Chapter 9
Iggy
S unday night I can’t fall asleep, and I lay awake in my bed. I haven’t felt this anxious since my years at Infernus Academy when every Sunday night felt like this. I cough experimentally, just like I used to back then, hopeful I might be getting sick. But there’s no rasp, no phlegm. Not that calling in sick on my first day is an option, not if I want to avoid jail anyway.
Why am I anxious? I needed a community service position, and now I have one. Problem solved. And yet my hands continue to rub nervous circles over the sheets. Not for the first time, I wish I was in my own bed. The room Darcy has put me up in is beautiful, lovely, comfortable. But my black comforter back home is quilted with bats and crows, and my black sheets are printed with a passage from my favorite gothic murder mystery in gold lettering. It’s all so cozy and perfect.
A light comes on outside my window. It’s coming from the garage apartment, and my head pops off the pillow. I must have left the curtains open, not intentionally of course, but now I know Chad’s home. I lick the air, like I’d be able to taste him from here. I’m nowhere near that good. Although, if anyone’s scent could travel this far, it’d be his.
The man tastes deliciously sweet, like all the time. I pick up his off-scent of arousal so often, I’ve started to wonder if there’s something wrong with my tongue, like he’s burned his scent permanently onto it so that I taste him even when he’s not around. Or maybe humans are entirely different from demons. Maybe their scents don’t translate to the same feelings as ours, and I’ve been completely misreading him. Or maybe being super smelly is just normal for humans.
Gah! This is the kind of information that would have been useful to learn in school. Far more useful than all the town founder crap they drilled into our heads. Look where that load of garbage got us.
At the moment, my working theory is that Chad is perpetually horny. It would explain his ongoing obsession with pickup lines and his weekly nights out at the tiki bar. He’s been trying to satisfy a very active libido, which I can both respect and admire. The only twinge of disappointment comes from thinking that his powerful reaction to seeing me for the first time was par for the course for him. I preferred the flattering thought that I was special. It felt good. The ego stroke to end all ego strokes.
Or maybe he really is an imp , I chuckle to myself. My own personal imp who crawled up out of the Abyss just for me.
I lay back down, and as I stare at the warm glow of his window, I feel myself settling in. My anxiety calms and my thoughts drift to the other evening when we sat on the couch together.
“Hello, gorgeous. I’d like to buy you a drink. What do you say?”
A warm tingle runs over my body. Fuck , I wish he could’ve smelled me just then. I wanted him to. And Saturday morning in his apartment. I know I was off-scenting my arousal then too, but he’s not a demon. He had no way of knowing how badly I wanted him to drop that towel. If I hadn’t just asked him for a huge favor, I might have been more bold in hinting. It didn’t feel right to press at the time, but now I regret it.
“Drop your towel. Lay back. Grab the headboard and don’t let go.” That’s what I should have said. I’d like to see him completely naked, panting, pink in the face, and off-scenting for me.
I pull a hand under the covers and my fingers wiggle their way into my panties, where they rub slick circles in my perfect rhythm. My mouth pops open as warmth builds and my climax approaches. My thighs squeeze together around my hand, and here it comes. I gasp out at each little spasm, and then my body goes slack as I let the cozy sleepy chemicals wash over me.
Just before my eyes drift closed, I take one last look out the window and see his light go out.
I wake up at five in the morning, groggy but too anxious about the day ahead to fall back asleep. I unpack my entire suitcase and lay everything out on the bed, and like a mad woman, I arrange and rearrange the items in every possible configuration. I don’t have a whole lot to work with, and yet the limited choices only make my job harder. If I’m going out in public where people will see me and my damn GPS monitor clamped to my horn, at least my outfit can be on point.
Okay, starting at the top again. A blazer looks the most like a uniform, and that feels appropriate. But I don’t have slacks, and a pencil skirt doesn’t strike me as sufficiently outdoorsy. So, nix the blazer and the skirt. I continue on until I’ve eliminated everything and have to start again. I’m ready to tear my hair out, and that reminds me I still need to shower. I grab my toiletries and stomp off to the bathroom.
I’m just shutting off the water when I hear, “Iggy! Get your ass out here right now or I’m leaving you behind!”
I run from the bathroom, dripping wet, only to collide with Chad. He’s fully dressed in his park ranger uniform, jacket, hat, gloves, and sturdy boots. He’s clearly ready for a day up on the mountain.
