Sugar on the Edge (7 page)

My orgasm is just lukewarm as I watch the blonde head bobbing up and down over my cock. I’m almost dispassionate about the whole event as I unload down her throat, my balls slightly tingling from the effort. I figure maybe because it’s the second orgasm I’ve had with this chick in the last hour, and I am pretty fucking drunk, but if I’m honest about it… the first orgasm wasn’t all that great either.

The blonde from the bar with the fabulous tits did indeed give me a ride home. I fucked her the first time standing up against my front door, on my front porch, thankful for the two hundred yards of privacy separating me from the neighbors to either side. Then I invited her in and we cracked open a new bottle of scotch, courtesy of a quick stop at the all-night liquor store. After a few drinks, and ten minutes of me having to listen to her prattle on about how sexy my British accent is, the best way I figured to get her to shut up was to push her face down onto my lap and have her blow me. Yup, with her mouth full of my cock, I enjoyed the blessed silence and the fumbling of her tongue up and down my shaft, resulting in an orgasm that ranked just above not having an orgasm at all, and right below the way it felt to blow my load after a wet dream when I was thirteen.

Still having no clue what her name is, I push the blonde away from my dick and reach for the bottle of scotch, tipping it back so I can suck it straight from the bottle. I hand it to her, but she shakes her head in the negative.

“I got to get going, baby. Told my babysitter I’d be home by two.” She stands from floor of my living room and wipes the corners of her mouth with her fingertips.

I stare at her hard. “You have children?”

“Two,” she says with a grimace. “Run me fucking ragged all the time. Half the time, I want to pack them up and send them to live in Virginia with their daddy. They’re so draining on me.”

Her words make fire swim in my stomach and fury rip through my veins. While still holding the bottle, I lift my index finger and point it at her. My voice is low and menacing. “You should cherish your kids.”

She’s clearly too drunk to comprehend the warning in my voice, because she snorts over my comment as she bends over to pick her purse up from the floor. “Those brats haven’t done a damn thing for me other than give me stretch marks and migraine headaches. If I knew then what I know now, I’d probably have insisted their father raise them.”

Setting the liquor bottle on the table to my right, I stand from the couch. She gives me a heated look, probably thinking I’m going to give her a passionate kiss, or maybe drop to my knees and return the oral orgasm. Instead, I grab her roughly by the arm and push her through my living room, right through the kitchen and to the front door, where I open it and push her out onto the porch.

“Time for you to go,” I tell her and start to close the door.

“Wait,” she exclaims in surprise, and her hands shoot out to stop me from shutting her out. “I mean… what the fuck is all that about?”

My upper lip curls in disdain and while I’m pretty fucking drunk, my words come out clearer than ever. “You don’t deserve to be a mother. No one should talk about their kids that way. Now get off my property, you fucking bitch.”

Her hand drops from the door in surprise over my words, and I slam the door in her face.

I walk through Gavin’s house, surveying the damage that has been done since I was here last Thursday and realize, without a doubt, that this guy is a certifiable slob. The kitchen is a disaster… the sink full of dirty dishes, the garbage can overflowing, and a jar of mayonnaise that was left out on the counter for God knows how long, because it now has a green layer of fuzz across the top when I open it up to inspect it.

His bedroom is no better. He apparently doesn’t know how to put his discarded clothes in the hamper as they are scattered all over the floor. The sheets and lightweight comforter on his bed are twisted around one another and kicked almost all the way onto the floor. The man must not sleep very well.

His bathroom isn’t so bad with just an open tube of toothpaste and some deodorant lying on the counter, and about five towels laying on the floor.

The rest of the house isn’t messy, just in need of general dusting and vacuuming. He appears to limit his time to some select areas… his kitchen and bedroom, and I’m guessing his office on the third floor, since he told me that’s where he’d probably be when I came over. I haven’t seen him since I got here fifteen minutes ago and familiarized myself with the house.

Luckily, I brought all my cleaning supplies with me, including my vacuum cleaner and mop, because I assumed, rightly so, that he wouldn’t have any forethought to provide that stuff. I even brought laundry detergent because I doubted he had that either, and immediately start a load of his laundry after stripping his bed sheets.

After putting in my ear buds and dialing up some Black Eyed Peas on my iPhone, I decide to tackle the kitchen first because it’s the nastiest. It takes me a good twenty minutes to wash all the dishes because Gavin didn’t even bother to rinse them when he stuck them in there. It appears the man subsists on canned ravioli and ham sandwiches. After scrubbing down the counters, I go ahead and dust the entire house, top to bottom, and then scrub the bathrooms. When I finish that, I creep up to the third floor and see that his office door is closed. I put my ear against it, and I can hear the faint clicking of his fingers on a computer. I hadn’t known if he was even here or not until now, but decide against disturbing him. I’m absolutely certain I’d be treated to a whole lot of cranky if I did that, so I carefully creep back down the stairs.

After changing out another load of laundry, I go ahead and start vacuuming the house. All of his floors are hardwood and tile with some scattered rugs, but I find it easier to run the vacuum cleaner rather than use a broom on the hard surfaces. After giving the first floor a once-over, I move onto the second-floor bedrooms.

