Dirty Work

by Regina Kyle

  “Sure seemed like you were judging me.”

  She blinks, and I get the sense she’s fighting back tears, making me feel like I’ve been slapped again. Harder.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a guy as successful as you looks down on me and my insignificant little business,” she continues, pretending to be occupied with a loose thread on her sleeve. “It’s not like I’m hitting the Fortune 500 anytime soon, or making the Forbes 30 Under 30 list. Hell, even my own parents are ashamed of me.”

  “Hey.” I hook a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking shit about yourself. It’s not a competition. I don’t look down on you. And I doubt your parents are ashamed of you, either.”

  She rolls her beautiful, sad eyes. “You haven’t met my mother.”

  “I’d like to.” The words roll off my tongue before I can stop them. But once they’re out, I realize I don’t want to take them back. I want to go all in with her. “I’d like to meet your whole family. I want to get to know you better.”

  And I want her to get to know me, too. Which is why I go where I go next, opening a metaphorical vein and spilling a little of my soul.

  “I’m sorry I was such a dick,” I say, cupping Ainsley’s cheek. My thumb strokes slow circles on her soft skin. She doesn’t pull away, giving me the courage to continue. “I’m used to work being the center of my life. It’s hard for me to step back. That doesn’t mean everyone’s wired the same way, or that everyone should be.”

  “Why?”

  My thumb freezes midcircle. “Why what?”

  “Why is it so hard for you to stop and smell the daffodils?”

  “Daffodils?” I echo, letting my hand fall to her thigh.

  “Roses are so cliché.” A faint smile plays about the corners of her lips, one that has hope blooming in my chest. “And you get what I mean.”

  I do. But where to start? The dyslexia? My dad’s heart attack? The collapse of his business?

  For the next ten minutes or so, it all spills out. My struggles with reading. How I had to work twice as hard as my fellow students to get half as far. How our family lost everything—including my college fund—when my dad’s company went under, and how I swore I’d never be in that position again.

  Ainsley listens patiently, understandingly, even giving the hand on her thigh a sympathetic squeeze when I get to the part about watching Connor head off to Columbia while I went to City College. When I’m done, she tilts her face up to plant a quick kiss on my jaw.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For trusting me enough to open up to me. I was wrong to assume you were no different from my pain-in-the-ass parents.”

  She flattens a palm against my chest, right over my heart. There’s no way she doesn’t feel it banging around my rib cage like a blindfolded bird. The effect she has on me is impossible to hide. In more ways than one, I think, as my cock picks that exact moment to spring to life, making my cargo shorts suddenly uncomfortable.

  I pull her in—with both arms, thank you very much—and fold her against me. “Does that mean you forgive me for being an insensitive jerk?”

  She sucks her lower lip between her teeth and looks up at me with those stormy gray eyes, the intensity I see there stealing my breath. “On one condition.”

  “That I fuck you until you come so hard you forget your own name?” I ask hopefully, brushing back her hair and kissing her temple.

  She laughs, the vibration traveling through me like a warm, smooth shot of Macallan 1926. “Two conditions, then.”

  “What’s the second one?”

  “That you go twenty-four hours without working. That means no cell phone. No iPad. No computer. Just you, me and Roscoe.”

  “Can we spend them all in bed?” I lay her down, covering her lush, lithe body with mine. “Without the damn dog?”

  Clothes fall to the floor, but she doesn’t seem to care, all thoughts of packing apparently in the past. “He might have something to say about that.”

  “I’ll deal with him later. Buy him off with some of those apple bacon treats he likes. Or a new stuffie. Maybe a duck, since he seems to enjoy tormenting them in the park so much.”

  “So is it a deal?” Her hands find their way into my hair. “No work for a whole day?”

  She arches into me, making her full, round, fucking flawless tits even more prominent. And more appetizing. I can’t help myself. I lower my head, sucking one nipple into my mouth through her shirt. When I draw back, I admire my handiwork, her pale pink nipple and rosy areola clearly visible through the wet white cotton.

