DIRTY READS

by Scott Hildreth

  I straddled him and studied his muscled torso. Covered in tattoos and not wearing a shirt, he looked ten times better than he did with one on, that was for sure. I licked my lips at the sight of his chiseled abs.

  “Grab my waist,” I said.

  He placed his hands against my hips.

  “No,” I said with a laugh. I raised his hands to my waist. “Here. My waist.”

  I gripped his cock in my hand, hovered over him, and then guided him into me. Although the first attempt didn’t go very deep, feeling him inside of me sucked the air from my lungs. I gulped a breath, raised myself up and then forced him into my drenched pussy again.

  And again.

  Then, taking his full length, I began to ride his cock like it was the last cock on earth.

  I slapped my hands against his chest. “Fuck yes. See? You. Feel. Fucking. Amazing. God, I needed this.”

  I thrust my hips back and forth, taking every inch of him in with each downward motion.

  “Grab my tits,” I said. “Squeeze ‘em.”

  As I continued to fuck him like a woman on some kind of a once-in-a-lifetime sexual mission, he began to squeeze and suck my boobs.

  His mood soon changed from the overcautious protector to bad-ass biker, and it was exactly what I needed. While nibbling on my tits, he bit into one of my nipples. Hard. I wailed out from the extreme mixture of pleasure from the pain.

  “Ouch!”

  His eyes shot wide, and he pulled away.

  “Do it again,” I gasped. “Bite me.”

  He sank his teeth into my nipples gently and eventually began to bite them. I closed my eyes and continued to fuck him with all I had. As the bed creaked from my frantic thrusts, my breathing became irregular, and I felt somewhat embarrassed.

  I was reaching climax, and he wasn’t.

  I tried my best to hide my pleasure, hoping to slip an orgasm past him without his knowledge. As my emotions began to mount, I closed my eyes and allowed the orgasm to shoot through me like an electric shock.

  I shook from head to toe, and the pace of my strokes slowed considerably.

  Exhausted and feeling rather sensitive in the downtown region, I climbed from his cock and bought myself a moment’s time.

  I stroked his cock a few times, then began to suck it like I was in a timed event, trying to beat the clock. His hips began to lift from the bed slightly, and when I realized it, I raised my mouth from the tip and fought to catch my breath.

  “Fuck my mouth.”

  “What?”

  “Fuck. My. Mouth.”

  “Get on your knees.”

  I complied. He got off the bed and stood in front of me with his thick cock sticking straight out, he gripped my head in his hands, and began to shove his cock down my throat.

  “That’s right, suck that cock,” he growled.

  Oh, God yes.

  Talk dirty to me.

  He forced himself deep into my throat, causing my eyes to water from the force. “I’m going to make you gag on this motherfucker if it’s the last thing I do.”

  After a few seconds my eyes began to bulge, and I slapped my hand against his thigh, tapping out.

  He pulled himself from my mouth, and immediately after I gasped a breath, he forced himself right back into my throat.

  “You’re a good little bitch,” he growled. “Now suck that cock like you know you can.”

  He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, forcing the tip of his dick into to the soft flesh in my throat. I reached down and fingered my clit as the shaft of his cock stretched my mouth wide. Nick’s trust that I was not broken was bringing me dangerously close to another orgasm. I pulled myself away and fought to catch a breath. As I gasped for air, he lifted me from the floor by my arms.

  “Bend over,” he said.

  Fuck yes.

  I bent over the end of the bed and hiked my ass high in the air. I was soaked and more than ready for whatever he had to offer.

  He seized me from behind, slid in with ease, and began to fuck me deeply. In no time, he had my hair in his hand, his muscular chest pressed into my back, and his mouth on my right ear.

  “I’m going to fill your tight little pussy with cum,” he breathed.

  Oh God.

  “Full,” he said.

  Please…

  My body began to tingle.

  I spread my feet wider. His balls began tapping a tune on my clit with each stroke. I bit into my lower lip, prepared for the orgasm of the century, and waited.

  A few strokes later, and my eyes went wide. I felt like I was on the verge of coming apart. I wanted to scream for him to stop, fearing something was wrong, but before I had a chance to throw in the towel, I exploded.

  “Ohmyfuckinggod!” I stammered. “Ohmyfuckinggod!”

  I must have repeated myself half a dozen times as the jolts ran through me like mini-lightning bolts.

  His cock swelled, and he pulled my hair taught. “Fuck yes!” he wailed. “Here I come!”

  His breath went from grunts against my neck and face to irregular fits of breathing that burst out into the open room.

  And he came.

  Another orgasm shot through me as I felt him discharge into my cervix. I cried out in pleasure, gripped the comforter tight in my hands, and came close to crying from the pleasure I felt.

  Seconds later we had collapsed side-by-side on the bed, our legs dangling over the edge, and our arms draped to the sides.

  He turned to the side and gripped my neck in his hand. I sighed and met his gaze as he pulled against my neck, forcing my lips to his. A few kisses later, and he pulled away and looked me in the eye.

  “My little bitch,” he said.

