Welcome to Mid Week Tease, where my author friends and I post a little something from a WIP, flash fiction piece or from some of our published work for you, the readers. And as always, a HUGE thanks to fellow author Sandra Bunino for creating this weekly event.
Spanked by the Bad Boy, the first book in my new contemporary erotic romance series of stand alone books Bad Boy Fever is coming soon from Decadent Publishing. But until then, here's something to wet your appetite for Bad Boy Declan Cage.
Declan stood and made a beeline for the hallway leading to the restrooms, stopping when he came to a guy in a suit and a woman he recognized.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked.
The woman spun around to see him, shock and perhaps a little fear written all over her features. “Mr. Cage?”
“I see we’ve made progress, Ms. Brooks. You’ve remembered my name twice today.”
“There’s no problem, buddy,” the man said, puffing his chest out, reminiscent of a peacock. “You need to go back to your table and mind your own damn business.”
“The lady is my business.” He hooked his large fingers around Tiffany’s elbow and maneuvered her beside him. “Are you all right? Is this guy bothering you?”
She gazed up at him with large blue eyes. “I’m okay. Everything’s okay.”
“It didn’t look that way to me.”
The guy she was with squared his shoulders. “Listen, asshole.” The distinct smell of alcohol rolled from his breath. Obviously The Suit couldn’t hold his liquor and falsely thought he was some sort of tough guy when he drank. “The lady said everything is fine.”
“You’ve had one too many,” Declan said. “You should probably go home before you do something you’ll regret.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me what to do?” The man stupidly poked his finger into Declan’s chest. “Besides, I won’t have any regrets about beating you like a red-headed stepchild.”
The dude was a walking cliché. What a douche bag.
“I haven’t had a beating since I was nine, and I doubt you’re going to change my track record, but you’re more than welcome to try.” He tucked Tiffany behind him in a purely protective move. “I’ll even let you take the first swing.”
Tiffany tugged the back of his shirt and said, “There’s no need to make a scene.”
“No scene here, sugar. I’m only giving the guy what he wants.”
The man in the dark suit took a horrible roundhouse swing. Declan didn’t put any real effort behind his counter move. He ducked to the right. The guy missed, spun around, and stumbled away. He figured Mr. Fancypants had enough, but no. It took him a second, then he straightened and came toward Declan all wild-eyed and doing a boogedy-boo I’m crazy-scary motion with his arms.
Declan waited until he came close again, then punched the man in the nose. Immediately, the guy’s own blood soiled his silver-white shirt and tie. He staggered back, dazed, before he cupped his hands over his nose. Blood dripped from his fingers, dribbled down his wrist, and trickled over the expensive watch he wore.
“I think you broke my nose,” he mumbled in a nasal sound from behind his hands.
Declan’s men had gathered around him—feet spread, arms at their sides. He ignored them and nodded. “Yep. It’s broken.”
“Hey! Hey,” the manager of The Last Inning sputtered, waggling his bony finger at them and came over. “I’m not having this kind of thing going on in my establishment.”
The Suit kept his nose covered, but used his pinky and aimed toward Declan. “He started it by—”
“No,” the manager said. “I don’t want to hear it and I don’t give a rat’s ass who started what.” He turned to glower at Declan. “Pay your bill then all of you, get out.”
“This ought to cover it,” Jett said, handing the manager a hundred.
He practically ripped the money from Jett’s hand.
“Fine. Now, go,” he said, shooing them.
“No problem. We’re leaving,” Declan said, and took Tiffany by the hand. She trailed behind him while they headed for the door, until she resisted. He stopped and studied her, unsure what the holdup was. She held her right foot out. His gaze started at the pointed toe of her black shoe, skimmed up her shapely leg, hip, small nipped waist, bountiful breasts, slender neck, nose, and then finally looked into her eyes. “What?”
“Shoes,” she said in an exasperated tone. “You’re pulling me too hard and I’m walking too fast on a tiled floor and I’m stumbling.”
