Dirty Work

by Regina Kyle

  “Do I smell pad thai?”

  “And kung pao chicken. And bulgogi. And shrimp teriyaki.” I stick a spoon into a carton of rice and pull out a chair for her. “I covered all the bases. I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  “I like it all, unfortunately.” She sits down, her eyes flicking from the cartons to the china, to the candles. “It looks great. Thanks.”

  I pick up a bottle of Château Bauduc sauvignon blanc I picked out earlier from the wine cooler—screw top, because there’s no way I’m wrestling with a corkscrew in my current state. “White okay?”

  “Perfect.” She looks up at me sheepishly through long pale lashes as I pour her wine. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch before.”

  I fill my glass and take a seat opposite her. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

  “Well, you didn’t help matters any with Erin. All that winking and ass grabbing. I’m sure she’s told Aaron all about it by now over a couple of chai lattes. I’m never going to hear the end of it at the office.”

  Shit. I hadn’t even thought of that. Now I really am sorry. I was trying to play it cool, like what Ainsley’s assistant walked in on was no big deal, but all I did was make a bad situation even worse for her.

  “What can I do to fix things?” I ask. “I’ll do anything. Talk to Erin and Aaron. Tell them—I don’t know. Whatever you want me to tell them.”

  She shrugs and reaches for the kung pao chicken. “What’s done is done. At least you didn’t tell her I’m staying here. That would have been a disaster.”

  Logically, I know she’s right. Her employees can’t know she’s shacking up with a client. But that doesn’t make the karate chop her words deliver to my gut any less painful.

  I push the feeling aside and shovel shrimp onto my plate. We enjoy a leisurely meal—leisurely because it takes me forever to eat with my left hand. The chopsticks they sent with the food are totally out of the question. Even with a fork, I’m constantly spilling stuff on myself, the table, the floor.

  On the plus side, my crappy table manners leave us plenty of time for conversation. We talk about our jobs, our families, the new season of Stranger Things. Nothing’s off limits, and I’m surprised how much we have in common. Big things, like our pride in our work, even though she’s way more chill about hers than I am about mine. And small stuff, like how we both despise black licorice and white chocolate.

  When we’re done eating, we clear the table together and put the leftovers away in the refrigerator. It’s all very Leave It to Beaver—thank you, MeTV, for giving my sister something else to force me to watch with her—if Ward had ever deigned to help June with something so mundane as the dishes instead of sitting on his ass, smoking cigars and reading the daily newspaper. But unlike ole Ward, I’m a modern male. I’ve got no problem doing so-called women’s work. My parents made sure of that. Chores weren’t divided by sex in the Lawson house. Brie and I got equal time inside—cooking, cleaning and folding laundry—and outside, moving the lawn and taking out the trash.

  I lean against the counter and watch Ainsley stack the last of the plates in the dishwasher. Sharing space with someone is easier than I expected. Comfortable. Almost effortless. But maybe that’s because of the particular someone I’m sharing space with.

  I’m about to suggest we retire to my private rooftop terrace with an after-dinner brandy—hoping to set the mood for some sexy time—when Ainsley lets out a little squeal.

  “Is that a Scrabble board?”

  I follow her gaze to the card table Brie and I set up in the corner. Family game night was a staple growing up. Something we could continue to enjoy even when the purse strings were tight. And Scrabble was a perennial favorite. A fun way to help me manage my dyslexia. Not that I realized my parents’ ulterior motive at the time.

  My sister and I resurrected the tradition when she moved in. We were in the middle of a particularly cutthroat contest when she left for San Diego, and I haven’t had the heart to break down the fancy board she bought me as a thank-you for letting her crash at my place, even though we’ve got a long-distance game going thanks to Words With Friends.

  “Yeah. Wanna play?” I move closer to Ainsley and throw my arm around her shoulder. It’s not exactly the after-dinner entertainment I had in mind, but the night is young. We can play Scrabble now and do the wild thing later.

