Daddy Shark Page 6

  She tossed her hair, throwing back her head and crying out, “Daddy! Daddy, no!” She burst into tears. “I’ll never touch your penis again!”

  Not… quite what he was going for.

  Stopping, Ommin caught her hot bottom in his equally hot hand, holding and rubbing until the mercifully brief storm of her sobs abated. He squeezed, gently bringing back the tender squirms and breathy moans again. The tips of his fingers wandered, playing along the dip of her thighs, skimming down into shadow between with every up and downward caress. Getting closer and closer to fires of a wholly different kind. The wet kind. The kind he couldn’t help wanting to touch. Fingertips drifting closer, once more taking his cues from her, he managed to wait until she sighed and shifted her feet apart, opening her thighs and tilting up her hips in shy offering.

  Slipping down into the crack of her blushing bottom, he brushed the plump wet furrow of her pussy. She was slick. She was hot. She was the first woman he’d ever touched like this, but if there was a learning curve, he knew he’d aced it when she stiffened, soft breath catching, hips twitching, legs jerking as if trying to snap shut. They never fully did, but he swatted her for it anyway. One last hard clap of his hand to the center of her hot butt.

  “Bedroom,” he ordered. “Right now, young lady.”

  Her face was blushing almost as fiercely as her bottom when she pushed up off his knees. Averting her eyes, she tried to pull her panties back up, but stopped when he said, “Don’t you dare.”

  Biting her bottom lip, she shyly, beguilingly, took her underwear the rest of the way off. Standing there in only her bra, she touched her legs, her hips, her belly with shy hands that never once tried to cover her nakedness from his view. He could smell her arousal, but as if unsure quite how to express that feeling, she stood before him as if too embarrassed to move and took off her bra.

  She touched her breast, lightly plucking the tip of one already tightly budded nipple as he stood up.

  “Bedroom,” he ordered again, but only because he didn’t know the way, and she deserved better than to be laid out right here on the living room floor. How he managed to keep his hands off her as he followed the beckoning sway of her hips upstairs and down the hall to the white-carpeted master bedroom, he had no idea. With every step, his desire became a living, breathing, primal thing. He wasn’t just following her across the threshold and toward her bed, he was stalking her. And when she paused at the foot of it and turned to him for further direction, he let her feel just how hungry a predator he could be, catching her in his arms, filling his hands with her luscious ass and lifting her clean off her feet so she had no choice but to grab on to him for balance.

  He drank her gasp of surprise from her lips. He devoured her, kiss after famished kiss, laying her down on her back on the bed while he covered her body in kisses—from lips to breasts, to belly, to thighs. His hands learned every curve and caress of her. His tongue sampled a taste from every part before suckling kisses and tender nips of his teeth left his mark upon them.

  Hooking his hands behind her knees, he spread her legs wide and pinned them all the way up to her chest. He loved the smell of her, the taste of her. The buck of her hips and the high-pitched squeaks she made as he made a feast for himself between her wildly shaking thighs. His tongue lashed her, the heat of his mouth closing over her clit to kiss and lick and suckle.

  Until she lost herself. Until grabbing hold of the bed no longer anchored her, and she grabbed on to his hair instead, pinning his laughing, attentive mouth in place. She came loud, and she came hard. Grinding herself on his fingers and his tongue until he’d wrung every last shuddering spasm from her.

  Keeping his dick in his pants almost killed him, but he wanted so badly to make sure she got what she needed, without crossing any lines, and forever shaking from her mind any and all previous Daddies who might have come before him.

  “Just FYI, Daddy,” she whispered, panting, limp, and so exhausted that she couldn’t seem even to open her eyes once he lay her legs back down again. “I am totally down for butt stuff when I’ve been bad.”

  He really…

  … really…

  … liked that about her.