  “Not only is it a deal, Nightingale. How about we sweeten the pot with a little bet?”

  “You mean like strip Scrabble?” She rolls me onto my back, straddles me and whips off her top, leaving those beautiful breasts covered only by a lacy lavender bra. “News flash. You don’t need a bet to get me out of my clothes.”

  “Duly noted.” I like this playful, take-no-prisoners Ainsley. I run my hands up shapely calves, over smooth thighs, to her hips, where I hold on for dear life. Now that I have her where I want her, no way am I letting her go. “But I was thinking more winner gets to decide where we go on our next date.”

  “Date?” she asks, her voice husky.

  “I don’t know what you think we’ve been doing, but movies, museums, theater in the park, even that damn drag diner—they all qualify as dates in my book. Especially when they’re followed up by wall-banging sex.”

  Hell, now that I think about it, this is the most time I’ve spent with a woman in ages. Maybe ever. I’m more of a serial dater. I haven’t been serious about anyone in a long time. Work’s made that impossible.

  Which proves she’s got a point about stopping to smell the daffodils. It’s only one day. What could happen in twenty-four hours? Negotiations have stalled on the Miami deal. And Connor can handle anything else that comes up.

  “Okay.” Ainsley’s eyes flash with amusement as she rolls her hips, moving against me. “You’re on. The clock starts—”

  She reaches behind her back to unhook her bra. The straps slide down her arms, and she takes it off, dropping it to the floor with the clothes we knocked off the bed earlier. “Now.”

  Not one to waste time—or a set of tits as spectacular as hers—I switch our positions again, shifting us to our sides so I can shuck off my T-shirt, shorts and boxer briefs. Once I’m naked, I concentrate on her, peeling off her denim cutoffs and pretty panties—lavender, the same shade as her bra—and leaning over to kiss her other nipple.

  “Again,” she says, and she doesn’t have to ask me twice. I trace a damp circle around her nipple with my tongue, then draw it into my mouth and suck. She lets out a sexy, throaty moan that goes straight to my cock, making it leak on the ridiculously expensive eighteen-hundred-thread-count sheets.

  She tastes good. Damn good. Like honey and lemon. But I’m a greedy bastard, and I want more. I want to taste her everywhere. So I kiss my way down to the neatly trimmed landing strip above her sex.

  Ainsley digs her fingers into my hair and yanks hard, stopping me. “Not that. Not now. I want you to fuck me.”

  “Taste first.” I untangle her fingers from my hair and settle between her legs. “Fuck later.”

  “But—”

  I kiss the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, then turn my attention to her sweet pussy. At the first long, slow lick her protests fade and her head falls back on her pillow.

  I’ve always enjoyed going down on women, but this is different. My dick is hard as a steel spike, and I swear I could come just from eating her out. But I ignore that horny fucker because it’s all about her pleasure right now, not mine.

  Her hands clutch at the sheets and her breath is coming in qu
ick pants that have her breasts heaving. When I sense that she’s close, I slow down. Her back arches and she grinds against my face with a frustrated groan. I chuckle into her folds, which only makes her groan louder and grab my head, pushing it deeper into her.

  Who am I kidding, thinking I’m in control here? The woman wants to come, and I’m not strong enough—or stupid enough—to deny her. I follow her not-so-subtle suggestion, increasing the pressure and speed of my licks and kisses until she climaxes on my tongue.

  “Wow,” she says when her body finally stops spasming and she’s lying limp and satisfied on the bed. “That was—”

  “Just the beginning.” I press a kiss to the spot where her hip meets her thigh and roll her to her stomach, positioning my still dripping, iron-hard cock at her entrance. “We’ve got twenty-three more hours to fill.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ainsley

  WHO SAID THAT the greatest danger is underestimating your opponent? Sun Tzu? General McArthur? Lady Gaga?