  “Sure,” she says. “But can we move it to the coffee table? I was looking forward to relaxing on your amazeballs retro couch.”

  There’s a number of things I’m looking forward to doing with her on my couch. Relaxing being among the most innocent.

  “My couch is amazeballs?” I ask. I like that she likes it. Her approval gives me an irrational sense of accomplishment. It’s not like I picked the damn thing out.

  “It’s surprisingly comfortable. Roscoe likes to sit and snuggle with me after our walks.”

  On cue, the hound, who’s passed out in front of the fireplace, on his back with his legs splayed like a porn star, lifts his head and howls.

  “He’s not supposed to be on the sofa.” Not that I’ve been able to keep him off any better than she has. “And I thought snuggling wasn’t part of your job duties.”

  “I know. And it wasn’t supposed to be. But I’m a softie. I can’t say no to him. And I always brush off the cushions afterward. Part of Odds & Ends’s no-mess-left-behind promise.”

  Roscoe stands, stretches and trots over to his empty food bowl.

  “Tell you what. I’ll feed the beast. You set up the board. But I’m warning you, I’m a Scrabble junkie. And I hate to lose.”

  “Bring it, word boy.”

  I feed the dog, pour us a couple of brandies and carry them on a tray back to my amazeballs couch, where Ainsley’s made herself at home with her knees tucked under her, her pink-tipped toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her llama pants. She’s got the board ready to go and her tiles all picked out and neatly arranged on one of the racks.

  “Impressive,” she says, nodding to the tray I’m balancing one-handed.

  “I was a waiter before I was a club owner. And a bartender, and a bouncer and a booking agent. I even did a short but memorable stint as a DJ. My dad always said it was a good idea to learn a business from the ground up.”

  “He sounds like a smart man.”

  “He is.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t want to talk about my father now. Or business.

  I set the tray down a safe distance from the board, pull up a chair and sit across from her with the coffee table between us. Can’t have her peeking at my rack, or accusing me of peeking at hers. Although from here, I’ve got a sweet view of the only rack I want to see. Her tank top doesn’t hide much. I’m getting an eyeful of her breasts, tight against the thin, clingy fabric, the outline of her dusky nipples clearly visible. My fingers twitch with the need to peel it off her, but I resist the siren’s song of immediate gratification in favor of the more tempting idea that’s beginning to form in my sex-obsessed brain.

  She thinks I don’t know how to have fun? I’ll show her what fun is.

  I drag my gaze from her perfect tits and carefully select tiles from the drawstring bag on the table. “How about we make this a little more interesting?”

  She reaches for her brandy. “What did you have in mind? A wager?”

  “Of sorts.” I lift my drink to my lips but stop short of sipping. “Have you ever played strip Scrabble?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ainsley

  JAKE GLOWERS AT me as I come back into the living room. “What the hell are you wearing?”

  I glance down at my outfit. I’ve thrown on a sweatshirt, plus two pairs of socks, a pair of Converse high-tops and my Yankees cap. I almost put a bra on, too, but the thought of harnessing the girls back up again was too much to bear. “I told you, if we’re playing strip Scrabble, I’m starting off with mo
re than a tank top, pajama pants and underwear.”

  He gives me a quick once-over then studies his own attire. “Swap tank top for T-shirt and pajamas for sweats and that’s all I’m wearing.”

  “That’s your problem.” I plunk myself back down on the sofa, stretching out this time instead of curling up like a human pretzel. This thing was made for lounging. I get why Roscoe’s so attached to it. Fortunately, I don’t have to fight him for space tonight. Jake’s shut him away in the master bedroom, where he’s probably taking up most of the king-size bed, so he won’t disturb our game. “I’ve never played strip Scrabble before. What are the rules?”

  “For every fifty points your opponent scores, you lose an article of clothing. If you challenge a word and win, you get to put one thing back on. But if you lose, something else comes off.”

  “Sounds easy enough.” I twist the simple sterling silver pinkie ring I always wear on my left hand. “Does jewelry count as an article of clothing?”

