11. Reaper
Reaper
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
The woman is going to fucking kill me where I stand. Is it possible to drop dead from a hard on?
When I left my home gym in the early morning hours, the last thing I expected to see is a half-naked Paris in my kitchen, straining on her tiptoes, looking for a wine glass while giving me a fabulous view of her ass.
Of course, my mind goes straight to my dick. I’m not a man who absolutely loves women if it didn’t. Her long legs, nice ass, decent breasts size are all on full display. All I want to do is pull down her cute cotton panties and have her ride my face.
It’s been a while since I’ve had this kind of reaction to a woman.
I can get pussy or a blow job from anyone including, the girls at the clubhouse, but real physical attraction, I haven’t had since Blake.
It’s fucking terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time.
I love the feeling, but I’m also weary of it.
What does it all mean? Why am I having it now and with Paris? What’s so special about her?
With a million and one questions bouncing around in my brain, I head toward my living room, her light footsteps echoing off the hardwood floors as she trails behind me.
She takes a seat on the couch that’s sitting directly in front of the tv, pulling her long legs up under her.
I sit both glasses on the table, uncork the bottle of Reisling, then pour both of us a generous amount of wine.
After placing the bottle on the coffee table, I hand her a glass, which she wastes no time sipping from as I sit in the armchair next to the couch.
She closes her eyes, and a low, sweet hum vibrates from her lips and goes straight to my crotch. There’s no way she can’t see the tent in my gym shorts.
“Good?” I ask, taking a sip of my own, loving the look of bliss on her face, while also pushing down the need for her rising inside me.
I’m captivated by her beauty—her scent is intoxicating—but now isn’t the time for me to be lusting over her.
“God yes.” She runs her tongue across her bottom lip, and I force down the groan inching up my throat as I follow the motion. “I’m not much of a drinker, but this is so good.”
This woman has absolutely no idea how tempting she is.
“For someone who’s not a drinker, you have great taste in wine.”
“You don’t look like a wine drinker either. More like beer, maybe whiskey.”
I can’t help but laugh. Beer and whiskey are my go-to alcoholic drinks.
But Blake was the wine drinker, while I dated her, it had grown on me.
So now I keep a small wine cabinet in the kitchen with her favorite wines, and every so often when I want to feel close to her, I’ll drink a glass and remember the times we shared.
It helps keep her memory alive for me. But Paris doesn’t need to know that.
“A good craft beer and a nice whiskey are my go-to choices, but wine isn’t too far behind.” I try to keep it short and sweet so not to divulge too much information about myself. “So, tell me a little about yourself, Paris. And if you’re not much of a drinker, why are you drinking?”
I might as well get to know something about the woman who is now living in my space, albeit temporarily. I don’t like getting to know people. I enjoy my space. I’ve always been an introvert, but I would like to hear about her life before Nikita.
Uncertainty and fear enter her eyes. “You want to know about me?”
My brows dip in confusion, furrowing as I try to understand why she’s scared for me to learn about her. Or why she’s uncertain about telling me.
“Why wouldn’t I want to know about you? You’re gorgeous. Even though I don’t know much about you, you seem like a decent person…”
“I’m far from a decent person, Logan,” she mumbles, taking a larger sip of wine and not looking me in the eye.
“You’re hiding me because I tried to kill a man who’s been having me do unspeakable things for months.
” Her eyes drop to her lap. “I haven’t been a decent person since the day they took me. ”
She shouldn’t be ashamed of what he did to her. Whatever she had to do was done so she survived. Nobody, especially not me, should ever fault her for anything she’s done, or what’s happening to her. We’ve all done shit to survive messed up circumstances.
“He fucking deserved it.” Her eyes snap to mine, and I shrug.
“Anyone in your position would do whatever it took to survive. What you went through doesn’t define the person you are but how you were able to survive it, does.
So, I want to know more about the amazing, decent woman sitting with me at…
” I glance down at my watch then focus back on her, “three thirty in the morning drinking a delicious glass of wine when she’s not much of a drinker. ”
Her giggle is a sweet, high-pitched sound that makes my heart pound inside my chest. I’m glad she’s loosening up. I’m sure the wine will help with that a little more.
