Raw

  Taking a small step towards me, we’re impossibly close. My breast brushes his knee. His lips twitch, and he gestures to my position kneeling on the floor. Using one tattooed hand to adjust the opposite cufflink, his husky voice washes over me. “I feel we’ve been here before.”

  Oh my fucking God.

  This is not happening.

  Goddamn.

  Seeing the beautiful Alexa Ballentine on her knees in front of me was not how I assumed this meeting would start. And by the look on her stunned face, she didn’t think it would either. But here we are.

  Her clear blue eyes drift down to my belt, and her pupils dilate as she inhales quickly.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  She likes the belt. No one likes the belt. It’s a fucking choker for chrissakes. A growl escapes me and her head snaps upwards. She tries to avoid my gaze. I don’t like that.

  Reaching forward, I cup her chin gently but firmly and lift her face. She has no choice but to make eye contact, and when our eyes meet, her face flushes and her lips thin in obvious frustration and annoyance. She whispers, “What are you doing here?”

  Never one to make it easy on someone, I reply just as quietly, “You’re already wet, aren’t you, Alexa?”

  Hissing in a breath, she closes her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. I have an appointment.”

  Gripping her chin tightly, I mutter in a bored tone, “I know. Falcon Plastics. Donation. Interview. All that jazz.”

  Her eyes snap open. She stumbles on her words, “S-so you’re still watching me? I-I haven’t seen you around. Or even f-felt you around. I just assumed you were done—”

  Cutting her off, I grip her arm and pull gently. She stands, lowering her skirt back over her knees, and I announce, “I own Falcon Plastics, Lexi.” Her wide-eyed, incredulous face is…priceless. I love this. Awkward tension fills the office. So thick you could cut it with a knife. This is what I like. It’s my favorite thing to do. Making people uncomfortable is fun. “I’m your appointment, babe.” I grin a little too happily.

  What she says next makes my smile melt off my face.

  “B-but I thought you were homeless,” she mumbles.

  My blood boils.

  Nope.

  My pride…it doesn’t like that.

  I’ve been homeless. Best years of my life. Not even a joke. When I was eight-years-old, I decided that being homeless was better than being a punching bag for some overweight, disgusting slob that deserved the death he got…eventually. And it was better. I found there were a lot of kids like me out there. Running from home. Running from certain death. Most people think of home as a safe place. A haven. Not me. My home was…horrifying. A fucking nightmare.

  Taking two steps backwards, I slowly move my hand up to flick over the sign on the door. This room is now In Use. Taking my time shutting the door, when the latch clicks loudly, Lexi jumps in…fright? In anticipation? In want and need? I’m not sure. Women are complicated creatures.

  Looking back, I reach for the string hanging by my side, unwind it, and watch the open blinds drop to the floor, leaving us in complete privacy.

  Lexi’s face shows fear. But I know better. She isn’t scared of me. Oh no. She’s scared of herself. Of her own reaction to me.

  I warned her. And I meant what I said. She will never want anyone else after I’m through with her.

  And after I’m through with her. I’ll leave. And never look back.

  Getting back to the matter at hand, my fingers move to my right cuff, popping out the cufflink. My voice hoarse, I say slowly, “As you can see, I’m most definitely not homeless.”

  Not anymore. And I never will be again.

  Stalking towards her, she backs up until the backs of her legs hit her desk with a soft thud. The fingers of my right hand work on the opposite cuff, and once it’s free, I remove my suit jacket, throwing it onto her desk, and roll up the sleeves of my shirt to the elbows. My mind – ever calculating – suggests that I play with my newest toy. Who am I to refuse myself simple pleasures? I can’t say no. She looks so flushed and meek right now. And I’m fully hard.

  When in Rome…

  My feet stop directly in front of hers; I reach up to cup her cheek, and when my hand brushes the skin at her jaw, her body jolts, as if shocked. My cock jumps. We like that. Leaning my head down to hers, I brush the tip of my nose against hers. “I’m willing to give a lot of money to your cause, Ms. Ballentine.” Her breath warms my lips. Subconsciously, she inches towards my mouth. Pulling back, I add, “What are you willing to do for me?”

