The Holly Hearth Romantic Comedy Collection

by K B Cinder

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Sparky.”

  Sparky? Well, it beat Sparkle Tits.

  I didn’t take the bait, staying silent and willing him to leave and go bother someone else.

  Besides, it was the women’s bathroom. He didn’t belong there. Women’s bathrooms were sacred places for crying, dammit. He was violating the hell out of our ancient code.

  “I’m sorry, Sparky,” he said as he circled back to the first in the row of stalls. “You can have my seat today.”

  His voice traveled nearer as he spoke, and I realized as he stopped outside my stall it was because he was checking between the cracks in the doors.

  Sea-green eyes locked on me through the sliver of space in mine.

  “Don’t cry,” he ordered, his voice falling deeper. “Crying gives you a headache. You have a long hour ahead to navigate with one, and I don’t carry aspirin. Trust me, you’ll get one anyway listening to Knockoff Jesus and his first world problems.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I didn’t care what he thought of me or crying.

  And it was Coffee Jesus, thank you very much.

  “I’m sorry, if we do that, we might both end up with a terrible infection. Public bathrooms are crawling with bacteria. You probably have at least three-thousand on you right now from sitting in there like that.”

  I gave him the finger from my toilet lid perch, but the bastard laughed.

  “Look, I’m trying to be a gentleman here, but you’re flashing your pussy at me. There’s only so much a man can take before he risks his dick for a bathroom fuck.”

  “Excuse me?” My jaw dropped as I tugged my skirt over my bits, sure enough flashing my lacy thong-covered clam at him. Damn, could I catch a break?

  As my cheeks burned, a flutter struck low in my belly.

  He was crude and unapologetic with his words, and fuck… I loved it.

  “Let’s go back in there. I won’t pick on you anymore. I’ll admire from afar like the pretty little painting you are.”

  It was stupid, but having someone that wasn’t a relative refer to me as pretty again felt amazing. It almost made me forget about my Frankenleg.

  “Come out,” he coaxed gently. “Trust me: I’ll leave you alone.”

  I doubted he would, but I didn’t trust myself to step outside the stall. He’d already soaked my panties with the flicker of filth he threw at me, and I wanted to risk everything for that bathroom fuck.

  Staring at him through the crack, my legs drifted apart again, the creamy skin of my thighs bared with barely sheathed sex at their apex.

  His eyes narrowed as they fell to the tiny strip of fabric keeping my most private place a mystery.

  “Keep that shit up, and I can’t promise I’ll hold up that last part.” His voice sent pebbles across my skin, waking a part of me I’d buried with the accident.

  I lifted my skirt high, revealing the garters that held my thigh-high stockings in place, the garments a staple whenever I wore a skirt or dress. They eliminated the threat of baring my scar with a slipped hose and were far more comfortable than the sausage casings that squished my organs to my spine.

  His eyes feasted on the display, and power coursed through my veins.

  I dipped a hand to the lace, grazing my fingertips along the flimsy material. The heat was unmistakable as my pussy tightened, my breaths fluttering out as my heart pounded.

  What the fuck are you doing? That little voice wouldn’t shut up, but the thundering blood in my ears drowned her out.

  I nudged the lace to the side and found myself drenched with need, a desire that only grew as the air hissed out of Rebel over what was unfolding within the flimsy stall walls. We were so close yet so far, a time-worn hunk of metal scrawled with messages of love, hate, and everything in between separating two souls taking a crash course on what not to do in public.

  I prided myself in living loud, but as two of my fingers sunk inside and I locked eyes with a man with reckless literally tattooed on his forearm, things reached a new level of what the fuck.

  My thumb teetered over my clit, giving just enough pressure to keep me squirming and putting on a show for the beast in black lurking outside.

  His left fist slid to the top of the door as he leaned in for a better look. “Add another finger.”

  I grinned, sliding my middle finger around my sex before slipping it in to join the dancing duo.

  “Fuck, that’s hot.” It hissed out as if he were a snake winding up to strike, and I wanted to kick the door open and let him.

