Bittersweet (Ocean View #3)

by Morgan Elizabeth

And then Ben steps back, letting me go, but not before he knows I’m stable on my feet. He turns around and leaves like he was never even there in the first place. He leaves and I’m left standing there, staring at where he once stood, so confused as to what the fuck just happened.

“You know . . .” A small smile forms on her lips. “Ben’s looking rather exhausted this morning too.” I’m sure she’s hoping for some scandal.

“Don’t worry, I got him back.” An eyebrow goes up and I sigh. It’s only fair to air out my own misguided actions as well. “I set my alarm for five. I’ve been trying to get to the bakery later, be quieter. But this morning . . . well . . . my music was loud. And so was my work.” I cringe because even though I feel it was warranted, it wasn’t the kindest thing to do. I mean, did I need to hold that cookie sheet over my head and slam it to the ground? No. But it sure did make me feel good in the moment.

“Trust me, I could take him. He’s scared of me.” “Hattie, I’m scared of you.” She smiles. “Good. I like it that way.” I laugh and shake my head as she winks.

Fuck. I’m so fucked, aren’t I?

And each and every time I’m in her presence, I’m an asshole to her. I can’t help it. Why is that?

No, he’s here with a purpose. He’s here to talk to me. Fucking, fucking Dad. “Hey, Johnny. Nice to see you.” He smiles wickedly, and for the first time since all of this started, I don’t just feel uneasy. I feel true, all-consuming fear. That is not the smile of a man who understands that I did not get myself into this mess, that I am being burdened by the literal sins of my father. This is the smile of a man who knows how this could end and although I might not enjoy it, he would. Greatly.

“On the house.” He moves, grabbing my wrist. The grip isn’t just firm. It’s a bruising grip, pain shooting through my arm with the action, and he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in. “You gotta figure this out, bellissima. You don’t want me here again.” I should tell him off. I should draw attention to him. I should tell him to fuck off and call the cops. But I don’t. “Talk to my father, Johnny,” I say, gently trying to pull my wrist out of his grip, but he just holds tighter, causing a small squeak to fall from my lips. He just smiles before another hand comes over, grabbing the bag and taking a single step back. It’s interesting how he has the confidence to do this in a crowded, small bakery. He’s not scared of getting caught. But I sure as fuck am scared.

And as I go through my day, I feel the throb of my wrist and watch the fair skin darken into a deep bruise. This is bad.

A year ago, I told my dad I was done, and nothing has touched me since. Until that note in my bakery. Until today, when a literal mobster came into my business, threatened me, and bruised me in a public, crowded space.

“Fix this or I’m gonna start talking.” His face drains of color. “To your colleagues, to the press, to whoever will listen. Sam told me there are already doubts, so it wouldn’t take much. But I’m telling you now, if I go down, you’re coming with me, Dad. If something happens to Lilah, I will make sure that you crumble alongside us.” “Lola—” “Goodbye, Dad. Call me when this is handled. Until then, do not contact me.” And then I leave, wondering if I just made a huge mistake by putting this in his hands.

So now I’m in the bakery, music blaring and trying to both wake myself up because of lack of sleep and simultaneously quiet the demons screaming in my mind. I should probably be a good neighbor, turn it down or use my headphones, but today? Today I need the noise. Today, my mental health is more important than neighbor relations. And fuck, if he can’t be courteous to me and my sleep needs, why should I be to his?

Ben: You keep up with that sassy mouth and I’ll find a way to shut you up. Me: I’d like to see you try. Now, why the fuck would I say that?

“Lola, let me in,” Ben says, fist pounding on the door. A chill runs down my spine. Why is he here? Okay. That’s a dumb question.

It’s almost funny that this is why he hates me with such a passion. He thinks I’m privileged, that I haven’t earned any of this. I could be shocked, but truly, I’m not. I’ve faced this my entire life. Any success, any grain of accomplishment was always downplayed by those around me as if it weren’t me who did it.

