Chapter 4

Brad bit into an apple, leaving it suspended in his mouth as he pulled out the term paper to take one more peek. The bright red 'A' looked like shore after a long journey at sea.

"Pretty impressive," Doris whispered over his shoulder as she slid into a break room chair.

Brad tucked the paper back into his book bag and dug for his Dockers, shirt and Tasmanian Devil tie. "Thanks. I'm pretty proud of that one."

Doris peeled back the foil cover on a container of cottage cheese. "You work really hard, Brad. Your people back in Wisconsin must be very proud of you."

He took one last crunch and tossed the core into a nearby can. "I think they are. I'd know better if I could afford to call once in awhile."

Doris smiled. How the hell did she manage to get her hair to stand up in that twist everyday? "Will you be the only lawyer in your family?"

Brad hoisted and swung the book bag over a shoulder. "I'll be the only lawyer in town. One guy had a practice, but he died in the early nineties and no one replaced him. Everyone's been driving thirty-five miles to Appleton."

Doris took a lumpy spoonful and then patted the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "Well then, it's a public service for you to go back and change that."

"I guess." Brad took a step toward the door. "Do you know if Ms. Milton is in?"

Doris laid a napkin across her lap. "I think she is. A few members of the zoning board have been here most of the day. She didn't look happy when I saw her earlier."

"Thanks," Brad said and hurried to change into proper Milton's attire before paying Hope a little visit.

Hope's fingers ran over her brow two then three times. She would not allow the migraine that she could feel brewing to come in. She had too damn much work to do.

But Donald Jordan and some of his cohorts from town planning were fastidious. For every point Hope presented, they countered with an ordinance or code violation or just plain stupid reason why it wouldn't or couldn't work. Was it so hard for anyone else to see what a goldmine the fourth floor of Milton's could prove to be?

Hope pulled off her reading glasses. The paperwork was dull and confusing and the most she could gather from it was that Milton's had insufficient square footage and sprinkler capabilities.

"Who is it?" she snapped when a knock came to the door. A moment later Brad peeked around the corner. She hadn't spoken to him since Monday, well Tuesday technically since she'd spent the transition from one to the other in his arms, beneath his steel-hard body or seated at his computer. It felt wrong to avoid him, but even more wrong to lead him on.

"Hi," he said and knocked again though she quite obviously had seen him. "Rose isn't out here."

Hope threw her glasses down. "I sent her home. I'll be here for awhile yet and it is Friday."

"Nice of you." Brad pushed the door closed.

Hope stepped back into the pumps she'd discarded. "Did you need something?" She glanced up and instantly wished she hadn't. When she was young and the girls at her private school giggled about boys--their looks, their meaning, the mystery of them--she'd never joined in. But alone, when Hope had dreamt of him--the only him who would ever be able to cut through her layers of distance and conviction--she'd conjured up someone so like Brad. Perhaps that's why he unnerved her. He came so close to the prototype--the ideal male she'd created just to ensure herself that such a perfect specimen couldn't possibly exist. Her fantasy man pulled out all of the stops--the dreamy yet enigmatic eyes, the blonde hair thick with waves that appeared disheveled at all times of day or night and felt like spun silk to the touch; the body large and strong enough to protect, but not too large to make it difficult for a female to press close to the most exciting of places. Quick wit, charming smile, shadow of beard, and though she never would have dared even dream it, a cock that could annihilate in all sorts of cleverly delicious ways from the visual to the vital.

Hope found her hands clammy and her heart preparing for a forty-yard dash as he stepped close.

Brad held a paper that was rolled into a cylinder. He handed it to her, crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. Hope unrolled and spotted an 'A'. "Wow."

"Thank you. I never would've pulled that off if you hadn't helped."

Hope rolled it again and handed it back. "You would've completed it yourself had I not been there."

Brad threw the paper to the desk and moved near. Just to keep her hands from reaching out to touch him, Hope tucked a strand of hair into the twist it had escaped from.

"Have dinner with me," he said, slowly, seductively, smoothly.

Hope shook her head. "You're working and I'll be busy most of the night."

Brad stroked her arms and even through the heavy fabric of her brown cowl neck sweater, Hope could feel the sizzle of his skin. Dear Lord she wasn't prepared for this--for him. "After work," he said as he petted.

Hope shimmied away, opened her desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen. "We don't work terribly well 'after work'."

Brad smirked and ran the back of his index finger along her cheek. Hope smacked his hand away. "Stop."

