Dirty Secrets

by Regina Kyle

  “If you put your mouth on me, I’ll be seeing entire constellations. Planets. Comets shooting through the night sky.”

  I move closer, my warm breath teasing the tip of his cock. “Then prepare to go into orbit.”

  I take a second to admire him before going down on him. I’m still not convinced he won’t regret defiling his best friend’s baby sister in the morning. This may be the only chance I get to experience the wonder that is Connor Dow, sex god. I want every second, every image burned into my memory bank.

  I’ve never thought of a guy’s junk as beautiful, but his is. It’s standing loud, long, and proud, the thick, spongy crown a shade darker than the rigid shaft. A clear bead of liquid pearls at the slit, shining like a beacon, begging me to lap it up.

  “Remember what I said about dying? That’s a real possibility if you don’t put that pretty mouth on my dick in the next ten seconds. Either that or I’m going to flip you over and bury myself inside you.”

  Seems like a win/win situation to me. I go for door number one, figuring door number two is always on the table for later. My hand works the base of his cock while my mouth concentrates on the head. He hisses when I flick the slit with my tongue, then swirl it around the tip, teasing his frenulum.

  The hisses turn to full-on moans when the teasing stops and I suck him deep, taking him as far into my mouth as I can. He’s smooth and stiff and pulsing and tastes as good as I imagined. Like skin and soap, with a hint of musky sweetness.

  I slide my lips over his length, up and down, over and over, encouraged by his ragged breathing and his husky sex sounds and the way his hands sink into my hair, not directing or controlling my movements but just guiding them. After what could be two minutes or twenty—hard to keep track of time when you’re focused on rocking a guy’s world—he tugs on my hair, easing my mouth away from him.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I ask, knowing full well that I didn’t.

  “No. You did something very, very right. So right that if you keep doing it I’m going to come.”

  “Isn’t that the objective?”

  “Not until I’m inside you.”

  Oh, goody. Door number two. “Please tell me you have condoms stashed somewhere in this palace.”

  He rolls away from me and opens the nightstand drawer. After a few seconds of fumbling, he pulls out a foil packet and rips it open. I skootch back up the bed and let myself enjoy the show as he suits up.

  And it’s a hell of a show. He rolls it on without missing a beat, one handed. It’s quick and confident and strangely sexy. Worthy of a Pornhub video. Except this one’s for my viewing pleasure only.

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Like what you see?”

  “You’re very good at that.”

  “That’s not all I’m good at.”

  He rejoins me on the bed, stretching his big body out next to mine.

  “Spread your legs.”

  The rough command surprises me, not that that stops me from complying. And then he’s on top of me, his mouth on mine as his cock slides through the slick heat between my legs, prodding at my entrance but not penetrating.

  Tease.

  I arch my hips, silently begging him to do it already. When that doesn’t have the desired effect, I reach around and grab his ass, pulling him into me. Finally—finally—he rolls his hips and plunges into me, filling me so fully, stretching me so completely, that I gasp at the sensation and wrap my legs around him, locking my ankles behind his back.

  “Oh, yeah.” He’s panting as he thrusts and withdraws, thrusts and withdraws, hard and fast, quick and dirty. He looks like a dark conquering hero looming above me, braced on his corded forearms, his sex-mussed hair flopping over his forehead with each new invasion. “Just like that. Take me deeper.”

  The heat and friction between us build quickly, and I feel another orgasm rising within me. As it hits, my calves clamp on his ass and my muscles clamp around his cock. A wave of pleasure ripples through my body, starting at my toes, rolling over my legs and chest, tingling its way to my fingertips and the ends of my hair.

  Connor calls out my name and pushes into me one last time. I see his climax break across his handsome face at the same time I feel him pulse inside me as he comes.

  “Fuck,” he grunts out.

  His eyes lock with mine, dark and demanding, not letting me look away even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Because Connor mid-orgasm is seriously one of the most stunning sights I’ve ever seen. His strong jaw slack with lust, lips parted, chest heaving with exertion.

  When we’re both spent, he collapses on top of me, his face buried in the crook of my neck and his dick still hard inside me. I loop my arms around his shoulders, holding tight to him, and we stay that way for a few minutes, happy and sated, our breathing evening out, until he rolls to one side and flops onto his back. My pussy practically screams in protest when he pulls out.

  As much as I hate to, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Reality is creeping back in, and along with it the realization that I just had possibly the best sex of my relatively young life with my brother’s best friend. Who might not be so thrilled that he shagged his BFF’s little sister now that the sexual endorphins are beginning to wear off.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “I’m dying of thirst. I could use a glass of water.”

  He sits up next to me. “Oh, no, you don’t. Remember what happened last time?”

  “You hauled me over your shoulder like a Cro-Magnon man and kissed me.” Not a bad outcome, in my not-so-humble opinion.

  “Before that. I like my coffee mugs. I don’t want to lose another one.” He drops a kiss between my shoulder blades. “Stay here. I’ll get the water.”

  Okay, so I guess remorse hasn’t set in. At least not yet. Maybe those endorphins are stronger than I thought, and he’s still on a post-coital high. Like me.