  Whoever it was, they were right.

  “I can’t believe I lost,” I say, covering my head with my pillow.

  “Believe it, Nightingale.” Jake pulls the pillow away and points to the clock on the nightstand. “Read it and weep. Twenty-four whole hours, and I haven’t checked my cell phone or email once. Longer than that, if you want to get technical, since we slept through the deadline.”

  He tosses the pillow onto the floor and rolls on top of me, his morning wood nestling between my butt cheeks. “Or fucked through it.”

  “Nobody likes a sore winner.” I wriggle out of his embrace so I can sit, taking the sheet with me. He may be ready and raring to go again, but I need a breather.

  He follows me up, pushing my hair to one side and kissing my neck. “Something tells me I’m not the one who’s sore this morning.”

  Smug bastard. But he’s right. I am a little sore you-know-where. Twenty-four hours of almost nonstop sex—we took breaks to eat, use the bathroom and feed and walk Roscoe—will do that to a girl.

  “I need a shower.” And to brush my teeth. Shave my legs. Pluck my eyebrows. It’s a testament to Jake’s sex drive that none of that shit seems to bother him.

  I let the sheet drop, swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, completely unselfconscious in my nudity. No point in being modest with a guy who’s had his head between your thighs. Multiple times.

  Jake’s eyes darken to chocolate pinpoints as they rake my naked body from head to toe, lingering a little longer than necessary on my breasts. Figures. He’s a total boob man. Not that my nipples mind. Predictably, they perk up under his heated gaze. I may be sore down there, but apparently they don’t care.

  “Mind if I join you?” He throws off the sheet, and his raging hard-on springs free.

  My nipples are tight little pebbles now, but my pussy is throbbing in protest. “Um, sore. Remember?”

  He lifts his huge frame out of bed and comes up behind me, banding his arms around my waist and cupping my breasts in his beefy hands. “I can take care of that.”

  I want to resist, but my traitorous body has other ideas, and I lean back against him with a sigh. “Even your penis isn’t that magic.”

  “No.” He nips at my neck, then soothes the spot with a kiss. “But my tongue is.”

  He’s right, as usual. An hour later—after we’ve gotten really, really dirty and then soaped and scrubbed each other clean—Roscoe’s been walked and fed and we’re on our way to the mystery destination Jake, as the winner of our little contest, has chosen for our date.

  I’ve tried getting him to spill the beans, but no dice. I think he’s getting a kick out of keeping me in the dark. Either that or he thinks I’m going to flip out when I find out where he’s taking me. All I know is one, he told me to dress comfortably but leave my flip-flops at home. And two, we’re taking the Q train, so it’s somewhere in Brooklyn.

  As we ride down in the elevator, I pull out my phone to text Aaron and Erin. They’ve been rock stars, picking up the slack at Odds & Errands while I play house with Jake. I owe them both a huge bonus in their next paycheck.

  When I’m done giving them today’s rundown and letting them know I’ll be back at the office tomorrow—a little part of me dies as I type that last part—I stuff my phone back in my I Swear Because I Care drawstring bag and glance at Jake. He’s resting against the bar that runs along the back wall of the elevator, arms folded across his broad chest, a shit-eating grin splitting his face.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, trying hard to ignore the way the sleeves of his polo shirt pull taut at his biceps.

  “You. On your phone. Maybe you should take your own advice and stop and smell the—” He taps a finger on his chiseled jaw. “What was it?”

  “Daffodils,” I answer. “And I’m surprised you haven’t busted yours out to check your messages. Or call Connor.”

  “Left it upstairs. Didn’t even bother to power it up this morning.”

  Wait—what? I must have heard him wrong. “You turned off your cell phone?”

  “Figured that was the easiest way to avoid temptation.”

  “And you don’t have it with you?”

  He shakes his head, still smiling. He looks unnaturally calm for a man who, just a couple of days ago, would have rather watched The Princess Bride on an endless loop than give up his lifeline.