  Three fingers weren’t enough, and an ache built with every slow, torturous slide.

  I bit my lip as I watched the fire in his eyes through the door’s peep slot, and before I knew it, it engulfed me.

  I barely recognized the woman who slithered off of the seat. Her fingers didn’t shake as she slid the bolt in the lock, nor did she hesitate before gripping the front of the stranger’s shirt and pulling his mouth to hers.

  He tasted like mint and felt like heaven and hell wrapped into one.

  Our lips skipped the friendly pecking of a first kiss and jumped right into fuck me now, complete with sighs of pleasure on my part and a throaty groan on his.

  This wasn’t merely kissing. This was ravaging, each of us trying to outdo the other with tongues, teeth, and lips clashing in a delicious dance of good versus evil, and I wasn’t entirely sure what team I was playing for.

  Rebel lived up to every letter of his name, blowing past caution to fuck my mouth with his tongue and grip my breasts. His fingers went to pinch at the hardened peaks, and I didn’t miss the grunt of approval when he found the tiny metal studs slid in each.

  Dressing up didn’t mean I didn’t have my own rebel in hiding.

  We stumbled against the sinks, the concrete trough crashing into my lower back and stealing my breath. Pleasure quickly followed the pain as his hand dipped beneath my skirt. He sunk two fingers up to the knuckle, and he mimicked my earlier stunt of teasing my clit with his thumb.

  Only he wasn’t as merciful.

  I swiftly discovered that I was acting on behalf of good while this tattooed being was nothing more than a fallen angel working for the devil himself.

  Rather than gently thumbing the pleasure point, he tapped in a relentless rhythm before circling the throbbing nub in a teasing slide, just barely skimming it before whirling back. He threw in the occasional pinch and rub, turning me to jelly.

  My hands gripped the hulking bulge at the front of his pants before I came undone, finding a steel rod I couldn’t wait to get acquainted with.

  But that act broke the spell.

  His mouth pulled from mine, and his hand slid from beneath my skirt all at once.

  Before I could form a squawk of protest, he reached for a pump of soap and promptly started washing his hands.

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  He lathered the foam slowly, paying careful attention to the fingers that were inside me seconds earlier—all while avoiding eye contact in the mirror.

  I blinked, still leaning against the sinks as pleasure quaked my legs. “What are you doing?”

  I was sweating, shaking, and gasping with need, desperate to free my orgasm from its knotted prison, while he washed his fucking hands.

  He waved his soapy paws with an eye roll before returning them beneath the faucet’s automatic stream. “Washing my hands.”

  “Obviously, asshole,” I quipped, too hot and bothered for his shit as my pussy practically meowed between my legs. “Why did you stop?”

  No guy had ever quit cold turkey on me before, and he was dropkicking my ego with his little hand-washing stunt.

  What was wrong with me?

  Oh my God, did he see my…

  I looked down as my stomach dropped, fully expecting to see the angry, red raised streak, but my stockings remained firmly in place, my scar still hidden from the light of day.

  “I can’t do this shit here,” he ground out, furiously sc
rubbing at his hands. “Not with you, either. Wash up and let’s get back to Allegra.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  His eyes finally met mine in the mirror, his jaw hard and unapologetic. “No. Wash your hands and let’s go. She’s probably getting ready to send out a search party.”

  “Maybe she should send out one for your balls,” I shot back, tapping the soap dispenser for a handful of foamy disappointment.

  He tensed beside me, pausing mid-reach for a paper towel. “What was that?”

  I rinsed the lather from my hands before skipping the paper products in favor of air as I fetched my purse and headed to the door. I needed to dry out in more ways than one after all that.

  “Who’s chickenshit now?” I dared as I gripped the door handle to leave. “I’m revoking your little Rebel name. Cute for the look, but the shoe doesn’t fit. You’re now Chickenshit in my book.”

  I left him there with dripping hands, somehow leaving less confident than when I’d walked in crying.

  6

  Lev

  Females were like tattoo guns: Loud, sometimes painful, and a regular part of my life.