He just looked, that long, mesmerizing stare. He turned to pick up the paper, then caught her gaze. "I've been pretty busy all week so I convinced myself that you had been too. I picked up my car, did a shitload of studying, worked a few times in case you hadn't noticed, slept last night as a sane man does from eleven o'clock until seven this morning. I didn't have a lot of time to dwell on the fact that you might just be avoiding me." He smacked his palm with the roll, bouncing it off, repeating the pattern. "But, I think you're avoiding me, Hope. Now, you wanna tell me why?"

Hope popped the two pills she'd shaken out into her mouth and swallowed them dry--a habit that made her grandmother cringe. Brad just hoisted a sexy brow.

"Tough," he said softly.

"Busy." Hope turned from him. It was imperative that she sever that smoldering, fiery eye contact.

"So you've just been busy? You haven't gone out of your way to leave before I get here or not patrol the floor when I'm on? You haven't deliberately not returned my well-orchestrated phone calls--since I don't have a phone, they take a lot of planning. You haven't been avoiding me, Hope?"

Hope slammed her drawer. She closed her eyes, willed him gone as she massaged her temples. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm up to my eyelashes with research for the restaurant. Easter and spring displays are late going up, not to mention inventory that needs to get done--"

Brad closed the distance between them. "All legitimate shit, Hope, but still, I think you're avoiding me."

She wouldn't be intimidated, wouldn't allow him or anyone the satisfaction. "Why would I be avoiding you, Brad?"

He shrugged and smirked at the same time and it was infuriating. "I don't know. Maybe because I rocked your world the other night and you rocked mine right back."

She rounded the desk and sat down in her chair. "Look, Brad, I don't know what you're thinking--"

He smirked once again. "The finger thing. I've been thinking a lot about the finger thing."

"Would you stop," she whispered and glanced toward the door.

"No one is here, Hope. It's just you and me."

She stood up. She'd been wrong to sit. It was necessary to be on her feet, to be secure, to be his equal. "I won't deny that there was a mutual attraction and we both--pleasantly--acted upon it."

He chuckled and thrust his hands into his pockets.

He could be so cocky--why the hell did he have to be so cocky?

Hope continued. "Though I will admit that I'm not prone to one nightstands-"

Brad shook his head. "Two. Two nightstands, or 'daystands', since I believe that orgasm--however it's achieved--constitutes as a sexual experience. And since I am certain beyond any reasonable doubt that you orgasmed in my presence on the fourth floor of this building prior to the day of our ultimate sexual union, I believe that we shared two intimate scenarios, i.e., 'stands'."

Hope crossed her arms and sucked in a breath. He was exasperating! "You will make an excellent lawyer."

Brad placed his palms on the desk and leaned in. "Thank you. Now, you were saying--"

"You're forcing me to be blunt."

"Please do."

"Brad, I believe in being honest. I'm sure anyone will tell you that I am both honest and fair about any and all things. I hope I didn't lead you on, but I'm beginning to fear that I have. The other night was wonderful--two adults enjoying each other's company. Nothing more. I have no interest in a relationship with you or anyone. A committed relationship is not who I am or where I'm going."

He did it again--just looked. Whether he exuded sadness, embarrassment, hurt or anger she couldn't be sure, but Hope forced herself to stay calm, stand tall and simply wait. She was grateful for the pause to remind her of the significance of the words she'd just uttered.

After what seemed like forever or maybe longer, Brad shook his head and straightened from the desk. "You're a bitch, Hope. Everyone says it. Everyone. But they haven't seen you the way I have. They haven't been inside of you like I have. They haven't felt the vibration of your little heart beating on the tip of their cock. You can tell yourself all you want that you don't want me, but I know better and you know better too."

He walked to the door, lifted the rolled 'A' in his hand. "Thanks for this," he said before he walked through.

Christ, the woman was a pain in the ass. He should've known she wouldn't hook easily. Brad raised a bottle of beer to his lips and took a slug. Friday night and he was alone with a cheap six-pack and a snowy picture on his ancient twelve-inch screen.

He wanted her tonight. Wanted her to say she'd come over, or better still invite him to her plush apartment sitting high above Armory Square that he hadn't had the good fortune to see yet. He could get used to making love to Hope in a big puffy bed with pillows, candles and silky sheets.

She wasn't the 'mattress-on-the-floor' type, but she hadn't complained at all that night, here on his rumpled sheets and lumpy pillows. She hadn't complained about sitting in a folding chair for six hours and typing an 'A' while she allowed him the luxury of sleep.

Brad extended his legs to the wood slab and concrete block coffee table and sighed.

He was in love with her.