  His forehead creases, and I know he’s counting the piercings in my ears—two in the right, four in the left. I’m not sure if he’s spotted my tongue stud. And he sure as hell hasn’t seen the tiny silver chain hanging from my belly button. I went a little body-bling crazy when I escaped the repressive big-city-law-firm atmosphere of DK&G. I’ve contemplated getting a tattoo or two to go along with the multiple piercings, but I haven’t figured out what I want yet. Or where. If I’m going to get something permanently inked on my body, it has to be meaningful. And someplace it won’t hurt like—

  “Hell, no,” Jake declares, unknowingly completing my thought. Apparently the six—or seven—piercings he can see are six or seven too many for strip Scrabble. “I’m already at a big enough disadvantage.”

  “Chicken.”

  He shrugs and makes a show of rearranging his tiles. “I prefer to think of it as pragmatic.”

  “You can think of it any way you want. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re afraid of getting your ass kicked by your dog walker.”

  “Executive concierge,” he corrects, smirking at me over the rim of his brandy snifter. He gestures to the empty board with his glass. “Ladies first.”

  “Nice try.” I smirk right back. Jake’s not the only one who’s played this game before. With my clothes on, that is. But still. “Official Scrabble rules state that we each draw a tile, and the player with the letter closest to A starts the game. Technically, we should have done that before picking our tiles, but I’m willing to let that minor infraction slide.”

  Sure, I’d love the advantage of making the first move on a clean board—and earning the double word score that comes with it for covering the pink square at the center. But I’m planning on winning this game fair and square. Pun intended.

  He sips his drink and leans forward, resting his strong, sinewed forearm on his thigh. Is forearm porn a thing? Because if it is, Jake could make a fortune off his. Not that he’s hurting for dough. “I thought we were making up our own rules.”

  I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the late hour or something else—like maybe he’s as turned on by this erotic, pretty-please-precoital dance we’re doing as I am—but his voice seems to have dropped an entire octave. It’s rough and slow and smoky, sending hot little pinpricks of desire shooting through my nervous system.

  I adjust the pillow behind me and cross my ankles. “Only for the stripping part.”

  He leans in closer, and for a long moment we just stare at each other across the board, the air thick with sexual tension. Finally, he takes another sip of brandy, sets his glass down and sits back. A Cheshire cat smile spreads across his handsome face, dotted with stubble that’s sprouted in the I-can’t-keep-track-of-how-many hours since I shaved him this morning. I don’t know what’s got me more hot and bothered, the damn sexy stubble or the thought of shaving it off him again.

  “Okay. We’ll do it your way,” he says, that whole rough-slow-smoky thing making him sound like Idris Elba and ramping the pinpricks up to a steady, persistent ache.

  Get a grip, girl. Focus. If you play Scrabble with your hormones and not your head, you’ll be naked in no time.

  Although that might not be such a bad thing...

  I pick a tile out of the bag, then hold the bag out to him.

  He reaches inside, pulls out a tile, and holds it close to his chest. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

  I turn my tile around to face him with a dramatic flair. “D. As in damn hard to beat.”

  He lays his tile face up on the table, and my heart sinks. “B. As in better luck next time, Nightingale. Because I’m up first.”

  I grab his tile and toss it back in the bag with mine. Then I sit and wait as he sorts through the tiles on his rack, scowling and shuffling until he finally picks six tiles and lays them down in a horizontal line in the center of the board.

  “Laytex. Double letter score for the X, and double word score for going first. That makes—” He does a quick mental calculation, his brow furrowing adorably with the effort of counting in his head. I give him credit, though. I’d be using my fingers. Maybe my toes, too, after the socks came off. “Sixty-four. Lose the sweatshirt.”

  “Not so fast, word boy.” I hold up a finger. “Number one, there’s no Y in latex. And number two—”

  I add another finger. “I decide what I’m taking off, not you.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you number one.” He takes away the Y and moves the LA over a square. “But my place, my rules. And I say winner gets to tell the loser what to take off. So I repeat.”

