Kind of Cursed

by Stephanie Fournet

  “What’s that, boss?” Donner asks, eyeing me with alarm.

  “Leave. Don’t come back until tomorrow.”

  “Okay, uh…” Donner uses the level in his hand to point at their tools. “We’ll just clean u—”

  “Now. You’ll get paid for today,” I say, just in case this is a concern. Judging by their wary looks, it’s not. “Come back tomorrow morning.”

  Eyes on me, Sam sets down his drill.

  “And fucking knock,” I tell him.

  Sam flinches. “Right, boss.” Then the kid practically skitters out of the kitchen.

  When Sam clears the door, Donner starts to move, just not quite as fast as his assistant.

  I wait until he reaches the door. “Donner?”

  He looks at me over his shoulder. “Yeah, boss?”

  I shake my head. “Best not to share this with the others.”

  Donner’s face stiffens. Then he nods. “Got it, Luc. Sorry.”

  He pulls the door closed behind him, and I take the two steps toward it and flip the bolt. As soon as I do, I hear Millie’s step on the stairs. By the sound of it, Clarence is descending with her.

  I cut through what’s now the front of the kitchen and watch her descend the last of the steps. She’s barefoot in a gray, floral print sweater and black leggings. Nothing fancy. Everything I want. The deep V neckline of her sweater beacons my mouth. The contours of her leggings command my hands. She’s in my arms before she’s off the stairs.

  Millie gasps her surprise against my lips, letting me kiss her for just a few seconds before breaking off. “Luc,” she whispers. “They’ll hear us.”

  “They’re gone,” I say, kissing her again as the unmistakable sound of Sam’s Toyota firing up revs just outside. “I made them go.”

  “What?! Luc, why—”

  “I need you.” But the words aren’t enough, so I take her mouth again. Her fingers fist in my hair. It drives me wild. If it were allowed, I could take her on the stairs.

  But I know the rules. I’ve accepted the rules. But after this morning…

  Our teeth clash. My tongue glides over hers, showing her again everything it knows how to do. I grip her tight ass with one hand and snake the other under the sweater and beneath the cup of her bra. When I pinch her nipple, Millie’s breath jackhammers.

  “What…” she pants against my cheek. “What’s happening?”

  I want the stiff peak of her nipple in my mouth, under my tongue. The neck of her sweater is a willing accomplice. My lips move to the top of the breast I’m fondling, and I kiss the blushing skin.

  “Luc?” She kisses my temple. My hair. “What is it? Why’d you send them away?”

  I succeed in bringing one coral nipple to light and swipe it with the tip of my tongue. “I need to make you come.” And then I take her in my mouth. Her knees give, but I’m ready, shifting the hand from her bottom to the small of her back.

  “Oh, God, Luc.” Millie is a soprano. I’ve never heard her sing, but her moan is high, airy, and light. Angelic. I hear heaven as I suckle her.

  “Upstairs… bed… please.” Each word is an exhale, a desperate sound I recognize. I shift my hands back to her ass, mount the first step, and take her with me. Millie’s legs go around my waist, she clutches my shoulders, and up we go.

  I don’t hear Clarence behind us, but I kick her bedroom door closed just in case. Then, holding her in one arm, I lock her bedroom door for good measure.

  This belongs to no one else.

  The reminder of this morning—Sam, Papi, the gossip and assumptions—makes me growl. I pitch us onto the bed. “I need to make you come,” I say again, sounding like a beast.

  “You need to come,” Millie whispers, tugging at my shirt.

  “No,” I grunt, but I let her pull off my shirt. I know she needs this. My skin on hers. I slip her out of her sweater. It was hiding a pale pink satiny bra, the color of her blush. It blends against her skin like a chameleon. I moan. “You’re going to kill me.”

  She shakes her head. “No. Let me help you.” Her hands drop to my fly, but I cover them with mine.

  “Not yet,” I rasp. “I need to—

  “I heard you the first time,” she says, managing to pop the button on my jeans. “But it’s my turn.”

