Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) (13 page)

“As you can clearly see, I’m not laughing at all,” she said with a slightly exasperated tone.

I brought my bike to a stop again. “Okay, okay, come here.”

“What?” she said, bringing her bike to a stop beside mine. “You want to immortalize this moment with a picture or something?”

I reached for the wrist that had been broken. “No, pussycat, I want to kiss your boo-boos.”

I was pretty sure it was the other hand that had been peed on as I raised her wrist to my lips and kissed it. Taking a discreet sniff, I was thankful to notice it was clearly absent of the smell of urine.

“I can’t really kiss away the pee, but the fact you are now wearing my shirt should make you feel a little better.”

“Thank you,” Wiska murmured a little breathlessly. “It might also be worth mentioning that my butt hurts from riding.”

I grinned and backed away until I was able to push off on my bike. The image of me kissing her ass way too interesting for a casual ride through the park.

“Sweetheart, don’t tempt me.”

Wiska

I stared at the sticky note sitting on the pillow beside me. I had stayed up well past midnight the previous night watching a highly addictive show about renovations—Who would have thought a show about cow paddocks and barns could bring so much drama and enjoyment?—and this morning, I found myself reluctant to leave the inviting warmth of my bed. My eyes had peeled apart long enough to see Bradley lean over the couch and suggest we go for a jog. I had mumbled, “Nottodaythankyou,” all jumbled into one possibly unidentifiable word, and promptly clamped my eyes shut tight.

Now, sometime later, I levered myself onto my arms, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and read the note again.

“I don’t snore,” I grumbled.

Climbing from bed, I dragged myself to Bradley’s room and peered in the open door. It appeared empty and quiet. Perhaps he was still out running, or in my comatose-post-renovation-marathon state, I could have missed him come home and leave again. I moved into the dark room and pulled my suitcase onto the bed. Today, I intended to move my stuff to Casey’s room. With Lionel gone, he had plenty of space, and having my stuff in Bradley’s room had been beyond awkward. Glancing around, I realized I had created a mess the size of a small city. Clothes were tossed carelessly in the direction of my suitcase, mostly hitting the floor in front of it. I lowered to my knees and found two mismatched shoes under Bradley’s bed, a sports bra, and pair of lacy boy shorts. Grabbing the litter of clothing, I threw it in the suitcase, and then climbed to my feet. With a giant heave, I tossed the suitcase on his mammoth bed, and most of the contents went sprawling again. I shrugged and decided to wash my face in an attempt to erase the lingering sleep that clung to me before attacking the mountain of mess.

Stumbling into Bradley’s bathroom, I washed my face at the vanity, then twisted my hair into a messy bun. I was wearing long silk pajama bottoms and a simple tank top, my nipples valiantly trying to peek through the fabric.

“Stand down,” I mumbled with a small smile.

Turning, I stepped out of the bathroom, one hand scratching at an itch trapped under my pony tail, the other tugging at my incessant wedgie. This was why I usually wore boy shorts or G-strings. When my gaze rose from the lush carpet, I froze. Panic set in and my neck and cheeks heated with mortification. For a woman who didn’t embarrass easily, I was on the verge of being brought to my knees with shame. Should I run? Should I turn around and walk back into the bathroom and lock the door? No, because then I’d be trapped, and Wiska James was tired of freaking running.

He was sweaty, his skin gleamed with post-run perfection, and his cheeks were flushed. I wondered if they would flush that way after sex. Heck, there was no way I was walking away from him. I pressed my shoulders back and stood my ground, my eyes dropping to the object of his fascination currently resting in his hand.

Bradley slowly turned in my direction, a look on his face caught somewhere between amusement and shock. In his hand, he held Thor, my vibrator. Crap, it must have fallen out of the suitcase when I lugged the damn thing up Mount Bed Ridiculous.

“Jesus fucking Christ, pussycat, I think this is yours,” Bradley finally said. “No, I know this is yours, ’cause there is no way it’s mine.” Terror filled eyes looked my way. “Shit, it’s not Casey’s, is it?”