Whereas I’m naked.
His eyes bulge and face flushes before he glances sideways. He clears his throat. “I’ve been sitting in the truck honking for twenty minutes,” he growls, eyes still firmly averted.
“That was you?” My nose wrinkles. In my head, I was cursing a rude neighbor.
“Yes it was me!” he shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I made you breakfast. I knocked on your door twice to give you time checks. And now it’s a quarter to seven. We’re running twenty-five minutes late, and you’re not even dressed!” He glances at me and seems to get stuck for a second, before he tears his eyes away again.
He is bright red in the face now, and yes, it’s very surprising to see that red is a good color on him but, holy fuck, where did the time go?
“Please put some clothes on. Please,” he whispers, and there’s something in voice that sounds pained. I’ve really irritated him. Shit!
“Give me five minutes!” I duck into my room and don’t bother toweling off. I throw on an outfit, grab my makeup bag and race out to the driveway.
As soon as I’m in the truck, we take off, and after a few minutes of silence, Chad speaks up. “Look, I’m sorry I raised my voice. That was uncalled for. But this can’t happen again. I don’t run late.”
“Sorry,” I say and leave it at that. What else is there to say? I’ll admit, if only to myself, that there are a number of things I’m not good at, and running on time is one of them. I’m more of a ‘window of arrival’ kind of person. Which is why I showed up an hour early to my interview at the Emberlight Resort because planning for my own shortcomings is something I’ve learned to do. Mostly.
As soon as we park, I ask him to log me in.
“I’ll do it inside,” he says.
“No!” I practically shriek, as my heart starts to race. “Here, please. I don’t want anyone to see.”
He gives me a look that says I’m trying his patience, but he does it. Lifting his wrist, he taps his bracelet to my GPS monitor and I feel the haptic feedback buzz between the two devices, confirming that it’s done. I’m officially logged in for community service for the first time. The threat of prison lifts, and on my next exhale, one of the many knots in my stomach loosens.
Now I just have to get through the rest of this day.
Once we’re inside the ranger station, Chad introduces me to Luís who has the title ‘Senior Ranger’ stitched into his uniform. “This is Ignatia Henix. She’s going to fill the volunteer ranger position for the next eight weeks.” Oh Dark Mother Below. It’s not that I didn’t know the title, but hearing it said to someone else, my stomach still goes queasy and a prickling of shame runs over my skin. Volunteer. She’s here to not get paid. My eyes drop to the floor.
“Alright. I’ll let Ben know we won’t need him until after the new year. You’re late, by the way,” Luís says, turning to Chad.
“I’m aware, and I apologize,” Chad says, an edge to his voice. When I glance between them, I’d say Luís looks oddly amused. Chad, on the other hand, looks thoroughly embarrassed. Join the club, buddy.
“Well, get her a uniform. Did you bring any other shoes?” Luís asks me.
“No,” I say. He’s eyeballing my leopard print heels, and despite my embarrassment, I’m miffed that neither of them seems to appreciate all the consideration that went into deciding these were my most outdoorsy shoes.
Chad disappears and returns a minute later with a pants and jacket set and hands me the hanger. I hold it up. It’s an atrocity. They couldn’t pay me to wear this, and make no mistake, no one is offering to pay me. Thankfully, this is a volunteer position, which means everything I do is voluntary. “I can’t wear this.”
“Looks like the right size to me. Try it on,” Chad says.
He may be correct, it may be my size, but it looks like a one-ply army uniform knock-off. And worse, it reminds me of my sentencing. Before our trial, our advisor had us change into orange jumpsuits. I had a bad feeling about it then, and I wish I’d listened to my gut. The jumpsuits did not help our cause, and when it came time to stand before the tribunal, I didn’t even have the dignity of my own clothes to help me stand tall in the moment.
I’m making a better call today. I’ll keep the outfit I picked for myself, the one that preserves my comfort and self-worth. I’m sorry, but I am not spending the next eight weeks of my life walking around in what is essentially just another convict’s uniform.
“It doesn’t go with my shoes,” I say, offering up a simple explanation. I’m obviously not going to share the orange jumpsuit anecdote with them. And since we’ve already established I don’t have any other shoes, discussion over. I drop the awful thing on the back of a chair and wipe my hands clean of it.
