My Protector by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Three

Becky

Going from the view of Dillon’s huge body, my hands on his rock hard abs and his to die for good looks, to my boss?

Well. It’s enough to make my panty fountain dry up.

It’s like cream versus moldy old cheese. And Dillon is the cream. I can feel it.

I want it. Want him. Deep inside me, and I only just met him like twenty seconds ago.

Mr. Sawyer motions hastily for me to come in and shut the door.

I stand in front of his huge desk, feeling like a school kid about to either get praised or punished.

I know I’m safe from the lecherous advances of my boss, so what gives in calling me in on my own time?

I would ask. I should ask, but being out of my apartment is one more way I can avoid another run-in with my landlord who also happens to be my downstairs neighbor.

“Well, you’ve met Dillon,” he says, almost accusingly as he scans my chest before my face.

Old habits, I guess.

“You okay?” he asks suddenly, which is rich coming from him. The guy looks positively unwell, way worse than I remember him looking back when I first got this job.

Might have something to do with all those all night drinking bingers and gambling sessions, but who cares. As long as he keeps paying me, I’ll do my job.

“I’m fine,” I reply, my voice cracking and my cheeks flushing in tune with the heat between my legs.

The memory of Dillon is hard to erase. I’m standing right where he just stood, breathing in his manly scent, and that cologne.

Whatever it is, I want a bathtub full of it to dip everything I own into it in sequence. Forever reminding me of today.

Reminding me of him.

I feel my whole body flush with heat and then cold as I realize…

Crap. I’m gonna have to work with this guy.

He’s gonna watch me for like ten hours a day, five days a week.

I swallow hard, trying to find spit for my mouth but only finding a dry tongue catching in my throat.

“Are. You. Okay?” my boss asks, cupping both his chubby hands around his mouth like a megaphone, startling me back to reality.

“I’m fine,” I smile, clearing my throat and managing to wet my lips just enough to speak.

“Well, don’t go getting sick on me. I’m already down two for tonight,” he grumbles, his brow clouding over as he reminds himself of something that looks like causes him worry and pain.

Like maybe an employee calling him out for being a sleazoid?

“I’m fine, Mr. Sawyer,” I chirp, showing him just why I’m still the best girl for the job.

Always smiling. Always lying to assholes like him. Always gonna turn up for work, especially now that Dillon’s gonna be here.

“Humph,” he murmurs to himself, eyeing his vodka bottle again.

“You’re safe with him,” Mr. Sawyer tells me, a matter of fact.

“Trying anything not work related with him… that would end badly,” he reflects with a frown, absently pouring himself a huge drink and taking the whole thing in one loud gulp.

“Badly?” I ask, looking interested but feeling a stab of hurt in my chest, knowing exactly what he means.

You can show Dillon how things work because there’s no way in hell a man like him is gonna look twice at a girl like you.

That’s what he really means. I guess it’s true myself, but I don’t need a life sized shit like Sawyer reminding me of the fact.

Those eyes he made at you. That ‘crease’ in the front of his pants when he left…

Was that the behavior of a man who really isn’t interested?

Who knows? But I have to admit, there’s a little part of me that’s dying to find out.

Even if he isn’t interested in me like that, it’d be nice to have a security guy who wasn’t such a jerk.

All the other staff come to think of it. All jerks, all rotten fruit from the same type of crap head tree that my boss fell from.

“Just make sure he keeps his eyes on the job and not on my girls. And for Christ’s sake, Becky. Do something with your hair, or wear some makeup for a change. We’re trying to look alive here,” he says loudly.

What he really means is maybe I should lose some weight.

I’ve heard it all suggested a ton of different ways, but I know what people mean.

I know the look.

Not Dillon’s look. He didn’t look like he minded what he saw at all.

“Is he going to be out front the whole time?” I ask, trying to sound legitimate with my question, but really needing to know if I’m getting him all to myself.

Everyone knows it, but we’re not supposed to say it out loud.

Not even supposed to think it.

Especially in the boss’s office.

But Mr. Sawyer seems cheerful suddenly. His thick lips stretching into a strange smile, his eyes a little glassy.

“He’s gonna work out fine,” he tells himself more than me.

“He’ll be our new doorman. And if there’s any trouble out front… Err. I mean, trouble near that bar of yours, he’s the man to sort it out. I mean, Jesus. Did you see the fucking size of the guy?” He asks.

“I sure did,” I sigh, bringing Sawyer back to the fact I’m still in his office.

I get the strong feeling he drinks way too much in here all day, spending a lot of the time talking aloud to himself.

“Well you’ve met him, so don’t be scared when you come back for your shift later and he’s here,” he says in a thicker voice.

He stands and leans on his desk with both hands, looking at the door.

Signaling our little meeting is over.

“And do something with yourself, will ya?” he whines again, shaking his head as I turn to leave.

Usually, that last comment would hurt me, but today? I feel like I’m walking on a cloud.

Cloud Dillion, but the closer I get to home the darker that cloud starts to turn.

And by the time I have to walk past my landlord’s apartment, I’m practically on tiptoes, but it’s no use.

The prick’s been waiting for me all morning, watching through his peephole.

“Ms. Sommers,” he slurs, throwing his front door wide open, making me jump for the second time today but for a very different reason.

I cringe, wondering if every middle-aged man is a slob who drinks this early in the day.

I bet Dillon doesn’t drink. He’s too fit and strong to be that weak for anything.

“Hi Mr. Moore,” I chime, trying to keep him in good humor.

He’s about the same size as my boss, but with less hair and no cigar. A stained tank top and even worse stained track pants with scrappy loafers in place of my boss’s cheap suit.

“Rent,” is the only word he says, scowling hard, and I know it’s useless to try and avoid this any longer.

“I’ll be paid up at the end of the next week, Mr. Moore. I promise,” I tell him, knowing I have to wait to get paid before I can pay him.

He shakes his head, mumbling something before his eyes open wider, angry.

“You’ve got two days, Sommers. Then I’m getting a pink slip and changing the locks,” he barks, almost losing his balance before slamming the door.

I jump again, cursing myself for coming back home so early, and hating it that I’m so damned jumpy today.

Lack of food and proper sleep will do that.

Staying up half the night worrying about rent and living off whatever they don’t throw out from the club at closing time isn’t the healthiest way to live either.

Two days? What am I gonna do?

It’ll be impossible to hold a fake smile for ten minutes let alone ten hours once my shift starts.

Even the prospect of being near Dillon, seeing him again. Even that feels like a stupid dream.

I’m more likely to come up with a month’s rent in two days as I am to have him take me over the back of a chair.

Okay, maybe the Dillon fantasy isn’t completely dead. I feel myself tingle and shivers run down my spine at the thought of the man being a little firm with me.

Picturing that huge bulge in his pants free and twitching as he guides it into my swollen sex.

There’s a spring in my step as I hurry to get to my apartment, the thought of Dillon taking me from behind is too much.

Leaning against my apartment door to close it, I feel my hands drift between my legs, with one hand moving up to my chest and circling my thick nipple.

I chew at my lip with my eyes closed, trying to imagine his huge hands over me.

But it’s useless.

Half-opening one eye, trying to recreate the magic I felt when he was in front of me, but I only see my own reflection in the only mirror in my apartment.

A full length mirror that’s part of the wall, showing me an unflattering version of myself that makes me groan instead of moan.

Who am I kidding?

Nobody wants this, let alone a super stud like Dillon.

And the cherry on top? In two days I’ll be homeless.

Throwing myself face down on the fold-out sofa bed, I do what any self-respecting girl would do in a crisis.

I bawl my eyes out until I fall asleep.