  Chapter 5

  Ommin awoke in his own bed with the scent of Britney still in his nose, the taste of her still on his tongue, and his cock still hard as a rock. It might have been a piss-hardon at this point, but he doubted it. He also woke up in his own damn bed, because he’d known, honorable intentions aside, he would not have stayed off her if he’d stayed at her house last night. No way. No how. Because, with a woman like Britney—all naked, warm, willing, and half asleep beside him?—of course, he wouldn’t.

  No one would.

  So, he’d waited until she was asleep, then quietly texted, ‘Thank you for a magical night’ on her phone, and then called a cab to take him home.

  He was proud of himself for that. When next he talked to Britney, he could hold his head high, confident in the knowledge that, while he might be horny as hell right now, he hadn’t been a jerk, an ass, or (judging by her responses) a rotten lay.

  What if you never talk to her again, his subconscious whispered. ‘Once you go fish, you never go back’ was not a saying anybody knew and for a very good reason.

  Arousal dying a slow and discouraging death, Ommin lay in bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, and trying not to let himself get depressed. If last night was a fluke, then so be it. He’d roll with that blow when and if it came, because that was just the way his life went, and it was his own damn fault for not keeping that in mind to begin with. Britney was gorgeous. She was fantastic. She had been a great time and he’d remember her for—

  His cell phone came buzzing to life on the bedside table beside him. The screen lit up.

  It was Britney.

  Ommin whipped over to grab it so fast, his erection didn’t have time to bend. He stabbed the mattress and damn near killed himself.

  Grabbing between his legs with one hand, he also grabbed the phone and, although the pain of it made him sound half strangled, he answered on the third ring. He was proud of that. “Hello?”

  “It’s dead!” Britney all but sobbed into the phone.

  Pain forgotten, Ommin rose onto his knees. “What’s dead?”

  Because while it wasn’t entirely off the table, it was a little early in the relationship for him to want to hide bodies for her.

  “My car!” she wailed in a voice that didn’t quite sound normal for her. Rather, it seemed a little too high pitched… a little too childish, even before she cried, “How will I get to work tonight if I don’t have my car? Daddy, help!”

  She’d called him Daddy. His heart warmed. He smiled.

  Plus, no actual bodies were involved.

  Reaching for his pants, he headed for the bathroom to take care of business while he got the minor details. “All right, honey, calm down.”

  “Okay,” she said, making an audible effort to calm.

  “Deep breaths,” he said.

  She sniffled. “Okay.”

  “What’s it doing?” He muted the phone so she wouldn’t hear him peeing.

  “Nothing,” Britney said. “I’m turning the key and it just sits here and doesn’t sputter or click or anything.”

  He unmuted long enough to ask, “Are you late for work?”

  “Not yet. I’m late for shopping though. I was going to get a coffee and breakfast.”

  “Okay, well, go back inside. Make coffee and breakfast instead. I’m on my way.”

  She was still calling him Daddy.

  He hung up the phone before breaking into an impromptu dance of pure joy. Once that was out of his system, he hurried to get dressed. No time for coffee; he’d grab some once he got to her house. Pocketing his wallet and housekeys, he grabbed what few tools he had (none of which were meant for working on cars, since he didn’t own one, but which he could hopefully make due with) and then he was out the door.

  Or
at least, he would have been out the door if he hadn’t opened it to find Liquidman standing there, dressed exactly as he had been the day before, with a flat of four coffees and a bakery sack balanced on his arm. How long he’d been standing there, was anyone’s guess, but from the looks of it, he’d drunk two of the coffees and was munching on a croissant when Ommin almost ran into him.

  “What th—” Ommin jumped back.

  Jim recovered from his surprise first and brightened with a smile. “Good morning!”

  “What are you—” Catching himself lest he sound half as irritated as he suddenly felt, Ommin quickly grabbed both door and threshold before the smaller man could barge in past him. If Jim even noticed, his grin never showed it. “How long have you… Were you waiting for me to get up?”

  “Only about forty minutes,” Jim said, then hefted the bakery bag. “Croissant?” he enticed, with extra emphasis on the ‘quah’.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “There used to be blueberry scones,” he said, then sheepishly admitted, “I ate them. Coffee?”