It must have been hard to live through the shit Nikita put her through.
Then having to hide from the Bratva which as of right now seems to be a situation with no end.
I want to know more about the woman who took her future into her own hands.
The woman who almost killed the heir to the Petrov dynasty.
That kind of woman deserves to have her story told no matter how devastating it might be.
Blake always said I had a soft spot for a girl looking for a knight in shining armor.
Although, I don’t claim to be any kind of knight even if my life depends on it, maybe what Blake said has some truth to it.
It’s the only way I can explain my attraction to Paris.
I haven’t been attracted to anyone since my relationship with her.
Not genuine attraction that goes beyond sexual.
Now the woman sitting on my couch is in a life and death situation I want to learn more about.
And this time I can do something to save someone even when I couldn’t save her.
“Well let’s see. I’m originally from Detroit, but our parents were killed in a car accident.
Then we moved to Oakland to live with a distant relative of my mother’s so we wouldn’t end up in foster care.
However, it might have been better if we had gone into the system, but that’s a story for another day.
Anyway, the only family I have left is my brother, Kurt.
I have no idea where he is, and I can care less. How about you?”
The shift in conversation is stark. A silence hangs in the air between us, but I decide against calling her out on it. I know there’s more to her than what she’s saying.
“I’m no one special. What you see is what you get.”
I’m not in a sharing mood either. She doesn’t need to know how much of my life has been fucked up since Blake’s death.
“Tattooed biker who kills his demons through fighting,” she says, downing the rest of her wine in her glass.
She grabs the bottle and pours more. If she doesn’t slow down, she’s going to be wasted.
“Slow down,” I say instead of responding to her accurate read of me.
It isn’t often someone pays enough attention to what I do, so it’s surprising someone who’s known me just a short time can figure out why I need to be in the ring.
“I’m a big girl, Logan. I know how to handle my alcohol.” She takes a huge gulp, ignoring my warning. “Let’s watch a movie.”
I take a minute to respond. This is crossing into dangerous territory for me.
It’s like I have a devil and an angel sitting on my shoulders trying to get me to take their advice.
The devil is whispering watch the movie so she can get comfortable enough so I can fuck her.
And the angel is pleading for me to leave her alone.
I’m attracted to her. I have been since seeing her in that hallway trying to stay invisible, despite Nikita parading her around like his most prized possession.
Spending too much time with her can end up with me fucking her, and I don’t think she’s ready for that.
Shit, I don’t know if I’m ready for that because I know it will be different with her.
But what can watching one movie hurt? I’ll sit on this end of the couch, while she sits on the other.
We’ll drink a little wine, watch a movie, and pass out drunk.
Then the next day we’ll act like nothing happened. Or maybe not.
“It’s early in the morning, Paris. We both need to get some sleep.”
Disappointment flares in her eyes but she squashes it quickly. “You go to bed then. I’m restless, I need a little more alcohol and a good movie before I even think about trying to sleep.”
Even though I should, I don’t want to leave her alone. No one should drink alone.
“Alright, just one movie and as long as it isn’t some fucking love story, I’m in,” I say making the decision to just do it. “I hate that shit.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m going to pick some chick flick, Logan. But what do you have against love stories?”
“So, you don’t like chick flicks?” I ask, disbelief in my voice but also ignoring her question about my belief in love stories.
I have lived the greatest love story. I don’t need to see the shit on tv, and in movies to remind me what I’m missing out on in this miserable life. And I thought all women liked that lovey dovey shit. She’s different, but she’s still a woman.
“Of course, I do. Who wouldn’t love to see people get their happily ever after even if they aren’t real? But I’m not in the mood for love stories.”
Me either.
“I get it.”
I definitely get it. I don’t want to see other people happy and living their best lives when I’m trudging through mine. Once again who wants a reminder of what they’re missing out on. I get enough of that seeing my brothers get their happily ever afters.
I pour more wine for myself and her, then place the bottle back on the table. I grab the remote and move from the armchair to the sofa, sitting next to her.