  Hearing that wouldn’t have made very many women happy, but I wasn’t very many women.

  “I sure am.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Nick

  I couldn’t claim to have fallen in love before, so identifying what it was I felt and giving it a label wasn’t something I found easy to do. And, to be truthful, with me being a big bad-ass biker, even if I was in love, I probably wouldn’t want to admit it.

  But I was able to identify pride.

  And I was proud of having Peyton in my life.

  I turned the corner and rolled up the street. Not in a million lifetimes would I have guessed I’d be doing what I was doing.

  “Why won’t you just tell me?” she asked.

  “Because it’s a surprise.”

  “I think that’s chicken-shit,” she said.

  I released the throttle and coasted down the street. “See the light blue one over there?”

  She leaned forward and rested her chin on my shoulder. “The one with the big rock garden?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about it?”

  “Brent Houseman lived there. We were buddies in high school.”

  “You used to live around here?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cool”

  The bike slowed to an almost stop, but I had half a block or so to go, so I rolled on a little throttle. “The yellow one over there was where Becky Tharp lived. She was a cheerleader. And, no, I didn’t bang her. She was a bitch.”

  “Nice to know,” she said.

  As we came closer, I felt nervous, and really, nothing made me nervous. Hell, I had walked into abandoned buildings that were filled with men who were armed and wanted to kill me, and I wasn’t as nervous as I was with her.

  “See the white one there on the right?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s where I grew up.”

  Her grip on my waist tightened, and she leaned forward. “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Until when? When did you move out?”

  I shifted into neutral and rolled to a stop in the middle of the street, thirty feet or so from the drive. The exhaust rumbled a low drone as it idled, echoing the sound of our arrival for all to hear.

  “When I went to war, pretty much.”
r />   “Oh wow. Where do your parents live now?”

  I motioned toward the house. “Still live right there.”

  “You’re not. Were you. Is that where we’re going?”

  “Yep. If you’re ready, that is.”

  “Nick, you shit-head. Really?”

  “If you’re ready. If you’re not, tell me now so I can get the fuck out of here before either of them see me.”

  “I’m wearing shorts, Chuck’s and a shitty shirt,” she complained.

  “You look cute,” I assured her. “Yes, or no?”

  “I mean, I want to, but--”

  “Yes, or no?”

  “I would love to, but I look like--”

  I pulled in the clutch, shifted into gear, and released it. As the bike got even with the drive, she slapped my shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  I got on the brakes, but it was too late. I rolled past and had to turn around in the middle of the street to get into the drive.

  We parked, and I shut off the bike. “Ready?”

  “Oh boy.” She took off her helmet, brushed the wrinkles from her shirt, and adjusted her ponytail. “Okay.”

  I hung my helmet on the bars. “Let’s do it.”

  Together we nervously walked up the walk. After stepping on the porch, I rapped my knuckles against the door three times.

  “Enter!”

  And I opened the door.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Peyton

  Nick opened the door and I stepped inside. I hadn’t seen my father since Christmas. After his relocation to North Carolina, the holidays were the only time I saw him or my brothers. I hoped meeting Nick’s mother and father, although traumatic, would provide me comfort.

  I stepped to Nick’s side. He rested his left arm on my shoulder, and sighed. “Pop, this is Peyton.”

  His father jumped from the chair he was sitting in and held out his right hand. He looked just like Nick, only twenty or so years older. Regardless of his age, I was shocked at the similarities in their appearance. “Well shit, Son. You should have warned us. Nice to meet you, Peyton.”

  “We were just in the neighborhood,” Nick said. “Thought we’d stop by for a minute.”

  I heard some noise in the kitchen, and suspected it was his mother.

  “Our son’s here!” his father yelled. “And he brought a surprise.”

  I laughed to myself at the fact he yelled at her like she was a mile away, when in fact she was only a few feet away.

  “We’ll go in there,” Nick said. “Be right back.”

  I followed him to the kitchen. When we stepped in, his mother was at the sink, bent over scrubbing it with a scouring pad.

  “Always doing something,” he said. “Turn around, I want you to meet someone.”

  She sighed, and turned around.

  Oh my God.

  I almost fainted. My legs went wobbly. I may have even gasped, but I wasn’t sure. If I did, no one said anything afterward. I fought to stay composed, and although it wasn’t easy, I followed her lead.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m Elizabeth, Nicholas’ mother. What was your name?”

  I swallowed heavily and fought not to cry. “Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.”

  But she already knew my name. She was the woman who saved me from myself.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Peyton,” she said. “Nicholas, go take off that thing, and come back when it’s gone.”

  Nick sighed. “Fine. I’ll hang it on my bike.”

  He walked away. I stood there, not knowing what to do or say. She gripped my hand in hers, pulled me to her side, and rinsed the sink. “It’s so nice to have you here.”

  She knew everything about me. I’d told her about the incident entirely, about my mother dying, and about all of my quirks, shortcomings, and my strengths. I’d told her about my job, the need to write the article, and about having a man in my life that I wasn’t sure about.