“What is this?” he asks again, his voice a bit gruffer, angrier. “Ben, it’s nothing, I—” He closes the gap, pressing his hips to mine, pressing his belly into my hand pinned between us. “Who did this to you?” he says, his voice louder now in the small space, angry and frustrated. “Ben, you’re scaring me,” I say, a shiver in my voice. With my words, his eyes soften. His grip loosens. He doesn’t move away, though. Instead, he moves closer and uses his free hand to move the little hairs that always fall from my braids around my ear. “No. No, Lola. You never have to be scared of me, sweet girl. Ever.” “I have a lot of things to be scared of, Ben.” I don’t know what makes me say it. It’s like when I’m in his presence, my filter melts, common sense goes blank, and I say what’s on my mind instead of what I should. The words I was trained to say. “Everything is fine.” “I’m happy.” “Our thoughts and prayers . . .” “My dad is a great man.” Instead, when I’m with Ben, I find myself telling him what I really feel.

With the movement, he groans, the sound deep in his chest, and with his mouth to mine and our chests pressed together, I feel the vibrations everywhere. I moan. I moan freely and openly, and fuck, the realization hits me: I want this man. His hand has moved to my ass, gripping me at my full hips, the other hand still tight on my braids, the feeling causing delicious pinpricks of pain and pleasure I never thought I’d be the type to crave. But my moan also snaps me out of my haze. I can’t do this. I can’t get lost in this.

Then I feel Ben place a small kiss on the back of my neck before the padding of shoes on the floor hits my ears and the door shuts behind me. The kiss—which should, in all honesty, have been chaste and simple—burns on my skin throughout the entire day as I try and forget what happened.

And now, I’m scared. Because what is there to do? I don’t have seventy thousand dollars. I don’t have half of that.

Right now, I have to go save my woman. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve just decided she’s mine—in every way.

She’s panting. Trying to catch her breath. Like she’s . . . She’s . . . Holy shit. Oh God, Ben! wasn’t a cry of panic. It wasn’t her begging me for help. It was her coming. With my fucking name on her lips. And with that angry look on her face, I can tell she has no idea.

Her eyes go impossibly wider. And I smile at her. I smile at her because whether she knows it or not, tonight, I’ve decided to lean into this fucked-up game and make this infuriating, beautiful woman mine.

When I end the kiss years before I would like to, I step back, letting go of her. She stays standing there, eyes hooded with desire. Desire I don’t think I would ever get tired of seeing on this woman’s face. I am so completely fucked.

“Next time, sweet girl, just come downstairs. I’ll take care of you.” When her eyes flare, a mix of heat and embarrassment and desire flooding those green irises, I know.

One way or another, I’ll make this woman mine. Now I just have to figure out how.

“Hattie says you have a new neighbor that you’re enamored with.” “I’m firing Hattie.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” “It’s just you’re being an ass, Benjamin James.” I don’t respond. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

“Anyway. We got off on the wrong foot, and it never really . . . righted. Every time I see her, she drives me insane and I say something dickish.”

He wants a face-off, he’s going to get one.

“But if you want to forget whatever the fuck has been clouding your eyes and you want to do it by me fucking you out of my system, I’ll open my door, bring you in, and make you scream my fucking name. Lola, say yes, and I’ll make you forget everything but my cock between your legs.”

I need to get her in my room. Then I need to get her naked. Then I need to get my cock inside her. Those are my priorities right now.

This was meant to be some kind of quick thing, a way to get her out from under my skin and for her to burn off steam. But seeing her there, pristine and untouched, skin I’d love to mark in so many ways, my mind goes places it should not. Never. And definitely not with this woman, all fire and fury and trouble and bad decisions. Not with Lola.

Her hands go to her hips and begin to push down, but I want to savor this. If this is it, my one chance to get my fill of this woman, I’m taking it all. “Slow,” I hear my voice say, and her face moves, looking at me, locking her eyes with mine.

Sweet girl, trust me. You want to listen to me. Daddy will make you feel so fucking good if you do.

“Good girl,” I say before moving my eyes to the fabric, savoring every inch of revealed flesh. But not before I catch her eyes flare just the tiniest bit with my words. Potential. There’s fucking potential there. My cock twitches again, agreeing with my thoughts.

So much fucking potential. My mind is moving without my conscious approval, creating scenarios where I can keep this woman in my bed indefinitely. I need to move on.

I expect the argument now. Or at least the denial. But no. As seems to be her style, Lola Turner shocks me when two pink-painted pointer fingers go to either side of that wet pussy and pull it open for my eyes to see. And then she takes it a step further, locking eyes with me and swiping a finger through her wet, from her entrance to where she circles her clit at the top, letting out a breathy noise. “Again,” I say, needing to see that again, to cement it in my mind until I die, a reel I’ll replay and jack off to until I’m senile.

