bloody sweats back
up and pointed at the bedroom. Pressing a soft kiss to my lips, he nipped the lower one before he sauntered back from whence he came.
The shift in the dynamics of our relationship had happened quickly. We’d gone from ‘nice to meet you’, to him flirting with me, to him helping me after I’d been shot, to him turning up looking like mincemeat, to jewelry in his Johnson, to him nipping my lower lip and kissing me.
Was I going to complain? Hell no. But I’d definitely glare at him so he didn’t think I was an easy Minnie—which is exactly what I did, only what I saw just added to my girly spanky banky.
His back, the muscles, the perfect backside.
This time when I tripped, it was because his tight arse cheeks had hypnotized me as they scissored with each step. It was also Dobby that I tripped over, so he let me know his feelings by swiping his nails across my foot and hissing at me as he waddled toward his bowl of food.
Seeing that the clock on my living room wall said it was just coming up to eight o’clock, I frowned as I checked the peephole to see who was calling so early.
It was MeeMee, my grandmother. Huffing out a laugh as I unlocked it and threw the door open. I was about to say good morning or ask if it was an emergency, but she breezed in and kicked my door shut, taking me with it because I was still holding the handle.
“Lock it,” she hissed, pulling me back and doing it herself anyway. “We need to talk.”
Backing away from her and tripping over Dobby again, I watched her storm past me to my kitchen and set up the coffee maker. I never used it, I was a fan of pods and simplicity, but she was old school and the only reason I had the damn thing.
“Oh, and tell that boy to put his pants on and come out, too. He’s going to need to hear this,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled down three cups.
What was going on? And how did she know Elijah was here?
A smarter person might have put two and two together and assumed she’d seen his vehicle out front. Maybe they’d even have realized they were wearing men’s sweatpants that they wouldn’t have bought for themselves, even by accident, because of how big they were. Maybe—just maybe—they’d have wondered if she’d seen him helping me up from the couch through a tiny gap in the curtains?
Great Sass: Providence Family Ties Series Page 4