  Ommin opened his mouth to refuse, then reconsidered. What the hell. “Sure.”

  Jim grinned, happily backing up so Ommin could shut and lock his apartment door. “Where are we going?”

  “I,” he emphasized, “am going to a friend’s house. Her car won’t start.”

  “Is this the same friend”—Jim waggled his eyebrows, falling into step beside him as he headed for the stairs—“that you met for coffee last night?”

  “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Ommin replied, accepting the bag of croissants when, halfway to the first-floor landing, Jim offered them again. The bag was a little damp where he’d been gripping it and the croissants were cold, but they were also buttery, flaky, and incredibly delicious.

  “Apparently, he does work up an appetite, though,” Jim noted good naturedly. “I want details.”

  “You’re not getting them.”

  He must be becoming old news. There were only a handful of paparazzi waiting for him on the sidewalk outside his building. Ommin waded through them effortlessly, ignoring the flashing cameras as he raised a hand to hail a cab.

  “What are you doing?” Jim asked. When Ommin looked at him, he pointed and Ommin followed his damp, skinny finger to the smallest motorized scooter he’d ever seen. It was lime-green, bicycle chained to a lamp post just outside his door, with a basket on the handlebars and a locking storage container tucked behind the passenger extension seat. That it even had a passenger extension seat was appalling. It looked built for a child.

  An average-sized teenager would have been too big for that scooter. Ommin was going to look like the fat clown on a tiny circus bike.

  “Save the cab fare,” Jim said. “I’ll take you.”

  All but feeling the moped collapsing beneath him as it was, Ommin took one look at Jim’s hopeful, let’s-be-friends, puppy-dog, please-don’t-kick-me eyes and gave up without an argument.

  All right, almost without an argument.

  “Can two people even fit on that thing?”

  “Of course, they can!” Unlocking first the bicycle lock and then the storage bin, he pulled out a safety helmet. It was bright blue with ‘H2O’ in silver glitter. “Two people your size might have to get cozy, but fortunately, one of us is my size.”

  Hopping onto the scooter, Jim got comfortable behind the handlebars, then flashed Ommin a beguiling smile and seductively patted the seat extension behind him. “Right here, big guy,” he cooed.

  God help him.

  The interior of the helmet was slightly squishy, but Ommin put it on anyway. Very much aware of what the pictures in next week’s gossip mags were going to be, he slung a long leg over the scooter and carefully lowered himself to sit behind Jim.

  The moped sank under him, but not too alarmingly.

  “Big baby,” Jim told him fondly. “Where are we going?”

  Ommin gave him the address.

  “Oo, the swanky side of town.” He started the moped. “Hang on.”

  Ommin cupped the smaller man’s waist and off they went, putt-putt-putting into traffic almost faster than someone could walk, with the flash of paparazzi cameras fading as they gently merged into traffic.

  Never in his life had he been on the back of one of these things. As a kid, he’d ridden a bicycle once. It had been a hand-me-down from a friend of his mother and had probably been given to him, the weird kid of the crazy woman in apartment 2C, out of pity. As far as he’d been able to tell throughout his entire childhood, people had only ever avoided him or pitied him. Those who gave gifts usually gave either clothes or food, because he’d never really had enough of either. But that time, someone gave him a bike. He’d gotten to ride it one time, but his mother wouldn’t let him bring it into their apartment, so it got stolen off the landing that first night.

  It was San Francisco. Of course it did.

  But now, as Ommin sat tensely holding on to Jim’s waist with as few fingers as standoffish masculinity required and yet with as many as it took not to be sent flying with every pothole they bounced in and out of, something about the way the wind brushed his face brought back all those feelings he barely remembered while riding up and down the sidewalk in front of his childhood apartment. City air on his face, caressing his skin as if with gentle fingertips. In his imagination, he could just as easily have been flying.

  Now that was a super power he wouldn’t mind having.