“Such a pretty, sweet girl you are, my Lola.” Her breath hitches, the breath pushing cool air against my piercing. I rub it on her lips to warm it back up. Her eyes go wide. “Oh yeah, baby. That’s what you think it is.” I expect her to say something I expect questions. What I don’t expect is her hot tongue dipping out and touching the warm metal below the head on the underside of my cock. I don’t expect her to tilt her head and suck the barbell into her mouth. I don’t expect her to then take the whole head between her lips. And I don’t expect her to do this while her green eyes lock to mine, a mix of sex fiend and utter innocence burning there. “Jesus fuck, Lola. I knew you’d be hungry for my cock, but this is better than I dreamed.” She moans again, eyes going hooded and drifting shut.

Her fingers start to move, to leave. “No. Stay.” I use one hand to show her, forcing her to press those fingers deeper. For good measure, I pull the hand out then press it back in, helping her fuck herself. I could do this forever. But that clit is calling my name. “Good girl, just like that. You keep fucking yourself, and Daddy will eat.” Her breath hitches, but I’m already moving forward, already reaching my tongue out to taste her. Fucking heaven. “Oh, oh God,” she moans, hips moving; whether to get her fingers deeper or my face closer, I’m not sure. But she accomplishes both.

The hand holding her thighs open moves, her leg wrapping around to hold me in place as her hand goes into my hair, holding me in place. But I’m not leaving. No fucking way am I leaving until we get her to come together. And once we do, I’m going to fuck my sweet girl until she squeezes my dick and screams my fucking name.

But its not her words that have me losing my fucking mind. It’s the wet.

The woman is a dream. A dream I need to be inside of.

Again, I wonder if she’s going to fight me. But once again, the surprise hits me when she just smiles, takes her fingers out of her pussy, and licks them clean, eyes locked on me. If she were mine, I’d punish her. If she were mine, I’d tell her she knows damn well that’s my job. Something tells me that if she were mine, she’d do it anyway, the same smirk playing on her face.

I’m about to ask her if she’s on anything. I’m clean, and if she’s covered, nothing can stop me from sliding into the wet cunt I’ve been dreaming about, for better or worse, for the better part of a month. And then my fucking phone rings. Her body tenses. My body tenses. Deep down, I know we’re fucked and not in the way I thought we’d be a minute ago. Because I know I just lost her.

The worst part of my new apartment is the roller coaster that is Ben Coleman. The best part about my new apartment is Hattie Jones, a roller coaster in and of herself.

A friend. It’s . . . new. At the risk of making myself sound like a lonely loser, I haven’t had many of those.

It’s been nine days since Ben pulled me into his apartment and made me come on his bed, his phone the only thing stopping us from going further, and I’ve doubled down on my avoidance tactics.

“He’s been crankier than normal?” I ask, but as the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake. I showed interest. Hattie latches on.

“Never in a million years would you catch me with that man.” Okay, well, that kind of stung. “It’s not like he’s hard to look at,” I say, eyes moving to my food and voice low. Embarrassed, I realize. Because despite how much I hate to admit it, there’s not a fucking molecule in my body that isn’t attracted to Ben. And someone questioning my taste to this degree? Well . . . “Oh, he’s good-looking, that’s for sure. You’ve caught a hottie, babe.” “I haven’t—” “You have. You both are just too fucking stubborn to admit it.”

“But you? You’re fucking perfect.” “I’m . . .” “Perfect. This is perfect, actually.” A French fry goes into her mouth and she chews. “God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it early. Sweet as sugar, spice lying underneath. I bet you’re also submissive as fuck in bed, aren’t you?” My eyes go wide, panicking. My mind also goes back to that night. Every command he gave, and every time I didn’t hesitate. “Oh my God, you’re perfect for him,” she says, white teeth bright within the confines of red lips. “Perfect balance. Won’t take his shit, he won’t get bored. Keep him on his toes and he’ll keep you in line. Make sure you take care of yourself.” She puts another bite of salad in her mouth, chewing while looking me over like she’s vetting me for something. “Fucking perfect. Meant to be.”