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A chill runs down my spine. It’s not one of anger or frustration, either. Holy fuck, the look in that man’s eyes. I’ve read about that look. It’s hunger.
“When was the last time you had a man take care of you, sweet girl?”
“A man, baby. When was the last time you had one?” It’s been a long, long time.
“I want to kiss you, Lola,”
I hate this man. He’s an ass. He’s a jerk. He’s everything bad about the male species. But I really, really want him to kiss me.
I know he does because the next thing I know, his lips are on mine. And we’re kissing. His lips are moving on mine, and mine are responding. It is not sweet. It is not chaste. It is wild.
He groans as he does so, a sound that is nearly a resignation, like he’d come to realize a truth. I understand the feeling. Because I hate this man.
I hate him and his personality and his shitty attitude, but this kiss? This kiss feels right.
I stop the kiss, gently pushing on his chest, and still, he nips my lip a hair harder than necessary, like it’s my penance for tempting him before his head moves back completely. “Yeah, she feels it too,” he says under his breath, voice strangely husky.
“But let me know if he keeps it up. I’m serious. He might be my best friend, and I might work for him, but that won’t stop me from beating his ass.” I lift an eyebrow because she’s about half the size of Ben. “Trust me, I could take him. He’s scared of me.” “Hattie, I’m scared of you.”
The back room between clients is usually my happy place, where I can avoid walk-ins and be alone with my mind and usually my sketch pad. Except I don’t trust my hands with a piece of paper and a pen right now. They seem to be fixated on braids and an eerily familiar collarbone. Delicate bone structure, wide hips, and long legs.
Ben: You keep up with that sassy mouth and I’ll find a way to shut you up.
“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.”
This man who does not like me has me pinned in place in my bakery. But I’m not afraid. No, I’m turned on.
He moves closer with my words, and as I stare into his eyes, I know two things down to my soul. One, not a single part of him believes my story of how I got the bruise. Two, Benjamin Coleman is going to kiss me again. And if I want to throw in a third, undeniable fact: I’m not going to stop him.
Another hand grabs my braids, tugging them back to angle my head how he wants me.
“You keep telling yourself that, sweet girl. That this won’t happen, can’t happen.” Hot breath is on my neck and a finger brushes the nape, moving my braid aside. “But we both know we can only resist this for so long.”
“I sleep like shit,” I’d said when she mentioned l looked tired. “Have since I was a kid.” “Not me.” “No?” “Nope.” “What about if you’re stressed? Doesn’t it keep you up?” “Nope. I give myself a nice little orgasm, then I’m out like a light.”
I can’t stand her and her pink store and her stupid delicious cookies and her shitty fucking music and her annoying as fuck work hours.
And she’s right to be pissed that I keep barging in on her place, expecting the same respect I’m not giving her.
In another world, another universe, she’d make a good match for me. Sunshine to my dark, sweet to my bitter. A pretty, kind thing to sit in my booth while I work, chat up my customers, cackle in the lobby with Hattie, drive me wild.
God why am I such a dick to her? Because it’s fun, and she drives you wild in a way you didn’t expect.
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.
I slip her fingers into my mouth, the first two, and roll my tongue around them, letting my tongue ring hit her nails, her knuckles. And there I taste it. Her pussy.
Not long ago, these fingers were inside of her; her pussy was clamping down while she fucked herself, rubbed herself with these fingers that I’m cleaning with my tongue. She was coming with my name on her lips. She’s sweet. Sweet and musky and all I want is to taste more. I want to live in this taste.
So I let go of her wrist, let it fall, and put a hand behind her head, pulling her to me and kissing her again. It’s better than last time. It’s harder. It’s more impatient. And it tastes like her lips and her pussy.
“Next time, sweet girl, just come downstairs. I’ll take care of you.”
Regardless of the decision she makes, I know at this moment that no matter how much Lola Turned drives me insane, I also want to drive her wild. One way or another, I’ll make this woman mine. Now I just have to figure out how.
“Jesus, what’s this call for? To check in or get dirt?” My mom laughs, and the sound is nostalgic, though irritating, “Hattie says you have a new neighbor that you’re enamored with.” “I’m firing Hattie.”
When we were kids, Tanner laughed at me for confiding in our mom. But when someone takes your passion and nurtures it, fighting for it to have room to grow, you trust them.
And it’s not that I’d be going to him to do any of the filthy shit that’s admittedly run through my mind. No, it would be to fucking strangle him.
I need a solution. I need to fix this shit. I need . . . to get her out of my system? Or get myself into hers, maybe.
“There’s something here, Lola. I fought it; you’ve been fighting it. We drive each other wild, but I know you’ve wondered if we can drive each other crazy in other ways.”
“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 want to forget, Ben.” “Fuck yeah,”
I expect an argument. I don’t get it. Seems that when Miss Lola is turned on, she listens to me.
Sweet girl, trust me. You want to listen to me. Daddy will make you feel so fucking good if you do.
Gag
And her hands begin again, pushing down the lacy pink underwear. And she does it slowly. I groan a little. It can’t be helped. “Good girl,”
“Sit on the bed, Lola.” Again, a flash, the need to disobey. But then she sits on the edge of the dark comforter. “Open your legs, sweet girl.”
“Fuuuuckk,” I say, the sound coming from deep in my throat without my permission, but really, what else do you say when your dream cunt is just a foot away begging for your dick or your hands or your mouth? “Spread yourself for me.”
“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.”