  He disappears into the master bath—presumably to dispose of the condom—then heads for the kitchen. He comes back with two glasses of ice water, hands one to me, and sits down on the bed. We both sip silently, the awkwardness I expected starting to set in.

  “About Jake—” I say finally, broaching the elephant in the room.

  Connor chokes mid-sip on his water and lowers his glass. “I thought we agreed not to talk about your brother while we were naked.”

  “I was only going to say that I don’t see any reason for him to know about this.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And if he doesn’t need to know what just happened, I don’t see any reason why he needs to know if it should, maybe, happen again—” I let my voice trail off, leaving my implication hanging in the air, like the last notes of a Stephen Sondheim song.

  He takes my almost empty water—I wasn’t kidding when I said I was thirsty—and sets both glasses down on the nightstand. “Are you propositioning me?”

  I tilt my head to one side and look up at him seductively from under my lashes. “If I were, what would you say?”

  “Does this answer your question?” He lowers me to the bed, his cock stiff and throbbing against my thigh.

  “Already?”

  “For you, always.”

  His mouth captures mine as one hand slips between us to cup my breast. Then he spends the rest of the night proving his point.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Connor

  “HONEY, I’M HOME.” It’s half joke, half wishful thinking. As in I wish Brie and I were more than fuck buddies. That our living arrangement was one of commitment, not convenience.

  Stupid? Probably. Brie and I aren’t who anyone would pick as the perfect couple. Not only because of the best friend’s sister thing. It’s like Jake said. Brie and I are nothing alike. She craves attention. I might as well be allergic to it.

  It’s like we’re circling in two different
orbits. I should be happy they happened to overlap for however long whatever we’re doing lasts.

  Shouldn’t I?

  “I’m in here,” she calls from somewhere in the recesses of our—my—apartment.

  I drop my briefcase just inside the door and follow the sound of her voice. It’s one of her rare days off. Which is why I cut my time at the club short and raced home. It’s been over two weeks since the night of the black-tie benefit. And thanks to our crazy, conflicting schedules, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve managed a repeat performance.

  That ends tonight.

  I find her curled up on the couch flanked by my traitorous cats. She’s concentrating on something on her laptop screen, a pencil between her teeth.

  I hang back and let myself study her, unobserved. She’s gorgeous, even in baggy sweats and a faded T-shirt, her hair in a messy bun, her face free of makeup. Especially in baggy sweats and a faded T-shirt, her hair in a messy bun, her face free of makeup.

  Without taking her eyes off the screen, she takes the pencil from her mouth and jots something down on a pad beside her. “Are you going to come over here and kiss me, or are you planning to stand there staring at me all day?”

  Tough choice. I come up behind her and press a soft kiss on her exposed neck. As I do, I catch a glimpse of what she’s looking at on her computer, and my stomach tightens.

  “What’s that?” I ask, knowing full well what it is. We haven’t talked about her moving out since we started sleeping together. But it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s still looking for a new place. She said from the start that this was temporary. The fact that we’re fucking doesn’t change that.

  So why do I feel like someone’s shoved a knife in my gut? A rusty one, with a serrated edge.

  “Apartment hunting.” She sounds almost giddy. The knife twists deeper. “This one actually looks promising. Within my price range, not too far from the 6 train, and the guy I’d be rooming with seems halfway decent. At least he doesn’t expect me to share the place with his collection of taxidermy foxes, like the last one.”

  Guy? I lean in to take a closer look at the listing on the screen. What I see only ratchets up my frustration.

  My hands ball into tight fists. It’s a good thing I’m still behind the couch and she can’t see them.

  “You are not moving there.” With another guy. “It’s not safe. They have one of the highest murder rates in the five boroughs. And instead of a Starbucks, there’s a methadone clinic on every corner.”

  “Good. I’ll finally be able to kick the habit.”

  My teeth clench and a muscle in my jaw tics. Not two minutes ago, I walked through the door in such high spirits. How did things go so far downhill so fast? “Not funny.”

  She slams her laptop shut and stands. “Neither is you trying to dictate where I can and cannot live.”

  The cats, sensing trouble, leap from the couch and flee the room. Can’t say I blame them. I wish I could escape, too.

  Instead, I man up and come around the sofa so I’m standing in front of her. I’m not having this discussion with a three-hundred-fifty-pound piece of furniture between us. “I’m not dictating where you live—”

  “You are not moving there,” she says in a lilting, sing-song voice, mocking me.

  “I did not sound like that.”

  “Did too.”

  “I’m concerned about you. Is that a crime?”

  She plants her hands on her hips, which has the bonus effect of thrusting her breasts forward. “I already have a big brother. I don’t need another one.”

  Is it wrong that we’re in the middle of an argument and I want to strip her clothes off and screw her senseless? I swear, she’s even hotter when she’s pissed off. There’s an almost primal sexuality about her.

  “My feelings for you are anything but brotherly.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “All I’m saying is that there’s no rush for you to leave. Take the time to find a place that’s more than just affordable and near a subway line. Preferably one in a better neighborhood. With a roommate who wears bras instead of boxers.”

