Page 29 of Castaway Whirlwind
I give her a blank look. “You started a maid service.”
She hesitates before finally revealing, “A topless maid service. That’s why my fee is so high.”
“A what? How many other men have you cleaned for?” I bark the questions, going mental at the thought of other men seeing her gorgeous half-naked body, watching her like perverts while she cleans. It doesn’t even cross my mind that none of her cleaning products had been used.
“See. This is why I kept telling you no.” She digs her car keys out of her tote bag. “I knew you would think less of me.”
“Layla, please.” I take her keys from her hand and drop them in the bag. “You don’t have to leave.”
“Yes, I do.” She grabs her keys again. “If you don’t want to hire me anymore, then I need to call around. See if I can pick up a shift somewhere, or maybe…maybe find someone else to clean for.”
“No,” I snap, making her flinch. “I’m sorry,” I say, lowering my voice. Trying to lighten the tension, praying she won’t walk out on me, I impulsively invoke the rules we learned Davis has for Goldie and the role-playing they engage in—which surprised the heck out of me and piqued my curiosity. “Rule number two.”
Layla’s deep, dark brown doe eyes flare, her lashes fluttering.
Dagnabbit. I’ve gone and reminded her of her dad again sincerule number twoisDo not give Daddy attitude.I hang my headand pinch the bridge of my nose, swimming through a pool of regret.
She drops her keys on the table. “Ok, Daddy,” she says with a hint of sarcasm, though her voice is slightly higher in pitch. “You still want to hire me?”
I whip my head up. My cock was already swollen and pressing against my zipper from the moment I heard her turn onto my driveway, and now it spits precum in my boxer briefs.Daddy. No, I don’t want to be her dad, butDaddy? That’s a whole lot different, and if she ever wanted it, I’d be that for her and more.God, how I want more.
I pull an envelope of cash from my back pocket and hold it up. “That’s three hours’ worth of your time.”
After a beat, she finally takes the envelope, silently counting the bills, and drops it next to her keys. Then,oh lordy, she takes a steadying breath and unbelts her robe, slipping it off her slim shoulders to toss it on the table.
My knees buckle when I see she’s wearing frayed jean shorts that barely cover more than a bathing suit would. She unties her top, which is nothing more than a large red bandana knotted between her breasts, releasing her plump tits that would fit nicely within my palms, and she tosses the fabric on the table as well.
When her loose curls fall forward, brushing the tips of her hard, tiny pink nipples, I go down like timber.
Chapter 9
Layla
Russell clutches his chest and collapses on the floor as soon as I take my top off. I slap my hands over my mouth, screaming as I crash to my knees beside him on his back. “Russell!” Tears flood my eyes as I pat his cheeks, searching for his pulse in his neck, my fingers too numb and tingly with ice-cold fear to feel anything.
I don’t trust myself to stand, so I crawl to the table, yanking my bag off the top to grab my phone and dial 9-1-1. I’m back at his side, holding the phone up to my ear with my shoulder so I can unbutton his flannel to his belly button. I press my other ear to his warm chest, but I can’t hear anything over my own sobbing. “Please, please, please. Not again,” I pray.Please don’t die.
When the 9-1-1 operator speaks on the other side of the line, I give her all of the information she requests before screaming, “I think he had a heart attack!”
And then one of Russell’s bulky arms curls around my waist, dragging me on top of him. He plucks my phone from my hand, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck when he tellsthe operator, “I didn’t have a heart attack. Passed out from shock.”
I climb higher up his big body, my knees on either side of his hips, and push my hands under his head to squeeze him in a hug, kissing his cheeks, forehead, nose, everything, so thankful he’s alive.
His arm is a manacle around my back, his palm resting flat over my ribs, holding me tight while he repeats to the operator that he’s certain he didn’t suffer a cardiac event and absolutely does not need an ambulance. The phone clatters to the wide planks of the dark hardwood floor after he hangs up, and then both of his arms are wrapped around me, one palm now gripping the back of my neck while I cry, my forehead pressed to his.
“Shh, darlin’. I’m ok.”
“I was so scared you were going to die,” I whisper, the tears not letting up.
Russell sits up, our chests still pressed to each other’s. Now is not the right time to think about anything other than his health, yet I can’t help but notice how good it feels to have my nipples rubbing against his salt-and-pepper chest hair. Soft and coarse at the same time. Everything about him is thick but hard beneath a fluffy layer, including his thighs supporting my bottom. I shouldn’t be so aware of my core pressed to the front of his rigid jeans, either.
He uses his thumb under my jaw to tip my head back. “I’m not dying anytime soon. I promise you that.”
I slip my hands into his hair, gripping the strands, clinging to him. “You can’t promise something like that.”
“Yes, I can,” he says, caressing the length of my spine. “I work out five days a week. Eat right. Do what I can to stayhealthy.”
“So did my dad, but he had a heart attack, anyway, and he was younger than you are now.”