Maybe he'd realized it the very first second he'd seen her sitting behind that big desk, acting tough, looking shy, trying like hell to find a reason to eliminate him--the employee she hadn't found herself, resented and was forced to live with.

Hope Milton sure as hell wasn't the girl he ever would've thought he'd want, need, die for.

She was pretentious and he hated pretentious. She was a snob and he loathed snobs. She was cold and he gravitated to warmth. She was closed off and there was nothing he liked more than wide open.

But she'd transformed in his arms--transformed with thick lashes that conveyed her fear, a tongue that hesitantly tested and a core that opened for the unknown.

She was scared--he was too--but he was willing to risk it. Hell, he had to love her because nothing else made any sense. She'd complicated a life that was already complicated. She'd added another fold to the intricacies of his existence.

Brad had always known that he wanted marriage, but he wanted it in an abstract sort of way--the next logical step after you'd climbed up the others. Now marriage had a face and it belonged to his boss.

But he also wanted Wisconsin and the simple life it offered. He wanted kids, a dog, a gas grill. He wanted sex that blew his mind six nights a week--he'd be a considerate husband and give the wife a night off.

But Hope wanted to run Milton's department store with the option of a tony restaurant in negotiation.

She was going be a tough sell.

Brad drained the bottle and threw it to the floor. His neighbor seemed to be enjoying Friday night. A girl was panting, "Yes, oh yes, oh yes," and the squeaking bedsprings hadn't let up for an hour.

Brad considered pounding on the wall, but the guy was decent, usually quiet and he hadn't said a thing when they'd seen each other by the mailboxes and Brad knew damn well that the resident of Apartment A had most likely been kept awake Monday night by Hope's cries and his moans.

He turned up the volume on Leno was it? Hard to tell with wavy lines running across the screen. The girl next door yelled one final, "Oh yes!" and howled like a werewolf to the moon.

Brad stared at the non-descript image on the screen and tried to ignore the hard-on his neighbor's date and thoughts of Hope had stirred up beneath his sweatpants.

Hope picked at her stuffed crab. Her grandmother, being a grandmother, noticed. "Are you all right, Hope?"

Hope set her fork down on the china plate. "Yes, I'm just tired. I've been so busy at the store and it's hard for me to stay focused over dinner at nine thirty."

Elizabeth covered Hope's hand with her own that sparkled with diamonds. Hope had always prayed that she would someday transform and resemble her grandmother. She had been a beauty queen in her youth and her radiance was still evident. Hope had seen pictures of her own mother and there was no question that she resembled her instead of her handsome father--pretty but plain with mousy hair and blue eyes.

"Donald seems like a nice man," Elizabeth whispered so Donald Jordan wouldn't hear.

Hope sighed and lifted her water goblet. She took a refreshing sip and set it down. "I need his approval for the restaurant."

Elizabeth took a dainty bite of crab. "So that's where your interest lies--in the restaurant, not the man?"

Hope adjusted in her seat. Her grandmother made it sound so deceitful and conniving, but she was well aware of Hope's desire to pilot the store and she shouldn't seem surprised. "He's nice enough," Hope said, and attempted to take another nibble of crab.

Elizabeth dabbed the corner of her mouth with her burgundy-colored napkin. "He's certainly attractive."

Hope glanced over at Donald. He reminded her of a fashion doll she'd had as a child--his hair looked painted on too. "I guess, but we have a business relationship."

Her grandmother took a tiny sip of water from her goblet. She set her glass down and smoothed the napkin on her lap. "Darling, when was the last time you enjoyed a man as a man?"

"Grandmother!" Hope glanced around. She felt the miniscule bit of crab she'd eaten lay like a slug in her stomach. Her grandmother had no idea how much or recently she'd enjoyed a man.

"I'm sorry, Hope, but you're twenty-seven-years-old. It's high time you started thinking of your personal life and not just your professional one."

"I'm fine, Grandmother." Hope lifted her goblet.

"Just a suggestion," Elizabeth said and turned her attention back to her creamy white crab.

Hope had been completely prepared. Completely. She'd even put the newly acquired diaphragm in place before Donald had picked her up. She had every intention of sleeping with him and then convincing him of the worthiness of 'The Garden Room'.

But as Donald kissed down her jaw, her neck, her shoulders, Hope felt her dinner begging to be re-released. She adjusted her body on the white linen of her couch and attempted to focus. Donald's hand roamed and found her breast. He let out a throaty groan and began kneading as if he were working at bread dough.

Hope tried to concentrate, but remembered instead. She remembered Brad. She remembered his hands, his words, his smell, his feel. She remembered the lava he'd let loose in her veins and the liquid he'd caused to pool between her legs. She'd never missed anyone in her entire life--not even her absent father or long dead mother.

