I Saw I Conquered I Came

  All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. In other words, don't pirate my shit. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws. You rock!

  I SAW, I CONQUERED, I CAME

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennie Kew

  Published by Wooden Key Press

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover design by Addendum Designs

  What readers are saying about Jennie's Q Collection

  "A dark hero and sexy heroine, fan-yourself sex, humour and good pacing make this short story a ripper of a read."

  ~ Kylie Griffin (author of Allegiance Sworn) on Goodreads for Pushing Rope

  "Hot, fast and with an emotional punch, this is one of my favourites from erotic author, Jennie Kew."

  ~ Bec McMaster (author of The Mech Who Loved Me) on Goodreads for Dirty Laundry

  "It was a super fast, funny, and panty melting hot read!!"

  ~ Rosy on Goodreads for I Saw, I Conquered, I Came

  "Her imagination is only matched by her ability to write hot sex scenes..."

  ~ Narelle on Goodreads for No Rest For The Wicked

  For my pseudo-sister, Amy.

  You're really stuck with me now!

  Sucker.

  I Saw, I Conquered, I Came

  Don't get mad. Get laid. And don't forget the ice-cream...

  What are you supposed to do when you discover your boyfriend is cheating on you with the leggy blonde from accounting? Besides kick his sorry ass to the curb? Well, I don't know about you, but I went out with an urge to splurge. And by splurge I mean on the good ice-cream, not the cheap crap my ex used to buy. But it's surprising what else you can pick up at your local deli, especially when he's not even on your shopping list.

  Sign up for Jennie's newsletter and never miss an update.

  I Saw, I Conquered, I Came

  Working late at the office, my fat ass. And apparently it was my fat ass that made my boyfriend think he had every right to cheat on me. Because fat chicks aren’t human, didn’t ya know? We don’t have feelings, or if we do, they’re so buried under layer upon layer of fat that we’re naturally insulated from the realities of dating a cheating asshole.

  My teeth gnash together as tonight’s revelations replay in my head. The excuses, the pathetic justifications of his actions that bordered on the ridiculous. The insults he threw at me as I called him on his bullshit.

  Stupid, fat bitch.

  Yep. That's me. Stupid for expecting I'd ever be anything but his dirty little secret, and unapologetically fat, which obviously makes me a complete bitch.

  So here I am, alone again, at ten minutes before closing on a Friday night, standing in front of the ice-cream cabinet in my local deli trying to decide between Chubby Hubby, Coffee Toffee Crunch, and Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Chocolate Fudge Brownie wins, mostly because hello, brownies, but also because it's the last one standing. A stalwart of chocolaty goodness all alone amidst a sea of salted peanut butter caramels and boysenberry swirls.

  Rich and sweet and chunky and completely out of place.

  I reach in to grab that sad-looking pint at the same time as the man standing beside me. His hand brushes against mine as he makes a play for the ice-cream, the warmth of his skin shocking to my senses in the cool, refrigerated air, but I'm quicker. My fingers wrap around the container, yank it free from its isolation and drop it into my shopping basket.

  Felicity: one.

  Random Stranger: nil.

  It's a small victory, and possibly a petty one, but one I desperately need right now.

  Flashing a mildly apologetic smile at my hapless rival, I move to squeeze past him down the narrow aisle. He doesn't budge, so I try a more demure approach and drop my gaze from his chest to the floor.

  "Excuse me."

  But instead of stepping aside and avoiding confrontation, as most people would, he crosses his arms over his chest and continues to stand there, blocking my escape.

  What is this guy's problem?

  I take a deep breath to cool my resurging anger and lift my chin, a stern lecture about his lack of manners on the tip of my tongue, but when my gaze meets his… wow! Using my tongue to scold him is the last thing on my mind. Even with that scowl plastered across his brow the man could stop traffic. Looking like he just rolled out of bed with his sandy-coloured hair all sexy and mussed, and the hint of a five o'clock shadow dusting a chiselled jaw, his startling blue eyes freeze me in place with their directness, yet burn me with their intensity.