  Putt-putting down the road with Jim paying meticulous attention to traffic safety, Ommin grudgingly relaxed. In spite of himself, he even closed his eyes, reliving that carefree moment that swept over him with every block they traveled. To his grownup mind, it didn’t feel so much like flying anymore. Rather, it felt more like falling. It was like those few exhilarating, weightless seconds after diving off the Golden Gate Bridge right before he hit the water.

  Whatever it was, it was still freedom in its purest form.

  And it was shattered with the sudden screech of braking tires, followed by someone screaming.

  Ommin jerked, but he barely caught sight of the car that jumped the corner curb, crashing right through a newspaper stand, scattering pedestrians and eliciting the barest high-pitched, girlish scream from Jim just before it hit them square on. Jim splattered like a water balloon, which abruptly silenced him and scattered drops of him everywhere.

  It scattered the moped, too.

  Caught completely off guard, Ommin had no chance to leap clear, but he tried, and rather than hitting the grill of the car and going under, he tumbled over the hood instead. He smashed into the windshield, breaking his arm, his hip and more ribs than he cared to count, before rolling up over the top of the car and landing flat on his face on the sidewalk.

  It hurt.

  It also pissed him off.

  “Oh my God!” a woman cried as the car crashed head-on into a traffic light pole. Every airbag in the vehicle deployed, knocking both men in the front seat senseless. Steam spewed from under the buckled hood.

  Crawling to his feet, Ommin shook his head, but the ringing in his ears only morphed, becoming the deafening blare of their car horn.

  “Oh my God,” someone else said and, hissing in pain, Ommin irritably shook off the hands that caught at his broken arm.

  “Y-you’re the Sharkman, aren’t you?” someone asked.

  Ommin ignored them. His first step toward that car, he almost went down from the pain of it. Then his hip popped back into socket; the burning intensifying everywhere as his broken bones began to snap back into place and knit. He staggered, off balance—concussion, experience told him; he’d be fine—and kept going until he got his hand on the door of that steaming car. He yanked it open.

  The reek of hot coolant tainted every breath as he bent, glaring at both unconscious occupants. Then he noticed the semi-automatics on the floor around the feet of the passenger and the blue duffel bag partially filled with neatly wrapped stacks of money, all separated out by denomina
tion and marked with the stamp of the bank they’d stolen it from.

  The police showed up, sirens blaring and from every direction, closing in the street to prevent the ruined car’s escape and much faster than they ever would have if they’d only just been called. Which meant, they’d already been in hot pursuit of this particular vehicle before it ever involved them in their accident.

  The police jumped out of their vehicles, guns drawn.

  “Pursuit of suspected bank robbers is ended,” one cop reported into the radio hooked to his shoulder.

  The rest of the officers converged on Ommin. Limping back a step, he started to raise his hands and would have declared his non-involvement but the police pushed right past him to train their guns on the real suspects.

  “Did you see that?” someone on the sidewalk behind him said. “Sharkman stopped the bank robbers!”

  Staggering, Ommin turned around. “What?” he protested, but stopped, frozen in the sights of all those cell phone cameras recording everything he was doing in video and in snapshots.

  Bystanders broke into claps and cheers, and he couldn’t even bellow back, “But I didn’t do anything!” He couldn’t bellow anything at all. Every breath he took was a white-hot burning agony, accompanied by the muted snap, crackle, Rice Krispies cereal sound of his ribs coming back together. In a few minutes, he’d be fine, but until then…

  “Aaaggggghhhhh,” gurgled a familiar voice.

  Jim.

  Ommin staggered in a full circle, sweeping the crowd, the ringing in his ears and the grinding, popping, snapping of his knitting bones making it hard to zero in on the source of that burbling cry. Not until he noticed the way the moped pieces were scattered across the road, a trail of destruction that outlined the path the out-of-control car had taken right before it crashed.

  Oh God.

  He looked down at his feet and at the shadowy wetness that was more than just spilled coolant pooling out from under the vehicle. Slowly, agonizingly, Ommin got down on one knee and bent until he could see the watery form of Jim the Liquidman quite literally pulling himself back together again.