Page 26 of Crushing Clover

“Why don’t you own a mop?” I asked, my hands pruned and knees sore.

“The floor doesn’t get clean enough with a mop.” Lucky’s voice, distracted, came from the other side of the room.

“How isn’t it clean enough?”

“It doesn’t get into the corners very well, and the mop head is dirty.”

“Not if you get the disposable ones.” I slopped too much water on the floor and wrung out my cloth.

“Too many chemicals.”

I kept washing.

“At least you guys don’t wear your shoes in the house,” I grumbled under my breath. If they did, the floor would resemble a sandbox in no time.

This time, he didn’t answer, and I peeked around the kitchen island to where he was sitting on the couch.

Irritation simmered, but I had to remind myself that while they worked at the restaurant, I was usually chilling on the couch in the office.

I’d gotten so bored, Lucky had set up a TV in the office, and hooked it up to his streaming services.

Not only had I watched most of the shows I’d missed over the years, but I’d also gotten decent at crochet.

The old version of Clover never had time to do more than scroll through social media for five minutes before crashing, and I’d never had time to clean the house as thoroughly as I’d wanted to. Between me and the guys, this house was spotless.

“When I was washing the walls in here last week, I noticed the paint was pretty chipped, especially around the patio door. Do you think you could pick me up some paint?”

“I guess.”

A weird excitement filled me. “Can I pick the color?”

He shrugged, still scrolling on his phone. “I doubt anyone will care, as long as it’s not too weird.”

I finished the last patch of floor. “Can we go get paint now?” I rinsed out my rag for a final time and wrung it out. I’d washed this floor on my hands and knees enough times now that washing it had become almost meditative.

“You’re not going anywhere until you do a better job with the baseboards,” Saint snapped, materializing as if out of nowhere.

I startled so hard that water sloshed out of the bucket. “I already cleaned the baseboards. Those scuffs won’t come off.”

“Get them off, or you’ll be scrubbing them with your toothbrush next.”

“Lucky and Rush might object to that, since they kiss me.”

He grunted. As I inspected the scuffs he’d objected to, wondering how to remove them, he dumped his stupid black boots next to me, getting dust on my clean floor.

“Polish these when you’re done.”

“I polished them three days ago.”

“They’re dusty again.”

I pasted on my sweetest smile. “If you stopped wearing them outside, they’d stop getting dusty.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Do a good job this time, or you’ll be cleaning them with your tongue.”

“Why do you have such a weird obsession with my mouth today?”

He snapped his fingers over his shoulder. “Lucky, get me the girl’s gag.”

“I’ll gag her with something more interesting, if you’d like.”

“Not this time. She needs to get some fucking work done. Lazy cunt.”

Lucky got up and left the room, following orders like he usually did, even if he didn’t agree.

I spat on one of Saint John’s boots and rage filled his face right before I started rubbing it off with a clean cloth I’d had tucked into my pocket.

“What? Spit shining is an effective way to clean leather.”

He crouched down and grabbed me by the hair, giving me a half-hearted shake. “You think you’re funny?”

“No, Saint.” Despite my words, I couldn’t keep the hint of amusement from my eyes. Why pissing him off made me laugh sometimes, I had no idea. Maybe I had a death wish?

He forced my face down until my nose was almost touching the boot I’d spat on. “Clean them.”

“I am!” I protested, trying to pry his hand from my hair.

“Tongue out. Now.” He gave me a shake.

Where the fuck were Lucky and Rush?

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Do it now or we’ll be dropping you off at Warren’s today.”

His words were chilling, but even so, I weighed my options. If I kept letting him steamroll me, where would it end? I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life subjected to worsening humiliations.

He got down behind me, fist tightening in my hair, vile threats on his tongue. Something in my brain buzzed, making my breathing choppy.

“Please, Saint. I don’t want to.” My brain scrambled for my safeword, but I hesitated to use it. Would it make matters with him worse?

“Of course you don’t. That’s exactly why I’m insisting on it.” He sounded so grimly pleased with himself I was struggling to stay angry and not get turned on.

Why, brain, why?

Despite my objection, I could feel myself caving.

“What if licking your dirty boot makes me sick?”

“Do it, you little fuck. Quit stalling.”

Disgusted, I stuck out my tongue and touched the tip of it to the leather.