  My girl parts pulse with awareness and my panties grow wet. I press my thighs together and resist the urge to squirm. Wait, is my mouth hanging open? Oh dear Lord, it is. Snapping it shut, I swallow hard and supress a whimper of desire. At least I hope I did. At this distance, he's bound to hear every little sound I make, and the last thing I need is to appear foolish in front of yet another man.

  I've already hit my daily quota in that particular department.

  Pretending to be more confident than I feel, I pull my shoulders back and play it cool. "Can I help you?"

  "You have my ice-cream."

  Deep and melodic, his voice slides over me like a warm caress and my insides quiver with arousal. Oh great. But he's obviously a crazy person if he thinks I'm handing over my ice-cream without a fight.

  "Your ice-cream, huh? So which one are you, Ben or Jerry?"

  Wait, what?

  Am I fighting or flirting? My voice has dropped and taken on a slightly sultry tone, my senses are heightened, my pulse racing—yep, I'm flirting. I just broke up with someone and I'm already flirting with someone else. Whoa! Does that make me a slut? Wait, did I just slut-shame myself? Fuck it. I'm obviously not killing myself over the douchecanoe. And anyway, what's that old saying about getting back on the horse?

  He looks confused. "What?"

  Here goes nothing. "The only other name on here is Chocolate Fudge Brownie, and you don't really look like a Chocolate Fudge Brownie, so…."

  He cocks one perfect eyebrow. "What do I look like, then, in your expert opinion?"

  "Expert? Riiight. Because all fat chicks are ice-cream experts." So much for flirting. I tilt my head and consider him for a moment, letting my gaze drift from his stupidly handsome face, over his ink-blue suit and white shirt and down his long legs all the way to his tanned leather shoes. "You strike me as more of a Chubby Hubby."

  His eyes widen and his brow shoots up to his hairline. "Chubby Hubby?"

  I mirror his expression and cue the sarcasm. "Oh, you're not a fan of chubby? What a surprise."

  "Actually"—he moves toward me, angling me back against the freezer door—"I have a great deal of respect for chubby. But I want what I want. And what I want is Chocolate Fudge Brownie."

  The door at my back is so cold it makes me shiver, and the sudden chill causes my nipples to harden and stretch the thin fabric of my little black dress. The slinky little number leaves nothing to the imagination, clinging to every curve God gave me and then some. I'd worn it especially for my boyfriend and paired it with my favourite hot-pink stilettos. Staring at myself in the mirror, I'd felt sexy, confident, powerful. Seeing my reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevators as I'd walked away from him and the swizzle-stick he'd been banging behind my back was less empowering, even if I did walk away with my head held high. My confidence was dented, my power turned to anger, and sexy?

  Yeah right.

  But as those elevator doors slid shut and I watched the lights counting down my journey to the lobby, as my hands curled into fists at my sides and the urge to ram
my stiletto heels through Douchecanoe's ball-sac screamed inside my head, I had a moment of complete clarity.

  Fuck 'em!

  I deserve better.

  Now I'm standing in front of this stranger, growing hotter by the second as his gaze slowly drifts down my body and all the way back up again, lingering on my cleavage and my frosty nipples. The air around us stills and the rest of the world drops away. All I can hear is the sound of our breathing and the quiet hum of the fridges at my back. He leans a little closer, and I think… I think he's going to kiss me.

  Score!

  Until I feel my shopping basket move. And I know I didn't move it.

  I straighten to my meagre height, yank the basket away from my opponent and feel the tub drop back inside. "Oh my God."

  "Yes?"

  He grins at me, and my knees threaten to give out.

  What the hell is wrong with me tonight?

  I laugh in disbelief. "Were you seriously trying to seduce me so you could steal my ice-cream?"

  "Your ice-cream? You haven't paid for it yet, sweetheart."

  My eyes narrow and it takes all my restraint not to jab my finger into his solid-looking chest. "Call me sweetheart again. I dare you."

