by S London
“Have,” I correct.
“Griffin, this is where we end.”
I chuckle. “Every story has an end, little Fiona. I’ve decided ours will be happy. Now.” I trap her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Say it.”
There’s no further explanation for what I’m asking. I’ve told her how I feel. She knows rejection. She knows abandonment. Now, she knows what real love is. Her story, the words she released from her soul and poured onto those pages, speaks to what she feels when she is with me. Now I need her to say those words to me.
“It won't change anything.”
I give her a shake. “Tell me, woman.”
She lets the weekender bag drop down her arm. It makes a dull plop when it hits the floor. Her fingers trace that tattoo on my arm. My muscles tighten in response. Fiona meets my eyes. A hesitant smile appears on her face.
“I love you, Teddy Bear.” With a quirk of her brow, she asks. “You happy?”
I laugh out loud. Both hands around her waist, I lift her off her feet and twirl us both in a circle.
“I, for damn sure, am not mad.”
Placing her back on her feet. I take her in my arms, crushing my mouth to hers. Her taste explodes on my tongue, juicy pear, sunny days, steamy nights, and mine.
“Let’s go home so I can get you out of these clothes, and on your knees.”
“What about the reception?”
I drop my hand to her ass, giving it a light smack. She yelps, and I smile. I have more where that came from.
“Don't argue with me woman.”
Bending, I grab her bag, and just for shits and giggles... I toss her over my shoulder. Damn, it feels good to hold her again.
“Hey,” she bellows, squeezing my ass with both hands. “Where are you taking me?”
"Home, Mama Bear.” I chuckle. “We are going home."
The End
Note from Siera London
Thank you for reading THICK CUT. If you loved Griffin and Fiona’s story, please do me a solid by leaving a review and recommending this book to other romance lovers.
Just in case you’re wondering, there’s more Messy Mandy Presents: The Lunchtime Chronicles coming to your e-reader. Follow Messy Mandy on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/thelunchtimedish/
Xyla Turner’s Taste Test is the next story in
Messy Mandy Presents: The Lunchtime Chronicles
Here’s a sneak peek!
Taste Test by Xyla Turner
Chapter 1
Coy
Attendees were still coming up to me, as I leaned against the make-shift outdoor bar, after the matrimony of Declan and Skye's wedding. Mostly to have small talk and share that my toast was funny. That was only because I re-enacted Declan and Skye’s epic scene known around the office. Specifically about her ‘jinkies’ joke, she played at the board meeting. That shit was still funny, to tell the truth. Due to her off and black Velma-type nature, Skye's nickname was Jinkies. It just fit. The woman was cute and perfect for my brother from another mother.
My thoughts were interrupted when I heard my mom before I even saw her.
“Cooooyyyyy,” she called me like this in a sing-song voice, when she was with other people.
Turning around from the bar, I saw my pretty, tall, Italian mama waving for me to lean down so she could fake yell and whisper whatever was on her mind. Declan insisted on inviting her. Of course, that was after she invited herself. She had long claimed him as a son since his parents died when he was little and Ted raised him as his own. He didn’t really have a lot of women in his life, which mama made it her job to fill that gap. Therefore, when he announced he was getting married, she hopped in as if it was her God-given right to do so.
My mom whispered something, but I couldn’t make out what she said.
“I can’t hear you, Ma,” I told her.
“I got the perfect woman for you,” she repeated with a shout.
Here she goes again with this shit about the perfect woman. The lady has tried to set me up with chick on top of chick because she fears that I am not going to give her grandchildren. She calls me to remind me of her age, like I'm not aware, that she is getting older. Hell, I’m getting older. I’m fucking forty-five and I haven’t settled down yet.
Mama was standing in front of someone, in some attempt to hide who I could presume was the perfect woman. I was not really interested in seeing who was behind her, but when Ma, did the whole, "ta-da" thing, her big reveal, I nearly spit out my champagne.
