"I am not, and I do not think about it all the time." Allie pouted. "Only about five percent of the time. And I've had sex. Just…not a lot of it."
"And we're back to your original problem—that you need to loosen up some, because you spend the other ninety-five percent of your time obsessing about your work, and I think those percentages should be reversed, or at least brought into a much better balance. You might have had sex, once, a long time ago, but you haven't had good sex even once in your life—I'd be willing to stake my life on it, or I wouldn't have to sit here and try to convince you to have sex."
Allie did the mature thing and stuck her tongue out at her friend.
"And somehow, I don't think you'd walk away from that man unsatisfied," Laura practically purred. "You might be walking funny, but you wouldn't be blue balling it, by any means."
Her fierce glare bounced right off Laura, as did her scintillating response, "Grr."
The next day, Saturday, Allie and her crate full of stuff Ubered their way to what she had somewhat less than affectionately thought of as the Corleone compound but was actually Bove's large, private estate outside of town. It wasn't quite the gang of toughs that had surrounded Vito's place that greeted them when they drove up to the gate, but it was quite well guarded. So much so that the Uber guy was kind of apprehensive about turning in, and she couldn't really say that she blamed him, either.
So, when they pulled up to the speaker and monitor, it was Allie who leaned around him and shouted out the window, "I'm here to return something to Mr. Bove. Lucas Bove?"
She felt the driver stiffen as she said his name.
"And you are, ma'am?"
She ignored the insulting use of 'ma'am' and said, "Allie Barstow."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence and a blank, snowy screen before the gate unlocked and began to open, and the voice said, "Drive up to the house and stop in front of the door. Don't get out of the car unless you're asked to."
"Jesus Christ." Alan, the Uber driver, would obviously have preferred to be anywhere else. She was amazed that he didn't just drive in enough to drop her off and turn around and head out again. But he didn't.
And he was well rewarded for not having been that cowardly. When Lucas appeared, he moved immediately to open her door, but she saw one of his assistants—she resisted the thought of calling them henchmen—come around to Alan and give him what looked to be a good-sized wad of hundreds, which improved his attitude considerably about being there.
Lucas' hand was extended, of course, to help her out of the car, but she didn't take it, and he couldn't say he was very surprised. Even though he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew why she was here, he was just happy to see her.
And as soon as she turned to get the stuff she was bringing out of the back seat, he moved to block her from doing so, bodily, looking at her the entire time while saying, "Joey, would you grab the crate that's in the back for Miss Barstow, please, and bring it in? Please have the driver wait. Get him whatever he might want from the kitchen, too."
Then he addressed Allie finally, saying, "Please come in."
For its enormous size, the house was surprisingly homey, not stiff and formal at all, which was how she had pictured it in her head. He offered a tour, but she forced herself to decline. This was not a social call—or so she kept chanting in her head, among other things.
She followed him through to a large room that was lined floor to ceiling with books, big comfortable couches, pillows on the floor and the largest TV screen she'd ever seen, which was playing an episode of Planet Earth's new season with so much realism it was as if you were standing next to a penguin.
He invited her to sit, but she was nervous, he could tell, and refused that, too. "I'm very sorry to bother you, but I really just came here to bring back the things you left for my birthday."
He looked crestfallen, but not too much so, as if her visit wasn't all that unexpected.
He also looked gorgeous—she'd never see him in jeans before, and he'd paired them with a Henley that revealed more than it hid of his physique. And despite her fears and guilt and worry and concern, everything in her was urging her to walk towards him and hug him tight and have him put those big arms around her, even just once. But she didn't dare.
"Really? But they're all things I bet you still need."
She had to laugh. "You are not wrong—except the kitty litter. Why did you give me kitty litter in with a bunch of stuff for car related emergencies?"
Lucas grinned. "It's cheaper and more easily acquired than sand for traction. I learned that trick while I was an undergrad at Harvard. Having to dig your car out of regular three foot snowstorms—not to mention the plows, which bury you even further—teach you that kind of stuff really quickly."
"Ah. Well, I know you must've hoped I'd've learned from all of your hard work that afternoon, but the only thing that's rattling around in my trunk right now is the can of fix a flat you gave me."
His look was definitely scolding, although his tone was deliberately mild. "Why am I not surprised to hear that, Miss Barstow?"
"Well, it wouldn't be right for me to accept these things from you, and I think you know that. I can't accept anything from you."
Lucas sighed, nodding his head reluctantly. "I had to give it a shot, although I have to admit that my motives were pretty altruistic—especially for me," he winked. "Knowing that you had that stuff in your car would ease my mind tremendously, but I understand and respect your position."
"Ease your mind? Why?" Allie frowned.
But Lucas stood before her and said, with no hesitation, "Because I care about you, Allie. I know you don't want to hear that from me, any more than you want gifts from me, but it's the truth and you deserve to know it. If our situation were different—if I were an average Joe who worked as a mechanic or whatever—I wouldn't be able to keep myself from pursuing you. I can barely do it now, and I only do so because I know that I make you uncomfortable in several ways—most of which I think would resolve themselves if we spent more time together, but some of which I realize you will never be able to adjust to."
