Lucky #14 (The Hunter’s Club #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Poppy can only come when she isn’t facing me.

Bracing my shaking arms over her, I try to ignore that telltale tingling in my balls.

My girl is lying on her stomach, face in the pillows, letting out tiny little breaths every time I push into her.

My sack has been drawing up tight when she presses that full ass back into me, but I have to hold on. I refuse to come before she does.

Finally, Poppy’s body tenses as she plays with herself. She lets out a stuttered moan, and then her pussy tightens around my dick. I groan, coming into the condom, then pull out of her and collapse onto the sheets.

Relief melts through my muscles. Poppy and I haven’t fucked in nine days.

Well, today was going to be the tenth, but she woke me up wanting to get frisky.

My skin pebbles at the memory of her over me, hair hanging down, with that look in her eyes.

I can’t remember the last time she woke me up wanting to have sex.

Maybe things are getting better.

Poppy rolls away from me, and immediately, I feel the loss of her heat. I reach out for her, grabbing her torso and trying to pull her into me.

Poppy just grunts. “You’re sweaty, and I need to shower.”

“Babe…”

My girl rolls out of bed, quickly moving to the bathroom. As the door shuts, I feel out of place on the bed, naked and sweaty. Is she mad at me? Was that not good for her?

With a groaning of the pipes, the water kicks on.

Come to think of it, Poppy only moaned once. Usually, she’s louder than that. My skin gets cool, and my stomach twists. Oh my god, did she fake it?

No. She’s the one who asked for it.

I groan, rubbing between my eyes. My bangs get caught under my fingers, and I flick them out of the way. They’re getting long again. I let it go ‘cause Poppy says she likes the emo look. Calls me her pretty boy.

Things are fine, maybe she’s just hungry. Getting up, I rip off the condom, use my flannel pajama bottoms to wipe my dick down, then throw on some clean boxers. My shoulder ticks.

Ugh. No, everything is fine.

I make Poppy’s favorite breakfast—waffles and sausage links. She says it reminds her of Saturday mornings with her mom. I make her this every Saturday morning in the hopes that it can maybe be our thing. Like, she’ll always think of me every time she eats it.

When Poppy comes into the kitchen, she’s in her pretty summer dress with the roses.

The dress looks so good with her dark hair and pale skin, and a smile creeps up my face.

Poppy knows I love that dress. It makes her ass look so plump.

Oklahoma weather is almost always warm, so I want her to wear it year-round.

But Poppy doesn’t look at me. She just rushes to the hook her purse is on. Almost like…she doesn’t want to look at me?

“Where are you going?” My question comes out quicker than I intend. I clear my throat, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that I kept my shirt off.

“Therapy, remember?”

Therapy? My stomach clenches, and that icy feeling tingles in my gut. No, I don’t remember.

“I made breakfast,” I say.

Finally, Poppy looks at me. She has the prettiest brown eyes, but now, she just throws me a smile that doesn’t quite reach them. “Thanks, I’m gonna be late though.”

Late? It’s Saturday morning. I glance at the microwave. It’s not even nine yet.

“Waffles and sausage,” I say.

Poppy pauses at that. Her body tilts my way even as her head moves toward the door, and it’s like I’m frozen, eyes wide, wanting to pull her my way by sheer willpower alone.

Then, my girl takes a step away, and my heart stutters to a stop. “Thanks, baby, save me some?” Then, she’s gone.

The bad feeling is back in my gut, only now it cramps, and my shoulder ticks.

She’s seeing someone. Without telling me.

No. I shake my head at the intrusive thought. No, she has an appointment, and I’m being crazy.

I should check.

I pinch my shoulderblades together and let out a breath. I shouldn’t check. I’m better than that. It’s wrong.

I drop the spatula on the counter and move to the office, where I pull out my laptop. Typing in the passcode—Poppy’s birthday—I move to my file titled Tax Documents. Inside is a document where I’ve been keeping notes. Notes every time Poppy does something a bit off.

Things have really ramped up in the last few weeks. And by things, I mean bad things. She couldn’t be more apathetic toward me if she tried. At this point, I feel like I’m begging for her to look at me with anything other than hurried disinterest.

But she wanted me to fuck her this morning. So that’s good, right?

Poppy and I met through a dating app. She was actually there to unicorn for a couple, but ended up finding me.

She introduced me to the swinging world, where I shared her with others, and sometimes she shared others with me.

Her favorite was when I’d get a boyfriend and make it seem like we’re passionately in love.

But when we get home, she ignores me and is always on her phone looking for the next person.

While I’ll do anything for her, I always wonder if I’m not enough.

Scanning the notes makes me sweat, and yet, I’m cold, goosebumps running over my bare chest. There are too many things on here.

I’m good with pattern recognition. Specifically, recognizing when people are going to leave me.

Suddenly, the smell of the sausage makes me sick.

No. Poppy’s not allowed to leave me. Poppy is my girl. I may share her, but she’s still mine at the end of the day. It’s my bed she finds comfort in and my arms she turns to. I’ll do anything to make my woman happy if it means I get to keep her.

