Chapter Five
Maci
I want him to fuck me.
I want him to bend me over and slide his big, thick cock deep inside of me.
I want to feel his hot breath against the lobe of my ear, his rough hands on my skin, his deep voice rumbling against the nape of my neck… and I want it now!
Does that make me a whore?
I’m not sure I care at this point. My panties are sopping wet, and that little show of dominance down at the round pen only made me wetter.
I think this is what people call ‘daddy issues.’ I’ll have to Google that later.
The floor creaks under my weight, each step echoing louder than it should in the stillness of Duke’s old farmhouse. The air smells like dust, sunbaked wood, and something faintly metallic I can’t identify.
I glance up. The staircase winds like a spine into the shadowed second floor, and for a moment, I wonder what kind of ghosts Duke keeps hidden there. Something tells me there’s a lot of them. Beyond the stairs, a grandfather clock stands ticking back and forth in rhythm with my heart.
Somehow, I felt safer outside, tied up in the center of the ring.
“All that snooping, you must be hungry,” he groans, kicking his dusty old boots off by the door.
“I am, but I could use a shower first,” I stare down at my dust covered dress, “and something else to wear. I’m covered in dirt.”
Duke shifts his weight, eyes lingering for a moment too long, like maybe he wants to play captive a little longer, then finally he turns away. “Shower’s upstairs. Don’t take all day.”
I nod and turn away, climbing the wood staircase as I study the ornate wallpaper that looks original to the house.
It’s cracked and peeling in the corners, frayed and worn where picture frames once sat.
I wonder why he hasn’t reclaimed this space yet or made it his own.
Actually, I know why. He’s been too busy chasing down the devil.
When I’m finally upstairs, locked behind the door of the small bathroom, I turn on the shower and pull out my phone to text Kera. I’m sure she’s nervous considering the way we left things earlier, and I’m desperate to tell her all the filthy things that happened this afternoon.
Me: This is me letting you know I’m not dead.
She replies a second later as though she’s been sitting by her phone waiting.
Kera: What’s the password?
Me: LOL. Strawberry sprinkles.
Kera: Okay, I guess. So what’s going on? Where are you?
Me: Currently in his bathroom, taking a shower while he makes dinner.
Kera: Sounds like a date.
Me: I don’t date red flags, remember? I wave them.
Kera: Right! You want me to pick you up?
Me: Let me have dinner first. I think maybe I’ve got him on the edge of something good.
Kera: You’re not talking about the story anymore, are you?
Me: I would never.
Kera: …
Me: What? Don’t act like you don’t know me.
Kera: I do… that’s the problem.
Me: And how’s it going convincing your mom not to hire a bodyguard to follow you to school in the fall?
Kera: She’s interviewing ex-Navy Seals. One of them has a neck tattoo that says ‘discipline.’
Me: I don’t know what’s scarier, his tattoo or the fact that your mom probably asked for references.
Kera: She made them do background checks on themselves. I think she’s trying to start a private army.
Me: If you disappear this semester, I’ll bring the big, bad cowboy. He’ll scare the Navy Seal away.
Kera: Big, bad cowboy? Please. If he’s making you dinner, he’s halfway to domesticated already.
Me: Domesticated with a motorcycle and a murderer’s stare, maybe.
Kera: A murder stare wrapped in whatever he’s making you for dinner? You're living dangerously. After the night I’ve had with my mom, I’m weirdly proud.
Me: It’s either a romance or the beginning of my Dateline episode. TBD.
Kera: Just don’t fall for him so hard you forget how to run. Or text me. Oh, Nick stopped by this afternoon looking for you.
Me: He what?
Kera: Yup. I didn’t know what to tell him, so I said you were off living your dark cowboy fantasy. Maybe that’ll keep him away?
Me: Oh God! It’ll probably drive him toward me.
Kera: Sorry.
Me: I have no idea why he’s doing this. He was too busy for a kiss most days, and now he’s chasing me down? Men make no sense.
Kera: Or he really loves you, he feels bad, and he wants to make everything better again.
Me: If he loved me, he would’ve put work down a few times a day and touched me, right?
Kera: I mean, kinda. Yeah.
Me: Exactly.
Kera: Well, keep me up to date with red flag guy. I’d tell you not to be stupid, but I feel like you’re desperate to be the spotlight in a true crime podcast so… have fun.
Me: LOL. Tell your mom I said I like the Navy Seal idea. You can’t be trusted on your own.
Kera: … Love you.
