Authors: V. L. Brock
As the unruly part of my sexually frustrated mind twisted the words which fell from his mouth in a rich, deep intonation, my eyes subtly grazed over his body, subsequently halting at the southern site which was mere seconds away from being pressed into my stomach.
Without
forewarning, strong, thick arms were coiled around me, my body completely eclipsed by the size of his. My head was nestled against his taut chest, allowing me to feel and relish the bulge of his pectorals against the side of my face. I breathed him in, a rich, masculine, heady scent that hijacked both my rationality, and my hormones.
“I’m sorry, darlin’,”
his muttering in my hair was followed by my head rising along with his chest as he sucked me in. As crazy as it sounds, in that moment, I felt as though we were almost on the same page: both desiring something forbidden, yet secretly terrified of letting it win.
Unpeeling my f
ace from his chest, I peeked up and scrutinized him with narrow, incredulous eyes. “Would you really do that for me?”
I watched as steady lines turned to deep creases across h
is brow, and his mouth seemed to open and form his word in slow motion. “Do what, darlin’? Be a prick?”
I nodded
.
He answered me not only verbally, but physically, as he
rubbed his hand soothingly up and down the length of my spine. “Kady, I would do anything, and everything I could to help you in any way possible. I have done. Just because you can’t remember it, doesn’t mean I’m going to stop doing what I’ve been doing. Understand, darlin’?”
As I whispered my appreciation,
his head dropped substantially, his forehead only a few inches from my own. The atmosphere was intense. Sweet, heated breath melded and plastered on the others flesh while a super-charged desire had us both gently panting. Concentration was limited to that of one another’s lips, our tongues peeking every so often to lick the parching flesh.
He was killing me. The visual in my head was killing me. The
imminence was inciting; even I could attest to that, and that was killing me, also. Closing his lips, I studied the small twitching of his facial muscles under his gruff, the rutted breaths he drew from his nostrils, along with the strained, wounded look on his profile when he forced his eyes shut. My body countered his as he shuddered against me.
When I forced myself to step awa
y from his hard, God-like body––which I’d only seen the back of––he clasped hold of the corner of the island, it was as though he was saving his body from crumbling before me. His bloodless fingers flexed painfully into the wood, the other hand balled into a fist at his thigh.
“Thank you,” he breathed, his eyes gingerly scouring from his fingers, up the
stretch of my body.
There was no need to ask what he was grateful for, because I was thanking myself,
for the exact same reason, too.
We
were sitting at the dining table, sipping coffee. Being placed in a medieval torture device would have caused fewer afflictions than what I was causing myself when I asked what he and Liv got up to the night before, after I left. I was dreading the answer which was mere seconds from being voiced, when Walker’s nose upturned.
“What’s the matter
?”
“What’s that smell?” he asked, holding his head high in the air, sniffing every
direction like an inquisitive canine.
“You better not have trampled dog mess through my house,” I replied
, craning my head around the table to check his feet. Thankfully, his boots were absent.
“You do know that trampling shite through the house is supposed to bring good luck
, darlin’.”
My eyebrows rose cynically to meet my hairline. “For the cleaning company who would charge several hundred dollars to
sanitize it, maybe…” I retorted dryly. When I’d finished, I was soon matching Walker’s canine, sniffing imitation, as a God awful stench floated around the room.
“You can smell it, too, right?”
My eyes bulged, my mouth agape. I slammed my coffee to the table and pushed out my white leather seat, the legs groaning under protest as I shouted, “Fuck! My cake!” and staggered to the range, whipping the tea-towel off the corner of the island as I did so.
“You were baking?” he asked while I lowered the black door. The heat instantly pasted itself to my chest as I lowered to retrieve the tin.
In a rush to get them out of the oven, my forearm accidentally connected with the hot metal frame. I gasped and groaned as the searing heat stuck to my flesh and caused a profound sensitivity, which soon proceed to tingle.
Turning and d
ropping the tins to the counter, I found myself concentrating on the section of my wounded arm which was bright red and already starting to shine. Muscles constricted throughout my body, making a beeline to my pelvis at the same time as I succumbed to a wince as my finger skimmed over the raw surface.
“God, darlin’, are you alright?” Walker was already trudging toward me.
Warm, calloused fingers took possession of my hand, and he stretched out my arm to inspect the damage. “Put it under some water.”
My head
shook as I adapted to the sensation it prompted. “It doesn’t hurt too much. It was just the initial shock. It’s fine.” I pulled my arm away then studied my crispy creations in the tin. “Cake?” I offered with a humorous grin.
He frowned apologetically.
“Pass,” he stated, but made it sound like a question.
“That’s what I thought.” I hung my head, and felt that globe of
exasperation solidifying in my stomach and travel up to my chest. I tossed the cloth aside and scoured my forehead.
“What’s up, darlin’?”
Lungs filled to capacity, I ousted all oxygen in one overly-long groan. “I was really hoping that this was going to help me.” I slammed my hand down onto the work surface and risked a peek up at him. “You have no idea what it’s like to feel you’re on a time limit to get the answers you need before something awful happens. And I know, something awful will happen…but when he’s here with me…” My sigh was instantly appeased when Walker wrapped me up in his arms, his one hand softly combing through my hair as he held me to the hard warmth of his chest. “Never mind; I’m being silly.”
After a
trice, he pulled away. Peeking under the lip of his flat-cap, his eyes were wide and keen. “You know what they say, ‘if at first you don’t succeed’––”
“Give up?”
He grinned, his pearly-white teeth dazzling me along with the tiny, tiny dimple in his left cheek. “No, Kady. Go and have some fun. Today I am your fairy-Godfather. Go and get some shoes and your jacket.” He released me from his arms.