Chad rolls his eyes and starts heading toward the door. I follow him.
“You’re staying here,” he says over his shoulder.
“What if you need help with something?” I say, continuing to follow. The best thing that can come from today is me getting an opportunity to pay off some of my debt to him. It’s my one and only goal in being here, well, that and not going to jail, but that box was checked the moment he scanned me in. Now I just have to clock enough hours to satisfy the court.
“I can handle these work orders myself.” He turns to face me. “If you want to be useful, help Luís here at the station.” He gestures for me to turn around.
“Luís is not my friend,” I say. Glancing back, I see Luís lift an eyebrow at me, so I tag on, “No offense.” He shrugs and goes back to reading a newspaper.
But Chad gives me a thoroughly peeved look. “So?”
“So why would I help him?” It’d be a colossal misuse of time and effort when I have a very real and pressing need to start repaying the debt accruing from room and board, not to mention all the other things Chad has already done for me. I started writing it down yesterday, and I’m feeling a little suffocated again just thinking about it.
“Because it’s your job.”
“Job? What job? I’m not getting paid,” I hiss the last part under my breath.
“You’re working off your debt to society, and I took an oath to ensure you do it. I swore to be a responsible citizen and uphold the sentence of the court. So either you stay here and help Luís, or I can log you out.” He lifts his wrist, flashing his bracelet and— threatens me.
My insides go up in flames. I feel my lip start to curl back, exposing my sharp teeth. I’m seething, but damn, he’s going red in the face again, and who knew that could be a good look for a blond?
T he next morning is no better. As soon as I get to the kitchen, he’s right back to being irritated.
“Where’s your uniform?” he asks.
“At the station.” Where I left it on purpose.
“You were supposed to bring it home. And I told you you needed to wear work-appropriate shoes.” He glares at my feet.
“You said closed toe shoes,” I grumble back.
“Closed toe, no high heels.” His hands fly up in exasperation.
“These are wedges. And they are closed toe! They're practically sneakers.”
“Then just wear sneakers!”
I snort.
“Damn it, Iggy! Work with me here. Please, just go change your shoes.” He’s kneading his forehead.
“I only brought three pairs. And if you didn’t like these first two, I can promise you, fashionista Chad, you’re not going to like the third one.” They’re thigh-high, skin-tight, black sheer boots with a line up the back of the leg and silver spiked toes, my ‘just in case there’s a bar with a good goth scene’ boots. “I’m wearing the best shoes I have,” I say, my face burning with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
“Oh.” He blinks at me and scratches at the back of his head.
“I gotcha, girl,” Darcy jumps up from her chair and comes back with an armful of flats and sneakers, but it’s a pair of brothel creepers that catch my eye.
“The Fairy Fentysea collection? I want these.” I snatch them up before I realize my problem. “I don’t have any money.”
“Well I don’t want to give them to you,” Darcy says.
“Smart.” I nod approvingly. These are designer and limited edition. Giving them away would be a crime.
“But I’m happy to let you borrow them.” She smiles at me.
“So…?” I wrinkle my nose at her. “What does that mean?”
“You can use them for as long as you’re here. Free of charge.”
I grin at that. She’s not half the negotiator Chad is, but that’s good news for me. She lends me some socks too, and when I slip the shoes on, I’m delighted by my discovery. “We’re the same size! I want a full inventory of all borrowable items in your closet. We’ll negotiate terms when I get home,” I say, as I hurry out the door. Chad is already waiting in the truck.
When we get to the station, he hesitates to scan me in. “You’re supposed to show up in uniform. It's not optional, but I’ll make one last exception. Starting tomorrow, no more leniency.” I roll my eyes, and he fixes me with a hard look. “I mean it.”
We’ll see.
When Chad tries to leave me behind again, this time I refuse to be left. I’m not spending another whole day with Luís. It was painful watching him make ugly flyers then print them on an ancient inkjet that was clearly low on cyan toner. He also covered one of the big picture windows with cheap posters of under-developed, washed-out photos, which he claimed was necessary because of the morning glare, conveniently forgetting there are existing, aesthetically acceptable solutions to that exact problem. Has he ever heard of blinds? Curtains?
