The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  Bancroft whirls around and I almost slam right into him. As it is, I have to put out my hands to keep from face planting into his chest. His hands are balled into fists. His nostrils are flared. His chest is heaving. And all I want to do is rip off his clothes and ride him like a rodeo bull. Too bad that’s not likely to happen.

  His left cheek tics. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with those shoes while you were onstage.”

  “It’s a flat, even surface.” I gesture to the sidewalk. “This is not.”

  “Would you like me to carry you?”

  “I’m not dressed for a piggyback ride,” I snap.

  His gaze moves darkly over me. “No, you certainly aren’t.”

  With that he takes a step forward, drops almost to his knee, wraps an arm around the top of my thighs, very high on my thighs—so high his thumb is close to grazing parts of me he probably doesn’t want to right now, what with him being so angry.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting you home.” And with that he stands.

  Now if I wasn’t a trained dancer with incredibly strong abs I would probably flop right over, because this is clearly his plan: to carry me away like a caveman. Just like Diva said he wanted to. I wonder if she’s psychic.

  “Are you kidding me with this?” I snap, irate. I’m perilously close to dropping my bag. I consider hitting him with it, but if he drops me it’s a long way down. I can’t afford a sprained ankle. And bruises are hard to cover with makeup. I let it slide down my shoulder and bump him on the butt. If I relaxed and let him pull this Cro-Magnon BS on me, my face might actually hit his butt, but then I’d be giving him what he wants, which is . . . well I don’t know exactly, other than to get me in his truck. And probably get righteous with me.

  I stay upright, putting lots of pressure on his shoulder with the heel of my hand to maintain this unnatural position. We pass half a dozen couples on the way to the car. Bancroft is extra pleasant with them, asking them how their evening is going, wishing them a nice night, commenting on the weather. And the entire time his thumb is disturbingly close to my girl parts, which don’t seem to recognize that this situation is likely not going to lead to fun things.

  Less than a minute later Bancroft is carrying me through a parking lot. It’s dodgy, as is the rest of this neighborhood, but the lot has an attendant. He stares at us as we pass by. Bancroft lifts his hand in a wave and I just roll my eyes.

  I’m a little disturbed by the fact that not one person we’ve passed has asked if I’m okay. Just because Bancroft is hot and well-dressed doesn’t mean he’s not kidnapping me. I suppose if I was putting up more of a fight it might help.

  He sets me down beside his truck. It beeps and the lights flash, he reaches around me to open the door. I’m facing him so it hits me in the butt.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “That was completely unnecessary.”

  “I disagree. Would you like to get in the truck now, Ruby?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  Bancroft gives me a tight smile.

  “Will you please get in before a group of thugs swarm us and tries to steal you?”

  “No one is going to steal me.”

  He steps in rather close. “If I was a thug, I would steal you.”

  Well now, that’s a little disconcerting. “Why would anyone want to steal me?”

  “Will you please just get in the truck?”

  I hate it when people answer questions with more questions. Evasiveness is annoying. As if I have a right to complain about evasiveness. “Well, if you’d give me some space maybe I could.”

  He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me up tight against him. I huff and then maybe I gasp just a little. I swear I can feel hardness against my stomach, and it’s not his belt.

  He sets me down quickly though, takes my bag and holds the door open, waiting until I’m in before he closes it—harder than necessary.

  His jaw is working and his brow is furrowed as he rounds the hood. He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine without saying a word. I’m so irritated right now. He pulls onto the street. Still silent. I’m the first to break. “You have no right to judge me.”

  “I’m not judging you.”

  I scoff.

  He comes to a stop at a red light. The tension is so thick it’s like wading through Jell-O. He turns his head slowly so he’s looking at me. I glare back. “Why would I judge you?”

  “Oh come on, Bancroft. Look at me.” I shrug out of my cardigan and gesture to my outfit. My skimpy, gauzy outfit. I’ve never actually felt sexier than I do when I’m dancing in this, but that’s beside the point.