  She doesn’t understand. How can I make her understand? “Please.” I move my hands to the waistband of her leggings. Millie doesn’t try to stop me. In fact, she lifts her hips, and I tug them down, taking the pale pink thong with them.

  She’s got my pants unzipped and is pushing them halfway down my hips when I grab her wrists and drag them up by her shoulders.

  “Please,” I beg, locking eyes with hers.

  She blinks up at me. Her gaze softens and a little crease appears between her brows. “Luc, what is it?”

  I shut my eyes. “Nothing, I—” But before I can put anything into words, she has tugged her right wrist free, and she’s cupping my cheek.

  “Luc, my darling,” she says, gazing up at me, her eyes full of longing and concern. Her darling lands somewhere soft inside me. It hits me then that what I need—what I’ve been restless and edgy all morning, hell, maybe even all my life—is for her to love me. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Dios la amo. God, I love her.

  I can’t say this to her. I know Millie. She’ll run. It’ll freak her the fuck out. But this is what drove me here. What is driving me now to bring her to orgasm with my touch. Show her without words how I love her. Prove to her. To everyone. To me. That she is mine. This isn’t something empty. This isn’t what anyone else assumes.

  “This is real,” I say instead.

  Her eyelids flutter and a smile slowly spreads over her face. Her thumb strums up and down my cheek. “And that upsets you?”

  “No,” I say, exhaling a laugh. I cover her hand with mine and close my eyes, loving the feel of her touch against my face. She’s held me this way a few times now. The first time was that night in her bed when she asked me to hold her. I took it as a sign that she liked me more than she was ready to admit.

  Is that what she’s doing now? Does she like me more than she’s ready to say? Love me, even? Are we both trying to show each other that it’s safe?

  “This is ours,” I promise her. And I know I’m promising myself. Reassuring myself that none of the rules and obligations—none of the expectations I’ve lived under for years—apply here. Anyone else can say what they want, think what they want. It can’t touch us.

  As long as she is mine.

  “Ours?” Millie asks, the look in her eyes searching, almost hopeful.

  “Yes, mi amor, ours.” I reach behind her and unclasp the bra before slipping it from her. Then I kiss each breast, letting the desire to be inside her wash over me. Through me. It’s everything. And I accept the agony of it.

  “I am yours,” I say, moving my mouth to hers. “You are mine.” I kiss her. “This is ours.”

  Millie drinks my kiss, and then I feel her free hand slide between us. She closes around me before I can stop her. “If this is ours, then we need to share.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MILLIE

  Luc’s body shudders above me, his eyelids dropping half-mast. That’s the only thing about him half-mast. The silken brick of his erection is as startling as if I’d reached down there and grabbed a handgun.

  I stroke him, and he hisses, raising his hips as though to draw away, but I don’t let go. “You heard me. We have to share.”

  Luc’s eyes are closed now, and he’s biting his bottom lip. Against my knuckles, his lower abs are rock hard. Just like the rest of him.

  “Relax,” I whisper, stroking again. “God, you even feel beautiful.”

  He groans, but I know I’ve won when he collapses on his side, and I roll toward him so we’re facing each other, my hand freer now to do exactly what I want. But if I’m going to get to do this, I want him bare. As bare as I am.

  “What do I have to do to have you na
ked in my bed?”

  His eyes spring open. In an impressive flash of masculine thrashing, his jeans come off and land on the floor. I didn’t even have time to let go. Not that I would have now that I’ve finally got my hands on him.

  But now there’s too much to look at, and my hand is in the way, so I let go and trail my fingertips down one gorgeous thigh. Dark skin. Darker hair. The curls at his sex are as black as kohl. I run my fingers up through them and hear the catch in Luc’s breath, but my senses are too enthralled to pay full attention. His hair here is coarser than the mass of dark silk on his head, but it’s still softer than I expected. I trace one curl with my index finger, and his cock leaps. At his sides, Luc’s hands ball into fists.

  Smiling, I look up and meet his stare. “I’m fascinated.”