I get my way by ignoring Chad’s protests, jumping into his truck anyway, and buckling myself in. We head out along the trails roaming the mountain. He tries to pretend I’m not there as he checks on campers, picks up roadside trash, and performs other menial labor. But I catch his eyes sliding over to me fairly often. Almost involuntarily.
Those tiny glances shouldn’t affect me as much as they do, but I feel it in my pulse every time. I make no attempt to ignore him. He’s the only thing worth watching out here, so I enjoy the show of him going about his sweaty business. As the day gets hotter, his jacket comes off and his sleeves get rolled up, and hello . There are the forearms I’ve been dreaming about. Despite the tension between us, I still enjoy the fun little glimpse into how he forged those gorgeous things.
Every now and then, I ask if there’s anything I can help with, and each time he says, “Not in those clothes.”
“Are you asking me to strip down, Park Ranger Chad Robins?” I tease the third time he repeats it.
His head snaps up from the log he’s splitting, and for a moment his eyes go heated as his gaze rakes me up and down. “I believe I was asking you to double up on clothes. Something that’ll cover those thighs and those pointy ankles.” He points accusingly at me, and there’s a grumble to his voice, but also a touch of humor. He’s teasing me back.
“Why would I do that?” I kick my legs out. It’s too chilly for shorts, I’ll admit. I regretted the decision as soon as I stepped out the door this morning, but I’m a hot-blooded demon. I’ll survive, and shorts are more outdoorsy than slacks.
“Putting aside the fact that it’s a requirement of the job, you mean?” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “You could do it just to have mercy on me.” He picks up his ax and goes clomping off into the woods, grumbling something about me killing him a little more each day.
It might be the grumpiest compliment I’ve ever gotten, but I still like it.
At the end of the day, we head up Last Hour Road toward the residential cabins. For a second, I wonder if he plans to dump me back at the rental cabin he retrieved me from, but then he makes a turn down a private drive, and the cabin we stop at is not one I recognize.
“Stay in the truck,” he says sternly, which is fine with me. I’m not in the mood to chat with strangers anyway, especially not the hobo-looking gentleman sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair. He’s wearing a bedraggled, untied bathrobe with nothing but dirty jeans underneath. I hope we’re not here to run off a squatter.
My face goes hot with embarrassment as I realize that’s exactly what Chad was sent to my cabin to do. I press back in my seat, fighting the urge to slide all the way down on the floorboard and turn into a puddle of shame.
The man Chad is talking to spots me in the truck. He leans forward in his rocker, his chin jutting toward me. Chad glances at me over his shoulder but when he turns back, he shakes his head no at the old man. I wonder what he asked.
The man gets up and starts walking my way. Chad steps into his path, attempting to block him. The old man steps around, and Chad follows behind him with an irritated scowl on his face.
I roll down the window as he approaches.
“I’m Henry Robins. This is my property you’re on,” he says. And holy shit , this is Chad’s dad. My eyes dart back and forth between the two men. Personal hygiene and wardrobe aside, there is a pronounced family resemblance, the nose, the cut of the jaw, the very square front teeth.
“I’m Iggy,” I say, extending my hand through the window. He pulls back for a second before taking my hand, and we shake.
“I hear you’re a new coworker,” Henry says, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Something like that,” I say, giving Chad a soft smile. Coworker not volunteer. That was nice of him. Henry catches it, and his eyes light up with suspicion.
“Something like that, huh? You two didn’t bother to get your stories straight before you ambushed me?” he says, glaring at Chad before turning back to me. “Who are you with, the IRS?”
I snort at that. “Do I look like someone who’d take a government job?” I ask.
He blinks at that before his face hardens into a scowl. “I’ll tell you what you look like—” he starts but is interrupted by Chad’s low grumble.
“Watch yourself.”
“You look like someone who could pull the wool over the eyes of a trusting fool, some good-hearted boob with no common sense.” He swings back to Chad. “How many times do I have to tell you not to trust strangers? And now you’ve brought her onto my property? Why can’t you follow simple instructions? I swear you pull this crap just to try my patience. I’ve told you time and again, if you’re not gonna use the sense God gave you, then at least have smarts enough to listen to good advice when someone is beating you over the head with it!” Henry is snarling and sneering, and his arms are flailing in Chad’s direction like he wants to swing at him.
Something sparks in my chest.