“YOU!" I shouted. Then snapped and yelled, "she keyed my fucking car."
“What?” My mother gasped and whipped her head around to the woman. “You did what to my baby’s car?”
Her baby...what the fuck?
“Ma,” I went to clarify.
“He took up two spots,” she explained in a husky voice. “That’s not cool and it’s also not cool to get an attitude when you get called out on your shit.”
The woman shrugged, looked at my mom and took a drink of her own champagne. She was tall like Ma, but this woman was a deep shade of brown, curvy and sassy as fuck.
Well, there goes one less attempt at a hookup.
However, to my damn surprise, Mom shrugged her shoulders and said, “Yeah, I hate when people take up two spots. Your car is just not that big.”
Seemingly getting over that the wretched woman beside her just keyed her ‘baby’s’ luxury vehicle, she went on and introduced the woman.
“This is Yadira and this is my son Coy.” Mom continued. “Coy, she has her own shopping mall over near Mercy Hospital. You hear that boy?” Mom whispered rather loudly.
“Yes, she is also the same person that just keyed my car,” I informed my matchmaking mother.
“And he,” Yadira snapped back. “Is the one who took up two spots with his fancy, schmancy race car.”
One of my eyebrows rose, as I took in the tall, thick thang sassing me in front of my mother. I didn’t take sass much and I damn sure didn’t take it from a woman that drove a fucking electric car, cute and thick like her.
She had on a blue dress, that hugged her top-heavy self, curved in around the waist, only to expand after it draped over her ample ass.
Nice and thick.
Just like I liked it.
Not on her, because I needed to get my car fixed, thanks to her crazy ass.
“Mom, give us a minute,” I instructed.
“Oh sure, honey.” She smiled wide as if her job was accomplished.
Once she left, I looked at the woman who damaged my vehicle.
“Do you have insurance?” I asked but didn’t wait for the answer. “You’re going to pay for the damage to my car.”
The tall thing folded her arms over her ample chest and said, “I’m not fixing a thing. You should not have taken up two spots. Who do you think you are?”
She was getting under my skin and I wasn't sure why. I knew this because I was in her space when I looked down and said, “Oh, you’re going to pay, one way or another.”
Her head jerked back, then she said, “What is that supposed to mean? I’m not paying for anything.”
I pulled out my phone with the picture of her license plate and showed her.
“Oh, you’re going to pay, sweetheart and especially for all that sass. Not sure of the type of man you’re used to dealing with, but I’m not the one to let that shit slide. I’d have you over my knee for that,” I pointed to her lips, "mouth of yours.”
This caused the woman to step back away from me, but I moved in to reaffirm my meaning.
“Excuse me,” she stuttered and visibly grew uncomfortable.
That was just fine with me because she needed to know, I would not tolerate sass.
“You heard me, darling,” I reiterated. “Now, am I going through your insurance, or are we handling this another way.”
The warring of my two options was very visible as her perfect round and brown face was quite expressive. The cheeks were pronounced
on each side of her face, it was the cutest thing and made a man want to cup them.
But.
There was always a but.
This woman wasn’t mine. No touching, no teasing, kissing, or even spanking unless she was mine.
“What were you thinking?” She finally asked me, with what I could determine was her trying to show no fear.
It was too late for that because I was like a dog and smelled it a mile away. Therefore, I was on the attack.
“Well,” I looked her up and down with a hungry stare. “We can do dinner and fuck or just fuck.”
Her head jerked to each side, as she took in her surroundings, before she whispered, “Fuck?”
“Yeah, darling,” I told her. “Fuck? You’ve done it before, right?”
“Are you serious?” She hissed.
“As Billy is with a goat,” It was my time to cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m not fucking you!” She glared at me.
“That’s fine. I’ll just run this violation through and then we can talk in small claims court.” I shared with a shrug of my shoulders.
“Small claims court?” She asked. “It’s a damn scratch.”