He glanced at the spiked heels and shook his head. “I’ll slow down.”
He slowed their pace, but he didn’t let go of her until they made their way outside and into the cool night air.
Standing beneath the covered porch of the sports bar, he observed his workers come out, their expressions serious.
“What’s going on, DC?” Jett asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He motioned with his hand. “Guys. This is Tiffany Brooks, by the way. Tiffany, that’s Jett. One of my foremen. And over there is Chris. Chris is my concrete guy.”
“Hi,” she said in a small voice.
Jett and Chris nodded. “Ma’am,” they said, almost in unison.
“You guys go on home,” Declan said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Are you sure you don’t need us to stick around?” Jett asked.
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Declan pulled his wallet from his back pocket and plucked a stack of twenties out. “Here, Jett.”
Jett waved. “You don’t need to pay me back for the bill.”
“I do,” said Declan. Jett reluctantly took the money. “Go on home and get some rest.” He shoved his wallet into the pocket he’d pulled it from.
Once his workers left he gave Tiffany his full, undivided attention. “I want you to tell me why the man you were with was shaking you maraca style?”
“He was upset because I didn’t want to go to his condo for a nightcap.”
“So he put his hands on you?”
Tiffany shrugged and mumbled under her breath, “The guys who wear suits aren’t much better than the ones who don’t.”
Part of him wanted to delve into her every-man-is-a-dickhead mindset, but when she rubbed at her exposed arms he found himself asking, “Are you cold?”
“I have a sweater in my work truck.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Come on.”
Tiffany walked beside him. They zigzagged around some vehicles. When they stopped, one of her thin brows rose. “This is your work truck?”
He patted the bumper of the lime green, souped-up monster truck and grinned. “She’s a beauty. Isn’t she?”
“She’s something all right.”
He opened the door, stepped up on the side runner, and reached in. A couple of seconds later he was out of the vehicle, feet on the ground, gripping a hoodie.
“Put this on,” he said, handing the garment to her.
Tiffany took the sweater and held it in front of her with a blank expression. “This is far too large.”
She blinked, rapidly. “But I’ll be swallowed up in this.”
“You’re cold aren’t you?”
“Well then, put it on. It will keep you warm.”
“I know it’s not the most gorgeous sweater in the world, but it’s clean, and I don’t have cooties or anything.”
She rolled her eyes. “Here,” she said, handing him her purse. He took hold of the thin strap. “Cooties.” She made a derisive noise and unenthusiastically slipped the sweater over her head. “I haven’t heard someone use the word ‘cooties’ in years.” When she let loose, the material of the dark red hoodie went to her knees. The sleeves were so long he couldn’t see her hands and the V-neck where the drawstrings were, slouched. She held up her arms, airplane style. “You’re a giant.”
“Maybe you’re small?” he said, hanging her purse on his side view mirror.
She giggled, and the sound struck him—a blow to the gut. He’d never heard her laugh before. She was always so aloof, even frigid at times.
“You’re good,” she commented.
She worked at rolling the sleeves.
“What do you mean?”
“Every woman wants to hear she’s dainty and not a cow. It’s great for our self esteem.”
Declan chortled. “Ah…I see.”
He glanced around the parking lot, attempting to spot the ridiculously little, eco-friendly car she drove, but he didn’t see the white and black tuna can on wheels.
“Did you come in your vehicle?” he asked.
She shook her head, still rolling one sleeve. “I came with Braxton.”
Declan exhaled, loudly. “The Suit’s name is Braxton?”
“God.” He stroked his stubble covered jaw with his fingers. “Let me guess. Fancypants is a banker.”
Tiffany popped her head up. Eyes rounded. “How did you know?”
Declan scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I figured you went for those brainy, pretty boy types.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“You ex-prom queens usually do.”
She stiffened, and he supposed the reaction to be an extraordinary feat since he wouldn’t have thought she could be any more rigid in her stance.