I glance at Chad. His jaw is set, but his posture is relaxed, almost decidedly so. He’s bigger than his dad, taller, stronger, fuller in the chest. I think he must have figured out a long time ago he could take him down if he wanted to, but he won’t.
He’s like Rex.
The thought pops into my head, surprising me, but it’s true. The big guy was quick to defend Vale or me but could rarely be bothered to defend himself. He’d wail on anyone that got in our faces, but he’d take a punch aimed at him and keep walking. Well, I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.
“Hey!” I shout at Henry. He comes to a startled silence. “Pipe down, old man. I owe your son a debt, and I’m not above repaying it with a pound of flesh.” I hold his eye for a second before smiling cooly. Rex didn’t always swing. A good threat was sometimes enough.
The old man glances at Chad then back at me. There’s a flash of a surprise on Henry’s face that quickly morphs into a grimace. He turns to Chad, studying him for a long, hard minute before he says, “Are you two coming in?”
Chad looks surprised by the question and starts to walk away. “No. We’ve got to go.” He hurries around the truck and jumps into the driver’s side.
“Next time, then,” his dad calls through the window. “We’re gonna have a chat, the three of us,” he says, looking right at me.
“Only if you’re wearing a shirt,” I say, flashing him my teeth in another threatening smile as we pull away.
Next to me, I hear a soft chuckle. Turning, I catch Chad giving me a curious look. There’s a half-smile tugging on one side of his face, but I’m not sure what it means. I smile back anyway.
O n Wednesday, Chad makes good on his threat, and even though he’s already driven me all the way out to the ranger station, he refuses to scan me in.
“I need these hours.”
“Then do what you’re supposed to do to earn them. Volunteer rangers wear uniforms. Period. You know where yours is.”
I’m outraged, and I bug him incessantly, dogging his heels. But he waits until four pm to turn on me. He crowds me up against the side of his truck, sending my pulse spiking at the feel of his breath against the tip of my ear and the warmth of his body so deliciously close to mine.
“This is me being generous,” he says in a low growl that sends a shiver through me. He taps his bracelet to my monitor and logs me in. As his hand drops, his fingertips graze lightly down my bare skin from my shoulder to my wrist. The lightest scrape of his roughened hands, the faintest heat of his flesh calling to mine, and warmth pools low in my belly. But just as I’m about to reach for his belt loop, he pulls away. I’m left there panting ever so slightly.
I get one stinking hour of logged time for the entire day.
On Thursday, he does it again, the jackass.
“I have to get twenty hours a week or they’ll fine me. You have to scan me in!” And now I think he’s enjoying himself just a little, because when he turns to me, there’s a glint in his eye.
“That’s something else I’ve been meaning to point out. Twenty hours is the minimum , and despite what you think, you can’t afford to do the bare minimum, not when you’re already a month behind. You need forty hours a week if you’re going to finish two hundred and fifty hours in time.” He steps right into my personal space, just like yesterday, leaving only the tiniest sliver of distance between us. It sets my heart racing, and I think he knows it, the bastard. “Forty hours,” he repeats. “If I’m here, you’re here.”
And what choice do I have? I haven’t done the stupid math, but of course he’s right. “I agree to your stupid terms,” I hiss from between clenched teeth.
His face has been flushed red most of the day, but this is the deepest it’s been. I want to tear open his shirt and see how far the color has spread, how far under his skin I’ve gotten.
His lips graze featherlight against the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Good. Because you don’t have a choice.” An electric tingle shoots across my body. He takes a couple of hard breaths, hovering so invitingly close, but again, just when I’m tempted to grab for his belt loop, he turns and stomps off.
When we leave work on Friday, I only have eighteen hours logged for the entire week despite forty hours spent at the ranger station or roaming around Mt. Winter Bliss in Chad’s truck. No, I didn’t help with a single thing, but he refused my offers of help. So that’s on him.
When we pull up to the house, he leaves the truck running, apparently waiting for me to get out.
“Aren’t you coming inside?” I ask.
“Nope. I’m headed to the bar.”
“Do you want help with lines?” Maybe that can count as my last two hours, and I’ll at least avoid being fined for this week.
“No.”
“Fine!” There goes another thousand dollars I don’t have. I throw open the door, and just as I’m hopping out, his voice goes low and stern.
“You better be in uniform on Monday.”
“Why?” The single word explodes out of me. Why the fuck does he care so much about this damn uniform?
