Pound of Flesh

“You what?”

“For some reason I brought this dress along.” Her voice drops to a rushing whisper. “I’ve never worn it before, but I have you around to protect me now, so I didn’t think I needed to hide…”

“You don’t.” Regret and pride war inside me. “You look a little too sexy in it is all. Sweet, too. Men get ideas when young girls wear dresses like that. I want to be the only one who has ideas around you.”

Her voice sounds breathy and uneven when she finally responds. “Why are you holding an ice pack?”

“To ice down your pussy,” I murmur. “See? Ideas.”

“Thoughtful ones,” she whispers, stepping closer. “Will you take me out and feed me in this pretty dress, please, Raider? Shouldn’t I look nice on my very first date?”

“First date, huh?” Goddamn, I might have to beat my chest a third time. Later, though. Right now, I slide my fingers into her hair, tugging until her head falls back, giving me a mouthwatering view of her smooth neck, the perky tits swelling against the front of her dress. “Do you have a curfew?”

“I don’t know.” Her thighs writhe; the pulse pounds at the base of her neck. “You’ll have to ask my daddy.”

“Fuck.” I drop my mouth down, stopping an inch above hers, letting her sweet breath puff against my lips. “You keep talking like that, an ice pack isn’t going to do shit for you.”

We stare at one another for heavy, hungry moments. Moments I swear I’m losing my tether on reality, my focus narrowing down to nothing except this girl. This chance fate is giving me to be her provider, lover. Her man. There’s nothing keeping me from dragging her back into the room and banging her doggy style on the cheap bed. She’s asking me for it with her eyes, the tits she’s putting on display for my starved eyes. But then I hear her stomach growl and instinct, protectiveness, duty takes over. Much as it pains me, I have to put her wellbeing above everything.

For the rest of my life.

God help anyone who tries to stop me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Delilah

Call it Stockholm syndrome, call it whatever you darn well please, but I’m on cloud nine walking into the bar with Raider. His hand is settled right on top of my backside, like he owns me. At the intersection, he stopped to bend down and kiss my cheek. I’m fluttering up a storm in my stomach thinking about spending time with him. Not to mention what comes later. Judging from the bulge he’s sporting, I’m guessing it won’t be long before my ankles are back up around my ears.

As if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, he swats my bottom, then rubs the stinging spot with his big, meaty mitt, adding a grunt for good measure. Good lord, the giant is growing on me. Fast. Too fast?

The way I was raised, I had no option but to be independent. I plan to keep it that way, but there’s no law that says I can’t bask in the cherishing way this man treats me. It’s like trekking through a desert for eighteen years only to be placed in a hammock and served some lemonade. I’m not going to second guess my enjoyment of him. Of…us.

Can there be an us so soon? Raider doesn’t seem inclined to let me go any time soon, but if I’ve learned anything from watching my brother and his friends go through women like water, it’s that men can be fickle creatures. Raider doesn’t strike me as the type to change his mind once it’s made up, but I have to keep on guard.

Just in case.

When I pass through the door Raider is holding for me and get a good look at the restaurant, a touch of my excitement dims. It’s the restaurant equivalent of the neighborhood we were in last night—dingy, dark and full of dickheads. I’ve begun to grow accustomed to Raider’s size and general scariness, so it takes me a moment to realize why the whole establishment goes silent when we walk in. They’re ogling him, as if he escaped from the circus, some of the men at the bar going so far as to point.

Pumping my backbone full of steel, I send the rude patrons a scowl and take Raider’s hand, leading him to a booth in plain view of the bar. It’s still dark—the whole place feels bathed in nighttime—but it’s not hidden in the least.

Behind me, he clears his throat. “Wouldn’t you rather sit in back?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine right here.”

A waitress comes over with a couple of menus, acting like she’s heading for the gallows, before standing with her head bowed meekly over her pad. “Uh. G-get you folks anything?”

I lift my chin. “Whiskey for me, please. Neat.”