Jessica Clare - Last Breath

I did make a mistake of complaining about the cold, which prompted her dad to produce an old jacket that made me look like I was the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Later that night she had us watch Ghostbusters , which was, she said, sort of a horror movie. Regan asked me to put on the jacket, and she stuck two pieces of paper on my head to mimic the creature’s hat. I did so because she was laughing so hard that there were happy tears in her eyes. I would act out mime sketches in the park if it would keep that jaw-dropping smile on her face. But she agreed I needed warmer clothes, so the next day we went to one of the banks where Naomi had deposited the money she stole from the drug dealers. Regan was stunned by the amount. I kind of expected it. Naomi had been treated well primarily because she was so valuable.

“You can be a lady of leisure,” I joke as we leave the bank. I’d just wanted enough cash to buy my own jacket, one that didn’t feel like I was walking around wearing two pillows stitched together, but the amount in this one account leaves me thinking I could buy that island compound.

“That sounds terrible,” she says. “I’d go crazy sitting around doing nothing.”

“On the bright side, it’s a good thing you know about accounting.”

“I don’t think my calculator goes up that high,” she answers with disgruntlement.

Kissing her forehead, I place an arm around her shoulder as we walk to the bus stop. “Just think, you can put a sticker on your backpack that says ‘My other bag is Hermes.’”

She punches me in the gut, but the padding of the coat completely shields me. Huh, maybe this is good for something.

I keep myself busy doing handyman work for Nick. For a guy who could watch a mark for hours without moving, he’s showing surprisingly little patience with the mundane things around the apartment building.

“You really think that being a landlord is the right occupation for you?” I call after Nick’s retreating back as he stomps out of the first floor apartment to turn the water off. We are attempting to hook up the sink, but apparently we’ve done something wrong. I’m pretty good at breaking shit, shooting guns, and running cattle—but wiring and plumbing? That’s like trying to figure out the inner workings of a female mind. It takes time and patience, neither of which Nick is displaying nor am I interested in exerting.

Regan is off at the university trying to argue that she should be allowed to take her tests and get her degree, rather than go through an entire semester’s worth of classes again. One thing about living in a world with rules, you can’t hold a gun to someone’s head and force them to do your will. Or I guess I could, but Regan wouldn’t allow that. I flip the wrench in my hand. It’s heavy and the ratchet end would do a lot of damage. I could kill a man with a well-placed blow to the temple. Definitely incapacitate someone by a strike to the knee or the elbow. I swing out my arm to test the air resistance against the heavy steel tool.

“What are you doing?”

Jerking up, I see Regan at the door left ajar by Nick. “Ah, nothing?” I prevaricate, moving from my lunge position where I was kneecapping an imaginary foe with my new weapon. Guiltily, I set the wrench behind me on the counter and stride toward her.

“Looks like you were practicing some kind of assassin moves.” Skepticism is clear in her face and voice.

Pulling Regan into my arms, I place wet kisses along the column of her throat. “You never know when I’ll need to protect you from a spider or cockroach. I can’t allow my skills to get rusty.”

Tilting her head the side, she allows me greater access to the sensitive skin on her neck. She shudders when I reach the hidden spot behind her ear. Her arms slide around me and thoughts of home repair drop out of my head to be replaced by the feel of her lush body against mine. Regan’s been eating regularly since we've left Brazil, and it looks good on her—not to mention how much I enjoy the feel of her roundness in my palms.

“God, you are so fucking hot. Let's go upstairs.” Without waiting for a response, I lift her over my shoulder and squeeze one delectable ass cheek.

“I’m losing all the blood in my head,” she complains.

“Not to worry. Soon it will be between your legs.” This is a good position because she can’t see my smug expression.

“That’s you, baby boy.”

“I thought we’d agreed you’d call me Huge Dicked Daniel.”

My reward is a few more pummels to my back, but those little punches turn to caresses once we are inside the bedroom and my head is between her legs. Her hands knead my shoulders as I concentrate on the taste and smell of her fantastic pussy.

When I finally do enter her, she rewards me with a dreamy smile and a breathy observation. “You do have a huge cock, Daniel.”

“It’s getting bigger with every compliment,” I grunt, clutching the flesh at her hips and driving hard into her sweet warmth.

“It’s humongous. Bigger than an elephant.”

My quakes are from laughter, and I allow her to flip me over and ride me like I’m a wild mustang. Sex with Regan is glorious—fun, intense, passionate.

After a sweaty bout of bed play, Regan swirls her index finger in the whorls of my chest hair. If I had any sensation left in my body this might have been ticklish, but she has worn me out.

“You seem restless lately.”

“I think we need a bigger bed. Not enough room in here to really do everything that I’ve been fantasizing about.”

She tugs on a few hairs. “I’m serious. I’m worried about you. I don’t think general handyman is what you want to do for the rest of your life.”

I roll her over and pin her arms above her head. “If the rest of my life is spent with you, then it’s all good. That’s the only thing I have going on of any importance.”

“Then you should stick your cock inside me again.” Her voice is playful, but her eyes contain a worry I don’t really know how to dispel. “Do you want to go home?”

“I am home.” I’m not deliberately misunderstanding Regan. It’s the truth. My home is with her. “As long as you love me, I’m complete.” She looks like she wants to protest or argue some more, but I’ve got other ideas. Swinging her up in my arms, I carry her to the shower, where I show her how good home feels. It doesn’t matter that I can’t go home until Naomi is done with her thing in Russia because I wouldn’t leave Regan anyway. Not for all the ranch land in Texas.

The next day, I’m back working on the sink. Nick’s at art class, and I’m getting a lot done without him around to curse in Ukrainian and kick the pipes. The bathroom sinks are connected, and I have to add a U trap and connect the garbage disposal and I’ll be done. Regan is wrong. I’m getting the hang of the fix-it stuff, and I don’t mind it. I’m so caught up in my work that I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps that trample into the apartment. I don’t even realize I’m not alone until I crawl out from underneath the sink to see my old man standing next to Regan, looking like he’s about thirty years older than his actual age.

“Dad,” I say warily, pulling off the leather work gloves and tossing them into the sink. “You’re a long way from the ranch.” I can’t remember the last time my old man left Texas. I blink a few times to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“It was a direct flight from Dallas,” he says shortly and looks around the room at everything but me. I take the opportunity to look quizzically at Regan, but she just smiles mysteriously. “Nice place.”

“Not mine.” I can match him word for short word if that’s what it comes to. Regan throws up her hands like she can’t believe me and turns a brilliant smile on my dad. Given that Regan is hotter than a dozen Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, that smile works on my dad better than bacon grease on a skillet. He blinks a couple of times in stunned appreciative silence, and then she takes mercy on him by walking over to me and slaying me with the same look.