SEVEN
Scotti
So... that happened.
I was pretty sure things like that never actually happened in real life. You know, because other people were around, and it was silly, and guys - in my personal experience - weren't exactly into grand romantic displays. Not even with long-time girlfriends. Or wives.
Yet there was Mark Mallick, couples-pushing a shopping cart, whirling me around, and bending me backward and kissing me in the damn produce aisle.
And he didn't even know my real last name.
I guess it seemed to sort of go with his, as he said, boyish charm. He didn't care what people thought of his a bit over the top, fun-loving antics. And maybe he got a pass for them because he was so freaking good looking that all he had to do was flash a smile and all was forgiven.
That kiss, as goofy as it might have been, was still effective. I could barely force my legs to carry me as I walked away from him, making sure I was out of sight before I leaned back against an end cap and pulled myself together. If I didn't, I would be jumping his bones as soon as we walked in the door. And while true, I did want to do that, I also didn't want to rush things either. I wanted to enjoy the day, see what he had planned, not rush into the physical stuff.
Though, oh man, I bet the physical stuff would be worth rushing into.
Mind back on the task, I picked up apples, cinnamon, puff pastry, and some stuff to make icing from scratch, then made my way toward the register to find Mark casually standing next to a cart and reading the ridiculous tabloid headlines.
"Hey, did you know our senator is a zombie? Apparently, this established 'news' outlet has empirical proof."
"Shit. Do we need to head back to the baking aisle and get you some tinfoil for that hat you will obviously be needing?" I quipped dryly, making a deep chuckle roll through his chest as he threw an arm around my shoulders, and pressed a quick, sweet, disarming kiss to my temple.
Damn him.
As odd as it may have been to think, being around him was a lot like a warm hug on a bad day, a steaming cup of hot chocolate on a rainy night, half a dozen blankets when you want to hide from the world.
He was... comforting.
Which was absurd given that I didn't know him from Adam. But feelings weren't rational things. I had accepted that about the first time I had had an epic shitfit over the breakup of a fictional couple on a show I was obsessed with as a young teen. Sure, they weren't real, but they felt real, damnit.
Okay, maybe I still wasn't completely over that whole situation.
"Baby, as much as I'm fine with you staring at my sexy ass all day," Mark said, making me jerk back out of my thoughts to find him looking at me as he loaded a couple bags into the cart. He had somehow loaded them up onto the belt, had them rung up, and bagged them without me noticing. "We got to get going," he added when I just kept standing there gawking at him like some psycho.
"Right," I said as he pulled the cart and moved out of the lane so I could follow.
I chanced a look at the cashier who gave me a knowing look that made me feel slightly less awkward and ridiculous. We had all been struck dumb by an attractive, charming man before. She knew the drill.
"So what are you making?" I asked as the silence stretched a little too long on the walk back to the truck.
"Steak, green beans, steak fries. What are you making?"
"Apple flowers."
"Apple flowers?" he repeated as he started loading the groceries up.
"You cut a strip of puff pastry, line it with some butter and cinnamon then lay sliced apples in it, roll it up, and cook them in a cupcake sheet. They cook and look like flowers. Oh, and they're delicious."
It was right about then too that I realized I hadn't made apple flowers since my mom passed. My brothers had asked me countless times, but that had always been my mothers 'cheer up, Scotti' treat she made when I had a crummy day. It always hurt too much to think about making them. Why then didn't I even give it a second thought about making it for Mark? A practical stranger?
"Honey, you alright?" Mark asked, looking down at me with furrowed brows and worried eyes. "You're pale as a fucking sheet all a sudden."
"Ah, yeah. Sorry. Just must be hungry," I lied. I had, instead, had some weird, major life realization and it was settling uneasily inside, and I didn't know what to think of that. But that was just a tad too much information for a first date.
"Well, good thing I am about to feed you then," he said, reaching out to take my arm, watching me like I might faint, as he led me to my door and helped me in before disappearing with the cart. You had to like a man who brought the cart back to the return.
So I wasn't exactly lying when I told him I half-expected his place to be a bit like a frat house. And by that, I meant nothing soft, nothing decorative, everything necessary or, in the case of electronics, unnecessary but in over-abundance.
As for the structure itself, I had him pegged for an apartment guy. Why? Because it was low maintenance. Because you could leave it and take off on a wild hair at any point in time without worrying about it. Because, aside from a one-year contract, it was low on the commitment.
What I definitely did not have planned was a pretty, but worn-down craftsman house situated on a chunk of land that had to be closing in on two acres. It was a charming deep blue structure with white rafters and brackets, all the paint in desperate need of a refresher, with a small front porch under a deeply overhanging roofline, large tapered, square columns supporting the roof, double-hung windows, and a single dormer.
"Not exactly a frat house, huh?"
"Well, you might not have any Greek letters, but I am reserving my judgment until I see the inside."
"Fair enough. Parts are still under construction, but the living and kitchen area are all done. This place was almost falling down when I bought it. It's been a lot of fucking work."