  I had, more than anything, simply told her the truth. Knowing that she knew everything about me, I couldn’t help but wonder if she would accept me or reject me as Nick’s significant other.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Do you know how to make chicken marsala?” she asked.

  I shook my head. I really didn’t know how to make much. Growing up without a mother, going to college, and having a demanding job left me with little time to learn to cook.

  “No,” I said.

  She took me by the hand and led me to the oven. “Stand right there, and let me get everything. We’ll make it together, how’s that?”

  I grinned. “Sounds good.”

  “Sounds good?” She chuckled, then opened the refrigerator door. “Nicholas says that all the time, and now he’s got you saying it. It’s nice to see he’s rubbing off on you. He’s a nice boy.”

  I nodded. “He is.”

  She placed everything on the countertop.

  “All he’s ever needed was a nice girl.” She looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I’m so glad he finally found one.”

  She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight.

  I loved having Nick hold me and hug me, but there would never be anything that would come close to be being held in a mother’s arms.

  Elizabeth may not have been my mother, but my heart sure didn’t know it.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Peyton

  I sat at my desk with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, knowing I was on the verge of losing my job.

  If it bleeds, it sells.

  Words to live by in the world of journalism.

  Children being saved from a burning building were never as popular as a mass shooting. A front page color photo of a sunset would sit stagnant, while a front page color photo of a grotesquely graphic car wreck would sell out.

  I needed something graphic, something gut-wrenching, something memorable.

  But, I refused to use Nick or his club as a vehicle to sell newspapers. There were many stories to tell, but none that I was willing to divulge. Camden Rollins III would probably fire me when it was all over, but I could not pen a vicious story about Nick and the FFMC.

  At least not something worth reading.

  I decided, above all, I needed to write a story that made a difference. Something that was gut-wrenching, but not too gory. A heartfelt, but tear-jerking story that stuck with the reader long after they were done reading it. Something that made them say, what the fuck was that about?

  Something they may even read again. After they thought about it.

  I relaxed in my chair, stared at my monitor, and sighed. After a long period of silence, it came to me.

  My fingers no longer hovered over the keyboard. They tapped at record pace. In a few hours, I had the story.

  I read it, re-read it, and printed a copy.

  Proudly, I walked into Mr. Rollins’ office, tossed it on his desk, and grinned. “Sorry I’m a few months late.”

  His eyes met mine. After a short glare, he picked it up. A few seconds later, he looked up, but his eyes fell right back down to the page.

  When he finished, he dropped it onto his desk.

  “This? This is why I let you do what you want, when you want.”

  I grinned. “Like it?”

  He shook his head. “Love it.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I’m rolling with this on Sunday. What’ll the headline say, Peyton?”

  I shrugged. “Call it what it is.”

  He widened his eyes.

  “Hard,” I said. “Call it hard.”

  Because it was.

  EPILOGUE

  Nick

  Peyton, Pee Bee, and I were at the shop, trying to decide where to go to lunch.

  “It’s Sunday,” Pee Bee said. “Nothing’s fucking open that’s good.”

  “Pizza?” Peyton asked. “Haven’t had pizza in forever.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said.
>
  “Shit,” Pee Bee said, his voice a few octaves lower than normal.

  “What?”

  “Behind you,” he said. “Your fucking buddy.”

  I turned around just in time to see the detective pull into the parking lot.

  My asshole puckered at the thought of being arrested again, or being questioned in front of Peyton.

  His car came to a stop beside us. He rolled his window down, and reached into the passenger seat. After turning around, he stuck his head out the window and grinned. “Can you read, Navarro?”

  I nodded. “Comics and shit, yeah?”

  He tossed me a newspaper. “Read that,” he said. “That right there? The front page? That’s good shit.”

  “Peanut Butter, Navarro, Ms. Price.” He nodded toward each of us as he said our names. “Have a nice day.”

  He grinned and drove away.

  I opened the paper, saw the headline, and made note of the reporter’s name. I looked at Peyton.

  She shrugged.

  And, I began to read.

  ***

  A mother dies in a horrific car crash, leaving her children to be raised by an overworked father and an immigrant babysitter. No one cares, because there wasn’t a photo attached to the story of her death.

  A pic or it didn’t happen.

  If it bleeds, it sells. But that shouldn’t be the case. The world has changed. A best-selling love story will soon be a thing of the past. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’ll be here before you know it. The romance world has been turned on its ear by step-brother romances, slaughterotica, and priests with a penchant for girls.

  It must be shocking, or it won’t sell. If it’s a tale of love, hatred – or anything in between – it doesn’t sell. And it won’t.

  Be the first to pen a new way to have sex with a corpse, and you’ll hit the New York Times best-sellers list. Write a book about two people who fall in love, get married, and have triplets, and you’ll go broke.

  Front page articles are used to sell the newspaper. The cover story. Lure them in at any and all costs. Write it long enough to require them to flip to two or three more pages, and you’ve done your job.

  How does a journalist tell a tale of love and still capture the interest of the reader enough to provoke them to complete the story?