Vanquish (Deliver 2)

A vein pulsed, hot and angry, on his forehead. Well, didn't that memory darken his mood? He should thank the good people of Austin for promoting Mr. E to police chief. The new position had come with too much scrutiny for a figurehead who trafficked slaves on the side. Mr. E had needed a front man to run the operation and remembered he had a twenty-five-year-old bastard son. A son, as it turned out, who had no qualms about profiting from sexual services.

Unless those services involved Amber and dipshit deliverymen. A beautiful woman should never sell herself so cheaply. She deserved better than Zachary Kaufman, and she definitely deserved better than what he had planned for her.

Fuck it. This irrational jealousy, or whatever it was, pissed him the hell off. He wanted to wash his hands of her. More than that, he wanted to brand her with a hundred possessive welts.

She fussed with her hair, hands shaking, and eyelids heavy with shame. “Can we just forget I said...that?”

Seriously? He squeezed his fingers into a fist, fighting the impulse to swing and knock her on her ass. He didn't want to scare her too badly. Not yet. Nor did he want to let this Zachary shit go. “Do you fuck all your house-guests?”

“That's a personal question.” Her stubborn chin and hard eyes only fueled his need to punch her.

He leaned over her, hands on the bed beside her hips, and pushed his face into hers. “Your offer to fuck bowled straight through personal and landed smack between your legs. Might as well spread 'em and air it all out.”

“Oh my God.” Her chest rose, brushing his, but she didn't lean away, didn't look away. “Can you please step back?”

His lips were so close to hers he could taste the toothpaste on her breath. “Answer the question.”

“No. I mean, yes.” Her voice was angry and rushed, her dilated pupils resolutely locked on his. “I like sex, okay? I thought the attraction was mutual.”

A burst of lust ignited through his cock. He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his erection, grinding his hips. Nothing said I'm attracted to you like a thrusting boner.

But the tentative squeeze of her fingers sent his head spinning. With her mouth so close and wet from her breaths, he took her lips. It wasn't a gentle touch-and-tease kiss, either. He went for it, dominating her mouth, spreading it open with his jaw, and angling her head with a fist in her hair. His tongue chased hers, lashing and taking.

She didn't fight back, so he unsheathed his teeth, catching and slicing her lips. His pulse raced, and his lungs pumped. Jesus, he couldn't reach any deeper, and she met him stroke for stroke, bite for bloody bite.

Her taste was insufferably sweet, much like the fingers stroking his cock. Which reminded him of his position on her offer.

He released her, and the room stumbled to a dizzying standstill. They shared a suspended look, panting in unison. He stepped back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The answer is still ‘No’.”

She slapped a palm over her mouth, eyes closed and forehead pinched. Then she shot from the bed and ran out of the room, leaving a trail of messy footprints in her wake.

He scratched his jaw. Huh. Apparently, OCD-ness came second to Oh-God-he-rejected-me-ness.

Perhaps he should've assured her of her attractiveness with words.

Maybe he should wear a tutu and over-pluck his eyebrows while he was at it.

He crossed the room to the aquarium and dug out a cracked statue of a bronze woman missing her head. The marred scratches across the base were vicious, but the engraving was still legible.

Fitness Model World Championship

1st Place

Amber Rosenfeld

His mouth fell open, though he shouldn't have been surprised. Her body rocked some killer biceps, thighs, and calves, and God knew what lay beneath that dress. It was a rare thing to find a woman with a ten body paired with a ten face, but this fitness model was a hundred from head to toe. So when he pulled out a wad of sashes printed with Miss Tri County, Miss Heart of the USA, and Miss Texas, it wasn't shock that caught his breath. It was a very strong feeling of wonder, reverence, and something akin to fear.

There must've been fifty demolished tiaras and trophies in that tank. Why would she destroy something she'd worked so hard to earn? Or had someone else hurt them? Hurt her? The notion sent blood roaring through his ears, leaving him shaken, edgy, and, worst of all, heartsick.

The sudden urge to flee shuffled him back a step. He needed to shed these feelings, this room, her. The last time he involved his emotions, he got a blade across his face and a bullet in his shoulder. Hard to forget those lessons.

He dropped the sashes in the aquarium and strode toward the hall, not stopping until he heard muffled sniffles through the bathroom door. He braced an arm on the wall beside it.

Could he be the kind of guy who apologized? How about the guy who walked her mail down the driveway?