  No sooner than I’d freed myself from the razor-tongued brat and Allegra, I faced two more she-devils at home.

  Headache Number Two sat at the dining room table working on a science project with a bowl of canned pasta, while Headache Number One was MIA, though the rumble of bass from upstairs hinted that she was hosting a concert in her bedroom.

  “How was your meeting, Dad?” Izzy glanced at me over her spoon as she gently blew on the steaming ravioli, half of it already bitten off and revealing ground mystery meat.

  She hated anything canned, but she was a good sport and surprisingly self-sufficient for an eleven-year-old. Others would’ve devoured the chocolate pudding packets I lined the pantry instead for dinner.

  Meanwhile, Cass, who was older and much more capable of cooking the chicken I left out, would rather starve herself and her sister than lift a finger.

  What I would’ve given at her age to have the privilege of laziness. Of course, I was relieved to have food then, canned or otherwise.

  “Long,” I lied, busying myself with petting our bullmastiff, Chomp, to avoid looking her in the eye. “Soon I’ll have my Thursdays back.”

  I’d have my sanity back too when I never saw a certain someone again. Avoiding Sparky for the rest of the session was hard with her sitting next to me, but I tuned her out and brainstormed unsexy thoughts to settle the dragon lurking in my pants.

  Work. Speeding tickets. Cavity searches.

  I hightailed it out of there and made it home without another dustup, not trusting myself to avoid disaster again.

  Pulling away from her took everything in me—running over every reason it was a bad idea, and everything I had to lose if we got caught. I wasn’t just some everyday citizen. A citation for public sex would end my career. I’d risked it enough with the punch that got me there.

  “Did you feed him?” I asked, gesturing at the only other male in the house, and arguably the one my girls preferred despite his drool and insufferable gas.

  “Yeah, two heaping scoops like the paper says,” she replied, popping her spoon in her mouth.

  I straightened, pulling away from the muscled beast whose tail flopped loudly against the tile floor. “When’s the last time he was out?”

  “I just let him in before you got home. Cass left him outside again. I gave him a treat to say sorry.”

  “Thanks, kid.” At least one kid wasn’t trying to put me in an early grave.

  She gave me a thumbs up as she stuck another spoon in her brace-heavy mouth, and I realized how big my baby was getting with her long sandy hair and ability to feed herself.

  Christ, soon she’d be driving and hating me like her sister.

  Her twelfth birthday was closing in, and I wasn’t ready to be that much closer to having another teenager. I wanted her to stay small and sweet forever.

  “Do you want to grab ice cream after that?” I asked, nodding at the bowl in front of her.

  She nodded with a faint smile, forgiving me for her canned misery. At least sugar still saved the day when I failed as a parent. Life would get a lot harder once she stopped loving ice cream and candy.

  “Alright, well, let me run up and see if Cass wants to come,” I said, bracing for the trip to the lion’s den.

  As I rounded the corner toward the stairs, I spied Izzy’s backpack and coat neatly hung on the hooks I’d fashioned with their names above them. Feet away, my Ramones hoodie that Cass had borrowed without asking and shredded to hell for aesthetics lay in a heap on the blue sofa along with her tasseled backpack.

  I took the stairs slowly but surely, dreading the beast waiting behind the door at the end of the hall. I wasn’t sure when, but at some point, aliens had kidnapped my beloved firstborn at night and replaced her with a spitting cobra. Gone were the days she’d made me princess toast and best dad ever mugs. In were the days of I hate you and eye rolls.

  I knocked twice and waited, but my eldest was too busy living her rock-and-roll fantasy inside to hear me.

  After another knock and another non-answer, I turned the handle to meet angry blue-green eyes across the room I’d painted purple for her tenth birthday. The room she’d hounded me to paint black since she’d discovered the Cure and the rest of my old vinyls in the basement.

  The first fruit of my loins was lounging on her bed in microscopic shorts and a sweatshirt, the expensive duvet I’d purchased for Christmas thrown to the floor in a crumpled mountain of fabric.