While I am generally not a fan of house cleaning in general, for some reason I enjoy vacuuming. I think it’s the gentle push and pull of the machine that lets my brain seem to lull and my mind to wander, allowing me to escape into a lovely daydream. Sometimes I’ll fantasize about an epic romance, where a handsome man with an amazing body sweeps me off my feet and tells me he will adore me for all time. Sometimes, I even let my fantasies stray to the bedroom, where said handsome man with a rockin’ body will give me pleasure beyond my wildest imagination.

I’m betting Gavin Cooke knows how to do that for a woman. Sure, he’s brash, arrogant, and a jerk, but deep within those eyes, you can tell that part of his ego is what would make him undoubtedly a fantastic lover. I bet he doesn’t know how to do a poor job at anything.

Shaking my head with an internal smirk, I try to banish those thoughts. While Gavin may be well equipped in the bedroom, that’s about as far as his talents would take him, I’m betting. He absolutely screams “loner,” and you can tell he probably has no concept of what a loving relationship would be about. At least in my limited experience. Yup… need to keep his gorgeous face completely segregated over into the sole category of “pornographic fantasies” and keep waiting for my dream man that will hopefully resemble someone of Hunter or Brody’s caliber.

Suddenly, something grabs ahold of my upper arm and I scream at the top of my lungs, releasing the handle to the vacuum cleaner and thrusting my elbow upward and back in self-defense. It cracks into something hard, and I leap forward a few feet, spinning to face my attacker.

Gavin is standing there, looking pissed and holding his hand to his jaw while he flexes it back and forth. He says something but I can’t hear him, so I hastily pull the ear buds loose and scramble forward to turn the vacuum cleaner off.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says as he fingers his jaw. “What the fuck did you hit me for?”

“You scared me,” I say defensively, my heart still pounding like a jackhammer.

“I called out to you,” he throws at me, anger heavy in his voice.

“Well, clearly I didn’t hear you or I would have responded.”

“Clearly,” he sneers. “How could you hear me with all that fucking racket you were making? I’m trying to write for Christ’s sake, and you’re hoovering the house down.”

“Hoovering?” I ask, confused.

“Hoover,” he says as he points to the vacuum cleaner.

“It’s a Dirt Devil,” I say as I look at the bright red model with a devil’s tail on it.

“What?” he asks, confused, his eyebrows drawn inward.

“It’s a Dirt Devil,” I confirm.

“What the fuck ever. We call them hoovers in the UK,” he growls, and I have to resist the urge to laugh. But then he brings me back down to earth by saying, “I can’t have you making all that noise when I’m trying to work.”

“I can’t clean properly without vacuuming,” I tell him. “Hoovering, I mean.”

“Then use a fucking broom so you don’t make any noise,” he snarls as he turns away from me, “or I’ll find someone that can clean my house in a way that caters to my needs, not theirs.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly as he starts to climb the staircase, because I truly am. He’s my employer and I do need to find a way to work around him and fulfill his needs.

“Whatever,” he gripes. “Daft Yank.”

I’m not sure why his words set me off. Maybe it’s because adrenaline is coursing through my body from having the pants scared off me or maybe it’s because I’m tired of being a doormat that certain douche bags walk all over, but I put my job in jeopardy once again when I say, “Why are you always such an asshole?”

The words pop out of my lips so suddenly that I have an insane urge to clap my hand over my mouth. But I don’t. I straighten my spine, stand tall, and cringe internally while I wait for him to bring the hammer down on me.

Gavin turns slowly on the staircase until he’s facing me directly. His eyes are narrowed and his teeth are clenched. “What did you just call me?”

“An asshole,” I confirm. “You’re mean. Really mean, actually.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me a moment. Then my heart really starts pounding when he steps down off the bottom stair and walks toward me. His gait is slow, his eyes holding me in place. He walks right up to me and when I have to crane my neck upward to look at him, I finally take a step backward. It doesn’t stop his momentum though, because he takes another step in my direction, even as I back up. We continue this dance until he backs me right up into a dresser. The halt in my progress doesn’t stop him though, and he takes one more step into me until there’s nothing more than a few inches separating our bodies.

He glares down at me… his eyes probing my gaze deeply. I swallow hard, not knowing if this man is certifiable enough to hurt me, but pretty damn sure he’s getting off on the fact that he’s scaring the daylights out of me.

He surprises me when he brings a hand up and I struggle not to flinch, unsure if he’s going to strangle me or not. Instead, his fingers graze along my jaw before giving it a firm grip to hold me in place. “So, you think I’m an asshole?”

I lick my lips once and swallow again to wet my tongue. “Yes,” I whisper.

The frostiness in his gaze dissipates, and he slides his thumb over my chin. The move is soft, sensual, and his breath fans out over my face in a rush of cinnamon scent. “You’re an interesting woman,” he muses.

“I am?” I ask, my voice still held hostage by fear, but also something else that I can’t quite put my finger on. Curiosity? Excitement?

“Indeed,” he murmurs. “I thought your backbone was made of jelly. I’m thinking I might have misjudged you a bit.”