  His eyes darken to an almost inky black. “Lose. The. Sweatshirt.”

  “And I repeat. Not. So. Fast.” If the intense, hotly appraising way he’s looking at me is anything to go on, I have a pretty good feeling how this night’s going to end. But I want to enjoy the journey. I add up the remaining tiles on the board, as predicted with the help of my fingers. “You’ve only got forty points. I’m not taking anything off.”

  “Not yet,” Jake adds with a seductive eyebrow waggle. “But soon.”

  Unfortunately—or is it fortunately?—his prediction turns out to be correct. After I score a pathetic six points with my first word—loner, built off the L in latex—he tops a hundred points with squeeze. My sole consolation is that Jake relents and lets me pick what I’m stripping off, so all I lose is one of my two pairs of socks.

  Half an hour later, that consolation is like a distant speck in the rearview mirror. I’m in my skimpy tank top and lemon yellow lace panties, the rest of my clothes in a heap on the floor. Jake’s not wearing much, either. He’s down to his butt-hugging boxer briefs. But considering that he started with only those and his sweats and T-shirt, he’s doing way better than me on the board.

  Truth is, the more skin that’s showing—his and mine—the less I’m focusing on the game and the more I’m wishing it’s over already and we’re naked, entwined and sweaty. I study my tiles, then the board, then back to my tiles again, seriously contemplating throwing in the towel—and off my few remaining clothes—journey be damned.

  “Times up,” he announces after long seconds have ticked away without me making a move. “Either pass your turn or exchange tiles.”

  I reach into the bag and do a quick count of what’s left in there. “There are only two tiles. Scrabble rules require seven for an exchange.”

  “Then I guess you’re passing your turn.”

  Using the Z in zone, he lays down the rest of his tiles to make the word whizbang. “Boom. Fifty points for using all my tiles. Plus double word score. That’s another hundred and two points for me. And two less pieces of clothing for you.”

  I bite my lip and try to steady my ragged breathing. “That’s all I’m wearing.”

  “I’ve noticed. Which means I’m the winner of this game. And as the victor, I get the spoils.”

  His e
yes rake me up and down. I can feel my nipples hardening, rubbing against the soft cotton of my tank top.

  “The spoils?” The words come out on a puff of air. I surprised they come out at all, to be honest. My brain’s ability to form coherent thought has been severely compromised by the miles and miles of toned, tanned flesh on display across the table.

  “You.”

  The owner of said toned, tanned flesh crooks a finger, beckoning me to him. I stand on shaky legs and cross to him, almost naked, totally vulnerable.

  “You’ve got me.” My arms dangle awkwardly, like a department store mannequin. I pop a hip and put a hand there, striking a pose I hope reads more shy seductress than deer in headlights. “What do you plan to do with me?”

  “Anything you want. But I’d like to start with a little striptease. Shirt first. I want to see those beautiful breasts.”

  Jake polishes off his brandy and smiles up at me. Yep. The Cheshire cat grin is back. I’m on fucking fire, and he’s sitting there cool as a goddamn cucumber, issuing orders like a drill sergeant.

  A dirty drill sergeant who knows exactly what to say to make me cream my pretty panties.

  I reach for the hem of my tank top and yank it over my head, quick, like pulling off a Band-Aid. It might not be the most seductive striptease, but I’m afraid if I wait too long, if I think too much, I’ll remember all the reasons why this is bad idea.

  Instinctively, my hands go to my chest, covering my more than generous boobs. I’ve never felt so exposed as I do at this moment. Physically and emotionally.

  Jake shakes his head and motions for me to lower them. “Don’t hide from me, Nightingale. I want all of you.”

  All of me. That’s what I’m afraid of. That this man will wind up possessing not only my body, but my heart and soul, too.

  Still, I can’t seem to resist him. And I don’t want to. I let my hands drift to my sides. He sucks in a harsh breath and strokes his growing erection through his boxers. It’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Now the panties,” he growls.