  Luc’s teeth clench, making the muscles in his jaw stand out. A strangled sound rises in his throat, and I watch him swallow, the masculine mechanics there so lovely too. I stretch up and kiss the column of his throat, gripping him again as I do.

  His moan hums against my lips. I can’t stop smiling.

  “I should have known it would be like this,” he croaks.

  I draw back to meet his gaze, stroking him lightly from base to tip. “Like what?”

  His eyes lower to slits. “Torture.”

  “No,” I whisper, drawing out the word and timing my downward stroke to match it. “Not torture. I’m not teasing.”

  The brow with the sexy-as-hell scar arches. “Then what are you doing?”

  A minute ago, he called me mi amor. That means my love, doesn’t it? Is that what he means? Or is it just an endearment, meant to show feeling but not… I want to tell him the truth, but I don’t think I can. Buying time, my hands slide down and I cup his balls gently. He hisses again, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to stop me. He’s surrendered, trusting me completely.

  He does trust me completely. He has from the start.

  My hand rides up the length of him again. “I’m… l-loving what’s mine,” I say, my voice trembling just a little.

  Luc’s nostrils flare, and his chest heaves. But he says nothing. My mouth goes dry. I lick my lips and look away, my heart racing.

  Abort. Evasive maneuvers.

  I squeeze him, my gaze on the erotic beauty in my hand. “Y-you did say this was mine,” I say, trying to make the words light and meaningless.

  Then his hand is covering mine. “Yes.” His voice is fathoms deep. He glides my grip over him pumping once, but then he lifts my hand off him. I look up, confused. When my gaze lands on his, it’s like he’s seeing straight into me. And it’s terrifying.

  But then he settles my hand over his heart. “And this is yours, too.”

  The look in his eyes makes my breath leave me all at once.

  “What about yours, Millie?” he asks, the corners of his mouth turning up.

  “W-what?” Let’s face it. I’ve always been a chicken shit.

  His smile grows. “Are you trying to tell me you love me?”

  Oh God.

  Why do I have to be such a chicken shit?

  “Because I loved you first,” he says, sounding so cocky.

  My jaw drops. “Nuh-uh!”

  Chin to the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut, Luc laughs wildly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so happy. It would be adorable if I didn’t want to punch him. Only because I feel like an idiot.

  Laughing, he rolls on top of me, pushing me onto my back. I feel his laughter everywhere. And maybe I don’t want to punch him anymore, but I bury my face in the crook of his neck, still embarrassed.

  “Nuh—” He cracks up again. “Nuh-uh? Wha… What does that mean?”

  I growl, but it sounds more like grinding gears on a garbage truck. Luc has fits all over again. His arms slide under my back, and he squeezes me so tight.

  I don’t want it to, but it feels so good.

  I squeeze him back and bite the bullet. “It means I loved you first,” I say into his shoulder.

  He makes a humming sound I adore, ducks his head, and searches for my mouth. I turn to meet his kiss, but he doesn’t linger.

  “Not possible. I wanted to take you home at the soccer game. The first time I saw you in the stands.”

  I shake my head. “I saw you first, walking with your dad and your grandma. It was so cute.” I force myself to look up at him. “You looked so big and strong and gentle at the same time. I had to make myself stop looking at you.”

  His dimples are shining down on me now. I reach up with both hands and palm them. “These were my undoing.”

  “What?” he asks, frowning just a little.

  “Les Dimples.”

  He laughs again. “Les Dimples? I don’t think that’s technically French.” He’s smiling above me. His happiness is so big. It’s so big, it tugs at my happiness. Asking for it to come out and play. But I can’t let it go.

  “Millie?”

  “Yeah?”

  His smile softens and he squeezes me again. “I love you.”

  My whole body tenses. I know he feels it, but he doesn’t stop smiling.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to say it back.”

  “Oh, God, Luc.”

  I love you. I love you so much.

  Why can’t I just say it? I can say I loved him first. I can say I’m loving what’s mine. Why can’t I just say I love you?

  What if I give him my heart and he leaves me? Or worse?