I reached for a couple of the bags. "Why not get one that needed less work?"
"Fucking beautiful little craftsman," he said as we walked up the path, the bricks half-disappeared beneath the ground. "On this piece of land? Developers would have come in and knocked this down to build more goddamn ugly, characterless townhouses. Couldn't let that happen. Besides, this is what I do."
"What is what you do?" I asked as we stepped on the porch and he reached to unlock the door.
"Construction."
"I thought you were a loanshark," I said, grimacing a little at how callous that sort of sounded.
"I am. But we all have legit businesses. Shane with his gym and his apartment building. My Pops has a bar. Ryan has a bunch of boring shit. I have a construction company and lawn service. Shit that involves working with my hands. It was nice for a change to be able to reap the benefits of all the work. Come on," he invited, pushing the door open and waiting for me to pass in.
Roots were things I tried to not give a lot of thought to. But as I stepped into Mark's lovingly restored living room, I felt a pull inside I hadn't let myself feel in a long, long while. The hardwood on the floors was wide, and an assortment of all different kinds of seemingly reclaimed woods, all the flaws still intact, giving the whole space a very homey vibe. The walls were a warm, inviting green. The sectional was deep brown. The coffee table was scuffed like many had rested their boots there at some time or another. The TV, well, it was huge. What man didn't have a huge TV?
"Wow, this is really nice," I said, giving him a genuine smile as he moved past me through the doorway that seemed to lead to the kitchen.
"Thanks," he said as he placed the bags on an island in a space that seemed almost too big for a house that didn't seem very big from the outside. "I took out the dining room to just make a big eat-in kitchen. Makes it feel more open in here," he said, gesturing toward the windows lining the back wall that let in a ton of natural light and did, in fact, make it feel very open.
It also helped that he had chosen white cabinets, butcher block countertops, and more of the same reclaimed wood floors. Everything seemed to flow perfectly.
There was a white breakfast table near the windows with four seats and a basket of potatoes in the center of it.
Charming.
The whole place was utterly charming.
It was definitely the kind of place you wanted to come home to after a long day.
He steadily unpacked bags, moving things together to start prep work as I moved around and looked at a collection of pictures he had in a large frame on the wall, one I figured must have been given to him as a gift because, let's face it, what man sits around printing out pictures and carefully places them into a big collage frame?
There was a picture of him and his brothers as kids, each wearing almost identical popsicle stick grins, colors running down their faces. There was another of them as young teenagers, two of them bloodied, the remaining three bruised. There was an older couple, the genetics strong enough in their family to be able to tell immediately they must have been the parents. There were three pictures down the middle, each of a different little girl. And then there were three remaining couple pictures- one with Shane, who I had met, and a beautiful dark-haired woman. There was another with the serious brother I had seen at the gym and a pretty blonde woman with green eyes. And finally, there was his brother who was covered in tattoos along with a woman covered in them as well, blonde-haired, impeccably dressed.
All of them, from the parents to the siblings, all seemed blissfully happy with their partners.
There was that strange yearning sensation again inside as I forced myself to move away, to move back toward the island where Mark had set up the ingredients for me as well.
"Are you the only single brother?"
"Nah. Eli hasn't settled down yet either. Don't know why with him. He has never been a huge ladies man. He likes the idea of a wife and kids. He just hasn't gotten around to it. He's dating some chick now but..."
"But?" I prompted when he trailed off.
"Don't want to say negative things about a woman who could possibly be my sister-in-law one day, but she's nasty as fuck. No one likes her."
"Is it serious?"
"They've only been going out a couple weeks. I don't think it's gonna last. Think he just wanted to try his hand at something less casual."
I nodded at that, reaching for a knife and starting to slice the apples right on the countertop, like he was doing with the green beans. There was definitely a perk to butcher block counters.
"Alright, Scotti. What's your story?"
I almost sliced off the tip of my finger.
"What?"
"Your story," he repeated when I looked up at him, finding him watching me. "Where you're from. What possessed you and your brothers to pursue a life of crime? Why, specifically, armed robbery?"
Why did he want my story?
I was pretty sure it was clear that what we had going on, whatever you wanted to call it, was casual. It couldn't be serious. I was leaving. I would always be leaving. That was the life we led. There was no way around that. There was no way to continue a relationship through that. Especially seeing as my end game was in Russia or China. The only way that'd work would be if the guy wanted to come with. And given how tight he was with his family, there was no chance of that. So why bother trying to learn my origin story? Why try to drag out all my skeletons and see what they look like in the light?
"We don't need to do this," I said, trying for breezy and casual even though I felt like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. "I think it's clear that this thing between us is casual. You don't have to ask me about my life."
"I don't have to, no," he agreed, brow raised. "But I want to."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"That's not an answer."
