Wicked Lil' Brat(92)

“Lance, stop. He’s out,” I hear Jocelyn say. She’s sitting back against a tree, her voice weak and fearful. If it weren’t for her, I’d keep punching until there was nothing left, fury guiding me as I remember this fucking bastard’s intentions. Adrenaline still coursing in my veins, I get up, leaving the unconscious fucker sprawled on the ground, and walk toward Jocelyn.

“Are you okay?” I ask her, looking into her eyes. Her lips are dry, and there’s an expression of pure terror in her face, as if only now her close call started to sink in. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m… I’m…” she starts, but the words get lost as a fucking violent sob takes over her. I reach for her, taking her in my arms as she starts to cry. I place one hand under the nape of her neck, gently caressing her.

“Hey, hey… It’s alright. I’m here now,” I whisper into her, and she hugs me tight, her head resting on my shoulder. I close my eyes, just holding her close and waiting for her to calm down.

Her tits are pressed against my chest, and I have to take a deep breath to focus on what’s happening. It’s not that easy, though—her warm skin, her breasts, the way she has her arms around my chest… That mental image from before, my cock deep in her mouth, hits me again, and I have to take a deep breath.

Fuck, I just want to lean in and kiss her. I feel warm blood surging toward my cock, and I start getting fucking hard. And, fuck, I’m only wearing basketball shorts. If I pop a fucking boner right now, there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to hide it from her.

Breathing deeply, somehow I manage to regain a fucking semblance of control. I should get a fucking medal for this: Zen Master of the Year.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. “I’ll take you home.” I stand up, pulling her up to her feet; with one arm over her shoulders, we head out from the bushes and into the trail. I almost want to leave the fucking bastard there, choking on his own blood; he sure as fuck deserves it, but saner thoughts prevail. Grabbing my cell phone, I call 911 and inform them of what just happened. The dispatcher asks me to remain here, waiting for the police, but there’s no fucking way I’m going to be hanging around this place with Jocelyn. I’m taking her home right fucking now. The NYPD can get our fucking statement there, as far as I’m concerned.

“Thank you, Lance…” she whispers, grabbing my arm tightly. There’s real gratitude there; I simply smile, not knowing what else to say. I’m just glad I was around, because if I wasn’t… Fuck, I don’t even want to think about what could have fucking happened.

“Let’s just get you home,” I say, hailing a cab the moment we leave Central Park. What a fucked up way to start the day.

Already sitting inside the cab, Jocelyn leaning against my shoulder, I breathe in deeply and try to settle my nerves. Fuck, the moment I saw her being attacked, I just fucking lost it. I never felt anything like it; I lost all fucking control… I could have killed that fucking bastard. And all because I can’t stop thinking about Jocelyn.

Fuck, I’m going insane.





Jocelyn





“What the fuck were you thinking?” Michael shouts, slamming his fist on the desk as he goes to his feet. “Going out by yourself… Don’t you have anything inside that head of yours?”

I should have been expecting this. Somehow, I naively thought my husband would have a comforting word for me after finding out that I almost got raped. Of course, I couldn’t be more mistaken about that.

“You’re supposed to be helping me with this goddamn campaign, not being a liability, you stupid bitch!” Michael yells.

I have the urge to take the glass vase and hit him over the head with it. The frustration is immense just being in the same room as this man. This isn’t a marriage. This is torture. Every day.

But whatever he has on my father - whatever could destroy a storied career and get him to come to me with fear in his eyes makes me stay. Because Michael scares me. Every day. With his cold demeanor. His calculating strategy.

Michael got home at the same time the NYPD officers were leaving; they got here an hour after the incident to get a statement, and he immediately asked me what was going on. We went to his office, and he listened to me without interrupting once, but I could see a vein pulsing in his temple, rage building up inside of him.

“It wasn’t my fault…” I try and tell him, but he won’t have any of it.

“It wasn’t your fault? You left the house without your security detail! You never take them anywhere! Of course it was your fault! Walking along in tight clothes…” he says, shaking his head. “Of course you’d be jumped on. You’re still a stupid little girl. We’re not in Kansas, anymore,” he sneers.