“That’s an almost six-figure dollar car.” I snapped back. “You’re measily insurance is not going to cover what needs to be done in order for my car to get back to her former glory. That is why I take up two spots.”
She was cute.
“Fuck.” She shook her head and began to chastise herself. “You always let your temper get the best of you. Dammit, Dira.”
Then she looked up and said, “Can we just do dinner? I’m finishing classes right now and I don't have time for this. I know I should apologize, but it’s just that you made me mad. I, uh, don’t want to...”
“Fuck me?” I finished for her.
“Yes,” she nodded her head.
“So you’ll do dinner with me, but how about we keep the fucking on the table.” I compromised a bit.
It was never coming off the table because I already imagined my hands on those hips as she took my whole cock in her snug pussy. This was a done deal, as far as I was concerned.
“Dinner, then.” She nodded. “Just dinner.”
“With fucking on the table,” I clarified.
She looked at me up and down, taking me in for the first time. I was six feet and five inches with a used gym membership, large feet, big hands, and this tight ass suit didn’t leave my dick to the imagination about my physique.
With a smirk, I said, “Yeah, fucking is still on the table. Here is my number.”
The END
Fiona lived in Endurance before returning to San Diego. Here’s a sneak peek at the Men of Endurance series, STAYING THE COURSE by Siera London.
STAYING THE COURSE Excerpt
The exclamation point at the end of Ivy Summers’ streak of bad luck came three hours before midnight on a deserted stretch of California’s Interstate 80.
How’s about we do a little exchange, a ride for a ride.
Another gust of crisp wind slammed into her plastering her lightweight shirt against her chest. Battling the punishing cold was a small price compared to giving Ralph the Trucker a ride. With fingers stiff from the cold, she barely managed to hold onto her tattered backpack and gather the edges of her peeling second-hand leather jacket. The material felt smooth under her fingertips, the natural texture worn thin from wear and tear. Where was all this chill factor when the scorching June heat had melted the glob of school glue holding the heel of her combat boot in place? Though she’d been doing the stinky leg walk for miles, and her right calf ached from the uneven gait, the shoe fix took a back seat to her empty belly.
In the immediate future, she needed food, a crackling fire to drive the chill from her bones, and a quiet place to lay her head. Well, she could sleep on a theme park roller coaster at this point. When morning came, the first order of business would be a job, one that asked a short list of personal background questions and paid in long green cash. She’d stick around a few days to earn enough money to keep it moving east... back to Shell Cove, Florida.
With every step, Ivy fought the urge to collapse under the weight of yet another bad decision. Following Johnny to California had been a mistake. Running from his brother Poe had been a calculated risk.
“Stay the course,” she whispered. The mantra was a remnant of her time at the Second Chance women’s shelter back in Shell Cove. “You can do it.”
The warm light of civilization came into view, and Ivy breathed out a sigh of relief. Hungry, tired, and cold, she limped into the town of Endurance, California, population 1,333 per the marquee. Her late-night interstate stroll had been at least four miles. Yet, she’d netted a big fat zero on the relief scale; zero all-night diners, zero truck stops, zero convenience stores, and zero motels. Either she’d stepped into the twilight zone, or the township had endured in the land that time forgot.
Ivy took a right off of Miramar Boulevard passing a fancy museum that housed the public library. At the town’s center, a very regal looking City Hall building with a marble portico and an intricate pediment sat next to the sheriff’s office, and then she came to a crossroads. How appropriate. She was at a crossroads with a lot of things in her life. She had a choice to make. Either she could go straight ahead onto Saratoga Springs or venture a little farther off the straight and narrow and take Miller Road. Would her destination hold more closed doors and dead ends?
From the intersection, the end of Saratoga Springs Road stared back at her. All of sudden, a sedan zoomed by, kicking up a cloud of road dust and pebbles.