"It was hardly a question," he shot right back, looking almost confused. "Is it so weird that someone wants to get to know you? I've only gotten to spend a total of an hour or so with you, and I think you're fucking fascinating. You're here. We have the time. So I'd like to know more." When I didn't immediately respond to that because I was too wrapped up in the realization that no one outside of my brothers actually knew my story, his smile went a little wicked. "What? Worried I am going to rat on you or am wearing a wire or some shit? Here. I can prove one." Then with that, he reached for his shirt and hauled it off.
I repeat. He reached behind his back, snagged his tee, pulled it over his head, and then discarded it to the floor. To the floor. Which seemed to imply that he had no intentions of retrieving it.
It also meant he was shirtless.
Shirtless.
As in his whole chest and torso area was on display.
And, let me tell you, it was quite the chest and torso area.
First, I hadn't realized how much ink he had. But with nothing covering him, I could see two half-sleeves, a chest piece, and something snaking down his back. He did, blissfully, leave his whole stomach area free. Which was good because you could really appreciate the deep, indented grooves of his abdominal muscles, and the delicious (seriously, I wanted to lick them) adonis belt muscles that half-disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.
"See a wire anywhere, baby?" he asked, making my guilty eyes shoot up as a flush crept over every inch of skin, heating me, making desire uncurl through my body. "I mean, I can take these off too if you want to check," he offered, hands going to the button and zip of his jeans, smile absolutely devilish.
"That won't be necessary." Unless he wanted me to do a hands-on inspection. With my mouth.
Oh, Jesus.
"Well, if you're sure," he said with a shrug as he just went right back to chopping the ends off the green beans like he wasn't half-naked and fully distracting. "And as for the ratting you out. Honey, last Monday, I followed a guy name Mick Mallard down an alley where I knew he went to get high on his lunch break, and I slammed his head into the bricks until he agreed to pay the cash at the end of the business day. So now you got some serious dirt on me. Take it as a show of trust. Now all you gotta do is trust me back."
Surprisingly, I didn't actually have trust issues. Not in the typical way people often did in relationships, constantly worried about things like cheating or someone getting bored of them and leaving. I was too secure for that.
My trust issues stemmed wholly from the fact that I did illegal things and I didn't want to go to jail for them. Or my brothers.
That being said, Mark knew exactly what that was like for himself and his family as well.
I could, I was sure, trust him.
"When I was nine, my dad dropped dead from a sudden aneurysm. No warning. No life insurance. No support for my stay-at-home mother of five."
I remembered the devastation, sure. It was something we all felt, something we all experienced in our own ways. But, for some reason, I remembered the panic more. I remembered the wild eyes as she stared at a wall or a stack of mail. I remembered the way her face went from youthful and lovely to ten years older and sunken seemingly overnight. I remembered the absolutely frantic calling to all the local businesses, all the afternoons after school when we would all sit in the back of the van doing homework while she went on interviews. I remembered the way she brought a calculator to the grocery store and would have to choose between the laundry detergent and paper towels. That's why we have so many dishrags! Plus, it's better for the environment! Even to a nine-year-old, that enthusiasm sounded fake.
Because, see, the jobs never called back.
After all, she had graduated high school and gotten almost immediately pregnant. And then again. And again. And again. And again. But it didn't matter because my father made good money and she could focus on raising us.
But it also meant that she had absolutely no work history.
Nada.
Zilch.
Trying to hit the workforce for the first time in your late thirties was, well, almost impossible. At least if you wanted to make an actual salary you could live off of.
But three months after our father was lowered into the ground, she finally got a call back. Then three days after the drug test cleared, she had a job.
Making seven dollars an hour.
With five other mouths to feed.
Yet it was the best she could do. So we sold the house and downsized to a two bedroom, me and my mom in one, all my brothers in the other. We cut out anything that could be considered a luxury, like new school clothes every fall that had always been a tradition before. Santa got a little stingier with the presents. There was no money for the ice cream man or school lunches.
But the lights stayed on and we never went hungry.
Things went well enough for a long time.
Kingston aged up and moved on. Following him, so did Nixon and Atlas. Until it was just me, Mom, and Rush at home. Rush was never actually home either, so it really was just me all by my lonesome most of the time.
"And it was me who realized first that the cold that Mom had that just wouldn't seem to go away, maybe wasn't a cold after all."
"Shit," Mark said under his breath, eyes sad for me.
"See, while her job was decent enough, they kept her two hours under full-time so they didn't have to put in for her benefits. Luckily, we all just... stayed relatively well. No one ever had to go to the doctor. It never even occurred to her to go. But then she kept losing her weight, then her voice. And finally... she started coughing up blood. Lung cancer, stage three. She and my Dad smoked casually for most of my childhood. Outside, but they did it. And then when he died, she stress-smoked a lot. It... caught up with her. She went to go to her company and begged them to put her on full-time to get insurance, to try to offset the costs. But it was a pre-existing condition. No one would take her on."
"Scotti..."
He was trying to tell me that I didn't have to go on. But the thing was, I did. Because, I realized, I had never gotten it out before. My brothers had always just... known what was going on. I had never gotten the catharsis of purging it out to a sympathetic ear.