But she missed Brad.

Donald had managed to free a breast from the confines of her v-neck dinner dress. A bra was not an option with the plunging line and Donald lit up like a Christmas tree with the knowledge. He didn't attempt to lick her nipple once he'd located it. Instead he dove right in with his teeth and bit the bud.

Hope squealed, but he continued his attack. She nudged Donald off and extended her fingertips to push him away. "Donald, I'm sorry, but I feel uncomfortable."

Donald lunged again. "Then get comfortable. I'll wait."

She gave him a mighty shove. "No. I feel uncomfortable with the situation." Hope managed to sit up and tuck her breast away. "I want the restaurant--you're aware of that--but I want you to see the merit of it without my sleeping with you."

Donald adjusted his tie. "This has nothing to do with the restaurant, Hope. Truthfully, most likely the permit still won't be issued. It's just not feasible." He reached for her breast, but she halted his hand.

"Donald, I'm sorry, but I'd like you to leave. I'll contact your office Monday and we can discuss what I need to do to ensure that 'The Garden Room' happens."

Persistence was his strong point. He caught her this time, the mound of her breast in his palm. He squeezed with a pressure that actually hurt. "I'd like this to happen, Hope."

That primitive fear inbred in all women when faced with an uncooperative man rippled through her. But Hope stayed cool as she slid from his grip and stood up. "I'd like you to leave now, Donald. I apologize if I misled you. It was foolish of me."

He flashed a coy, James Bond grin. She could see how he would be considered somewhat attractive, but he wasn't kind. That was evident now. There was selfishness mixed with neediness in his eyes. At his most dark, Brad was never unkind.

Hope attempted to steady her breathing as she walked to the door and opened it. A couple had just moved into the next unit. She'd noticed their car in the garage when Donald pulled in. One loud scream from Hope and they'd hear her for sure. She was definitely safest near the corridor.

Donald seemed to at least accept his defeat, if not embrace it. He tightened his tie once again and neared her. "You're a tease, Hope. You're a cock tease and that's not a very good thing." Mercifully he inched by.

"Good night, Donald. Thank you for dinner." Hope pushed the door closed after he'd passed and slid down the other side of it. She sat clutching her legs, listening for the familiar ping of the elevator that would carry Donald down and out of her building. She heard it finally and sucked in a relieved breath. A moment later a knock came. Had he not gotten on? Was he back to convince some more?

Another knock--this time less patient. There was no use pretending she didn't hear it, obviously she was home. But if she opened it, Donald could easily over power her and push back inside--

Another knock. Hope glanced at the clock on her DVD player. It was close to midnight. She didn't want a scene. Maybe if she opened it slightly she could urge him along. She stood and cracked the door.

Brad was on the other side wearing a bomber jacket, jeans and a less than contented look on his face. He pushed through and closed the door behind him. "That's why you've been avoiding me--ignoring my calls, acting like I'm just an employee in shoes."

Hope stepped back. She wasn't afraid of him, she was afraid of herself. She was afraid of the tumble of his hair, the jealous snap in his already green eyes, the way his muscles tensed beneath the layers of leather sleeve.

"Brad, it's late--"

He just shook his head.

"I think you should go-"

He stepped forward. "Are you in love with him?"

Hope's eyes slit. It was absurd, but did he know that? Could he tell? "That's none--"

Brad grasped her shoulders and steered until Hope's back pressed against the wet bar in the corner of the room. "Don't tell me it's none of my business."

Her eyes wandered the length of him, her heart beating a steady pattern at the pressure of his clutch. "No, I'm not in love with him. I need his help with the restaurant."

Brad shook his head as if he pitied her. Maybe he did. Maybe he was right to. Hope swung her hair over her shoulder in weak defense. His mouth found hers then-- hungry, bold, tired of waiting, tired of games. "I love you," he murmured. He pulled back and said it out loud. "I love you."

"No," Hope whispered when his mouth returned, but her gut churned at the sound of the words.

"Yes," Brad muttered. He hoisted her up and pushed her to the smoothness of the bar top. Within seconds he had the black sequined skirt of her dress raised and his fingers hooked around the almost non-existent fabric of her thong.

Hope thrashed, but not in protest, in need. She needed him and she loathed the awareness. Her hips bucked, but Brad just held tight to the tiny panel of black. "You're going to talk to me, Hope. You're going to tell me the truth. Tell me what's real."