  Lexi’s eyes meet mine. So many emotions flash through them.

  Anger. Excitement. Shame.

  My hooded gaze stays on her, never giving anything away. She finally lowers her face, and I smirk in victory. She quietly asks, “Are you saying you won’t donate if I don’t…” she swallows hard and stumbles on her words, “…if we don’t…I mean, if I don’t let you—”

  Saving her from herself, I loosen my tie and sniff, “Sure. If that’s what you need to hear. If you need a reason to justify you sucking my cock in your office at 9am on a Monday.” Tilting my head to the side in thought, I say absently, “Sucking cock for contracts…” I fade out and watch in pleasure as fury flashes in her eyes.

  I’m stunned when her arms come out and push at my shoulders, hard. I’m forced a step back and half-smile at succeeding in getting her feathers ruffled. Lexi spits, “I’m not a goddamn prostitute, Twitch. I won’t do it. You were going to donate anyways, so just do it already and leave.”

  Would you look at that?

  I like this angry side. There’s a fierceness in her I never knew existed. This discovery pleases me. It’s going to be fun. Breaking her, that is.

  Taking my distance as an opportunity to escape, she moves behind her desk, pulls out her chair, and motions for me to sit in the guest chair before seating her sweet ass down. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

  You know that thing people have that tells them they’re doing something wrong or pushing too far?

  Yeah. I don’t have one of those.

  Walking around the desk to her, I pull her chair out using little force. Lifting her head, she scowls at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Taking her hands in mine, I pull her to stand and take a seat in her chair. Grasping her hips, I push her back gently until her bottom hits the edge of the desk.

  Her expression shows defeat. She looks defeated. So very defeated.

  I like it.

  I’m making progress with her that I hadn’t anticipated making so quickly. I had plans to wine her, dine her, and slowly build up her trust and affection before I socked it to her. The real me. And more importantly, why I am the way I am.

  She’s making this too easy on me. I feel she needs to be rewarded for her good behavior. After all, when a dog does a trick or behaves, he gets a treat. And so Lexi shall get her treat.

  Reclining in the chair, I place my arms behind my head, and her gaze drifts up to my exposed forearms. She likes the tattoos. A stupid part of my brain is pleased that she likes the tattoos. Snapping my fingers, her eyes come back to me.

  Good puppy.

  “Lift your skirt.”

  Leaning back away from me, she watches me through narrowed eyes. She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. All I know is that she hasn’t moved a muscle. And I want her skirt lifted. So I repeat, “Lift it.” Her eyes dart from side to side, and I know she’s weighing up the pros and cons in her mind. Sweetening the deal, I tell her on a whisper, “If you lift your skirt, I’ll make it so good, it’ll be worth getting caught over.”

  Straightening a moment, she shakes her head as she reaches for the hem of her skirt and utters, “What is it about you that makes me want to do very stupid things?”

  And although I don’t do more than smirk at her, I’m laughing on the inside. She really is cute sometimes.

  Such a shame.

  Sliding the material up past her knees, I w
atch through hooded eyes as she inches the skirt higher, higher up her silky smooth thighs, until I see white cotton peek out of the juncture between her legs. Tipping my head back, I hold in the urge to groan, just barely. Pulling myself forward a foot, without permission, I reach forward and under her skirt, hook the panties with my thumbs and tug. Then they’re gone.

  Plain cotton panties.

  These panties on anyone else would disgust me. I like my women to dress nice at all times; that includes lingerie. Lexi steps out of her panties and sits her ass back on the edge of the desk. Looking up at her, I ask in all seriousness, “Tell me what you need from me to make this contract legal.”

  The stunned disbelief on her face is priceless. Looking around the back of the room with a confused expression etched on her face, she utters robotically, “Umm, okay then. Well, we need proof that you own the Falcon Plastics, as well as…” Lifting her legs swiftly, I place her heel-covered feet on my shoulders, and bury my face into the warmth of her pussy. She yelps, then squeaks, “…Ayyye!”