“No, it’s not Casey’s,” I whispered. “And you shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain. And you probably shouldn’t reference
Him
while holding onto
that
,” was all I managed to say as I concentrated on forcing away my embarrassment.

“It’s heavy,” Bradley noted, giving the device a little shake. “And it feels so real,” he added. Any signs of shock had melted away to blatant curiosity.

“I paid top dollar for it.  It’s anatomically correct in every way.”

“Not every way,” Bradley added with a grin. “It’s missing the most important part.”

“And what would that be?”

“The brains that make it move and consequently make you scream with pleasure.”

“Most penises have a brain of their own that consequently
don’t
make me scream with pleasure. Thor gets the job done every time, thank you very much.”

“Thor?” Bradley coughed out, trying to hide his laughter.

“Yes, it seemed appropriate considering the size and the way it rocks my world.”

“Pussycat,” Bradley murmured, pinning me with a smoky, lust filled stare, “one day soon I’m going to introduce you to Vlad, and you are going to forget Thor ever existed.”

“Vlad?”

Bradley’s grin grew wider. “The Impaler.”

“That’s so bad,” I whispered, though couldn’t stop my own smile.

“He’s bad,” Bradley confirmed. He glanced back at Thor and scrunched up his nose. “Is it weird that I’m feeling a little unmanned right now? This thing is huge.”

“It is exceptional. It’s an actual replica of James Deen’s pecker.”

Bradley’s surprised gaze lifted from the vibrator to me. “James Dean? The actor? Seriously?”

“James Deen the porn star, so yeah, I guess you could say he’s an actor, just not
the
James Dean.”

“Of course,” he murmured. He stared at the device a little longer before giving me a mischievous look. “You know, I think we should play with this one day.”

My eyes just about popped out of my head at the suggestion. I would have assumed most men would find a certain amount of inadequacy and repulsion over a vibrator, particularly this vibrator, definitely not the sexual intrigue Bradley had just suggested.

“Before you go entertaining any fantasies, Mr. Emerson, let me make it perfectly clear that any double penetration thoughts you might be entertaining are not welcome. I have a NO ANAL clause both at work and in my private life.”

“Really?” he asked, somewhat surprised.

“That hole is an exit, not an entrance, so yeah, really. The day you let Thor ride your Hershey highway is the day I will allow you to reciprocate.”

Bradley snickered and placed Thor back into my suitcase. “Sorry, pussycat, there will be no pucker poking in our relationship. What were you doing here?” He glanced at my clothes and the suitcase.

“Well, since Lionel is gone, I figured there was no reason why I couldn’t put my stuff in the guest room. I feel a little guilty about the way I’ve taken over your space.” I scanned the room around me and took in the mess. It extended to the bathroom, the vanity having become my own personal beauty salon.

“I like having your stuff in here. Leave it.” He lifted the suitcase off his bed and placed it back on the recliner in the corner. Then he began folding my clothes and putting them away.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the vessel was empty. He wanted my crap in his space? Would I want his crap in my space? Strangely enough, I think I would.

“I’m not usually this messy,” I confessed, throwing a bra in the direction of the suitcase. It missed, and Bradley picked it up with a grin before folding it and carefully putting it away.

“I don’t mind messy.”

“My home in New York is tidy, I promise. I guess I’ve just been thrown off balance since arriving in the UK.” Yikes, I was rambling, and I couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m actually kind of anal about mess, obsessively so, and I talk in my sleep. I also hate the sound of other people eating food. Did you know that’s an actual brain disorder? Misophonia. I have that . . . it’s not acute, though. I also can’t stand the toilet paper roll being put on the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way?” Bradley asked.

“Oh, yeah. The paper is meant to feed from the top, not from under. OH!” I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “I also can’t stand the feeling of carpet under my feet after I’ve showered; that’s why I wear socks to bed.”