  “Oh, I’m looking.” The light turns green and he shifts into gear. I never learned how to drive stick—not the car kind anyway.

  I huff and fume some more.

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me regardless of what I say.”

  “You’re the one who’s judging you.”

  I bite the inside of my lip, trying to come up with some kind of sassy, snappy retort. But I don’t have one. Because he’s right. I am judging myself. I’m so worried about what the other people in my life are going to think about this temporary career move—which would be viewed as a complete and utter downgrade from what I’ve been attempting to accomplish in the theater industry—that I’ve labeled myself a failure, and I’m expecting everyone else to do the same. Even though it’s actually quite far from the truth.

  “Of course I’m judging myself. This isn’t the direction I thought my career would go. But that doesn’t explain why you’re so angry with me.”

  “You want to know why?” Bancroft sounds incredulous.

  I throw my hands up in the air. It’s dramatic. “Yes. Why?”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I stretched the truth.”

  Bancroft expels a long, slow breath. He’s gripping the steering wheel tightly. “That is far cry from dinner theater, Ruby.”

  “What did you want me to say? I got a job dancing half naked on a stage in a burlesque-style show?”

  “Yes, Ruby. That’s exactly what I want. The truth.”

  “I don’t see why it matters so much to you. I’m just your pet sitter.”

  Bancroft’s jaw tics. I’m pretty sure I can hear his teeth grinding. He mutters something under his breath.

  “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  “Is that what you really think? That’s you’re just my pet sitter?”

  “Aren’t I?” My stomach is churning. This is a dangerous conversation to have. I know I’m not just his pet sitter. That this thing between has turned into something else, but I’m so hung up on my fear of being financially dependent on him that I’ve ignored the real issue. I’m already emotionally dependent on him, which may be even worse.

  He skirts the question with more of his own. “You live in my house. I gave you access to all of my things, codes, personal information. I put trust in you and you broke it. And why? Because you think I won’t approve of your choice of employment?”

  “Well do you? Approve?”

  “If you’re my pet sitter why would my approval matter?” He fires back.

  “Stop answering questions with more questions,” I shout.

  He licks his lips, eyes fixed firmly on the road. “I don’t like the neighborhood you’re working in. I don’t like that you have to take the subway home at the end of the night.”

  I keep my eyes on the dash. “Sometimes I Uber when it’s really late.”

  “Does someone walk out with you every night? Do they make sure you’re safe? Or are you on your own?” His tone is hard, angry.

  I’m evasive with my answer. “It’s not that bad of a neighborhood . . .”

  “It’s not a great one either.” His jaw tics with his frustration.

  “My last apartment wasn’t exactly in an upscale neighborhood either, and no one ever tried to abduct me.”
<
br />   He motions to my outfit. “Were you dressed like this?”

  “Usually I change before I leave. Tonight’s an exception.”

  Bancroft makes a right and pulls into the underground lot. I’ve never been down here before since the only other time I’ve been in his vehicle was when we moved me into his apartment. I hope this isn’t some kind of omen.

  He stops at the valet, but tells the attendant he’ll park himself and backs skillfully into a spot. He lets me get out of the car on my own. “Not going to throw me over your shoulder this time?”

  He looks me over. Beyond being angry, his gaze is hot. It makes my skin tingle, which is annoying.

  “Would you like me to?”

  “No.”

  I follow him to the lobby. He angles his body in such a way that I’m partially eclipsed by his broadness as we pass the security guards.

  “Worried someone’s going to judge you for being seen with me?” I mutter.

  He gives me an icy glare, slides his keycard over the elevator sensor that takes us to the penthouse floor and ushers me inside. It’s dedicated, so very few people use it. The elevator ride to his condo is full of more silence and tension.

