Chapter 9
Brody
Easy. I’d nae problem with easy until Justice Flowers entered the picture. I’ve heard people say that men like a challenge. That they don’t want easy. That’s some bullshit that mothers tell their daughters to keep them away from men like me.
I could scent Justice from a mile away. She was the type who fed off meaningful talk. I tread clear of that kind. Like I said, nae problem with easy. I’ll not be falling into a big piece of easy pussy anytime soon, not with the size of this here dick, hard for her.
But if Justice has a mind to play hard to get, I’ll bite. She’s already going down in history as my longest-running conversation with a female. I wasn’t the kind in school to sit around and chat with the lassies. Nae. I nipped that shite in the bud. My favorite go-to during a discussion with the opposite sex is, “Are we fecking or nae?” It never failed me. Though, I doubt it’ll work on her.
I rest my elbows on the table. “So, five things ye like to do?”
She smiles. “I thought we—”
“So, wit? I forgot.” I snort. “Writing songs, was it?”
She spears a piece of pancake. “No. It was poetry.”
Eh, more meaningless words. “Wit got ye interested in poetry?” Fecking snooze fest.
A perfect eyebrow lifts. It appears Justice will call me out on my bullshite. Her face lights up like twinkling wee stars in the highlands on the darkest night. Where the feck did that thought come from?
I shove aside that odd feeling, the same I had at McDonald’s while Justice gave her sob story. This isn’t real. This is my first challenge as it pertains to a lass, is all. Nothing more. Justice is caught in my crosshairs, and I’m gonna get wit I want from her. I fake interest. “Now, ye gotta tell me. Wit are ya thinking?”
“Well.” She settles back. The movement has my gaze flitting back over her attractive face and the faraway look in her eyes. “Just reminiscing on your question, Brody. I became fond of poetry after viewing a movie I had no business watching as a little girl. Love Jones.”
“The movie was called Love Jones?”
“Yup. An emotional masterpiece.”
This is officially the closest I’ve been to death—and I’ve stared down the barrel of guns in my life. I’m bored to fecking death. “Masterpiece of poems?”
Her laughter stiffens my cock. “It wasn’t some sort of documentary on poetry. Damn, Brody. Clearly, you disapprove. Who’s you’re favorite actor, Dwayne Johnson, Bruce Willis?”
“Ain’t got one.” I take another bite of pancake.
“I doubt you’d appreciate Love Jones, anyway.”
“I’ll watch it with ye sometime.”
Now, her head cocks. Justice snorts, sipping her Bloody Mary. “Um-hm? And add snoring to the soundtrack. I’ll pass. Besides, what’s the last movie you watched with a woman all the way through—no sex.”
I run a hand over my beard. “Wits with the hard questions?”
We both chuckle.
“Thought so,” she quips.
“So, this movie’s about two saps that sit around writing poetry for each other?”
A defiant flair in her demeanor causes my cock to seep a little. “Lorenz Tate. Need I say more. Actually—messing around with you—I probably should. My mom wanted to see it, and it was family movie night. In the theater, my dad started with the ‘hands over your eyes,’assuming there’d be the one sex scene.”
Intrigued, I ask, “But ye peeked through yer fingers?”
“Yesssss.” Justice sips the Bloody Mary, hiding a smile. Feck, all I need is the same view while she’s riding my dick.
Drink up, sweetheart, lower yer standards, and I’ll have ya smiling like that. Even better. You’ve my word.
A soft, lush giggle slips past her lips. “Let me tell you, that movie, you needed to cover your ears—”