Page 28 of The Opposite Effect

I racked my brain the majority of the weekend trying to work out why Clara would be entering my office a little after one in the morning. Not one plausible reason was found.

“I could ask you the same thing. Haven’t you heard of a bed?” She fakes a gag.

I smirk, loving not only her feistiness but the glint of jealousy firing her icy eyes. It’s rare to spark a reaction out of her, so I’ll take it for all it’s worth. I’m not sure which look I prefer the most on Clara—the feisty little temptress or the jealous scorned woman. Both are as enthralling as the other.

“When you have an itch that needs to be scratched, you scratch it.”

The rise and fall of her chest grow the longer I bounce my hankering gaze between her wide eyes. Even knowing I’m playing a game I shouldn’t participate in, I add more chess pieces to the already overstacked board.

“Have you got an itch, Princess?” I mutter, no longer able to harness my curiosity on what has caused the glint of lust in her eyes.

The zipper of my jeans dig agonizingly into my cock when she murmurs, “Uh-huh,” in a soft, throaty moan.

The pinch of pain turns into a full throb when she takes a step closer to me. She stands so close, the minty freshness of her recently brushed teeth fans my hungry lips.

“I have areallybad itch,” she purrs, her voice the most provocative thing I’ve ever fucking heard. “It’s just one abeastof a man like you wouldn’t know how to scratch.”

My conceit surges into unchartered territory. “Is that so?” I mutter, dropping my eyes to the generous swell of her curvy breasts. “Your tits are telling me a different story, Princess.” I raise my eyes from her heaving chest to her face. Believe me, it’s no easy feat. “They’re telling me you not only want me to scratch your itch, but you also want me to fuck you hard and fast on my desk like I did to the little bunny Friday night.”

Any concerns about my grandma having me lynched are left for dust when Clara’s knee catches my groin unaware. Hot lava seers through my lungs as the air is violently removed from my body. I stumble backward and curl over, fighting through a torrent of pain I’ve never experienced before.

No grown man should ever experience this type of pain.

There are no doubts about it. Clara McGregor—Princess-Fucking-Socialite—has officiallybroken my cock.

“Jesus Christ, Clara. You could have just said no,” I wheeze out.

“Oh. Could I? I once had someone tell me little punks don’t understand the word no. So I figured I’d try a new tactic. I think it’s safe to say my new ploy worked.” Her words are vicious and add to the pain crippling me.

I cough, feeling my balls gargling in the back of my throat. “Yeah, it’s safe.”

My balls have barely returned to my stomach—let alone my sack—when Clara mutters, “Just in case the knee to the balls wasn’t convincing enough, I’ll spell it out for you, Brax.” She spits my name out like venom. “The odds of me paying your three-thousand-dollar repair bill are nearly as good as your chances of scratching my itch.”

The hot air of her breath flutters my earlobe when she snarls, “Pigs will fly before either of those things willhappen.”

She saunters away with her head held high and her hips swinging.

Even hunched over and nursing a set of crushed balls, my fucked-up brain tries to invent a way to get pigs to fly.

CHAPTER NINE

Did I get an apology from Clara for my balls being crushed beyond recognition? No.

Has Clara coughed up a dime of the three thousand she owes me? No.

Do I care? In all honesty, no, I don’t.

Clara set me in my place, but I deserved it. I pushed, she pushed back harder.

Although we have spoken since the incident in the parking lot two weeks ago, we’ve never discussed what led to our heated exchange. If she’s happy to forget I suggested fucking her like a bunny on my desk, I’ll happily forget she crashed her BMW into my Harley before she crippled my balls with the same amount of intensity. Seems like a fair compromise.

I’m totally fucking pussy-whipped.

Ignoring the thoughts that would have Diesel paying out on me for weeks, I wander aimlessly around Inked. Not wanting anotherincidentmarked in my ledger, I now check that Inked is void of any living thing before I lock up each night.

Happy that the premises are lacking human contact, I amble to my bike. A grin curls on my lips when I enter the thick six-foot steel enclosure my bike is now protected behind. I had it installed three days following Clara’saccidentalcollision with my bike.

The look on Clara’s face when her BMW rounded the corner the morning it was installed was priceless. She looked a cross between amused and mortified. I’ve been loving all the new expressions she’s been experimenting with for the past two weeks.

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