“Hey,” she railed, shielding her face with both hands, as she jumped out of the way. “Watch out, nut tart,” she shouted to the vehicle’s twin red lights. Coughing, she waved away the suffocating dirt swirl as the car disappeared from sight. Not wanting a close encounter of the deadly kind, she decided to avoid the road altogether.
“Alrighty then, Miller Road it is.”
There was Bee-Bee’s bookstore. The quaint teal-colored stucco building had a neon sign shaped like a nineteen fifties coffee cup resting on a saucer. This was definitely a throwback town. Everyone knew coffee came in sixteen ounce tall cups. The street was locked down tighter than a pill bottle in a nursing home. She wondered if this bargain bin Smallville even had a hotel, motel, or an Endurance Town Inn.
Prepared to give up and turn back, Ivy warmed when she saw a faint red glow coming from the far end of the street. Dragging her sore limbs forward, she approached the place with caution. There were velvet curtains at the two giant windows, the kind you might see at a fine restaurant known for patron privacy. The sign overhead the building read No Limit Bar and Grille. Looking back over her shoulder at the darkened street, she smirked. The town of Endurance definitely had a limit that probably didn’t welcome wanderers like her. Ivy reached for the door handle and gave it a firm tug.
Nothing happened.
Giving it more muscle, Ivy gripped the faded wood, curling the fingers of both hands around the lever and yanked. On uneven heels, the added force and momentum had her wobbling on exhausted legs.
Still nothing.
Ivy felt the tears swell in her eyes. Don’t cry. But, a familiar burn started in her nostrils, and then she felt the traitorous things flare in frustration. Dang it, she was going to cry. All of a sudden, the door flew open. Before she knew it, her body was in motion, flying backwards, and her behind hit the cobblestone road, hard.
“Crap,” she grumbled, followed by a few choice swear words as she sat on the ground, contemplating her misfortune. It seemed she had an invisible bad luck symbol etched on her forehead.
A guy, all blonde haired with steel blue eyes glared down at her, his height imposing from this position. She tried to stop her eyes from taking a walk up his impressive form. Cowboy boots, darkened with age, covered his large feet. Denim jeans, not too tight, not too loose, clung to legs defined with muscle. His thighs looked like he could support her weig
ht for hours and not tire. A plaid shirt, buttoned up the front, did little to conceal his broad shoulders and sculpted abdomen. Yep, those pecs could be in one of those Sleep-Right commercials. Every woman she knew would claw her best friend’s eyes out to have a chest like his cradling her head.
“We’re closed,” he growled, face locked in a stony expression.
She waited for him to extend a hand to help her up. After all, it had been his fault that she fell.
She waited some more. Okayyy, nothing. Rubbing her hands together to rid them of the ground debris, she winced as loose gravel scraped across her abraded palms. She looked up at ole blue eyes.
“Your sign says you’re open,” she said removing her backpack.
He gave the sign a cursory glance, and then frowned. “I’m not.” He bobbed his chin in her direction. “You’re trespassing.”
Unless there was a new ordinance expanding the law to include sitting on your butt in a public street, he was wrong. Ivy came to her feet, no thanks to him. Looking up, she craned her neck. Whoa, he was tall, and kind of cute in a small-town Scrooge way.
“Then you should turn the lights off,” she said with a scowl.
He gave her a twisted smirk. “You from the bank?”
She reared back, staring up at him in confusion. Dressed in her best pair of ripped jeans, a University of California sweatshirt she’d grabbed off a Goodwill clearance rack in Imperial Beach, there was nothing business-like about her. Why, in her current state of dress, he would think she was from the bank confused her even more.
“Nope,” she told him, adding a bit of sass to her tone.
He grinned, baring his teeth. Scary, but going without Maslow’s hierarchy of needs frightened her more.
“Then, don’t tell me what to do, lady.”
Her stomach growled, and he narrowed his eyes on her. When it screamed out loud again, the blue-eyed grumpy-pants stepped onto the sidewalk peering down at her. He looked up the street, examining the dark shadows, where she’d come from.