Dirty Like Seth: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 3)

by Jaine Diamond

  Then I introduced Amanda around to Katie’s family; I’d had a chance to meet them at the engagement party back in the fall. Nice people. Solid. Loved Jesse something fierce. And they took to Amanda right away, like everyone did.

  Why wouldn’t they?

  Amanda was charming in a genuine way, and easy to talk to. Not to mention easy on the eyes. Definitely deserved better than some distracted asshole who couldn’t even fucking see her.

  Because the entire time I introduced her around the room, eventually landing at the bar where she got chatting with Katie’s parents, playing on repeat at the back of my mind—actually, at the front of it—was: Where the fuck is Jessa?

  Where. The Fuck. IS she.

  I would’ve liked to believe myself when I explained to myself that my interest in the answer to that question was purely for Jesse’s benefit. That as one of his best friends and groomsmen, not to mention his manager, it was my duty to help make sure this thing went off without a hitch, that Jesse was happy, that Katie got the wedding of her dreams; that as soon as they got back from their honeymoon, Jesse was going back into writing mode for the new album and it was important he not be distracted or dealing with the fallout of some bullshit family drama, courtesy of his disappearing-act of a sister… or some such shit.

  But the truth was, I had to see her again.

  Had to.

  One glimpse of her, standing in the rain at the airport, her face tipped back as she grinned at the sky like she didn’t have a fucking care in the world, wearing my shirt—or at least, a shirt that looked a fuck of a lot like a shirt I’d once had, that she’d been wearing the last time I saw it—and I was done.

  Done.

  Sitting all of two feet from her in my truck? I was well and truly fucked. Because I’d forgotten how many colors there were in those soulful dark eyes. Forgotten how fucking pretty she was; how painfully fucking pretty. And I could still see the little girl she once was in those eyes—the little girl who’d looked at me like I ruled the fucking world.

  I could barely look at her, could barely fucking breathe—that smell of her, fuck me, the smell of her that hadn’t changed in all the years since I’d met her, sweet and pure, like apples and blossoms and rain and fucking stardust and moonbeams; I couldn’t say what it was, but yeah. All I could do was grip the wheel and concentrate on driving and just try to keep from foaming at the mouth when I lit into her—try to pretend that none of it mattered; all my pissed off, miles-deep frustrations; all the disappointment; all the repressed agony and the pent-up clusterfuck of rage… that none of it destroyed me at all… that she didn’t destroy me, when she so fucking did… all of it, just broiling beneath the surface, ready to blow.

  And her voice.

  That fucking voice I hadn’t heard in six-and-a-half years, melodic and soft and so fucking her.

  I had never in my life had to jack off so badly that I pulled my vehicle off the road, onto the shoulder of a fucking highway, and took my cock out while cars blasted by and I did not give one fuck who saw me.

  But I did just that.

  Not five minutes after dropping her off with Jude, on my way to pick up Amanda… because no one needed to see me like that. So totally fucked up.

  Christ, who does that?

  A maniac, that’s who.

  And if I was a maniac, it was because Jessa Mayes, once upon a time, turned me into one. But shit happens, yeah? I was a kid then. Since then, I’d become a man. I wasn’t gonna unravel at Jesse’s wedding.

  And I didn’t.

  I was good. I had this.

  Until I heard her name, just somewhere in the ether, and I knew she was here.

  Jessa.

  Someone said it, somewhere, and I turned to look across the room like a dog tossed a scrap. Pretty sure I salivated. My wine glass broke in my hand. It made an audible popping sound, and both Amanda and I looked down to find the delicate bowl of the glass, still in my hand, cracked, wine dribbling out.

  At least I wasn’t bleeding.

  “Omigosh,” Amanda said, and grabbed a bunch of napkins from the bar to help me. “Um… I think you’re supposed to finish drinking the wine before you break the glass.” She smiled at me, then got the bartender to whisk the broken glass away and hand me a fresh one.

  While I just stood there.

  Staring across the room.

  Because Jessa Mayes had just walked in wearing a dress that couldn’t possibly be legal on that body.

  Not that there was anything scandalous about the dress on its own. It was fitted to her goddess-like curves, but it was longish, ending just below the knee, the neckline dipping no lower than her collarbone, with half-sleeves. It wasn’t exactly an upstaging-the-bride sort of dress. It wasn’t white, slutty, or showing miles of leg—and Jessa Mayes had miles and miles of leg under that thing.