“I wasn’t a prom queen.”
He watched her shift her weight from her right foot to her left and brush her fingers along the creamy smooth expanse of her throat. She was a horrible liar. “Sure you were.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “What?” he asked.
“You act like it’s a bad thing to.…”
“To want to do better for yourself.”
He chuckled. “Going out with the asshole in the suit is doing better for yourself?”
Tiffany sniffed. Piqued. “There’s nothing wrong with trying to find someone classy.”
“Baby, the guy who’s bleeding all over himself inside there.…” He tilted his head toward the building. “Let’s say he was far from classy. Cheesy, maybe.”
Her eyes flashed. He imagined lightning bolts being hurled at him.
“I’m not sure I’m fond of your attitude,” she said.
He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t enjoy yours either.”
She put one hand on her hip. “No one said you had to like me, my attitude, or come swooping in to rescue me, now did they?”
She was a spitfire. He was partial to her brand of sass, and since his cock stirred beneath his pants, the ole boy was too.
“I suppose not,” he said, and shifted to lean one shoulder against his truck. “You’re going to need a ride home.”
She glared at her arm, going back to her job of rolling up the other sleeve with vigor. “I’ll call a cab.”
The thought of her sitting in the back of a dingy rent-a-ride with some cabby dude eyeing her from the rearview mirror bugged him.
“No. No way. I’ll take you home,” he said.
“I don’t require your assistance.”
“You may not require it, but you have it all the same.”
Her face softened a bit. She’d finally finished messing with the sleeves. Declan could see her hands, but now she had clumps of fabric bunching around the crook of both arms. She must have decided to leave them be because she glanced up at him.
“I don’t want to put you out, Declan.”
“I won’t be.”
“Why are you smiling that way?”
“How am I smiling?”
“All se….” She paused, and clamped her lips together. They made a thin line before she spoke again. “I suppose you have a pleased with yourself kind of smile.”
“If you must know, I’m smiling because I got a Declan out of you so I’m thinking we should stop by a convenience store on the way to take you home.”
“So far today I’ve heard Mr. Cage twice and now Declan. I figure it’s my lucky day and I need to buy a lottery ticket.”
To his surprise, Tiffany Brooks busted out into a chortle so hard she snorted. She swatted at his arm.
“Stop,” she said in a sexy voice. He wanted to scoop her up and kiss her so hard she felt it in her toes.
“What exactly am I suppose to stop?”
“Making me laugh.”
He looked at her and studied the way the shadow from his truck fell across her face, and how the parking light backlit the sweet lines of her feminine profile. He wanted to lick her jaw up to her ear, suck on the lobe, nibble….
“I’ve taken your request under advisement and have decided to ignore it.”
“Yep. It’s good to laugh, and you should more often.” He made a face by crossing his eyes, pushed up the tip of his nose with a finger, and stuck out his tongue. She snorted again. He stopped the silliness. “I really enjoy the little sound you make.” He had every intention of making her laugh more, then writhe in pleasure, and scream out his name; only after the night she’d had, he’d need to wait on the writhing and screaming part.
“I don’t. The noise resembles one of those dogs with the smashed up face.”
“A bulldog?” he asked.
She chuckled, and briefly put her hand over her mouth. “No. The little snuffle dog who sounds like he’s having an asthma attack.”
She pointed at him with her index finger—reminiscent of playing a game of charades and he got the correct answer. “Yeah.”
Man, she’s even sexier when she plucks the cob out of her ass.
“Trust me, Ms. Brooks. Nothing about you, not even your little snort comes close to reminding me of a dog.”
She looked at him. Her eyes sparkling—polished jewels. Her petite body less rigid. Her face—happy.
How would she look after he’d pleasured her? The image of her lying next to him in his bed seared into his brain. Her lips swollen and moist. Her hair messy. Her cheeks flushed pink. It was then he knew he’d do anything to make the picture he’d framed inside his head, into an actuality.
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