Bradley paused for a moment, then took the few short steps between us until he was standing so close I could feel the heat off his body. Sweat still beaded his brow, and his shirt was thoroughly drenched. It should have been a little gross, but my thoughts immediately landed in the gutter as I imagined sweat dripping from his skin to mine as we dirty danced between his sheets.

The backs of his fingers touched my belly and ran a whisper of a trail up my rib cage and around the generous swell of my breast. My nipples that had been spearing their way through the cotton of my tank top only moments before were suddenly so hard I imagined they might finally cut their way free. His hand stilled at my collarbone and started a return trip south, instead of going around my breast, this time he went right over the top, brushing the tight buds with a teasing touch that made my breath catch. He leaned in closer, our foreheads almost touching.

“I rarely make my bed; I like it messy. I always leave the toilet seat up. I hate koozies—I think using one is like dressing down a fine beer. Raisins make me gag, probably because Decker’s eldest brother Daniel tricked me into eating rabbit shit once, saying it was a raisin. Because of that raisin hate, I now have trust issues because bloody oatmeal raisin cookies look so much like chocolate chip cookies. So, pussycat, if we are trying to scare each other off, how did I do?”

I began to laugh, and when I finally settled down, I had an overwhelming urge to lean forward and kiss him. Bradley was watching me with a mixture of amusement and hunger; he didn’t move closer, though, just kept still and quiet, watching me, allowing me to make the next move. Angling my head, I decided I would do just that. My eyes dipped to his lips, a perfect combination of not too full and not too thin. Just as I began to lean forward, Casey’s voice coming from the kitchen made me pause.

“Honey, I’m home, and I have donuts.”

“Saved by the fairy,” Bradley whispered. “We wouldn’t want to break your rules, so I’m going to take a nice, long, cold shower.” Bradley’s hands left my body, and he stepped around me, the quiet click of the bathroom door releasing me from the spell he had cast over me.

“Where is everyone?” Casey called out again.

I pressed my hands to my nipples in an effort to make them soften. When that didn’t work, I quickly pulled on a bra, which at least made them a little less evident. I joined Casey in the kitchen. He was seated at the kitchen counter, and he did indeed have donuts.

“Donuts for breakfast?”

“Sugar is a necessary part of a healthy diet,” Casey explained.

I glanced at the extensive selection of donuts he was laying out on a plate. “Everything in moderation, huh?” I reached for one that had a healthy dose of frosted icing and took a bite of the decadent sweet.

“This is moderate. I left plenty back at the store.”

“Oh, my god,” I managed through a mouthful of food.

“I know, right,” Casey said through his own stuffed mouth. “Oh, your phone was going a little crazy before I went out.”

I grabbed my cell phone from the coffee table and stilled when I saw that I had missed two calls from my dad. I didn’t hesitate to call him right back.

“Wiska?”

“DAD! Is everything okay? Are you okay? Is Mom okay?” He chuckled, the rough-hewn sound I was so familiar with and missed. It almost brought me to tears.

“Your mom and I are fine. I’m calling to check on you.”

“Oh,” I murmured. “I’m fine.” Putting a little space and privacy between Casey and me, I wandered over to the marble bust perched on a pedestal by the front door.

“Is that a real fine or a girl fine?” Dad always joked about how men’s and women’s versions of ‘fine’ differed dramatically.

“Maybe a little bit girl fine,” I admitted. “I thought you were mad at me.”

I could hear his deep sigh; it sounded regretful. “No, Wiska, I’m not mad at you, not really. Disappointed, maybe; mad at the situation you found yourself in, definitely; but not mad at you.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

“I’m sorry, honey. Your mom and I shouldn’t have ignored you the way we did. We were confused, and I will admit a little ashamed by your new profession, but it was no excuse to leave you when you needed us the most.”

“That’s okay,” I managed to say through a throat threatening to squeeze shut with emotion.

“It’s not okay, Wiska, but we’ll do everything we can to make it up to you. I promise. I thought you had dreams of becoming a nurse when you finished high school. Is it the money? Is that why you dropped out of college? Because I have money. I can help.”