“Because volunteer rangers wear uniforms. And because I’m your boss, and I said so.”
“My boss? If I’m not getting paid, I don’t have a boss. What don’t you understand about that?”
“What don’t you understand? You have a debt, an obligation, and now, thanks to this,” he holds up his wrist, “so do I. I gave my word that you would do the job and that job has requirements.”
“My sentence is for hours, not effort, not labor. Hours . I’m showing up for those hours, as required. I read my probation packet cover to cover. There is nothing in there about uniforms. That’s your requirement. You’re the one trying to add your own set of rules to my sentence. You are causing this problem, not me! ” I slam the door of the truck and stomp off.
W hen the light finally comes on in Chad’s garage apartment, the mixture of frustration and bitter outrage I’ve been stewing in for hours has simmered down to something more useful: resolve. We’ve arrived at an impasse. Something has to give.
When I knock on his door, it swings open and I catch the reek of alcohol and the accompanying bar smells that have soaked into his clothes.
“I am here to negotiate new terms,” I announce, chin lifting high, mouth set in a firm line. I mean business.
“What terms?” he asks, his brow creasing as his eyes blink in and out of focus.
“The uniform, for starters. It’s ugly and I hate it, but it appears to be a sticking point for you. I’d like to negotiate and see if we can come to an agreement to resolve that and a few other matters.”
He crooks an eyebrow and, raising an arm to support himself, he settles his weight against the door jam. Then, leaning close enough to look me right in the eye, he says, “Why should I negotiate with you? You haven't done a damn thing I've asked all week.”
I ignore the warmth radiating off of his body, refusing to let it draw me in. I will not grab his belt loops, I promise myself, and instead, I roll my eyes. “I’ve been showing up, haven’t I?” And technically, that’s all I’m required to do.
“It’s not enough!” he growls.
“I guess that depends on whose side you’re on, doesn’t it?” Someone on my side would support my effort to adhere to the letter of the law and understand my wish to avoid giving away any more of myself for free. Someone on the court’s side would sound like him.
“Just showing up isn’t anything to be proud of, Iggy. None of our volunteer rangers get paid, but they wear the uniform and they do the job anyway because taking care of the park is its own reward, something to feel good about.”
“Oh, and where exactly do I cash in on that reward? Is there an exchange line at human stores where I can tell them how good I feel about my court-ordered unpaid labor, and they’ll give me work appropriate shoes and replace my body wash that ran out last week? Is that how it works in your world?”
He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “What are you getting out of this now?” he asks. “If I spent all my time and energy refusing to do the basic duties of my job, just waiting out each day like a jail sentence, that’d eat at me a lot faster. It’d drive me crazy. I’d feel worthless.”
And there it is.
I take a step back, and I don’t have to be looking in a mirror to know my eyes are flashing red. My back straightens and my head lowers. I’m not going to gore him, but it’s instinctual to lower horns to an enemy.
“I may not be worth much, but I am not worthless.” I spit out the hated word, but the bitter taste of it remains sharp on my tongue. “I don’t give a shit what you and some asshole judge think. I have value.” I spin to leave, but he catches me by the wrist.
“I’m sorry, Iggy. I didn’t mean that,” he says with a note of exasperation.
I've wrestled with anger and shame most of my life, and if there is one thing I've learned, it's that halfhearted apologies only make things worse. I yank my wrist free, ready to storm down the stairs.
“Don’t go,” he pleads, and there’s something in his voice that tugs at my stomach. I stop, but I don't turn to face him. “Look, I know it’s been a frustrating week.” He lets out a slow breath, and I can practically hear him trying to pick his next words. “But you and I don’t have to see eye to eye for me to think the world of you. Iggy, you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and if I’ve made you think anything different, I am truly sorry.” He steps closer and reaches for my hand again, his fingers fluttering lightly against mine.
I turn, and his face falls when he sees the tears streaming down my cheeks. He pulls me into his arms. One hand tucks my head under his chin while the other wraps around my back.
I quietly sob.
“You are a rare find, Ignatia Henix, a priceless treasure,” he says and there’s a steely note in his voice that gives his words weight enough to sink into me.
When I finally collect myself, he invites me inside, adding, “I think we have some negotiating to do.”
I wipe my nose on his shirt as I nod.
A half hour later, we’re seated on his couch. A deal is on the table. Every nerve in my body is singing with excitement.