"But she started treatment. I guess... you know... she had a lot to live for. She started chemo and kept working and trying to take care of all of us. She seemed to be getting better. Then she had the doctor visit that told her it was getting more aggressive, that in turn, the treatment had to get more aggressive. But she was already up to her ears in debt. We didn't know how much then. We didn't find out until after she passed. It was half a million dollars. And then she got too sick to even work anymore. She died just a couple weeks later," I said, voice getting a little thick. "We didn't know until after she died that she had refused further treatment, knowing it wouldn't help, just prolong her life... and debt."
Mark put his knife down, watching me with a look I couldn't quite read, but it was intense. "Bet I can guess what shitty fucking company she worked for."
I nodded at that.
"We were young and devastated and alone in the world and so fucking angry all the time. There was never a break from that rage. One night, we were just sitting around, kicking around thoughts of vengeance for a company that didn't value its employees enough to try to help keep them alive. And it just... came to us. We all just... knew we wanted them to pay. That they had to pay every last cent of the money that made her decide to offer over her life instead of having to pay any more."
"You couldn't have been more than a kid."
"I was eighteen. In fact, it was the day I turned eighteen that I walked into my mother's old store and I got myself a job. Then Rush got one. And Atlas. Then Nixon. Finally, once he had time, Kingston. We each worked different departments. We each paid attention. We learned every single in and out from how the registers worked to how the security system did. When the money got dropped. When change of shift was. Everything. Every small little seemingly inconsequential detail. Then we slowly gave out notice over the course of several months, so no one was any the wiser. And then we robbed them."
"You couldn't have gotten that much."
"Just shy of five thousand that first time. But to us, that was a lot."
"What then?"
"Then we drove out of town. We had already packed up and pooled our money. We picked another target and started working there. Shower, rinse, repeat. Ten years. Still haven't earned it all back. Some hits were much smaller than anticipated. But we're close."
"Then what?"
"Then get the hell out of here before anything does eventually trace back to us. I mean, we're careful. Fake IDs all the way, and all my brothers wear prosthetic noses or fake tattoos or fake scars during robberies, just enough to throw off anything seeming too similar. Some times, we will only have one of us go in. Sometimes I am the one doing the yelling and gun-toting. We try to keep it fresh."
"Get out of here where?"
"We're leaning toward China or Russia."
"No extradition."
That wasn't something normal people knew.
Somehow, I found it comforting that he did.
It made me feel less like a freak for knowing it as well.
"Exactly."
"So this is all you've known since your mom passed? The road, the planning, being unsettled."
I took a deep breath, holding it until it burned, then letting it out slowly. "Pretty much."
And it had never seemed quite as pathetic as it did right then.
I expected more questions, more seriousness, more sad looks.
But I guess when it came to Mark Mallick, you couldn't really predict what you were going to get.
Because the next thing out of his mouth was, "So are you cooking those damn things, or am I eating them raw? Not that I won't, mind you, but think they'd be a lot better cooked."
Then, like nothing at all happened, like my insides didn't fall out raw and wet all over the floor, we both started cooking. And it wasn't weird or awkward. The silence didn't feel uncomfortable. It just felt like a normal couple doing something they did every night.
Except we weren't normal.
We weren't a couple.
And we would likely never do it again.
That last one, yeah, it brought with it a sadness that was way too intense.
"Alright," he said abruptly, making me start. My eyes drifted up to find him standing there with a plate of uncooked steak in one hand and metal tongs in the other. "I have to go do the manly grilling thing. Feel free to ogle me through the back window."
I laughed at that, finding it came easily with him. "Or I could set the table."
"Well, that's not nearly as fun," he said, shrugging, then disappearing out the back door.
I did set the table.
But I totally ogled him as well.
He even caught me doing it, sending me a saucy smile in return.
"Why are we eating so early?" I asked as I caught the time above the oven as I slipped the desserts in.
"You want the PC answer, or the honest one?"
My head swiveled over my shoulder, smile pulling at my lips. "The honest one."
"I want you good and fed so I can fuck you for the next six hours."
Well then.
That answered that, didn't it.
"With a short break for apple flowers," he amended, reaching for my fingers and giving them a little squeeze. "Come on, let's eat."
Then we ate.
And I pretended I wasn't pressing my thighs together to calm the desire pulsating there as we talked about little things- the places I had been, what movies we liked, music, his jobs, his nieces who sounded like adorable hellions, his brother's new puppy, his history as a... cheerleader?
"Whoa whoa whoa," I said, practically trying to choke down a half-chewed piece of meat I was in such a rush to speak. "No way. You can't just say you were a cheerleader and try to breeze right by it. Explain yourself."
He smiled, reaching for a beer he had been nursing since we sat down. "My Ma forced us all into after school activities. All our lives. Trying, I think, to keep us out of trouble. Fat lot of good that did us. But anyway, in high school, all I gave a fuck about was what girl I could chase next. Having to spend countless hours a week on the football or baseball field would seriously cramp my style."
"So what better to do than marry obligation and your one true passion?"