  I’m relieved that we don’t run into anyone in the hallway. Particularly Ms. Blackwood. I’ve seen her a few times coming and going and she’s always polite, but in that way rich people are when really they think they’re better than you. Which is exactly the reason I’ve kept this job a secret, because I’ve grown up in an environment where that’s the rule, not the exception.

  Bancroft lets the door close with a heavy slam. He throws his keys on the counter and kicks off his shoes, then starts down the hall.

  “Where’re you going?” I call after him.

  “To my room.”

  I plant a fist on my hip. “That’s it?”

  He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “I’d like to get changed.”

  “You came all the way to my work to glare at me and be pissy and drive me home, just to go to bed?”

  He strides back down the hall toward me, eyes flashing. Jesus. Why is he so hot when he’s pissed off? “No. I came to your work so I could see for myself exactly how involved your lie was. I came to your work because I’m worried about the location and your safety. I came to your work because I wanted to see you perform. Now I would like to get changed and I think you should, too.”

  “What if I don’t want to?” I’m being a combative brat right now. I think it’s because I’m scared; of this conversation, that I’ve ruined any possibility of this being more.

  “I don’t think I can have this conversation with you while you’re dressed like . . . like—” he flails his hands around, gesturing at my outfit.

  I jut my chest out. I’m rocking some insane cleavage. This outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. His eyes drop and have a hard time coming back up to my face.

  “Like what?” I bark.

  “Like this!” he snaps back.

  “And what am I dressed like?” I know the answer to this question, but I want to hear him say it. I want a reason to go off on him because he’s a damn hypocrite if he can go out on a date with someone like Brittany who wears skimpy, slutty clothes on purpose, and get his balls all twisted because my costume is revealing. I mean, there is a lot of skin showing and half my butt is on display some of the time, but it’s not like I have a full coverage option for this gig. And it’s not as if I’d wear it off the stage.

  Bancroft’s face is red. His eyes close and stay that way for a while before they open again. “Everyone was looking at you!”

  I don’t get why he never seems to answer a question directly. I throw my hands up. “They’re supposed to! I’m performing.”

  “But why do you have to wear this? Why do you have to look so . . . so—” He takes a step closer, hands clenched at his sides.

  I lift my chin in defiance, challenging him to say what I know he wants to. “So what?”

  “So fucking hot!” It’s more growl than words.

  And not the words I expect. At all. I expected him to say slutty, or like a streetwalker, or a lady of the night. “I’m supposed to look hot. It’s how I make money right now. Is this another reason why you’re so angry? Because I’m too provocative?”

  “Yes. No. You lied. This. You. You’re driving me insane. I want—” Bancroft’s breath leaves him on a hard pant.

  I have no idea what’s going on. Two minutes ago he was pissed because I lied and now he’s mad because I’m hot. “You want what?” We’re almost nose-to-nose, me pushed up on my tiptoes, Bancroft leaning down so his shoulders are hunched.

  His hands flex at his sides. “You. Fuck. I want.”

  “Is that supposed to makes sense?” Sweet Christ is he saying what I think he is?

  His voice drops to a gravelly whisper. “I want you.”

  He admitted it. Out loud. Thank God. He doesn’t make a move to take me, though, so I push what I hope is his very last button. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  “You can’t make anything easy, can you?” His hand shoots out, fingers sliding into my hair, twisting into the strands. His grip tightens as he tilts my head back and then his mouth is on mine.

  It’s nothing like the time he accidentally kissed me at the engagement party. If that kiss was a fizzled-out candle, this one is an entire store of firecrackers going off at once.

  Weeks of pent-up tension explode as his tongue pushes past my lips and he groans into my mouth. I latch on to his hair, because there’s no way we’re stopping this now that it’s started.

  In the back of my head, reason tells me this is a seriously bad idea. I still live here. He’s angry at me for lying to him. I’m angry at myself for caring what everyone thinks, and for getting myself into this kind of situation. We need to have a discussion. One with words and some logic. But logic has gone out the window. Jumped the twenty-plus stories in a free fall.

