Page 35 of Castaway Whirlwind
I drop an arm around her shoulders, curling her into me. “Someone shot up the lot with a paintball gun. Trace’s truck bore the brunt of it, though.” My truck is approaching twelve years old, and Layla’s car is on its last leg, so neither of us is overly upset about the pellet-sized dents and red paint, but Trace is actually crying this time.
“Poor Trace,” Layla murmurs. Despite the damage, I smile when Layla slips her arms around my waist that’s too large for her fingertips to meet, taking comfort within my embrace. “Do you think it could be the same person who slashed the tires at BT?”
“Yeah. I’m starting to wonder if this could have more to do with Trace and his buddies than us, and we’re just collateral.”
“Does it make me a bad person if I hope that’s the case?” She lays her cheek against my chest while I stroke the back of her neck, waiting for the cops to inevitably show up.
If she’sbad, then I’m downright villainous, my attention wandering to the trees at the edge of the lot where I’d jerked my cock. I sway, battling the urge to drag Layla into the dark, push her up against a tree, and make her feelgoodby licking her little pussy until she’s begging me to fill her with my cock and cum.
“Hey, Pete? Change my bet to three days.” Freddy says in my periphery with a chuckle. When we make eye contact, he says, “Actually, make that two.”
Chapter 11
Layla
He’s just a client.
A verybig, verymasculine, verysexyclient.
He’s just a client.
With a huge cock to match his huge muscles.
Dangit!
The front door is already open when I pull down the U-shaped driveway. Russell leans against the frame, this time wearing faded black jeans with a white T-shirt tucked behind his belt buckle.
My hand pauses on my door handle.Can I really do this? Can I keep my emotions in check when he inevitably hands me another envelope stuffed with cash for a job well done? Keep my heart to myself instead of wearing it on my sleeve and pretend this is as much a transaction for me as it is for him?
My electric bill saysyes. Also the fact that I took a leap of faith and quit my job at the bridal boutique. I was pretty sure Mrs. Larsen was going to fire me anyway since I’m terrible at talking people into buying wedding dresses they aren’t absolutely, one hundred percent, head over heels in love with.
My door pops open, startling me from my thoughts. “Are you feeling alright, darlin’?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just have a lot on my mind right now.”
“You’re not…” In a surprisingly bold move, Russell crouches and rests his palm on my lower belly over my robe, making my aching heart jackhammer against my ribs. “In pain, are you?”
“Oh, no. It’s not that time of the month.” And by that, I mean the pain isn’t at the higher end of the scale. I live with a chronic low-level amount no matter where I am in my cycle, but that’s mostly manageable.
My lips part when he rubs circles over my belly a few times, staring me right in the eye with a million thoughts running through his head.
He’s just a client.
With that mental reminder, I shift sideways to get out of my car, then lose my breath when Russell scoops me up, bumps my door closed with his hip, and carries me onto the porch.
“What are you doing?”
He grins. “Don’t want to get your slippers dirty.”
He’s just a clientandnotmy husband carrying me across the threshold.
I squirm to be let down when he carries me all the way through to the kitchen, my abandoned cleaning supplies still set up on the table with an envelope of cash sitting atop a folded pale purple silky cloth.
After stuffing my heart down and counting the cash quickly, I shake out the garment, my voice pitched higher when I ask, “Is this what you want me to wear? A nightgown?”An itty bitty thin nightgown. My gaze catches on a piece of fabric that floated to the floor, which I stoop to pick up. “And a matchingthong?”
“Only if you want to, you know, if you like it.”
“I do.”