Me: Love you back.
I set my phone by the bathroom sink and step into the shower, trying to ignore the fact that Nick is still chasing me down. We broke up a couple months ago. I don’t know how else to tell him I’m not interested. Genuinely, I can’t believe he’s even stopped working this long to chase me.
Don’t get me wrong, hard work is sexy. Duke is a hardworking man, and it’s hot as fuck.
It’s the way Nick worked, like every task came first, like everything was more important than grabbing me for a kiss, bending me over, or planning a romantic night.
And when we did have time, his mind was always somewhere else.
It was almost like he used work as a way to avoid his emotions. As a way to avoid me.
I lean back, letting the hot water spill down over my shoulders as I scrub uninspired smelling soap into every nook and cranny. I wish he had a razor in here. I could use a full body shave.
Not that anything is happening tonight. It’s not… clearly.
If he wanted to take me, he would’ve taken me down in the round pen, though I know he wanted to. I could feel it in every muscle of his body. I could see it in every lingering glance.
A chill runs down my spine at the thought of his big, calloused hands moving over me, his rough voice in my ear, the heat from his body emanating onto mine, the size of his cock as it went hard down the inside leg of his jeans.
Ugh! I need to get hold of myself.
When everything is properly scrubbed, I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a nearby towel, then holler downstairs once I realize I don’t have any clean clothes to wear.
Oh Lord, this is turning into a romance novel. I find myself alone with a big, hot, brooding, morally gray man, and now I’m wearing his clothes.
Actually, one can only hope I know what’s coming next.
“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Top drawer, end of the hall.” Grease pops as he talks and I wonder what he’s making for dinner.
It smells like fried chicken, but there’s no way this big, bad man is making fried chicken for dinner, right?
That’d be like two puzzle pieces from different boxes.
The man who kills for a living is certainly not a home cook too, right?
His bedroom is more organized than the rest of the house.
It’s like he started the remodel up here, though the bathroom looked well renovated too with tile floors that matched the inside of the shower stall.
They weren’t modern style tiles. They were vintage, as though he’s trying to keep the charm of the farmhouse.
I step onto the stained oak floors of his bedroom and glance around the room.
Fresh paint, dark wood furniture, and a single picture frame sat on top of the dresser.
An older couple in their seventies smiling bright and happy in front of a big gray barn.
I wonder if they’re his parents. I lift the frame and study it closer, dragging the tip of my finger over their faces.
He has his father’s eyes and his mother’s nose.
The glass is cool against my skin, but their warmth seeps through anyhow.
They’re good people. You can feel it in the way their eyes soften when they smile.
I set the frame back on the dresser, pull open the top drawer, and grab the first thing I see. A red flannel with a tear on the sleeve.
It’s oversized, hangs clear past my knees, and smells faintly of motor oil, like he wears it when he’s out working in the barn.
Why do I love it? You shouldn’t love it, Maci. There’s no point in loving it.
This isn’t going to develop into some fuzzy, little, love story. This is a train wreck finally crashing into the station. Too bad the train wreck doesn’t come with a side of giant cock spreading me wide.
I should really rub one out. The amount of hormones raging inside of me right now is embarrassingly ridiculous.
I let out a breath and head down the creaking stairs, following the scent of cracked pepper and frying chicken as the flannel sways against my thighs.
Duke’s standing at the stove, bathed in the golden spill of kitchen light. His shirt clings to his shoulders, and the muscle in his forearm flexes as he flips something in the pan. The smell hits me with full force now.
“Damn, you’re multi-talented. Contract killer, bike fixer-upper, fried chicken maker.”
“Sit down, bunny,” he groans, as though he’s not amused by my banter.
The corner of my mouth lifts as I move further into the room, eyes locking on the mason jar beside an empty plate. Sweet tea, ice floating inside.
“You always cook like this for your hostages?”
He finally turns, gaze flicking over me in one clean sweep, eyes lingering at my knees where the flannel stops. “Not usually, no.”
“I’m special then,” I say with a grin.
“You’re special, alright. Eat up. It’s gettin’ cold.”
I slide onto the edge of the worn stool, the wood groaning beneath me like it has opinions about what I’m doing here. It should. I’m up to no good.
Duke sets the plate in front of me. Fried chicken, buttery corn, and what might just be homemade mashed potatoes. The man’s full of secrets.
He grabs his own plate. He doesn’t sit, just leans against the counter like comfort’s something he doesn’t trust. His fork pierces the chicken with more precision than necessary.