Hope's head rolled over the smoothness of the bar top. Brad dipped a finger inside her core. Just one, suspended it without movement as his eyes found hers. "You're so fucking wet. Did he make you wet?"

Hope shook her head so violently, the bottles behind her rattled.

"So you got this wet just now? Just by me throwing you to this bar?"

She couldn't speak. Her eyes just glued to his.

Brad gave her that intoxicating smile. "You know what they call girls like you back in Wisconsin, Hope? Girls who cream in seconds when something turns them on?"

Apparently her response was too long in coming. He yanked his finger out and thrust it back, accompanied by two others. His middle finger tapped her diaphragm.

"They call you sluts. I'll bet you've never been called a slut before, but that's what you are because you want me and you hate it. It's confusing the shit out of you."

Hope squeezed her eyes, willed herself not to feel the incredible turn-on his words ignited within. Brad removed his fingers and her eyes instinctively opened. She hoisted to her elbows, thinking he was going to free her--going to back up and let her move. Instead, he pinned her torso with his left arm and reached for a bottle of a cognac with a particularly thick neck with the other. Hope felt her eyes widen to twice their normal size. "No," she muttered.

The corner of Brad's mouth raised into yet another sly grin. "Oh, I don't think that's up to you, Hope. I'm not going to do anything that you won't love."

He lifted the bottle to his lips and licked the sticky sweetness from the neck. He wiggled the cork to ensure that it was securely wedged into the mouth of the bottle. When he seemed satisfied, he set the bottle down and threw Hope's legs over each side of the bar. He lowered and swiped her slit with his tongue. "You've got the tastiest pussy I've ever had the pleasure of eating. God it's so juicy and so tight. I think about it all the time, every second."

Despite her protests, her reluctance, Hope felt herself wither as she allowed a sultry moan to escape. And for an unknown, uncalculated reason, she spoke. "Have you eaten many?"

He burrowed his tongue and lapped. "Enough," he said finally. "Truthfully, it was never my favorite part. I preferred to get right to the fucking. But not with you. With you I wanna lick and suck and eat for hours."

She lifted enough to see everything--see his hungry tongue as it teased her clit and then entered her. The erotic ecstasy was too much to bear as Brad feasted. "Fuck me!" Hope screamed, not even caring if her new neighbors heard. But Brad just continued to eat.

"Please, Brad. Oh please! I need you inside of me, now!"

He pulled away then, abrupt, harsh. His eyes were blazing. "You think I care what you want, Hope? You think I'm trying to please you? Fuck you! You're like a fucking drug and I'm addicted. That's the only reason I'm here with my face buried in you cunt. I can't help myself. I'm crazy in love with you and your pussy, your tits, are my heroin. I don't care if you want me now. I only care that I get my fix."

His words were raw and stinging. He stood there a minute, not moving, not returning to his glorious assault. Then he seemed to remember the cognac bottle. He snatched it and positioned the end at the mouth of her sex. "Take your tits out."

Hope scrambled to free her breasts from the dress. She knew what would be asked next and she immediately began to pluck the tips.

"You're learning," Brad said and pushed in the first inch of the bottle. It felt similar to her vibrator and Hope let her head fall back as Brad slid in more. The bottle was thickening with each inch and she managed to take about five. When it became apparent that she'd reached her limit, Brad twisted the amber glass inside of her. It didn't take long for a hot, erotic beat to form inside her womb.

Brad worked the bottle until Hope squirmed and embraced her squirming. "Talk to me, Hope."

"It's naughty," she whispered as Brad fucked her with thirty-year-old cognac.

"It sure as hell is. Is there anything that you won't fuck?"

She plucked her nipples and moaned.

"Tell me, Hope. Tell me what you'd be willing to do."

"Anything you asked!" she squealed. "Anything you'd ask."

Brad let out a brutal groan and pulled the bottle from her core. He whirled her body around and bent her over the bar. Before she had time to think, agree, the length of him was buried deep inside of her.

She cried out at the surprise, but the pleasure far outweighed any fear or unpreparedness.

"You got the diaphragm like I asked. I felt it." Brad thrust mightily.

"Yes." Hope clutched the sides of the bar. She caught a glimpse of them--rutting really--in the terrace door just beyond.

"Why did you put it in?" Brad lightly slapped her rump, sending shivers down to her toes.

"I-- I--"

"For me or him?" Brad thrust and Hope spread her legs to give him better access to the Holy Grail inside of her. She'd never been mounted like this, been literally ridden by a driving man. But she succumbed to the shear naughty pleasure.

"For you," she moaned.

"Good girl," Brad said, spanked her again and then came in buckets deep inside.

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