Evie Rose

My heart lurches as a middle-aged man takes a pale-pink iced cupcake from her stash. It has swirls of buttercream. I glower as he bites into it, anger and jealousy burning in my throat.

That is for me.

I’m across the room and in front of her in a second. She blinks up into my face.

“What are those?” I ask abruptly.

I mean to have a bit more tact and open my mouth to say something more, but then she turns her unexpected weapon on me.

Fuck, her smile. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She’s like I’ve been living in black and white, and suddenly there’s colour.

I stare at her.

I’d never realised until now how brave it is to smile. How being happy and positive is leaving yourself so totally vulnerable. I’m probably twice her age and three times her size, and I don’t let people in by smiling like that.

She’s just standing in front of a man who scared and threatened everyone in this room, and instead of bowing her head or looking as nervous as she should be, she’s smiling. As though it’s easy.

I admire it.

“Cupcakes.” Her voice is high but lyrical. “Would you like one?”

I am not a cupcake sort of person. I am not a person for sweet treats. I like whisky that tastes like burnt Scottish soil having a reunion in a morgue.

Apparently, now, I like her.

It’s not that she’s young and beautiful, although that definitely helps. It’s that I’m suddenly achingly aware that taking care of this girl would fill a need I had no idea about. A gap in my chest that I hadn’t even recognised was in the space that I always assumed had my withered, charred excuse for a heart.

I don’t know how to love her as she deserves. I haven’t a clue how to make her love me. Both those things feel very important, and I can’t believe I’ve neglected them as skills.

There’s a pause while I’m flummoxed by unfamiliar feelings, and I’m still scowling. Which is maybe why a young guy pushes in from the side.

“This is Mr Blackwood.” He pronounces my name like it’s “God”. “He doesn’t want your pathetic little cakes.” He’s barely more than a boy, and wears a shiny suit that likely cost him more than he can afford.

She jolts like he’s smacked her, and her smile falters.

“Of course not. I didn’t think he would.” She begins to pull away, her expression going from sunny to hurt in a second.

I’m so busy looking at her, I don’t anticipate the disaster.

“Miss Matthews?” Mr Blackwood’s curt tone breaks through my disbelief.

My head snaps up, and I’m lost in my boss’ blue eyes. Again.

“Could I trouble you to write down that address for us, Miss Matthews?” he drawls. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your daydreaming, but perhaps you could do your job, please.”

It’s hardly the worst thing he’s ever said to me. Mr Blackwood is notoriously grumpy.

“This address?” I reel off the one they mentioned, and my boss’ eyes narrow.

His brothers laugh, but I hold Mr Blackwood’s gaze.

“Oh, she just owned you, Sev,” my dad says.

But I’m watching my boss. There’s something inexplicably proud in his expression. Like he’s impressed.

“Very good, Miss Matthews.”

Tension sizzles between us for one second, then two, as Vito speaks, and I really am not listening this time. I’m looking into Sev Blackwood’s face and the only thought in my head, is how? How did he know?

He growls at me regularly, and I’ve always assumed he didn’t like me, and that my crush was totally one-sided. But I’m wondering now. I live in a property owned by Mr Blackwood, and I have since I started working here.

There’s only one way my boss could know I hurt myself dancing on a table, since I don’t look like the kind of girl who does that. If he saw it happen.

only see her once during the rest of the workday, and I snap at her, “Why aren’t you having that eye sorted out?”

I am an unmitigated arsehole.

And when I open my phone to the surveillance app after the little blue dot on the tracker shows me she’s at home, I breathe a sigh of relief.

I settle down with a glass of Scotch and my tablet to an evening of my favourite pastime—stalking Maisie.

It’s more fun to follow her in person, but it’s a weekday night, and my brothers have only just finished giving me shit. I wonder what my girl is doing?

I flick to the surveillance app with a smile, and anticipation in my heart. I love watching her read, or…

It’s like she’s deliberately teasing me. I’ve been stalking Maisie for two years, and she’s a young woman with the usual needs, but they’ve been satisfied in her bed before. Now, she reclines on the sofa and flicks the bean, with or without underwear, or sits on the kitchen counter. Her bruises heal, and she looks more beautiful and sexy by the day.

If watching her was good before, it’s somewhere around torture now. It used to be an obsession, it’s turned into an addiction.

The girl who holds my heart, or my best friend. Even as she becomes so much more than a lifelong friend. “I’ll still have her working for me. She’s near, and safe.”

That has to be enough.

Maybe I can even teach her one last time. A farewell kiss.

I used to find joy in watching Maisie. It was enough for so long. And past me is delighted that she is wandering around in a see-through dress. Negligee. Whatever.

But now I’d give everything to have Maisie with me, fully clothed.

And I can’t. My best friend would be as accepting of me being with his daughter as a pigeon is of clean cars.

So although my desire for Maisie is far from only physical, I keep it that way. This is more than I dreamed of, in fact.

