The Way She Burns

I’m not going to find out.

“And while I’m here…I can travel outside of Harding to look for work. When…w-when you aren’t in need of my, um…”

Several seconds pass. “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘pussy.’”

She inhales roughly at that, her grip on the coat becoming all the more strict. I’ve scandalized her, all right. How is it possible this uptight girl is a mother—

“Okay,” she whispers, giving a firm nod. “I’ll do it. Is there coffee?”

Before I can process the fact that she’s agreed to fuck me on command, Chloe is scooping up the child once again and ducking past me into the house.

What the hell just happened?

Dumbfounded, I close the front door and turn to face her. She rocks the child in her arms, and now that she no longer has her hands free to close the coat, a swath of ripe flesh is exposed. An elegant throat, tempting cleavage. A strawberries and cream complexion. Two round tits that would overflow my big hands ever so slightly. Christ, I can see those tidy curves now and I covet them. In the glow of the lamp, her hair is a dark blonde-caramel color that reminds me of a glass of brandy held up to the light.

A stunning creature.

No pretending otherwise.

My dick is at full mast now, hoping against hope that she means it. That she’ll be my bedmate in exchange for the safety of her child.

But…no. I still don’t buy it. Perhaps she plans to sneak a good meal, down some coffee and leave without paying the piper. Yes, I’m sure that’s what she’s planning. I should demand to ride her upfront, just to make sure I get my pound of flesh, but I find myself unable to be that much of a bastard. Just this once, I’ll be decent. She’s obviously hungry and freezing. I’m not going to treat her like a goddamn prisoner.

“Yes, girl. There is coffee, but it isn’t made. I prefer whiskey in the evenings.”

“Oh, I’ll gladly make it, thank you,” she breathes, brightening. Twisting something inside of me. Something like guilt for tearing up her letter.

Damn, I wish I’d read it now. It might have given me information about her. I find I’d like to know…everything. But I don’t want her to get the wrong impression that I give a shit. When I show compassion, that’s when people take advantage. That’s when they pounce. When they begin to see an advantage to knowing me, having my sympathies.

Not going to happen this time.

“Is there somewhere I can put Curtis?” she asks.

“Curtis,” I repeat, clearing my throat. “Yes. There is a room beneath the stairs.” I jerk my chin in that direction. “It was a nursery when I moved in, though the crib has been replaced by a regular bed. Will that work for him?”

“Considering he’s been sleeping on stacked boxes, I’d say so.” She’s almost cheerful while imparting that dreadful piece of information. Exactly how bad has it been for this young girl? How could her family abandon her to the whims of Harding? Where is the fucking father of this child? I’d like to bury my fist in his face for more than one reason. None of which I want to explore. But I’m finding it very hard to be my usual remote self around Chloe.

As soon as she tries to flee without visiting my bed, her true colors will be revealed.

She’ll out herself as a greedy beggar like everyone else.

Goddammit, her arms look like they’re about to break under the weight of the sleeping child. Did she carry him all the way here?

Why did I tear up that fucking note?

“Go put Curtis to bed,” I say, harsher than intended. “I’ll make the coffee.”

She sighs happily. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sebastian,” I correct her.

Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips, making my cock feel intensely confined in my briefs. “Sebastian,” she murmurs. “That would be lovely.”

“Can I take your coat?”

You’re only asking because you want a glimpse of her ass. Not because you’re suddenly a gentleman again. That ship has sailed—and good riddance.

A flare of panic goes up in her hazel eyes. “No, thank you. I like to keep it on.”

“It’s wet.”

“I realize that.”

My right eye ticks. “In order for me to fuck you, Chloe, you’ll need to remove it.”

Twin spots of pink appear on her cheeks, a shudder wracking her frame. Just like I thought. She’s squeamish about sex. Good thing she’s going to back out before we ever make it upstairs to my bedroom. Otherwise I’d be forcing this young mother to do something she didn’t want—and I might be an asshole, but I draw the line at physical assault. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, won’t I?” she says, almost to herself, then turns to carry her son from the foyer into the small room beneath the stairs.