"Exactly," he agreed, grinning, making his eyes crinkle up charmingly. "Got to spend all practice picking up, throwing around, catching, and carrying the most gorgeous women in school. It was a good workout."
"And it got you a lot of tail."
"That it did," he agreed, leaning back in his chair, watching me.
"What did you want to be when you were in high school, baby?"
"Mostly... out of high school. Other than that, I didn't ever really have that thing some people have, you know? That dream or passion. I figured I would graduate, find some certificate-type program, and just get some normal job. Now, fuck if I know what I'm qualified for."
"Private security work," he offered immediately, like he maybe had even given it some thought. "You and your brothers. You'd know exactly what weak spots criminals would look for."
"Because we are criminals," I supplied, not angry or offended, but also mildly uncomfortable with him seeing me that way. Why? I wasn't sure, because that was exactly what I was.
"Because it's in your wheelhouse. It's your skill set. It's what you know."
Mood a little bit less enthusiastic than a moment before, I got to my feet, reaching for both our plates. "Well, I'll have to see if China or Russia has any job opportunities in that field," I said as I moved toward the sink, running the water and reaching for the soap.
I had barely gotten the sponge sudsed up when I saw his hands plant wide to the sides of the sink and felt his front press into my back, his head resting on my shoulder.
"What button did I press?"
"What?" I asked, feigning innocence when we both knew I damn sure knew what he was talking about.
"Pressed a button. Don't know which one it is, and I want to, so I don't go pressing it again."
"It's not a big deal."
"Two minutes ago, you were looking at me like you wanted me to toss you up on the table and eat you for dessert." He wasn't wrong, and the fact that he read that on me made a little shiver of anticipation course through me. "Now you don't even want to look at me. So I'm thinking it's a pretty big fucking deal." His hands slid across the countertop and landed at my hips, pausing before folding across my belly and giving me a squeeze. "What'd I do?"
"You didn't do anything. It's just... it's stupid."
"Yeah, it might be," he agreed, making me laugh despite my mood. Had to appreciate a man who didn't sugarcoat everything. "Still want to hear it."
I sucked in a deep breath, looking down at my soapy hands, feeling uncomfortable. "I don't like that you think of me as some lowly criminal."
There was a short pause. "I don't remember saying anything even the least bit similar to that." That was true enough actually. I had just been twisting his words to further support my insecurity. How pathetic was that? "I'm not judging you, Scotti. Especially now that I know why you guys do it. I beat people and I don't have anything like your excuse. Do you think of me as some lowly criminal?"
"No."
"Then you see how you're being a little silly, right?"
"Silly?" I repeated, smiling despite myself. What kind of grown man used the word 'silly?'
"Batshit crazy more your speed?" he asked as he turned his face into my neck to plant a sweet kiss beneath my ear.
"Yeah, that sounds more like me," I agreed, leaning back into him slightly.
Could the fucking part of the evening commence?
Now that I got my head out of my own ass, I realized how good it felt to have his strong body behind mine, his arms holding me tight.
"Dishes can wait, yeah?" he asked.
"Yeah," I agreed, dropping the sponge and letting the water rinse my fingers as he reached to shut off the tap.
One second, I was leaned against his chest, the next, I was spun around so quickly that my stomach pitched and I let out a quiet gasp before I felt myself pressed back against the island. His hands sank into my hips and yanked upward, lifting me completely off my feet to settle me on top of said island as he lowered himself down on his knees.
At my confused look, he shrugged. "Got a feeling these damn shoes are going to get in the way of getting these jeans off you," he explained as he reached for the laces. He pulled off one, then went to the other.
Once my black sock-clad feet were freed, his finger moved out to trace up my arch which, for a normal woman, might have been mildly - or wildly - erotic, for me, it was freaking torture. Because me, yeah, I was ridiculously ticklish in weird places like my feet and my ribs. So there was no holding in the squealing laugh I let out as my entire body jolted, making Mark's gaze rise to mine, everything in it making my eyes go huge. Because I knew that look. It was the same one my brothers got when they realized for the first time they could use that against me in a fight. "No fucking way," he said, white teeth flashing all over.
"Don't," I demanded, trapped, completely unable to escape.
"Don't what? Don't do... this?" he asked, grabbing my ankle, yanking it upward as he stood, and going HAM at my arch. Until I was choking for breath as I uselessly swatted at his hands, until I was flat on my back, begging for him to stop.
But then he dropped my ankle, and his hands sank into my knees, pushing them open, moving between, and curling down over me.
"You suck," I declared, trying to catch my breath as he smiled down at me.
"Mhmm," he agreed on a rumble as he leaned in and pressed his lips into my throat, effectively wiping my mind completely blank in a blink. "Think I can change your mind on that stance," he declared as his tongue slid out to slide down the column of my throat. "What do you think?"
Think?
I wasn't sure I was capable of thought right there. At least not any that didn't involve the chaos coursing through me at his touch.
"Guess I'll have to show you," he mused, lifting up slightly then reaching for the hem of my shirt and yanking it up in one quick motion, discarding it down on the floor where his was laying forgotten somewhere.