  For a moment, I think of my mother. Of what I can only believe was the last decision she ever made. To jump into that water and go after my father.

  This feels like just as big of a leap—and maybe one that will be just as doomed.

  “Millie. I get it,” he says, looking peaceful. “I already know.”

  I blink. “You do?”

  He nods. “I was having a shitty morning. A really shitty morning. And it was because I needed this. I needed you to know.” He shrugs. “And I guess I needed to know, too.”

  Guilt squeezes my heart.

  He must read my face because he shakes his head. “It’s okay. You already made me feel better. Like you always do. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “You make me feel better too.” Can you hear me saying I love you? My eyes sting. I blink them hard.

  “I love you, Millie.”

  I shut my eyes, trying to keep from falling apart.

  Luc brushes his lips against my ear. “Let yourself feel it,” he whispers. “I love you.”

  Then I hear him. Let yourself feel it.

  So I do.

  Luc Valencia. Just told me. That he loves me. He loves me.

  My stomach balls up like I’m in a plummeting elevator. Because I don’t deserve him. Because I love him back. So much. Because I want this more than anything. Because letting myself feel his words is a shortcut to letting my heart get the shit kicked out of it.

  “Luc?”

  “Yeah, linda?”

  I swallow. “I’m a chicken shit.”

  He presses his lips together and tries not to laugh. Instead, he shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”

  “No, I am,” I say, my brows climbing. “And I just think it’s fair you know. You’re in love with a chicken shit.”

  This time he does laugh. And the ball in my stomach softens a little. God, I love making him laugh.

  He shakes his head again. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

  I snort, an emission I immediately regret. Snorting while naked is never a good idea. “If I’m the bravest person you know, then you know a lot of chicken shits.”

  But by the time I manage to say this, we are both laughing. It becomes hysterical. Unstoppable. The ball completely dissolves and then I really feel it.

  I feel what it means to have Luc’s love.

  It’s big. I can’t touch it or see it, but I know it’s big. And it’s solid. Solid enough to hold my weight. And my fears.

  And it’s warm. God, it
’s warm.

  So warm, I want to draw it up inside me. I want to be one with it.

  I want to be one with him.

  I watch as he catches his breath, the laughter finally abandoning him. He’s looking down at me, dark eyes shining, and the look in them makes me feel like I’m the most important person in his world.

  Which is a damn good thing because even though there are three people who have to be pretty damn important in mine, I suddenly have no doubt that I can make room for one more.

  “Luc.” I capture his face between my hands again. I leave room in the valleys between my thumbs and index fingers so I can see his dimples.

  “What, mi amor?” This time, I feel this too. His words tickle through my chest and land on my heart like goose down from a pillow.

  That same heart pounds, picking up speed as I take a deep breath. “I love you, too.”

  And then he’s kissing me, more words filling the air as though the pillow has succumbed in a pillow fight.

  “Te amo… Te amo más que respirar… Millie, my God, I love you… Eres mía, ¿me oyes?... Mine, I tell you.”

  “Ours,” I gasp, snatching breath where I can. “This is ours.”

  He groans in pleasure when I echo his earlier words. And with his groan, Luc tilts his hips, and I feel the branding heat of his erection on my bare thigh. I blink my eyes closed as sensation washes over me. Because, suddenly, it isn’t his erection or my thigh. It’s him and me. Not pieces and parts that can be named and separated.

  No more separation.

  The urge to be closer to him opens me. My knees fall wide, and he settles into the cradle of my hips.

  Luc’s breath rasps when his sex presses against mine, his hard length connecting with my slippery stem of nerves.

  “Millie…” Luc’s voice is both hoarse and deep, a rumble of warning hidden among the consonants and vowels of my name. I hear his warning, and a part of me tells me to heed it. To pull away. To play it safe.

  But that niggling voice can’t compete with the chorus of body, heart, and soul that calls for him. For us.

  “I need you.” I hear the words leave my mouth, and every part of me—even the tightly wound voice of protest—knows this truth.