Page 15 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
“You dirty girl, you,” she mutters and I can’t help but laugh. I’ve seen a lot of shit in the line of duty, but hell if I can remember hearing a woman talking to herself like this before.
“Excuse me? Is everything okay?” I ask, part caution, part curiosity in my voice, but I’m sure as shit not prepared for what I see when the woman sits up on her knees and faces me.
Desi Whitman.
A soaking-wet Desi with a white T-shirt smeared with mud and the dark pink of her nipples hinting beneath the fabric.
Nothing like a wet pussy and hard nipples.
“Oh my God. It’s you.” She sneers with disdain as she jabs a finger my way and rises to her feet—irritation etched on her gorgeous face.
“Yep, last time I checked, I was me.”
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow and she throws her hands on her hips, not caring that she has now dirtied the sides of her shirt.
“I’d like to ask you the same question.”
“I live here.”
“Well...so do I.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder toward the other side of the fence and watch as her eyes widen and her back straightens.
Why does it not surprise me that she’s going to fight me even now? And why do I already know that this—she—is going to be a problem in more ways than one? I haven’t forgotten what it felt like to have my hands on her for those eighty minutes last Thursday.
Or how sharp that tongue of hers is.
It’s as though I have to goad her. Have to get a rise out of her.
She starts to speak several times and then thinks better of whatever venom she has on her tongue before starting again, only to fall into the same trap and then stopping herself, so instead I get her blank stare and unmistakable anger.
She’s tall. At least five foot eight, with legs for days that paint a picture in my head of exactly what they should be wrapped around. She’s pretty in a nonconventional way. A mixture of quirky and sexy instead of your classic beauty. Her blue eyes are big, her lashes long, and her lips are full and wide.
It takes me a second to remember the presence of mud and water everywhere, because her tits are right there, and hell if it isn’t a damn fine sight.
And then I remember the wet pussy.
“Looks like you could use some help here,” I finally say when I trust myself and take a step toward her.
“With what?” She lifts her chin in a show of defiance.
“I don’t know. Either the mud since it looks like you might have a sprinkler leaking”—another bristling of her shoulders—“or I could always help you take care of that wet pussy of yours.”
She clenches her fists. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
I chuckle to irritate her further. “And you’re the woman going on and on about how you never take care of your pussy, and now it’s trimmed and wet”—I shrug—“and since you went to all that trouble, don’t you think someone might as well reward you?”
I dodge as she throws the rag in her hand my way. “Figures you’d think that way.”
“I take that as a no, then?”
“No.”
“Hey, I’m only going off what I heard. Only crazy people talk to themselves like that.”
“Pussy is Logan St. Claire’s precious cat. And Logan Sinclair is one of the assholiest people out there—”
“Is that even a word?”
“Even more so than you.”