  The last part slips out before I can stop it. And of course, it’s what she latches right onto.

  “So is it the location you object to? Or the fact that I’d be living with a guy?”

  I try to look sheepish. “Would you be mad at me if I said both?”

  “Look who’s jealous now.” Her hands are still on her hips, but her tone is gentler, her eyes softer. “But I can’t mooch off you indefinitely.”

  I step in to her, taking her hands from her hips and putting them around my neck. Then I wrap my arms around her waist. “You’re not mooching. You’re an important part of this household.”

  Her fingers tunnel in my hair and her lips curve into a sarcastic smile. “Having sex with the master of the house doesn’t count.”

  “You did the grocery shopping,” I say. We’re so close my voice is almost a whisper, and I lean in to rest my forehead on hers. “Made lasagna. Rearranged my kitchen cabinets. And that was in your first twenty-four hours here. Do you want me to go on?”

  “I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” she whispers back.

  There’s something in her eyes—a hint of doubt or hesitation—that guts me. “Trust me, that is not going to happen.”

  I cover her mouth with mine. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s fast and firm, designed to wipe out any uncertainly about whether and for how long I want her here. I suck her bottom lip between my teeth and tug, making her gasp. That gives me an opening, and I take advantage, snaking my tongue inside to find hers. Tasting. Exploring.

  Somehow, we wind up on the couch, her laptop pushed to the floor, her body sprawled across mine. Our sex is like my kiss. Frantic. Furious. Neither one of us wants to take the time to fully undress—it’s a damn miracle I remember I’ve got a condom in my wallet—and I enter her with our shirts on and our pants around our ankles. I come in minutes, something that would normally be embarrassing as hell except that except that she’s right there with me, her heady moans filling the room as she tumbles over the edge.

  As great as it is, I know the sex doesn’t solve anything. The question of when—or if—Brie will be packing her bags and hitting the road still looms. But it’s forgotten for now. Obscured in a haze of hormones and sheer physical exhaustion. And I’m scoring that in the win column.

  Later, after we shower together to clean up—which of course only gets us dirty again—we order take out from the Thai place around the corner and end up back on the couch for an evening of Netflix and chilling.

  I’m struck with the strange thought that, in the eight weeks we lived together, not once did Giselle and I do this. Spend a quiet night at home watching television. We were always either out at some function or another or, when we were home together, working in separate rooms.

  Now that I think about it, it says a lot about why our relationship crashed and burned. Neither one of us was willing to make the effort required to have a true partnership. It makes me wonder if I’m more like my father than I want to admit. Incapable of real intimacy.

  But then Brie snuggles into me, her head nudging into the crook of my shoulder, her already familiar coconut scent wafting over me—it’s her shampoo, I’ve learned—and I’m flooded with a supreme sense contentment I never felt with Giselle. Maybe the problem isn’t me. Maybe the problem is that I was with the wrong woman.

  “If you’re not going to pick something for us to watch, I am,” Brie says, trying to snag the remote out of my hand.

  I hold it out of her reach, point it at my flat screen, and start scrolling through the options. I’m done dwelling on the past. Time to concentrate on the here and now. And the woman next to me instead of the one who walked out without a backward glance. “How about an oldie but goodie? Like Hig
h Fidelity. Or The Princess Bride.”

  She stares at me, open-mouthed. “You’d watch The Princess Bride with me?”

  “Why not? I love that movie.”

  “Jake hates it. He says the only good part is the sword fighting.”

  “Inconceivable.”

  “Wow.” She lets loose with a low, appreciative whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said you love it. But I had something else in mind.”

  “Oh?” I trail a finger down her side, letting my hand come to rest on her hip, just inside the waistband of her yoga pants. I never realized how sexy those things are. Or maybe it’s that Brie is sexy in whatever she wears. She could be in one of those shapeless 1950s housedresses and my dick would stand up and salute. “Is it a Fifty Shades sort of something else?”

  Not my usual cinematic fare. But with Brie, it might be fun to watch. And I wouldn’t mind if it led to a little Christian Grey/Anastasia Steele role play.

  Yeah, I know the characters’ names. I even read a couple of chapters of the book—the first one—to see what all the fuss was about. I still don’t get it. But women sure do.

  Brie gives my hand a playful smack, hard enough to sting a little but not to swat it away. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a one-track mind?”

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure they meant it as a compliment.”

  “Only a guy would think that.”

  I stretch my legs out in front of me, settling in for the next few hours of whatever the heck it is we’re going to watch. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t particularly care what it is. As long as I’m watching it with her. “So no Princess Bride and no Fifty Shades. What do you suggest?”

  Before she can answer, my phone dings with an incoming text. I grab it from the table next to me and check the screen, making sure it’s not an emergency at the club. Like the time Jake got himself knocked on his ass playing knight in shining armor for Ainsley.

  R u home? Is my sister there? Ainsley’s been trying 2 reach her. Something about going dress shopping 4 the wedding.

  “Everything okay?” Brie asks.