  He leans closer, invading my personal space with his body and his heat and his cologne that smells like how I imagine sex would smell on a deserted tropical island—sea spray and citrus and sun-drenched sand. His mouth hovers by my ear. "Sweet. Heart."

  Forget wet. My panties are soaked. Five minutes with this guy, in a deli, fighting over ice-cream, and I'm ready to climb him like a fucking tree.

  Still….

  "You do know they make this flavour in frozen yoghurt too, right?"

  "Frozen yoghurt?" He pulls away and his grin fades. "Lady, I've had one shit of a day and fro-yo just isn't going to cut it." His stare is intense, all playfulness gone from his expression, and to my surprise, I'm disappointed by the loss of his smile. "I want the real deal. I want that ice-cream."

  His arrogance turns my disappointment to anger and my grip tightens on the basket. Stupid, fat bitch. "Yeah, well, I want a boyfriend who doesn't fuck skinny bimbos behind my back, so I guess we're both shit out of luck."

  Annnd… it's official.

  I suck at flirting.

  His eyes widen and he seems taken aback by my words, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with this information I've just spewed all over him. And then his eyes narrow and he searches my face, curiosity bending his brow. "Your boyfriend cheated on you?" He almost sounds concerned.

  If it wasn't for the fact that he'd just tried to steal my ice-cream, I'd almost believe him. "Yes, he did. With Amanda from accounting, whom I can now confirm, despite popular opinion, is a natural blonde."

  I'm not joking either—copping an eyeful of bimbo bush was just one of tonight's many and varied humiliations—but when he starts to laugh, the sound is so infectious that I start laughing too. The absurdity of it all washes away any final remnants of regret or sadness or anger at seeing my boyfriend balls deep in another woman on the floor of his office.

  But I'm caught off guard when bubbling up from underneath all that emotion is the great sucking wound of loneliness. And it hurts.

  So.

  Fucking.

  Much.

  My laughter fades, then dies. And so does my appetite. "Here. You take it." I shove the basket at him. "I'm not hungry anymore."

  Over the loudspeaker, the cashier announces that the store is closing.

  Time to go.

  As I leave the deli and exit into the frigid winter night, I regret leaving my coat behind in Douchecanoe's office. In my defence, I was in shock when I dropped it. I could have gone back for it, I guess, but nah, fuck that.

  I mean, what's the cost of a new coat compared to standing tall as you walk away from an asshole without looking back?

  If only wrapping myself in dignity stopped me from freezing my tits off.

  "Hey, sweetheart! Wait up."

  What the…?

  "Chubby Hubby? What do you want?"

  He hands me an ice-cream-laden eco-friendly shopping bag. "Here. You forgot this." And then he takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, drops his gaze to the ice bullets expanding my bra again and smirks.

  "What are you doing?"

  I try not to moan as the warmth from his jacket soaks into my chilled flesh, and a mixture of that dreamy cologne and what I can only assume is his natural male musk permeates my senses. Am I drooling? I think I'm drooling, but my face is so cold I can't tell.

  "You looked chilly," he says as he pulls the jacket closed over my chest, gently brushing his knuckles over my nipples in the process. Hello! "And my name is Jason, by the way."

  I suck in a breath at his closeness and get another lungful of his delicious scent. "Felicity. My name is Felicity." And there goes my voice again, sounding all sultry and shit. Why does it keep doing that? Haven't we already established I suck at flirting?

  "It's nice to meet you, Felicity." He holds out his hand, and I take it in mine. His grip is firm, his palm warm. He's slow to let go. "And I'm sorry I acted like a dick in there. It has been a really bad day, but that's no excuse for my behaviour."

  My mouth falls open again. I've never had a guy apologise to me before. Ever. Unsure what else to do, I shrug. Unsure what else to say, I ask him, "So why was your day bad?"

  He shoves his hands in his pockets, shuffles his feet and avoids my gaze. "For pretty much the same reason as you."

  "You caught your boyfriend cheating on you?"

