Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(26)
Author: Jen Frederick

He slips his fingers out of me but presses them flat and tight against my sex to soothe the ache left there. In my ear he whispers how beautiful I looked and how sweet I sounded and how he can’t wait to taste me—all the while, I’m trying to gather myself.

“I’m still mad at you,” I mumble as I lie like a beached starfish.

He chuckles and leans down to pull off my panties and leggings that are still attached to one leg.

“What’re you doing?”

“Cleaning you up, bunny. Stay here.”

“I’m only staying because I want to,” I call after his disappearing back. “Not because you tell me to.”

“That works.”

I hear the sound of a faucet running. Moments later, he returns with a washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other. He ignores the massive hard-on that is tenting his wool pants as he tenderly cleans me down with one and then dries me with the other.

“You confuse me,” I whisper as he ministers to me, but I can’t deny how good it feels to be taken care of instead of the other way around.

“I’m pretty simple.” He tosses the towel and rag aside and then begins to pull up my bike leggings.

“Yeah right, and the Eiffel Tower was built in a day. Hey, what about my underwear?” I protest, finally sitting up and taking over for him.

“They’re damp. You sure you want them?” He dangles them from one finger, and when I move to grab them, he closes his fist around the pink lace and tucks them into his pocket.

“Fine,” I huff. “Be a pervert. Keep them.” Pulling up my pants, I notice the time on his wristwatch—a big thick black leather banded one this time. “Shit, I’m going to be late.”

Running out the door, I scoop up my shoes and socks. I’ve got to catch a cab across town to get to my apartment and get my bike.

“Whoa, your bike’s right here.” Ian takes me by the shoulders and points to the bike mounted right by the door. I missed it when I came in. Its presence and the mount itself gives rise to so many questions that I don’t know what to say.

Pulling it down, I check the air in the tires and am happy to see they are both fully inflated. I pull out my headphones from my pack and settle the helmet over my hair. I’m a mess and likely stink of sex, but the city will air me out.

“You’re not a toy to me,” Ian says.

Buckling my helmet and then pulling on my gloves, I give him a quick once over. His suit is ruined. He never even removed his coat when he finger-fucked me, and I’m guessing the fragile wool wasn’t meant to be worn during any intense physical encounters. There are creases in the arms and shoulders where I clutched him, and was that a . . . stain on his thigh? I duck my head to hide my embarrassment. “You owe me a lot of explanations.”

“I’ll be here when you’re done. Come back and we’ll talk.”

I give him an absent nod, but it’s not a sufficient response for him. He strides over and tips my head back. “I’m having this suit bronzed, you know.”

My cheeks heat because I know he’s referring to the mark in the wool made from my arousal. He leans down and gives me a hard kiss. “Come back here tonight.” It’s a demand and not a question.

Sighing, I give in. “Only because my mother is here.”

He strides to the door and holds it open as I wheel the bike out into the hall. “If it makes it easier for you to return, then yes, by all means use that excuse.”

Chapter 14

I’M STILL LATE—SHOULD DEFINITELY not have given in to Ian—and my supervisor isn’t happy.

“Two deliveries on the West Side,” Sandra orders. I pick up my radio control unit and shove my phone in my backpack. “By the way, Neil is going through some hormonal crisis. If you’re late again or miss another day, he’s going to fire you.”

My heart thuds heavily but I manage to give her a nod of acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

I work extra hard that night to make sure my deliveries go without a hitch. I wonder where Ian’s company is. I don’t remember delivering anything to a Kerr office.

My phone stays mostly silent, which is rare because I usually field at least one phone call from my mother during my early evening runs. She doesn’t like that I do them because she’s convinced someone is going to hurt me. I tell her that there’s more traffic in midday Manhattan and, therefore, a greater likelihood of getting hit by a bus or taxi in the sunlit hours than at night. She’s my mom, though, and part of her job is to worry over me. At least I know someone out there’s thinking of me.

As my shift winds down and I deliver my last set of documents to a law firm in Times Square, the ringtone for Malcolm thrums in my ear. It plays for three measures before I’m able to maneuver out of enough traffic to answer. “Yo, big bro,” I yell into the phone.

“Thanks for the eardrum-breaking hello, Tiny.”

“No problem. Got a job for me?”

“Three packages for a.m. delivery.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Where are you now?”

“Midtown. Be at your place in thirty.” I press the release button on my headphones and head over. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I get to Malcolm’s. It’s a good thing he has an elevator because I don’t feel like carrying my bike up eleven flights of stairs.

Music is pumping outside of his apartment, and I wonder what the neighbors think of his rowdiness at nearly ten at night. It takes three hard poundings on the door and a kick before it opens. Stale smoke wafts out, smelling like someone’s been doing bong hits all night long. Malcolm himself abstains from all liquor or addictive drugs. He told me early on the only way to stay alive in the game was to never partake of his own product.

Good for him, I guess.

“God, it reeks in here.” But I shoulder my way inside and find a spot next to the entertainment center for my bike. “A.M. deliveries, huh? So people are taking hits of Molly in the morning? It’s like the name of a morning show.”

Malcolm takes my arm and drags me away, even as I’m pointing at two girls and a guy who look like over-done hotdogs on an outdoor grill—puffy and burnt around the edges. “Any of you bud heads touch my wheels, I’ll come after you with a crowbar.”

Malcolm glares at me. “Don’t try to be funny. It’s not your thing.”

“The other day some dude opened the package right in front of me. I’m trying not to know!” I protest, following him down the hall into a bedroom he’s made into an office, complete with a big wooden desk that he likely picked up off the side of a street and two leather chairs. I think in another life Malcolm would have liked to have been . . . well, Ian. A wealthy investment guy who had a big office overlooking the Hudson Bay and lots of lackeys. Malcolm would totally get off on being driven around the city by Steve.