  Lifting my head a moment, I warn, “You stop explaining and I stop too. Make it count.”

  Lowering my face into her mouth-watering bald snatch, I don’t waste time with foreplay. This is foreplay. And I tell myself that rushing this has nothing to do with the fact that she smells so good that I fucking have to taste her before I start ripping shit apart. Softly swiping my tongue up her slit, that first taste is all I need to feel heady. She tastes amazing. Like a pussy should taste. Mildly musky, light, and slightly spicy.

  My cock jerks in my pants. I feel the pre-cum beading. I shouldn’t be doing this. She should be sucking me off.

  But I can’t stop tasting her.

  She prattles off information that I don’t need, and I’m sure makes no sense, just to make sure I don’t stop my sweet torture. And, I gotta say, it makes me happy that she can follow instructions under pressure. It’s a relief knowing when shit gets heavy between us, she’ll cope. At least a little.

  Looking up at her from between her legs, I bury my tongue into her wet warmth and watch her closely. Eyes closed, she talks softly as I slide my hands up her body to squeezes her tit, while the other pinches and rolls her opposite nipple. Not able to hold myself back, I groan into her and feel her muscles clench around my tongue. Unbelievable. I’ve never got off this much on eating pussy. But it’s Lexi’s pussy…

  Reaching under her, I place my hands under her ass and grip the firm cheeks tightly while pulling her into my face, forcing my tongue deeper inside her. She stops talking a moment and moans long and low. Just when I think I’ve won, as soon as her moan ends, she starts up again, chattering away quietly. Too quietly. I can’t even make out what she’s saying. But I have to give her props for trying.

  She can finish. I’ll allow it.

  Pulling out of her, I flatten my tongue at her entrance and lick torturously slow, swirling my tongue all the way up to her clit. “Close?” I ask.

  Nodding, she opens her eyes and looks down at me through the haze I’m feeling as much as she is. I tell her, “I want you to come, Alexa.”

  I would never say ‘You can come when you like’. That makes is sound like a request. Which it is not.

  I’m a demanding guy. So sue me.

  Lowering my mouth to her clit, I suck it gently in a steady rhythm before sucking hard. Lexi’s hands fly to my head as she begins to grind herself against my face. Her breathing deepens, and she groans low in her throat. I keep up my sexual assault, licking and sucking. The forced calm in her voice spurs me on. The need to make her control break is extreme. I bury my tongue deep inside of her and the dam breaks. Clutching my head, she whimpers, jerking uncontrollably, pulling me deeper into her pulsating pussy.

  The moment lingers, and then that moment is over.

  Standing immediately, I adjust my erection in my pants, walk around the desk, pick up my jacket and open the door.

  “Wait!”

  Turning back, Lexi’s face is once again confused. Poor Lexi. She’ll learn. Eventually.

  “Where are you going? We have paperwork to sign.” She says, looking more pissed than confused, and pulling at her hips to right her creased skirt.

  “I know. I’ll send someone up to deal with it.”

  She returns exasperated, “I thought you said you were the owner of the company!”

  “I am.” Putting in a cufflink, I add, “Part-owner. Happy will be up to sign anything you need signed. I’ll call, Lexi.”

  “Wait!” She shouts. “What’s your name?”

  I know what she wants. And she’s not getting it. Not until I’m ready to give it. “Lexi, we’ve been through this already. I’m Twitch. Just…” I half smirk, “…Twitch.”

  Turning and ignoring her plea to wait, I close the door behind me and nod to Happy, who waits in the hall. Happy knocks on the office door I just came from, and I don’t bother turning to see him walk in on the flustered mess that is Lexi.

  I smirk to myself. That was fun. Straightening my tie, I silently chuckle. My tongue darts out, sliding along my bottom lip, tasting her.

  We should do it again sometime.

  Oh man, am I pissed or what?