  Her choppy brown bob stretched into crooked pigtails, the tips that were most-definitely also brown that morning, a bright shade of teal.

  “Ever heard of knocking?” she shouted over the music before grabbing her phone to pause the speakers that jiggled my insides with every pulse.

  Fuck, if I stood too long next to those things blasting I’d get a surgery-free vasectomy.

  “I did. You were too busy telling the people at the International Space Station about your pent-up rage through stereo Morse code.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” she huffed, saying the title as if it tasted like a dirt. “What do you want? I could’ve been naked in here. You can’t just walk in.”

  “You’re right; it’s not like I own the place,” I volleyed back, too old and too tired for her shit. I had nineteen years on her. Nineteen hard years where I didn’t always own a cell phone, let alone one that controlled half of my bedroom. “It’s my house. I go where I please. Now tell me why you left the dog outside unattended and explain why your sister is eating canned crap when I specifically asked you to cook chicken?”

  I was almost late for work because I circled back to take the frozen poultry out of the freezer. I fucking tried, dammit, and my kid was still eating out of a can like a dog.

  “Uh, he’s your dog,” she shot back as she lifted her phone again to tap away with her manicured fingers. “And I wasn’t in the mood to cook.”

  “Uh, he’s the family dog,” I corrected. “The last I checked, you still play with him. I asked you to let him outside and watch him—not clean up his cowpies.”

  The awful chores were always my job. Dog shit. Trash. Yard work. I was lucky if Cass would run the damn vacuum without having her Last Rites read to her.

  I leaned against the doorjamb, feeling the attitude pour from her in buckets. “I wasn’t in the mood to wake up at four in the morning and go to work, but I did, because that’s life. Sometimes you do things you don’t want to do, kid.”

  I picked up an extra shift to keep up with the mile-long list of expenses that came with raising two chickadees—one of which who insisted on weekly mani-pedis, eyebrow waxing, and professional cosmetics that all looked the same to me.

  She shrugged. “When you’re old.”

  “Look, I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but lose the attitude.” Normally, I kept my shit together with the girls, but Cass, like another b
rat I knew, had a way of setting up camp on my last nerve.

  All she offered was another eye roll, and I lost it.

  I walked into the room, stepped over the clothing strewn around the floor, and plucked her phone out of her hand before she comprehended what was going on.

  “You’ll get this back when you remember what respect is,” I informed, waving the shiny new iPhone from side to side. I’d worked a lot of OT to earn that fucker, and I still carried around a fossil of a phone for myself while she wanted for nothing.

  She huffed in protest as she reached for the device; her sleeve rolling to reveal finger-shaped bruising on her wrist.

  I tucked the phone in my front pocket with one hand and caught her arm in the other.

  “What is this?” I asked, tugging the sleeve higher to unveil a bruised grip on her skin. “If it was Tony…” 

  I’d already broken the fucker’s nose for slapping my daughter in the past, and punishment or not, I’d do it again if he’d repeated his mistake. The law might not touch him because of his parents, but I would. I’d break his goddamn hands so he couldn’t touch her.

  “It’s from a bitch in gym class. I’ll be fine.” She stuck her other hand out. “Can I have my phone back?”

  “What bitch? Why did she touch you?”

  The bruises weren’t just something that came from a bit of pressure. Deep purple dots marred her skin.

  Since when did girls go around hurting one another? Physically, at least. They usually preferred to lay landmines in one another’s minds in backhanded compliments.

  “She’s just a bitch,” she explained with a scoff.

  “You didn’t defend yourself?”

  I didn’t raise a coward. Both of my girls knew how to throw a punch if needed, and they had my permission if it got them out of harm’s way.

  She flinched. “Becky’s huge. She’s got like three inches on you, Dad, and at least a full shoe size.”

  Fuck, that was a big chick. I was six-foot even, and that was considered tall by most standards. 

  “What if I sign you up for self-defense classes?” I asked, not wanting her to be a sitting duck waiting for Big Becky to come stomping back with her oven mitt hands. I still knew some stuff from the academy, but nothing like jiu jitsu badasses taught.