“Fairy-G
odfather? I think I could possibly use a leprechaun instead if you have one spare.”
“Okay, I’ll be your leprechaun
instead. And I’m making your first wish. You need some fun, Kady. You gotta let that amazing head of hair down.” I smiled and cocked my head feeling fairly embarrassed. “Shoes and a jacket, now.”
During the time it took us to slowly pull out of the driveway in Walker’s black and silver pick-up, I saw Mrs. Steinbeck being her typical nosey self, and b
opping up and down on her porch way, searching for the best position to stick her two cents in over the trimmed bush.
“Watch out, Mrs. Steinbeck’s on the prowl,” I muttered.
Walker reversed a little so we were outside the chocolate colored, detached building. Poking his head out of my window, he leaned across the bench seat and my body. “Is there anything we can help you with, Mrs. Steinbeck?” he shouted out as I cursed him under my breath.
Peeking up at the building, the middle-aged woman with eyes like a hawk simply shook her head.
“Are you sure there’s nothing we can get for you?” he called. “Apart from a gossip column in one of Boston’s top magazines,” he whispered to me and a slight chuckle escaped my throat.
She boosted her red football helmet of a hairdo up with the palm of her hand and began to turn to her front door. “No thank you, young man, I am fine. I’ll pop around later Kady to see how you are.”
“There’s no need to put yourself out. I’m okay, honestly.”
“No, no, no,” she wobbled her index finger left and right. “I told Mr. DeLaney I’d keep an eye out to make sure you’re okay. I’m a woman of my word.” She grasped the doorknob and pushed open her door before yelling, “Bye, Kady,” and disappearing inside.
As we headed south towards Wellsmere Road, my hand made sharp contact with Walker’s thigh. “What?” he spat at me, pulling his focus from the road in an affronted pretense.
“You got to stop riling her up. God only knows what she is capable of.”
“God help us, darlin’, she may get the binoculars out, make a little diary of events, with times and descriptions of our attire to tell your precious boyfriend,” he chortled.
“Fuck off,” I laughed.
Nevertheless, my face plummeted along with my considerations as I secretly panicked over the degree of involvement our nosey neighbor had in my relationship. I suddenly didn’t feel like an adult anymore. I felt like a child being minded by the evil babysitter, who was more than ready to get me into trouble.
When we stopped at the lights opposite
Bricksdale Square, Walker leaned forward and popped the radio on, killing the uncomfortable silence which had seemed to be manifesting. His fingers beat rhythmically against the steering wheel as he spoke the words to a Linkin Park song alongside the lead vocal.
Risking a glance, I peered to my left a
nd watched as his delicious mouth formed the words, his jaw taut, and the gathering of the small V between his eyebrows when he concentrated on the lyrics. I giggled inwardly when he started softly banging his head, along with his fingers to the rhythm.
That was it; I couldn’t suppress the humor any longer. I ex
tended my arm and switched the station. I was shot a confused, insulted glare before his hand met the console again, and switched back to the genre of music, which was a fast track to giving me a migraine.
Resuming his beating fingers against the wheel, his head bopping, his shoulders juddering, I switched it again.
Raptly studying me, he gingerly switched back, stating, “Hands off darlin’. My car, my music. When we’re in yours, then you can have free reign.”
Pushing myself farther into the bench seat,
I knotted my fingers and rolled my lips. “I don’t think I’ll ever be confident enough to get behind the wheel again,” I confessed, then fell silent.
A hefty sigh and a hammered growl left Walker’s throat. He tossed
his head back against the rest. “Fine, you can turn it over. But I bet you, you’ll be the first one to turn it back.”
I rolled
my head to face him and scoffed, “I don’t think so.”
“No?
” his eyes flared expectantly. “Wanna make wager on that?”
I arched my
brow cynically. There was no way in Hell was I going to survive listening to rock music, or heavy metal, whatever kind of music that was, for the entire journey. “Fine.”
He spat on his palm and proffered his hand.
I frowned with tangible distaste at his offering. But, you only live once, so I reciprocated, spitting in the center of my hand, and clasping onto his. “Deal.”
The console was waved at by Walker’s hand as he gave me free reign. I switch through several channels,
finally deciding to stay on the one playing
Ironic
.
With a satisfied grin splashed over my face,
I rested back in the seat, when I unexpectedly became aware of fingers rhythmically beating against the wheel once again. My mouth dropped along with my stomach as I heard the man beside me humming along to the tune.
You got to be fucking kidding me. He likes Alanis?
Craning my head in his direction, I flushed beet red as he spewed along with the chorus at full pelt. He was an amazing singer, I couldn’t deny that, and he was singing along to Alanis Morissette’s Ironic, with the window rolled down, totally unabashed.
Mortified,
I sunk down low into the bench, when a group of women pulled up alongside us in a baby blue convertible. Walker peeked down at them, lifted his right hand to the lip of his hat and gave a gentlemanly nod, as he continued speaking along to the second verse.
Oh, my God, I could die.
He took a left turn, still brazenly singing away. God, his voice was phenomenal, deep, and rich with that indie style tone. Nevertheless he was killing one of my favorite songs. I had to admit defeat.
“Okay, Okay, you win. Have your radio back. Knock yourself out.”
With a haughty, gratified smirk, I thought he was going to switch channels, yet, he just resumed singing. Ah, I knew what he was doing. He said I would be the first one to turn it back; he’s not going to turn it. Overthrown, I changed the station.
“Hey, I liked that song,” he smiled at me.
I rolled my eyes heavenward. “So did I. What’s my forfeit then?” I queried.