Maisie on the screen is adjusting her position as she reads, and the front of that little tease of fabric flops down, giving me a perfect view of her tits.

And yeah, I crave her company.

But I’m a man. I want her lush, tight body, as well as her soul.

Then she eases one hand down her stomach, and I stop breathing as she reaches into her lace knickers.

She’s touching herself. Then she’s writhing, and the book is cast aside, and somehow, she’s looking straight up into the camera as she goes pink in the cheeks and her mouth opens in a pant of desire.

Suddenly, it’s too much. I rip open my trousers and release my cock, then jerk myself. Using my left hand, it feels slightly less like it’s me, and I can imagine it’s her. Inexperienced, but eager as she can’t wrap her fingers all the way around.

My cock is thick and heavy with need. I stroke myself with quick, harsh pumps of my fist as I watch. The pleasure is sharp, and I throw back the last of my whisky as I feel the tingle as my balls fill up, telling me I’m close.

Breathing hard, I take my hand off my cock and flick my shirt buttons open, revealing the familiar lines of the tattoos that cover my chest.

On the screen, Maisie has altered position, so her arse is pointed straight into the camera as she bends at the waist and continues to stroke her clit inside the knickers.

“Fuck,” I breathe. “It’s like you’re trying to make me think of taking you that way, Maisie.”

It’s not.

She doesn’t know I’m watching.

I don’t have any illusions about myself, but when Maisie arches her back and wiggles her arse, I feel like the filthy monster I truly am.

I stroke one thumb delicately over the screen, wishing I could touch her. Then when she shakes and collapses as she comes, I blow my load in wild spurt after spurt. Uncontrolled.

It’s pleasurable. And hollow.

“I’ve been thinking about Maisie. I’m still concerned about that bruise she had. What if she has a boyfriend?”

I choke slightly. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’d kill him.” I pull the trigger repeatedly, with more force than necessary. It’s a blanket denial of the idea of Maisie being with anyone, as well as a rejection of the link to her self-inflicted bruise.

Wes nods. “You said you’d look after her, and I trust you.”

And I’m betraying that trust by watching his daughter touch herself. Intimately. And doing a bit of a follow-along myself. If my best friend knew, I’d be dead in seconds.

She closes the door and smooths her skirt down nervously. She’s wearing a fussy little blouse and a flicky skirt in a deep-blue.

It’s pure torture to see and not peel those clothes from her body. What makes it even worse is watching her choose the outfit in the morning and put it on, then wear it never knowing I’ve seen it already, and see her take it off again. All without touching her.

Maisie comes to stand before my desk and I—as ever—think of bending her over my desk and fucking her until she’s come at least three times, and we’re both exhausted.

I manage to restrain myself.

Another successful day as a stalker.

That seems to jolt her, and she blinks. Then my innocent girl licks her lips. “Mr Blackwood, I need your help.”

Adrenaline surges in me. She needs me? I’m there.

If this is about a photocopier, I’m going to be really disappointed.

“Something to do with work?”

“Sort of.” She gives a half giggle, nervous and breathy.

There’s no chair on the other side of my desk, because I don’t encourage my visitors to stay too long, as a rule. So I have the torture of seeing her shift from foot to foot. I’d like to make her comfortable. Instead, I have this mask of sour temper and callous disregard for anyone’s feelings, but since she’s been in my life the mask itches and chafes, and part of me wishes I could remove it.

Her flicky little skirt teases around her legs as she rounds my desk and takes her place beside me, placing the stack of papers on the low table.

“What now?” She glances up through her long dark lashes.

This is going to kill me. She’s slight, soft, curved, and small compared to me. The scent of raspberries and cream fills my senses.

I look into her eyes. Up close, they’re endless shades of brown, as though her genetics got over-zealous as a mafia boss buying a present for his wife, and gave her every colour imaginable, all mushed together.

“Your first kiss, huh?”

“Yes.” She leans in to press her lips to mine hurriedly.

“Uh!” I’m not having that. An awkward, quick kiss that leaves her as unsatisfied as me. My hand finds her waist, and holds her.

“What?” She pulls back reluctantly, hurt in her expression.

“I thought you said you wanted to be taught?” I rumble.

She nods, her eyebrows puckering together.

“Then let me teach, sweetheart.” The endearment falls out of my mouth far too easily. “First you need to set up the cause for the kiss,” I murmur. “Look at this with me.” Picking up a paper from the coffee table at random, I place it between us. “See here?”

“I don’t see,” she replies, a bit confused.

“Come closer then. Lean in.” I’m a monster luring his soft little prey.

“You see the point I’m trying to teach you?” I put one finger onto the page. “Just here?”

“This one?” She puts a fingertip next to mine.

There’s the thud of my heart, the wind outside, and someone talking downstairs.

“That’s right. A bit closer.”

“Do you mean…” Her finger brushes over mine as she indicates another place on the page.

The lurch of my stomach is almost painful. This smallest of all touches is the most I’ve had in two years.