He pulled a toothpick from its holder in his pocket and stared at the white cotton of his socked feet. The heavy thump of his heart felt way too foreboding.

Thump noted and rejected. He slid the pick between his lips. Her sniveling didn't affect him. Nope. He backed away from the bathroom door, pretending he didn't feel the thump growing harder and faster with each step.

He wasn't her guy, and he sure as fuck didn't need more scars.

At the front door, he slipped on his sneakers and shifted the hood over his head.

He most definitely wasn't Zachary Kaufman, and the fuckwad would be back in three days to honor his Tuesday/Friday tradition.

Could her shipments wait until then? Would she attempt to walk them out that night? What if she had a seizure on the way?

He pressed his gloved fingers against his eyes. Not his goddamned problem. He opened the door and gripped it, fighting not to close it and return to her. Instead, he stepped beneath the somberness of a sleepy sky and slammed the door behind him with enough rattle to reach the bathroom.

The slam of the front door lurched Amber's stomach into a fit of cramps. Van was gone. Gone.

She dropped before the toilet and hung her head. Her mouth swelled with a burst of saliva, and she dry-heaved until her throat was raw. But the pain was nothing compared to the hot stabs of self-loathing perforating her insides.

What did she expect? She'd strutted her crazy all over the house and thought he'd hang around and maybe have sex with her? No shit, she'd overestimated her worth. Though, to be fair, he'd been the first man to reject her offer.

This was her fault. She hadn't even tried to seduce him. She should've said something sexy, maybe flashed a nipple. A man like Van could have any woman he wanted. He wouldn't have just shoved her on the bed and fucked her because she wore a skimpy dress.

A strand of hair fell in her face, and she shoved it away. She used to turn heads once without even trying, but that was then. She'd lost her edge. Beauty faded, and certainly being shut in and crazy for two years had sped that along.

And now she faced an impossible trip to the mailbox. Thumbs up, Amber. Job well done.

Her chin quivered. Pathetic crybaby. She locked her jaw, pushed away from the toilet, and sat on her heels. Beside her, the shower plinked a steady drip, a reminder that it would be several more months before she could afford to repair it.

It took four attempts to stand, and when she finished brushing her teeth, her heart rate rallied, ready to panic all over again.

Fuck that. She breathed deeply, engaging her abs, and forced her feet to move to the front door. Her head swam with dizziness, and by the time she locked the deadbolt four times, the heave of her lungs had elevated into hyperventilation.

Stop it. She could peek out the window and make sure he wasn't on the porch.

She sucked in, sharply. No, she couldn't. Looking outside was a surefire way to make this night worse. Besides, there was no way he stuck around.

She stomped to the kitchen, slamming her heels four times on the wood floor to drown out her gasping breaths. That man had been intrus

ive, rude, dangerous...sexy as fuck. His departure was a blessing. She grabbed a beer from the fridge. The first sip burned the cuts his teeth had left on her lips.

Oh God, that kiss. Her taste buds tingled, not from the hops but from the remembered pleasure of his skillful tongue, the bite of tequila on his breath, and the spicy flavor that seemed to be inherently him. A taste she would never experience again.

Good riddance. She tipped back the bitter ale, hellbent on creating a new night through alcoholic osmosis. In a few days, she would be contemplating her life while sitting in the dark without water or electricity. Because she wouldn't be going to the mailbox. Not tonight. Not ever again.

Might as well drink the beer while it was still cold. She dropped the empty bottle in the trash and grabbed another. “Fucking sucks.” She sucked. Shallow bastards with silver eyes sucked. She slumped onto the kitchen stool, hung her head over the counter, and cursed her sucky self and the sucky bastard who had just ran far, far away.

A six-pack later, she'd vacuumed out the footprints in the bedroom carpet, packaged up the sheaths, printed the postage labels, and barfed as much of the caloric beer as her stomach was willing to release. Then she spent the next hour engaged in a standoff with the front door.

“This is all your fault.” She struck the wood panel, and her palm landed like a sloppy slap. “If you weren't in my way, I'd be out there right now shipping my shit.”

It was a lie, but the door didn't know that. It just stood there like an unfeeling asshole.

“Ever heard of a sledgehammer?” she yelled then burped and laughed hysterically. “That's right, motherfucker. All I have to do is smash your hinges, and you won't even be able to stand.” Momentarily distracted by the jumping sensation of her hiccup, she touched her chest and swayed not-so beauty-pageant–hic—ably in her heels.