I stand up, rubbing my arms, trying to get warm.

I should check the app—aka the tracker I put on her phone without her realizing.

What is initially disgust with myself morphs into urgency.

I have to check it. There are too many odd things.

Too many times that Poppy didn’t say goodnight to me or dropped my hand after a few seconds of holding it.

Last week, she even told me she didn’t want to go to my foster parents’ birthday event.

I open the app.

I’ve always had a possessive streak. Some call it obsessive. I call it loving. Love means I’ll do anything for you. Hold you when you’re down. Feed you when you’re hungry. Support you when you’re afraid.

Why in the fuck would anyone want to run from that?

My girl’s location shows on the map. She’s downtown in an area with a bunch of shops. What if she’s going out for coffee or something?

My mouth dries out, and for a second, all I can do is stare at her profile picture, which I set as a heart with a knife through it.

Coffee. With someone else.

Nope. Hot anger makes me bare my teeth. How dare she? How fucking dare she? That familiar temper rolls over me in a hot wave, and I dart to get my shoes on.

I won’t stand by while this happens. I’m known to be loving, and I’m known to have a hair-trigger temper. Everyone knows not to piss me off.

I’m downtown before I realize what happened. All I can do is stare at Poppy’s dot on the map. When I roll up, I see her car parked along the street in a line of business. A line of businesses and a…therapy office?

I blink at the sign. Hartford Therapy Services.

No. Something isn’t adding up.

I park right across the street. It’s not busy, so I can see into the office pretty well. It looks like there’s a receptionist. It’s…a man.

A hot man.

What the absolute fuck? I stare at him through the car window and the glass front door.

Oh yeah, he’s definitely hot. He has dark hair that’s longer on the top, dark eyes, nice cheekbones, and a trim beard.

He looks like one of those guys who the girls drooled all over in school.

Like one of the guys who’d get all the attention at the swingers’ club.

Fucking asshole.

Wait. I scan the waiting room, but don’t see my girl. Where is she?

My phone chimes.

My Girl: Hey, I’ve been working through a lot of things in therapy over the last few weeks. Some things I haven’t told you about. It’s hard to talk about. My therapist thinks it would be best for me to focus on myself right now.

I stare at the screen. Text bubbles pop up again.

My Girl: I’m sorry if this is sudden. I’ve been feeling like this for a while, but I just didn’t know how to say it.

Plus, I didn’t want to fight about it. Because I do care for you, Oakley.

I just...things are hard right now. My therapist helped me realize I can’t be the best person until I prioritize myself.

My hands shake. What’s going on? We just fucked? It’s hard to look at the screen with how much my hands are shaking. I know she’s not breaking up with me right now. And through text?

My Girl: I’ll be staying with my mom for a few days so that I can get things sorted in my head. I’ll get my stuff later.

When did it get so hot in this car? I crack a window, trying to suck air into my tight chest.

Why is Poppy running from me when I’ve become exactly what she wanted? I’ve kept my hair long for her, I’ve shared my phone password, and I’ve given up meat on Fridays. And none of it felt like a burden. I do it because I care.

Rage makes my vision tunnel on the steering wheel of my car. I suck in some deep breaths.

Fear. It’s gotta be fear. Poppy’s just afraid. She literally said it in the text. Also, she’s told me she has commitment issues.

Because I love her, I won’t let her run.

Poppy is mine. Not anyone else’s. She’s letting fear cloud her vision. Letting a therapist tell her I’m not good for her. I wonder what else the therapist said about me? Did the therapist tell her that because I have a temper, I’m not a safe person?

I pound my fist into the leather wheel, barely feeling the impact.

News flash, I’m perfectly safe. I’m perfect for Poppy. You know why? Because I have more than enough love to give.

This fucking therapist doesn’t know that.

What if the therapist is a man? And just as hot as the one at the front desk?

Suddenly, I have to see him. Have to know what he looks like. My hands shake as I try to swipe out of my tracking app. It takes a few swipes, and I cuss. Why won’t the damn thing work?

I quickly find the website and scan the available therapists.

Initial scan shows none of them are men.

Slowly, I suck in a breath and look closer.

Most of them are older women, and I feel my heartbeat slowing.

I run across a picture of a younger woman in her late twenties.

Immediately, I know Poppy would be drawn to her.

She’s pretty, gorgeous even, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

There’s a patch of lighter skin on her forehead, and the hair that comes from that spot is white-blonde, standing out against the rest of her golden hair.

Poppy would want to be friends with her.

She definitely wouldn’t pick any of the older women with her mommy issues.

I glare at the screen. So this is the girl who thinks she can get between my girl and me.

How dare she? How fucking dare she?

Violent thoughts flicker across my mind, then, just as quickly as they’re there, they vanish. Because it’ll be okay. I’ll show Poppy the way.

My shoulder jerks.

Nothing will get between us. Not Poppy, not her supposed issues, and not this know-it-all therapist.

Nothing.