  Tapping my pen rapidly on the edge of my keyboard, I confirm what few details I have. “So, Mr. Ahmadi, I don’t quite understand. You own Falcon Plastics, along with Mr.—”

  I wait for him to give Twitch’s last name to me, but even as I wait, I know he won’t give me an inch. This guy is not stupid. He knows the score. I mean, he knows Twitch. Enough said. His cool demeanor is intimidating. He isn’t being rude. Not in the slightest. He’s been quite the gentleman, actually, but his character is cool. Almost brooding. He responds businesslike, “Please, call him Twitch. He prefers it. And I would like if you called me Happy. Or if you prefer to keep things formal, then Farid. Please.”

  Happy? A strange nickname. Especially for someone who doesn’t look…happy.

  “Very well, Farid. I see I’m not going to get any information out of you about my surprise guest, am I?” The small twitch of his lips is my answer. Nodding in resignation, I bring out the paperwork needed for long-term sponsorship. Farid hands me all the company paperwork I need to photocopy; he signs the contact and within half hour, we’re done. And we are five-hundred-thousand dollars up in budget.

  And I’m suddenly giddy again.

  Farid stares me down through his thick narrowed brows as if he can’t figure me out. His almost-black eyes are lined with thick black lashes; if his name didn’t alert me to the fact he is of a Middle Eastern background, that would’ve been the thing to tip me off. His bald-shaved head shines under the fluorescent lighting above. Almost as tall as Twitch, but much larger in stature, I wonder if he’s Twitch’s muscle. And I can’t help it. My smile widens. He asks, “This means something to you, doesn’t it?”

  Whoa. Loaded question.

  Suddenly emotional, I blink as my eyes mist, and I whisper, “You have no idea.”

  His brow furrows deeper a moment before he nods. Holding out his hand, I take it happily as he says genuinely, “I’m glad we could help out. I’m also glad to know the person who took our donation is someone who’s clearly passionate about her job and will make sure it gets used the way it was intended to be used.”

  I’m so grateful for people like this man right here. He genuinely cares. Most people who care like he does have been through something of their own – something hard – so they know the value of charitable organizations. It’s just my guess, but I’d say Farid has experienced some hard times, as I’m sure Twitch has.

  I respond, “Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this will mean. For some, it’ll mean a warm bed to sleep in, or heat during winter, or even a decent meal. We can educate with this money. We can train with this money. We can make a difference with this money. Thank you, Farid. It was lovely to meet you.”

  I’m pleasantly surprised when he covers our shaking hands with his free hand and says, “I hope
you’ll call me Happy. Please, call me Happy.”

  I have no idea what I’ve done to make this cool man warm up to me so quickly, but it’s kind of awesome. Smiling stupidly, I nod once and repeat, “Happy.”

  Releasing my hand, he reaches into his back pocket and hands me a business card. It has no name on it, just a number. Happy leans closer to me and whispers, “If you ever get into trouble again like you did the other week and Twitch isn’t around, you call that number and someone will come out.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand.

  I’m suddenly speechless. Happy is the person Twitch called to get rid of my problem. I feel the color drain out of my face, and Happy notices. Squeezing my forearm gently, he assures me, “We’re not all bad. Twitch is…well…he’s complicated.” I want to shout ‘you got that right!’ when he adds, “He’s not bad. He just...” Happy’s dark eyes meet mine as he says sincerely, “…he doesn’t know any better.”

  And then he’s gone.

  Leaning back to sit on the edge of my desk, I run a hand through my hair and think about everything that just happened.

  Wow. What a crazy-assed morning.

  What the fuck was up with that visit from Twitch? And more importantly, why did I give in to him so quickly?

  Simple. You wanted his dirty mouth on you. More accurately, you wanted his filthy mouth to do nasty things to your body.

  Although I won’t deny my brain’s completely wrong observation, I most definitely won’t agree with it. Not now, not ever. Because Twitch is a weirdo who watches me. And for me to have intense feelings for a man who does that sort of thing…well…what would that say about me?

  Allowing myself some quiet time to think does me no good. In fact, it makes me more and more angry at what transpired here not an hour ago.

  Who does this man think he is? A freaking god? So what if he looks like a demi-god? He’s not the boss of me.