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4
Camdyn
Ass. I’m literally an ass man. Where I’m from, cheeks you can cup in your hand, smack, and manipulate to your pleasure aren’t readily accessible. Tits fucking galore—real, fake, pert, droopy—there are boobies far and wide. But ass? Nah.
So, imagine my surprise, as I’m sitting on my Harley when a fucking donkey ass strolls straight by me. The tips of the girl’s chocolate brown dreadlocks graze over her lovely cakes. Fucking temptress watches me watching her too.
Do I get a “hello?”
Nope.
Not a single salutation or an introduction. I’m not a caged animal, sweetheart. You don’t get yourself off by staring. We get off together. Or I fucking get my kicks at your expense.
In a few strides, I catch up with the devil in the teeny tiny skirt. The small of her back disappears where her ass begins. My dick’s angling for a similar outcome, getting lost in those caramel cheeks.
I spin the girl around. Fear flashes in her big, innocent hazel eyes. She’s not a beguiling demon sent to fuck with my emotions but an angel that’s crash-landed from Heaven.
Caught off guard, I toss out a cliché. “Ye new?”
Her mouth opens, slightly agape. Gonna take a bigger mouth to get me all the way down your fucking throat, sweetheart. My dick twitches, sensing her other two holes will need the same amount of coaxing. I do my signature move that leaves panties dripping, and pussy splayed wide—the smile and glance off in the distance—to subtly display my neck tatt. It usually sets the shy chicks at ease. It’s an icebreaker.
Her next line should be about the snake coiled around the knife on my neck. Rich bitches love ink. I’ll follow up by taking her to an empty classroom and show her the rest of my body.
My mouse cocks her head. “I could smell you a mile away,” she says.
An almost chuckle tumbles from my mouth. Oh, we’re fucking going the hard-to-get route. I love it. “That a bad thing?”
“Definitely not. Nice cologne, not too much. Now reserve the witty, good guy banter for the next chick. You’ve got a snake and knife tatted on your neck. My dad taught me about the banana in the tailpipe—I’m not that gullible. You should’ve thought that one over before playing Mr. Nice Guy.”
I cock a brow and glance at my hand, still clutching her arm. Dark amusement descends across my face. “Now that I don’t have to fecking pretend, because posing makes me want to puke out my guts by the way, ye’ve made yourself a thousand times more tempting.”
After a few beats, I yank her so hard that if we’d been bumper cars, she would’ve ping-ponged off my chest. Those beautiful, big hazel eyes dilate further. My fingertips coast the length of her trembling spine, locking her in.
We have an audience: the usual Cheerleader Barbies, jocks. Shit, there’s a couple of royals and celeb babies, too. My voice dips low and twisted. “I had the feeling you wanted to keep this part between the two of us. The game we entered. What’s your safe word, lass?”
Cautious eyes flicker over me like I’m some type of rando. “Game?”
“Yeah, so what’s your safe word?” I ground my cock against her lower abdomen. “One single word ye’ll say when the pain or desire gets too unbearable.”
She hitches, and I laugh. That was a joke—kinda. I’m about to ask my new plaything her name when she swallows hard.
“I’m not here to follow sheep and sniff after you.” Her gaze slides around the DuPont students, voyeurs who would salivate while I strip her naked. But I’ll have her alone. I want her on my terms.
“I’m here for an education, apparently,” she continues. “You win. Thank you and goodbye.”
A condescending smirk twists my lips. “I didn’t win yet. Let’s skip the safe word and revisit our discussion of proper upbringing. Your father taught you . . . some shite. Mine taught me not to say ‘goodbye,’ the proper term is ‘see you later.’”
“Now, you win, right?” Her voice drips sarcasm.
“Ye tried that already, sweetie.” I thought she’d try to pry her arm from my hand, but she hasn’t nibbled the bait. Nor has she pulled away from my other arm that crushes her to me.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll take the bullshit with the sunshine. Today, however,” her eyes slit, “let me go.”
“Let’s start over. I’m Camdyn MacKenzie.” Rarely do I initiate the shock-and-awe factor. Somewhere across the earth, fireworks detonate in the sky at the declaration of MacKenzie. However, here, my revelation’s a fucking dud.
Licking her lip sheepishly, she asks, “You a football player?”
“Those motherfeckers are on steroids.”