What he did next was something she was in no way prepared for. He adjusted his stance to be closer to her, tipping her chin up with one finger, so that she had to look at him. Then, slowly, very slowly, he bent down and kissed her once, in a manner so profound that, even when he pulled away, her eyes were still closed and she remained stock still for several long beats afterwards.
"I have a feeling that's going to have to hold me—maybe forever." Then he cleared his throat, saying, "I certainly don't want to you to keep the gifts if you don't think you should."
That prompted Allie to snap out of her trance, saying awkwardly, "Thank you for understanding."
"I do, Allie. Probably more than you know. But, if you should ever change your mind, I think we'd be amazing together, and I'd do everything in my power not to scare you about the things you want—because I want them, too." He emitted a soft chuckle at her wide eyes. "Don't worry. I won't hold my breath waiting for that to happen."
Blushing furiously, as she always seemed to do around him, Allie forced herself to turn away from him. "Well, I'd better be going."
Every single cell in his body screamed that he shouldn't let her walk out his door without truly tasting her first. He had a bet with himself that he'd concocted during the long nights he spent thinking about her, fantasizing about her, stroking himself languidly while imagining how the different parts of her would taste—shyly sweet and hidden salty—just like her, and he'd already proven himself right about the shyly sweet with that kiss.
But there she was, walking away from him, and there he was, letting her go like the nice, polite man he endeavored to be—sometimes.
Having been raised to be a gentleman in the world in which he lived was not always an easy thing. At this moment, he wanted nothing so much as to go completely caveman, to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to his bedroom, and rarely, i
f ever, let her out again.
But he knew he couldn't do that.
She was a good girl.
And he was a very, very bad man.
And as such, he acknowledged to himself, even as he handed her into the Uber and said good bye to her—admonishing Alan to drive very carefully because he was carrying cargo that was very precious to him—that—deep down—he couldn't promise himself or her that he wouldn't take her for himself, given the slightest opportunity—despite the fact that he was fully aware that it would cause the both of them a whole world of misery outside of the blissful confines of whatever room in which he chose to make love to her for the first time.
And—for better or, what was more likely, worse—that opportunity presented itself more quickly than he had imagined it would, by far, and it was Allie herself who contributed—almost gleefully—to her own downfall.
Since her birthday and Laura's interesting, if somewhat insulting, character reading—not that it wasn't something she didn't already know; it was just kind of stunning to hear it said out loud like that, in such stark terms—Allie had been trying to force herself to unwind a bit.
Unbeknownst to her, drinking the coffee he had so obviously left her was the first baby step. Letting Laura convince her to take the day off for no particular reason beyond a birthday she rarely celebrated was the second real step she took towards making that change. The third, however, was more like a giant leap.
The gang usually went out on Friday afternoon, for drinks. She was always invited, even though she had always—previously—turned them down. But not this time.
And the stunned looks on their faces as she said yes was worth any amount of emotional angst she might feel in what was sure to be an awkward and uncomfortable social setting. But she decided she liked surprising people like that.
"Really?" The group of about five of them—dedicated happy hour types—all train wrecked right in front of her office when she said it, practically causing a pile up right there in the hall by her door.
"Yeah, I want to come."
They were only too eager to contribute to her delinquency, and they all ended up at their favorite place—she having yielded the choice to their considerable experience in such things—and, amazingly, she had a wonderful time.
She was also, within a very short time—because she was so unused to alcohol—quite tipsy, despite the bar food they were all sharing, and she came to sincerely wish she had never learned the term "drunk texting", because upon exiting the ladies' room but before returning to the table, her newly cultivated "wild side" ducked into a dark alcove and sent a message to someone's private number—when she shouldn't even have had his private number.
You up?
As soon as she pressed send, she regretted it on so many levels—not the least of which was the fact that it was no later than seven-thirty or so. Of course, he was up.
Her alcohol bathed mind didn't even go to the worrisome places it normally would. It went to the high school crush place first. What if he didn't even bother to respond? What if—
She felt her phone vibrate in her hand a mere minute or two—which, of course, had felt like a lifetime to her—after she'd sent it.
Is there something I can do for you, Miss Barstow?
M drunk! she sent, even though she hated the tendency to abbreviate that texting had proliferated. Words were meant to be spelled out, sentences punctuated correctly—whether one was texting them or typing them.
You don't drink much, do you?
She chuckled out loud to herself. Don't drunk at all, turning over a new leaf.
Another long, nerve wracking pause.
Are you in a safe place? Lucas was at home, wishing he could see her tipsy, but his first concern was her safety.
Suddenly realizing that she was alone, Allie made her way to the table where they had all been gathered, but no one was there.
With friends, but where'd they go?
He grimaced at that, cursing her so called friends. You're alone?
Yup
Where are you?