His fingers landed near my ribs, his fingertips brushing the edge of my bra, as he curled downward to plant a kiss just below my navel, turning my belly liquid in the process. Then he was oh-so-slowly moving upward, making the muscles of my stomach quiver beneath the attention, making my heart start to race and my pulse start to pound in unusual places- my wrists, my temples, my throat, between my legs where my desire was making my panties stick to my skin with need.
His tongue traced beneath the line of my bra, making me arch up off the countertop, letting his fingers slip beneath to work the clasp. His hand moved between us, freeing my breasts of the material, then discarding it as well. One of his hands moved up to cup just under one of the swells almost reverently for a long second before it closed over it, and squeezed, while his mouth sucked my other nipple inside, working over it with excruciating circles. A low, pained whimper ripped its way from somewhere deep inside me, the sound desperate and pleading. He lifted, shifted, and took possession of my other nipple until the pressure on my lower belly became acutely painful, the need between my thighs downright intolerable, and I sank my hands into his hair, yanking hard until he lifted and sealed his lips over mine.
My greedy hands moved around his back, digging into the strong muscles of his shoulders. My legs lifted, closing around him, crossing over his lower back.
Then, unable to stop myself, too overcome with a need for release, my hips rose up to his, ground up into him, demanded fulfillment, showed him how much I needed him to make it up to me.
And while he would allow the grinding, even sinking down into me so his hard cock could press me right where I needed him, that was all he would give me as his teeth snagged my lower lip, biting. When a moan rushed out of me, his tongue moved forward to stroke over mine, to torment me even further.
Just when I thought I wouldn't be able to take it anymore, his hands slipped under my arched back, folding across, holding me tight as he straightened, pulling me with him as he stood up straight with me wrapped around him. One of his arms stayed across the middle of my back, the other drifted downward and sank into my ass, holding me to him as he started walking through the kitchen, then the living room.
My lips ripped from his, wanting to drive him even half as crazy as I was in that moment, as my lips, tongue, and teeth tormented his neck as he took the stairs to the second floor.
I couldn't tell you what the hallway looked like, where his master bedroom was located, what the flooring was, if there was an en suite. All I knew was his skin smelled like a hint of body wash and grill smoke, and his bare skin felt as overheated as my own did, and his breathing wasn't quite as controlled as I had thought, indicating his own tight grip on his control.
But I didn't want him in control.
I wanted him just as wild, as frantic, as desperate as I was.
So the second I felt my ass hit the bed, I released my hold of him and pushed off the bed, going down on my knees before him as I reached up for the waistband of his jeans. I freed him and reached to snag both his jeans and boxer briefs, my head tilting up to find him watching me, intense, heavy-lidded. And that, that need, that was all I needed as his pants fell, as his hard cock finally came into view. My hand moved up to stroke down the velvety soft, rigid length, stopping at the base as I leaned inward, teasingly moving my tongue over the head, watching his eyes. My sex tightened at the sound of his breath hissing out from between his lips, urging me on.
I sucked him in deep, hearing a ragged curse as I took him almost to the base, forcing my gag reflex to subside as my other hand moved out to gently stroke over his balls as I started working him in fast, unyielding strokes with both my hand and my mouth, using a twisting motion on each stroke inward.
There was a sharp, aching sensation in my scalp as his hand moved in and grabbed hard. His other hand went to my shoulder, crushing in hard enough to leave marks. Every bit of that intensity drove me faster, had me making wanton moaning noises as I sucked him, as I gave him even part of the need for release that I felt clawing deep in my belly.
"Fuck, baby," he growled, yanking hard on my hair to make me stop. There was a low, unhappy whimpering sound as his cock slid out of my mouth, finding perhaps for the first time ever how badly I wanted to give pleasure, maybe even more than I wanted to find any of my own. And he was taking that chance away from me. "You can have my cock anytime you want it, Scotti," he told me, his hand releasing my hair to run a finger across my jaw. "But it seems I missed out on dessert. And, well, I'm pretty fucking hungry still."
With that and nothing else, he pulled me up onto my feet as he himself lowered down, unbuttoning my pants then shimmying them and my panties down my ass and hips and thighs, making me for the first time curse my beloved skinny jeans and how they clung lovingly to every admittedly understated curve that I possessed. I stumbled awkwardly as he worked to free my feet, making my hands slam down on his shoulders to steady myself for a long moment before he reached up to press me back onto the bed.
He didn't waste time on my breasts or belly again.
He didn't want to tease me any further.
He spread my thighs, holding them firmly against the bed, and he fucking feasted on me. His tongue slid up my slick cleft, claiming my clit for a short second before his lips sucked it inward, using a pulsating suction on it that had me wondering if it was possible to come that quickly. Then, just as the pleasure started to border on pain, he released me, his tongue moving a path back downward to curl and then thrust inside me as his eyes angled up to look at me.