  Sweet button of lust in my panties, this man can do amazing things with his tongue. I bet his talents extend far beyond mouth skills, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to find out if this is true.

  Bancroft slides his hand under my skirt. He doesn’t actually have to do much work to accomplish that since it’s so damn short. He grabs my glitter-panty-covered right ass cheek and pulls me against him. Like the last time I ended up with his tongue in my mouth, I can feel his ample hard-on against my stomach. I can’t wait to get my hands on it. Better yet, I can’t wait to ride it. Screw worrying about arguments and conversations. Forget worrying about having a place to live.

  I have a free hand, so I mimic him and grab his ass like he is mine. His grip tightens, and he shifts his hips, seeking friction. I can totally relate to that need.

  He breaks the kiss long enough to say, “I want you in my bed.”

  I groan around his tongue, which is already in my mouth again.

  “If you’d just stayed in my bed that first night I came home we could’ve done this a whole lot sooner.”

  “I slept in there every night you were gone.”

  He holds on to my hair and disengages from my mouth. “You what?”

  Oh shit. Maybe I shouldn’t be admitting this. “I um . . . I slept in your bed.” It comes out as more of a question than a statement.

  “What else did you do in my bed, besides sleeping?” His lips hover just above mine. I can’t get to them though, because he’s still gripping my hair. Not hard, just firmly.

  “I played hide and seek with Franny,” I whisper, because it’s true.

  “Anything else?”

  “Like what?” I bite my lip.

  His nose brushes my cheek, his lips at my ear. “Did you get off in my bed?”

  “Yes,” I moan.

  “Fuck.” He bites my earlobe and I gasp. His hand drifts down my side. “How?”

  I suck in a breath when his fingers graze the edge of my panties and he follows the fabric to the inside of my thigh.

  “I want you
to tell me how,” he murmurs.

  “How I got off?” I ask for clarification because I’m a little distracted by his fingers right now.

  “Did you finger-fuck yourself while you thought about me?” His tongue sweeps along the side of my neck.

  I make a groaning sound, it’s supposed to be yes, but I don’t think it comes out as a word.

  He cups me through my panties. “Did you?”

  I nod as much as I can since he’s still fisting my hair with his free hand.

  “How often?”

  “Every night,” I admit.

  He slips his hand down the front of my panties. His fingers glide over my clit and then he slides a single finger inside. “Like this?”

  I nod vigorously and grab onto his shoulders when my knees threaten to give out. “But harder and more.”

  “More fingers?” His lips move across my cheek again and he backs up until his eyes are on mine.

  This man is combustibly hot. “Yes.”

  He adds another finger, pumping slowly. God his fingers are long, and thick. A lot longer and thicker than my own. His lips touch mine as he asks, “How’s this?”

  “Faster, please, and harder.”

  His smile is absolutely sinister. “Listen to those manners.” But he does what I ask, pumping harder and faster.

  I cry out, grabbing onto his shirt to keep upright. “Bane.” The word comes out tortured.

  “I can’t wait to hear what that sounds like when you’re coming all over my fingers.”

  “Fuck. Shit. Oh my God, I want your cock.” So much for those manners.

  Bane chuckles. “There’s that naughty mouth I love so much.”

  He kisses me hard and keeps moving his fingers, picking up speed until I’m trembling as the orgasm rolls through me. And then his hands are gone and I find myself pinned to the wall by Bancroft’s hips. He starts grinding and, of course, I do the same.

  Yanking his shirt over his head, I run my hands over his chest. It’s an amazing chest. So solid. So defined.

  “Like what you see?” he asks.

  “So much.”

  “Me, too.” He grabs the hem of my dress—if we can even really call it that. Mostly it’s scraps of material sewn together—and pulls it over my head. My bra and panties are white and glittery, as is pretty damn typical in burlesque.