McGuffys
He knew the place. It was near the D.A.'s office. Sit down and order a coffee and a glass of water—and I want them both gone by the time I get there. Don't talk to anyone else.
You're getting here?
Although he was smiling indulgently, Lucas sighed, realizing he was probably going to have to be excruciatingly detailed. Sit down.
Yam sitting, mister!
Good. When the waiter comes by, order a coffee and a water. Drink them both and wait for me right there. Sit there quietly. Don't leave. Don't even move.
Not the bossa me
Well, I think we're going to have to work on that. Do as you are told, young lady. I'll be there shortly.
He received several other texts from her, most of them quite defiant, one of them with a picture attached that he thought might have been her boobs, but it was so out of focus that he couldn't really tell. He responded to some of them so that she would know he was still on his way and to try to keep track of her long distance.
Still sitting?
She sent him an angry emoji like a petulant child.
Answer me, little one.
YESSSSSSSSSSS
Did you order what I told you to?
The next text was a picture of a large glass of ice water and a cup of coffee.
Good girl. Drink up.
NOT A GOOD GIRL
As if he wasn't already rock hard at the mere idea of seeing her, that emphatic statement ratcheted things up several notches for him.
You're not, hmmm?
Not anymore.
Well, that's too bad. Good girls get treats, he replied.
Her next response had him nearly flooring his car.
& bad girls get spanked—whats ur point
When he finally got there, he double parked outside, ran into the bar, threw some money on the table to cover any tab that was left, scooping her up into his arms and squeezing her into his small, non-descript car.
She was dressed in the same prim and proper manner as usual, so her new "leaf" hadn't extended to that, and he wasn't sure whether he was happy about that or not. He liked the idea of seeing her looking a lot less buttoned down, but he wasn't at all excited about the idea of anyone else seeing her that way.
But she was definitely a bit polluted—there was absolutely no mistaking that, especially when she leaned her head on his shoulder while he was driving.
He was busy shifting and battling Friday night traffic, but he was dying to touch her when she had gotten so close to him voluntarily.
"Feeling sleepy?" he asked, looking down at that golden blonde head of hers. Her hair was down when it was usually raked ruthlessly into a nice neat bun, and he adored it. It was just a bit past shoulder length and wavy, and his imagination was tormenting him with thoughts of just how soft and silky it was and how that might feel trailing over very sensitive parts of his anatomy.
But then he nearly ran into the back of a car that was stopped at a light, and he forced himself back to reality, taking the opportunity to arrange her in an upright position in her own seat, all while his zipper made an indelible imprint on the underside of his cock and he cursed himself roundly for going commando.
Chapter 5
Once he got her back to his place, he put her on his couch and gave her a large glass of water, telling her sternly—for the fiftieth time that evening—to drink. "Since you didn't obey me and drink what you'd ordered at the restaurant," he chided.
Another order which she promptly ignored. Instead, Allie frowned, standing up, if a bit unsteadily. "I tole' you. Not a good girl anymore."
He couldn't help but be amused at her statement. "Honey, you are the anal-retentive poster child for good girls. I've heard tell about the famous fifteen-minute rule from your partner in wiping out crime, Mr. Bloomer, who is not fond of it in the least."
"I can still be bad and care about punctuality," she groused. "He's mad b
ecause I left for court without him one time because he was late." She downright snickered.
"Sixteen minutes, according to him."
"Nineteen, according to me, and it's the watch on the wrist of the person who's driving the car that counts."
She sounded almost sober—and a bit pissed that he'd brought that up, or perhaps that Bloomer had been complaining to him—but he thought she looked cute when she was on the defensive or pretty much any other time, for that matter.
Allie looked blurrily around for a moment. "How come I'm not home?" she asked petulantly, wandering a bit until he caught her arm and guided her back to the couch, helping her sit back down before she fell over.
"Because I thought it was less of a hassle to bring you here."
"But this isn't your house, either, though." She smiled drunkenly up at him, telling him expansively, "I liked your house a lot. It felt very cozy and homey."
Lucas smiled. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear that you liked it. This is an apartment I keep in the city."
Allie looked around a bit. "I don't even think we know about this one," she murmured in another moment of lucidity that stunned him for a moment.
As much as he was beginning to prefer her drunk, he knew he had to try again with the water, picking up the glass and trying to hand it to her. "Here. Drink."
She gave him a full-on pout that was downright adorable, shaking her head resolutely back and forth. "Nope. Not thirsty." Then she leaned forward and whispered, "Do you have any booze, though? I drink booze now."
Lucas chuckled. "I got that idea. You've had quite a bit tonight, haven't you?"
"Just two," she stated with absolute surety, while holding up three fingers.
"Well, since you don't drink much, it's affected you more than it might someone who has more experience with it. That's why I want you to drink the water, Miss Allie."
She clicked her teeth, clamping her mouth closed—even being bratty enough to show them to him—while shaking that beautiful head back and forth.
Her Bad Boy Page 5