  His mouth twists. "I caught my girlfriend cheating on me. I went home for lunch and found her on the couch with our neighbour."

  "How do you know they weren't just talking?"

  He shoots me a look that smacks of betrayal and his voice is hard, tinged with hurt. "Let's see now. I think his dick in her mouth was my first clue."

  Well, I feel stupid. "Oh."

  We stand there, staring at each other as awkward silence fills the air between us like a bubble. A bubble he bursts when he blurts out, "Can I walk you home?"

  "Sure. Better than standing out here on the pavement freezing to death." The silence is only slightly less awkward as we walk the five paces to the stoop leading up to my front door. "Thanks." His confusion is amusing, his gaze shifting from me to the door and back again. I take pity on him; he did walk me home, after all. "I live in the apartment above the deli."

  A lopsided smile stretches across his face. "Ah. I thought maybe you were trying to blow me off."

  Juggling the shopping bag with my purse, I search for my keys. Keys found, I unlock the door and push it open, then turn to face Jason, now shivering as he stands on the bottom step of the stoop, his hands still shoved in his pockets in a futile attempt to ward off the chilly night air. "Thank you for this." I hold up the shopping bag. "You didn't have to."

  He flashes that sexy grin again. "I know."

  Curiosity getting the better of me, I tilt my head to one side and frown as my gaze drifts over him, my would-be knight in shining armour. "Why are you being nice to me?"

  "Can't a guy be nice to a girl without having an agenda?"

  "Not in my experience, no."

  "Sweetheart, you've been hanging out with the wrong type of men."

  "I can't argue with that." The chilled air whips around me, and I mourn the loss of his warmth and his scent as I slide his jacket off my shoulders and hand it back to him. "Thank you for walking me home, Jason."

  "Anytime," he says and backs away from the stoop. "I guess this is goodnight, then?"

  Of course it is. But what did I expect, a marriage proposal? Maybe not, but a “Hey, would you like to hang out and see what happens?” would have been nice, too. "Yeah, I guess so."

  My gut twists with disappointment.

  But as I watch him walk away—very slowly—I think, Why the fuck am I waiting for him to ask me? I'm a grown-ass woman with wants and desires all my own and I should b
e asking him.

  My soaked panties agree.

  Just as I'm about to call out to him, however, the more cautious side of me clamps a hand over my mouth and forces me to see reason. I just met this man, and sure he's wickedly sexy, but how many police reports have started with "Well I met this cute guy…."

  On the other side of the argument, my rational thinking is pointing out the fact that he could have just taken the ice-cream and run, but he didn't. He gave it to me, and he gave me his jacket to wear even though it's freezing out, and offered to walk me home even though he had no idea where I live or how long he'd have to suffer the cold before we got there. And while it's entirely possible that it was all a manipulation to get his hands on my ice-cream, it was also kinda sweet, and I could really use some sweet right now.

  And I don't just mean the ice-cream.

  Besides, Jason might be a head taller than me and rocking what appeared to be a killer six-pack under that slim-fit business shirt, but I definitely have the weight advantage. If he does turn out to be a psycho serial killer, I reckon I could take him.

  Still, I'm nervous. Inviting strange men into my home less than twenty minutes after meeting them is not my usual gig. In fact it's pretty much the opposite of what I would usually do.

  An icy wind swirls around me, makes me shiver, and I see Jason wrap his arms around his middle as the wind pulls at his jacket. Maybe it's time to warm us up a bit. Maybe, definitely, it's time to step out of my comfort zone.

  Voice raised against the wind, I call out, "Hey, Jason?"

  He turns around. "Yeah?"

  "Would you like to come inside and, I don't know… talk?"

  He walks back to the stoop and pins me with that intense stare again. "Not really." But he takes a step closer.

  Okay. "Would you like to come inside, watch a movie and eat ice-cream?"

  He takes two more steps. "Warmer…."

  Biting back a smile, I finally ask, "Would you like to come inside, watch a movie, eat ice-cream and…" I feel my face flush with heat. "Fuck?"