  “You realize the bet’s over, right?” I ask. “And you won.”

  He shrugs. “I figure what’s a few more hours of radio silence. Besides, I want to enjoy this day without interruptions.”

  Sweet zombie Jesus. Can a woman orgasm from words alone? Because I’m pretty sure I just did.

  I feel like I’m living in a cheesy rom-com. The ones I love to watch but can’t help poking a little fun at, too, with the kind of sappy love story—complete with an embarrassing meet cute, a handsome hero, a playful pup and oodles of witty banter—that you think is fantasy, not fact.

  Until it happens to you.

  Jake’s eyes lock with mine, and the sincerity in their dark depths makes my heart skip like ten beats. The pull he has on me is hard to put into words. It seems crazy. I met him barely a month ago. But my head can’t deny what my heart’s known almost since the first time I saw him.

  I’m falling for this guy. Hard.

  “Thanks,” I say, standing on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth.

  As a thank-you, it leaves a lot to be desired. Ditching his phone is epic rom-com grand gesture material. It deserves an equally epic response. Definitely something more than a measly “thanks” and a pathetic peck on the kisser.

  In a show of solidarity, I fish my phone out, power it off and drop it back in my bag. “There. No interruptions.”

  He snakes an arm around me and pulls me flush to him. I can feel every peak and valley of him, every hard edge and smooth ridge.

  “You know,” he says, his breath ruffling the hair behind my ear. “We can always forget about the bet and head back upstairs.”

  Damn, this man. My body’s gone from zero to take-me-now in less than six seconds. It should be illegal what he does to me.

  “But you won,” I remind him for a second time. “Don’t you want to claim your prize?”

  “You are the prize, Nightingale.”

  The nickname started as a joke, but the way he says it now is like liquid sex, all rich and warm and gooey.

  As if his words aren’t enough of an aphrodisiac, his lips are sliding down my neck now, dropping soft, wet kisses all the way to my collarbone. Then they retrace their path, traveling up to my mouth and claiming it in a hot, determined kiss that has me clinging to his shoulders and salivating for more.

  When we come up for air, I manage to summon up the willpower to shake my head and push at his chest, creating a sliver of space between us. “You’re not getting out of t
his that easily. I’m dying to find out where you’re taking me.”

  The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal an elderly woman with an enormous orange tabby cat on a harness. Seriously, the thing must be almost half Roscoe’s size. Which is saying something for a feline. Jake and I share a secret smile and start to pull apart as she steps into the car, the monster cat following obediently beside her.

  “Don’t mind us,” she says, a twinkle in her rheumy eyes. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love. And Prince Harry here is the soul of discretion.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. G.” Jake reaches down to pet Prince Harry, who arches into his hand, no more than immune to his charm than I am. “You too, Harry.”

  “Will we see you at the building-wide ice cream social this week?” the older woman asks, looking from him to me and back again. “You can bring your friend.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Jake says with a smile that’s as genuine as they come. It’s obvious he has a fondness for his elderly neighbor. And her cat. “I’ve got a little something for Harry. I’ll bring it with me.”

  “Ooh,” Mrs. G. squeals. “Is it one of those catnip mice he likes so much? I gave up looking for the last one you brought him. I don’t know what he does with them. I think he swatted it behind the refrigerator.”

  Jake puts a finger to his lips. “Shh. We don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  The elevator dings again, signaling that we’ve reached the lobby. Mrs. G. says her goodbyes, and she and Prince Harry take off in the direction of the park.

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” I ask Jake as we walk the other way, toward the nearest subway station.

  He spreads his arms wide, like Jesus on the freaking cross. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an open book.”

  “If you’re so open, why won’t you tell me where we’re going?”

  “Because patience is a virtue. And good things come to those who wait.”

  “You sound like a Chinese fortune cookie,” I grumble. With that line of conversation officially at a dead end, I decide to try another tack. “How long have you known Mrs. G.?”