  It was just what it did to my brain when I saw her in it.

  It was made of what looked like thick, bunched-up silk. Not quite peach, not quite pink… salmon? Iced-rose-cantaloupe-sorbet? I had no idea what the fuck a chick would call it, but it was motherfucking hot.

  Along with her silky, slightly wavy hair that reached pretty much exactly to her nipples, worn smooth, the ends curled under and one side tucked behind a perfect ear, she looked like a screen siren out of some old black-and-white movie—but in vivid flesh tones, like some technicolor wet dream.

  Hard to tell when I’d picked her up at the airport in that furry jacket, but now I could see how she’d changed since she went away—in all ways holy and good. As a little girl she was cute, a little dorky, scrappy, with her mane of wild brown hair and those big brown eyes. As a teenager, she got lithe and limber, swanned right out into an angel-faced beauty.

  As a woman…

  I’d seen photos of her these last six-and-a-half years. Professional photos from high-end shoots for major fashion brands. It was pathetic how often I’d searched her on the web, found new shots of her from some swimsuit shoot or lingerie campaign I hadn’t yet seen, and saved them.

  None of those photos came close to capturing what I was looking at right now.

  Jessa’s eyes found mine across the room… and that wide-eyed look of hers went straight to my dick.

  Christ.

  She turned away, hastily. Then she bent down to give Dolly a hug, giving me a first-rate view of her perfect, heart-shaped ass, and I just about broke another wine glass.

  It was fucking official. The woman was trying to kill me.

  Wasn’t enough that I was dead to her; she was actually trying to end me.

  As I watched her across the room the most fucked up thing was, after being that close to her again—close enough to breathe the same air, close enough to smell her, close enough to glimpse all those colors in her eyes—I’d probably let her.

  I put the wine glass down on the bar and stared at my hand wrapped around it, afraid if I let go the whole thing would fall apart. Stared kind of blankly at the tattoo on the inside of my forearm, a single line of runes that read abstinence. A tattoo that only I, or someone who happened to know how to read ancient Germanic runic writing, would understand. And for the life of me I couldn’t remember what it was supposed to mean or why the fuck I had it permanently inked into my arm, other than the fact that it had nothing to do with abstaining from alcohol or any other such substance—and a lot more to do with the goddess across the room in the silk-sorbet dress.

  I let go of the wine glass and ordered up a beer from the bartender. Why the fuck was I drinking wine anyway? I didn’t even like wine.

  Amanda. Amanda liked wine.

  My gaze fell to her. She was standing next to me, sipping her wine and watching me over the rim of her glass. It really wouldn’t take a genius to match my line of sight to Jessa Mayes’ ass and Amanda was far from stupid, so I wasn’t even gonna pretend that wasn’t where I was staring for the last half minute.

  “That’s Jesse’s sister, right?” she asked lightly, like what I’d been staring at
didn’t bother her at all. But yeah, it did.

  Because perfect, heart-shaped ass.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my tone business-neutral. Like, Yeah, that’s the sister of one my best friends, and isn’t that nice she made it to the wedding? I haven’t seen her, or even thought about her, in six-and-a-half years. Have you tried the crab cakes yet?

  No idea if Amanda knew me well enough yet to see through that shit. But she smiled softly and the uneasy, suddenly self-conscious look in her eyes made me feel like that much more of an ass. “Maybe you could introduce us?”

  Yeah. I’d get right on that.

  “Have you tried the crab cakes yet?” I asked her. “I’ll get you some.”

  Then I took my beer and got the fuck out of there.

  Get Dirty Like Brody

  Sneak Peek: A Dirty Wedding Night

  A Dirty Wedding Night (Dirty #2.5)

  It wouldn’t be a rock star wedding without a whole lot of sex…

  It’s been one hell of a night at Cathedral Cove Resort. Love and lust are in the air, and rock star Jesse Mayes is just about to drag his bride, Katie, back to their luxurious cabin to celebrate in private.

  But the newlyweds aren’t the only ones in the mood…

  After all, sexy “wild card” Roni just disappeared into the dark with two hot, naked rock stars.

  And Dirty's lead singer, Zane, just took off—also naked—into the woods, with the band's assistant manager, Maggie.

  And what ever happened to that tall, dark and mysterious best man, Jude?

  And where the heck is the groom’s poor ex-girlfriend and bandmate, Elle?

  In this steamy must-read story collection, find out what happens (not always what you’d think!) when your favorite Dirty characters vanish into the night after the rock star wedding event of the year.