It comes down to this. “So, currently, I’m putting you up and letting you stay without charging you anything,” Chad says. He’s sobered up some at this point, but he’s still showing the signs from his evening at the bar. “But under our new agreement, I’d be paying you to work at the station with room and board. And that would make you happy?” He scratches the back of his head, looking perplexed, but the proposition sends a dizzying delight running through my veins. I flush warm all over.
It’s an incredibly favorable deal. I’ve done the mental calculation of how much I paid per night at the B and three, I get to update the flyers and any other marketing material too.” I hold up another finger as each item pops into my head. “Four, everything I redesign, I get to include in my portfolio. And five, I get to use you as a reference as a branding and marketing client. Those are my five terms.”
He snorts, but nods. “I’ll have to run some of that past Luís, but I’m sure he’d be amenable. He hates doing all of that stuff. And I’d happily be a reference provided you do a good job.”
“Good job? I’m going to blow your fucking mind.” I lean heavily into the word blow. He flushes a soft pink, which is accompanied by another plume of his scent filling the room. “Deal?” I ask.
“Deal,” he says, straightening up in his chair. Then, clearing his throat, he extends his forearm.
We grip and shake, sealing the deal, but we don’t let go. We both linger. Our eyes and arms stay locked, heat building between us until the thought that’s been buzzing in my head comes tumbling out of my mouth. “I wish you could taste me.” His nostrils flare, but his nose can’t tell him what his tongue would already know if he were demon. “My panties are soaked. I’m so turned on right now, all I can think about is your cock. If I go back to my bed aching like this, I’ll touch myself all night and still wake up dissatisfied. I need you to take care of this for me. Please.”
He’s out of his seat so fast, I squeak in surprise. I’m not even sure where exactly he grabs hold of me. All I know is I’m bodily lifted from the couch, carried to the bed, and tossed onto my back with a bounce. He strips off his shirt, ripping some buttons loose in his haste. Then, nudging my thighs open with his knees, the shirtless cowboy crawls his way up me.
His strong, weathered hands slide up my bare thighs, followed by his mouth, until he reaches my yellow pajama shorts. He bites at the fabric, right over my hip bone. He sucks at the spot. His tongue licks up over the hem to leave a scorching trail across my skin. “We don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “If you change your mind, you can leave any time you want.”
Leave? “Not until you’ve fucked me every which way you can think of.”
He growls and his teeth press into me again while his hands squeeze my thighs. His breathing is heavy, and the taste of his off-scenting is so potent, it’s making my head spin. He works a hand under my shorts and wiggles his fingers under my panties. I’m slick and wet, and he wastes no time sliding a finger inside me. I let out a delighted little whimper.
“You like that?” he asks. And I bite my lip as I consider how to respond. There’s something kind of charming about the fact that he has to ask.
“I like it even though it’s a tease,” I tell him. “It’s a good start, but I want more of you.” I clench around his finger. His other hand clutches at me, squeezing, and his teeth nibble at the cloth.
“I’m glad to hear it.” His voice is raw and gruff, and it sends a shiver radiating through me. He slides another finger inside me and starts licking my clit over my shorts. His tongue is forceful and rough, but the sensation is blunted by the double layer of fabric. The teasing continues to build so nicely, sending buzzy signals up and down my body.
Just when my thighs start to tremble and little flutters are pulsing around his fingers, he pulls out.
“Why’d you stop?” I protest. I was right on the edge.
He crawls further up me and tugs at my shirt. “I want you completely naked when you come on my tongue,” he says. “I want to see every shiver it sends through your body.”
“Then you’d better strip me down,” I say with eager agreement, sitting up to help him accomplish the task. He grabs handfuls of my shirt, and as he pulls it up over my head, I feel the haptic buzz of his bracelet passing too close to my monitor. He’s logged me in.
“Shit,” he says as he tosses my shirt to the side. He moves to tap my monitor again, to log me out, but I grab his wrist. “No.” I shove his hand into the pillow, holding it down. He stares at me, a question clear on his face.
I push him back until he’s laying flat on his back. Then I throw my leg over his hips, and I pull myself into a seated position, straddling him. “I need two hours on the clock, and you’re going to give them to me.”
“You can’t be serious,” he whispers, even as I see the way his eyes dilate.