"Oh my god. Oh my... oh..." I cried out as he moved back up to suck my clit as his finger thrust inward and curled, raking over my G-spot, and sending a blindingly intense orgasm coursing through my body. He made a low, growling noise as he kept working me, dragging it out, milking it for all it was worth.
I had barely come back down when I felt his hands crush into my sides, lifting, and throwing me halfway up the bed as he climbed up himself, sitting back on his ankles as he reached for a condom and made short work of protecting us.
He stared down at me long enough for me to slowly curl upward, half climbing up onto his lap, feeling his cock press promisingly into my belly, as my arms went around the back of his neck. "Fuck me," I demanded as he just kept staring at me. "Mark..." I whimpered, reaching between us, grabbing his cock, and moving it toward where I needed him, then sinking my hips down on him, feeling him press inside, stretching me, making me his. "Please," I demanded on a moan as he settled deep.
His hand went behind my back, leaning me backward far enough for me to need to brace myself with my arms behind me, my hips still up on his lap. His other hand moved to my hip, sinking in hard, using it to guide me as he started thrusting, slowly for a second, then quicker, completely beyond any restraint. Feeling similarly, I thrust down toward him as he thrust upward into me, taking him deep, helping us both get closer to oblivion.
My whimpers became moans that were loud even to my own ears as my arms started shaking beneath me from the awkward position and pressure. His arm around my lower back tightened, yanking me roughly up toward him, then throwing me back down flat, never once losing contact. His hands slid under my back to grab into my shoulders from behind, holding me completely in place as he fucked me harder, faster, until my moans became something akin to cries, the tightening deep inside promising an orgasm that put all before it to shame.
"That's it," Mark growled, watching me. "Come for me. Let me feel you squeeze my fucking cock, baby."
Those naughty little words proved the last push I needed.
His cock slammed inward, and I splintered apart with an orgasm that seemed to start at the base of my spine and explode outward.
I cried out his name, face buried in his throat, feeling him fuck me through it, his own breathing getting ragged, cursing viciously right before he slammed deep, body jerking, coming with my name on his lips.
His weight collapsed into me, pressing me deeper into the mattress, making breathing more of a wish and a prayer than a reality. But it didn't matter.
My arms slid around his upper back; my legs wrapped around his hips.
And I just... held on.
Because I knew I wouldn't have long. In the grand scheme of things, just minutes with him. So I was going to hold onto it while I had it. To him while I had him.
But we couldn't stay that way forever.
Mark proved this point just a few short minutes later when he planted his hands, taking some of his weight, and pulling against my hold so he could press up and look down at me.
His eyes were intense for a moment, completely unreadable.
But then a slow, wicked, boyish smile pulled at his lips.
"I think I made it up to you."
"Made what up to me?" I asked numbly, brain completely blanketed with a post-orgasm contentedness that made everything else fuzzy.
A chuckle rolled through his chest, vibrating through my body. "Guess that proves it," he said, pulling slightly, finding resistance as I wrapped him up tighter. "Let me up, honey. Gotta deal with the condom," he informed me, making me let out a grumble as my legs unfolded and fell weightily toward the mattress. My arms released him next and he quickly pressed up, and rolled away to stand off the side of the bed, moving away from me toward a door to the side of the room, closing it after himself.
I didn't want to be alone right then. Not even for a minute. Because my mind went ahead and did what I knew it shouldn't. It ran away with itself. It seemed to shoot off in a hundred directions all at once, completely frantic, but somehow the data still all came to me clear and crisp and full of happiness, dread, excitement, and worry.
Because it didn't matter how good I felt right then, and it might have been better than I had ever felt before, it was fleeting. Sometime soon, maybe in just another day, maybe a week, but no more, it would all be gone. Mark would be a fading figure in my rearview.
The few short hours of contentedness, of domestic bliss, would be nothing but a memory I would try to forget at first. Because if I remembered, it would make me angry and bitter for having to lose a chance at a life other than the one I had chosen for myself. That would fade eventually, though. It would become a waking dream I would summon up in the wee dark hours of the night in some shithole rental I was sharing with my brothers, after a long day of the same old stuff I had been going over for a decade, on a mission that while it was justified, was still somehow empty. Right then, in those moments of drudgery, of discontent, of bone-deep desire for something more, that was when I would bring it up, I would roll it over like a video, rewinding and replaying my favorite parts one hundred times over.
I worried though that parts of it would blur around the edges, faded by time. Would I forget the exact timbre of his voice? The words he said that made my belly wobble? The intensity with which he looked at me? The feeling of possessiveness I got hearing him come with my name on his lips?
Would it all lose its impact?
Would it eventually be nothing but a time-soaked silent film in dull sepia-tone low contrast?
Would there be a day when the name Mark Mallick wouldn't mean anything?
Somehow, there was a sharp, piercing sensation inside at the very idea.
"That's a deep look," Mark said suddenly, making me jump and turn to find him standing at the side of the bed, somehow coming out without me hearing. "You alright?" he asked, a small crease between his brows.