“No,” he growled in my ear. “Lick it.” His tone suggested he was thinking of something other than his boot. Fucking creep. All he needed to do was tell me he wanted a blowjob, and I would do it, but no. He had to make things weird.

Steeling myself, I dragged my tongue over the toe of his boot, unable to ignore the convulsive tightening of his grip in my hair.

“Like this?” I whispered, feeling him shudder against my back. “Is this what you want?”

“Yesss,” he hissed.

I dragged my tongue over it again, feeling the grit. I was glad he didn’t use shoe polish.

“Clean my boots, you dirty little whore. This is the only thing you should be using that tongue for. Nobody wants to hear you talk.” His words were trying to worm their way into my head, but the part of me that might have believed him, once upon a time, had shrunk.

I knew damned well that both Lucky and Rush wanted me, even if Saint didn’t, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to please him—and yet I never managed to do it.

“The only reason you’re still here is because you look like someone I used to love.”

I didn’t even like the man, so why did his words hurt?

He hated me, and there probably wasn’t anything I could do to change his mind, but I’d always been a people-pleaser. No matter what I tried to tell myself, his constant rejection stung.

“That’s right,” he muttered, watching with avid attention. I was so focused on not wanting to do what I was doing, that I didn’t immediately catch on to the fact that the uncomfortable bar against my ass wasn’t my imagination—it was a cock in need of attention.

I licked his boot again. My body eagerly pointed out how interested he was in making me do it. His groan was quiet, muffled in the hair behind my ear, but the quiet arousal of it made me gasp.

“You fucking love this, don’t you,” he said, his words thick with lust. “You want to make me happy, no matter what disgusting, humiliating task I give you.”

I took another long lick of his boot, the entire top of it glistening with my spit. I wished this was only making me angry instead of turning me on, but I was completely lost in his words, doing what he said not only because I was afraid of reprisal, but also because it was true.

I wanted to please him—I needed to.

If I could seduce him, he might be nicer.

If I could convince them to keep me, I would be safe.

That was the only reason, though, right? There was nothing more to this than self-preservation.

But as he pressed against my ass, I knew it wasn’t only that. Despite his twisted, fucked-up way of treating me, I wanted him. It was hot when he was a little mean.

Bossing me around. Hurting me.

Was it Stockholm Syndrome? Maybe, but I trembled with lust anyway. I wanted him to pull aside my panties and sink his cock into me. My skirt was so short that washing the floor had turned it into a belt.

Unable to resist, I pushed back against him. My head was a mess, but my body was in control, ignoring my brain’s objections. Part of me liked the mean shit he did far too much.

He grabbed my hips with cruel fingers and held me in place so he could grind against my ass.

He hated me, but part of him wanted me anyway, and that knowledge filled me with a weird sense of power.

As if he could read my mind, he hooked a finger into the edge of my panties and tugged them aside, the fabric biting into my skin. I gasped, but froze in place, embarrassingly ready for whatever came next.

“Did I tell you to fucking stop?”

“No, Saint.” I took a deliberately suggestive lick of his other boot as he ran shaking fingers over my pussy.

“You should hate this, but your pussy is dripping for me.” He sank two fingers into me with an impatient shove, and I gave a helpless sound of denial.

No, this wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted a man who would treat me right and respect me.

This was so wrong. Maybe that was why it was so hot?

My ability to be introspective right then was fleeting, replaced with the wriggle and twist of my hips as my body struggled to accept the invasion of his fingers.

“You get fucked so often there’s no reason for you to be this tight.” He didn’t sound as disapproving as his words might suggest. “Quit whining about two fingers. You’re so wet you should be able to take four.”

My mouth was crushed against his boot, and I sobbed against the leather, trying to angle my hips the right way to make his fingers less uncomfortable.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “This ass is so fucking unbelievable. How can you still be so distracting? You should be boring by now.” He spanked me with his hand, and I breathed in the scent of leather under my cheek.

The fingers worked their way in and out of me, spreading every time they were inside, loosening me up. He wasn’t really going to fuck me though, was he?

“Did I tell you to stop?” he rasped.

“No, Saint.” I gave his boot another cursory lick, but I was hyperventilating. I tried to calm the wild thundering of my heart, but it wouldn’t listen to me. This felt taboo, like a secret, but here we were in the middle of the main room, out in the open where the others might walk in and see.