I forced a smile I knew didn't meet my eyes and scooted up on the bed, reaching to slip under the covers. "Yeah, fine. Just cold." I exhaled hard, dropping my hands down at my sides, and looking around. "Oh wow," I said, a real smile pulling at my lips. "I didn't really get a chance to look around before."
Mark's smile was devilish as he slid in with me, reaching for me, pulling my back against his chest. "Yeah, you were a little too busy worshipping my cock to notice the window dressings."
The laugh was genuine and much needed as his fingertips started to whisper up and down my arm, his other arm a heavy weight across my lower belly. "You really are good at what you do."
"Making you come? Yeah, baby, I'm a fucking pro if the way your pussy was squeezing me was any indication. Oh, you mean at decorating," he added, sounding light and sweet and carefree.
It was almost enough to make me feel the same way.
Almost.
He definitely was good at the orgasm thing. But his decorating skills weren't lacking either.
The bedroom wasn't a huge space, given the small house in general. But the floors were like that of the ones downstairs. The walls were a deep chocolatey brown. The bed was a massive king-size deep wood, charmingly dinged in places, but beautiful. I found I liked that about his decorating style. He didn't seem to like new and shiny. He preferred pieces with a history, with character, with a story to tell. There was no TV to speak of, somewhat surprising me, and a very unique dark wood set of nightstands and dressers.
"Where did you get those?" I asked, motioning to the long dresser across from the bed beside the door to the hall.
"My brother Hunter, the one who is covered in ink, he's a tattoo artist, but he makes furniture for shits and giggles. Happens to be really good at it too. When he has the time, I use him to build shit in the houses I renovate."
"Does he have a business card?" I asked, knowing I would never be able to get an original Hunter Mallick piece. Seeing as in no time at all, I would be half a world away.
And there was that dread again.
But this time it had nothing to do with completing a decade-long mission, with the worry of new customs, of learning new languages, of finding gainful employment.
No, this was something else entirely.
Then, before he could say something to make the feeling etch deeper into my soul, I turned to face him, running my hand over the half-sleeve of his arm. "Did he do all this work on you?"
"Some of it," he offered. At my raised brow, he shrugged. "Hunt took off for a while years back. He didn't want the lifestyle anymore, but didn't think there was a way out. So he just took off without saying anything. That's when he met Fee actually. But anyway, yeah, during that time period, I got a lot of work by another guy around here named Paine."
"Wait," I said, smiling, watching as he smiled in return. "A tattoo artist named Paine?"
"Yep. It's his legal name too. He did this arm," he said, gesturing. "And my back piece. The rest of this is Hunt."
"Is this your family coat of arms?" I asked, not really needing to seeing as it had his family name there, along with red feather supports, a phoenix crest, and the family motto on top of it all. "Vis nescia vinci?" I repeated, wanting the translation, wanting all the little pieces of him I could have to fold into my memories like a flower pressed in the pages of a diary to be taken out years later, bringing it up to your nose as if there was any trace of the real memory left. There wouldn't be. I knew that. But I wanted it anyway.
"A power ignorant of defeat," Mark supplied easily.
"That's quite the motto to live up to, huh?"
"That sounds like you are questioning my muscles," he said, looking mock-offended. "I have huge muscles," he added, flexing an arm.
"Yes, just massive," I agreed, patting him, smiling the whole time.
"So, not to ruin the moment, but, ah, I want a fucking apple flower damnit."
I laughed as I leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips before rolling off to the side of the bed. "We're going to have to reheat them. They're so much better right out of the oven."
With that, we both got re-dressed, half in the bedroom, then half back in the kitchen where the rest of our clothes were. We ate too many apple flowers while talking about our families, comparing our brothers, bonding way more than was smart seeing as I wasn't long for Navesink Bank.
In the end, that realization had me shutting down the opportunity to head back up to the bedroom. "I should be getting back before they start a search party. Believe me, they're not above doing that."
"Alrighty, don't want to get on their bad side, I guess. Let's get you home."
The drive, and the silence enveloping us during it, felt awkward.
"Hey," he said when I went to open my door, sliding an arm across my shoulders, and hauling me back toward him, making my stomach press against the center console in the process. "Not even going to give me a kiss for dinner and two orgasms?"
I smiled at that, liking how casually he could turn around uncomfortable moments. Then before I could ruin that one too, he pulled me tighter, and sealed his lips over mine.
Then he kissed me like there was no freaking tomorrow and I hopped out of that truck and walked up the path in a sort of daze.
I heard his truck rumble off as I reached to open the back door, taking a deep breath to brace myself against their likely interrogation.
Except that didn't happen.
Because when I opened the door and walked in, I found the shack cleaned, smelling strongly of bleach and Comet and Pledge. And I found my four brothers standing there, waiting for me, duffle bags in hands.
"Money is clean," Kingston supplied, giving me a regretful look.
"It's time to go," Nixon added.
It was time to go.
But just as there was no denying the way those words sent a searing pain through my system, there was also no denying the truth of them.
It was time to go.