  4 couples… 4 dirty stories

  Included in A Dirty Wedding Night:

  A Dirty Vow

  A Dirty Secret

  A Dirty Lie

  A Dirty Deal

  A DIRTY WEDDING NIGHT

  A Dirty Vow

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jesse

  The fire bathed Katie’s face in lapping, golden light. She was sitting right beside me and she was so fucking beautiful, with her creamy skin and her sweet features and her dark hair… she laughed at something Zane said, and my stomach twirled.

  Butterflies. The girl actually gave me butterflies.

  As she raised her champagne glass to her lips, gazing into the fire, I glimpsed the platinum wedding band I’d slipped onto her finger earlier this evening; it glinted in the dark, reflecting the flames, and it gave me a total rush. That shiny band now marked Katie Bloom as married. As mine.

  And that shit was making me hard.

  Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy; it was cold out, but that flush might’ve been from the booze. She was definitely a little drunk, but it was a cute drunk. She’d been pacing herself throughout the night. I’d made sure of that. Because sometimes when Katie got too drunk, she couldn’t come, and that wouldn’t fucking do.

  Not on our wedding night.

  Not when I was desperate to watch her come; to feel her come.

  Several times.

  She caught me perving on her and smiled. Her big blue-green eyes widened in the firelight—and that sweetly surprised look went straight to my cock. Just like it always did.

  Didn’t exactly help matters that she hadn’t let me fuck her in two long, aching days.

  Save it for our wedding night, she’d said, fending off my wandering hands as we arrived here at the resort, on the morning of the wedding rehearsal. It will be better if we wait.

  Which sounded like a nice idea at the time. Romantic. Hot.

  But that was yesterday. Before she proceeded to dance with me, flirt with me, make out with me at her stagette party—in a super-thin bikini top and minuscule cut-offs—then make me sleep in a separate bed.

  Today, she danced with me again, flirted with me some more, married me in a jaw-dropping-gorgeous dress, and at the reception, let me peel off her garter with my tongue. Without ever once giving my aching dick so much as a pity stroke.

  If I’d known by “wedding night” she actually meant almost dawn the next morning, I would’ve screwed her senseless every step of the way.

  Because fuck waiting.

  I held her gaze, sipping my beer, my tongue playing idly with the neck of the bottle, thinking about all the shit I was gonna do to her the second I got her alone… until her smile melted into something else, her teeth catching on her plump bottom lip.

  Then my gaze slid deliberately south… to the hint of cleavage and that alluring dip between her breasts, bared by her half-unzipped, down-filled jacket… to her sexy, curvy legs, crossed, in her tight jeans…. to her furry boots. They were new, and I hadn’t fucked her in them yet.

  I was gonna have to remedy that. Soon.

  “Jesus Christ. Quit eye-fucking your bride and go do it already.”

  I glanced at Zane, my lead singer and one of my groomsmen. I had to kind of blink him into focus, I was so cross-eyed with lust.

  He was sitting on Katie’s other side, a dirty, cocky smirk on his face. It was the one he usually used on women he was planning to fuck. Since he was using it on me right now, it was meant to piss me off—since his arm was around my wife.

  “You know, you’re married now,” he went on, his fingertips grazing Katie’s shoulder. “It’s not a sin anymore.” The touch was so light she probably didn’t even feel it through her puffy jacket. But it wasn’t meant for her. It was meant for me, because this was how Zane entertained himself when my woman was around. “Unless you’re waiting on some pointers…?”

  “Zane, don’t tease,” Katie scolded him, but she was still smiling too. She liked my friends; I liked that. She even put up with Zane’s flirting, which was both cool and annoying.

  “Yeah, man. The fuck are you waiting for?” Dylan chimed in. My drummer was now grinning at me across the fire.

  Not good.

  Zane and Dylan ganging up on me was never good. And unlike Zane, Dylan rarely busted my balls when it came to Katie… which clearly meant that us newlyweds were wearing out our welcome at the fire.

  Which was totally fucking fine with me.

  I’d felt a little obligated to hang out with our wedding guests, even though the reception was long over, and I knew Katie did, too. After all, they’d come all the way up here, hours north of the city, by floatplane, just to attend our wedding—at a remote resort in the wilderness that didn’t even have Wi-Fi—despite the fact that many of them were rock stars, or people who worked with rock stars, and therefore had other shit to do. I figured the least we could do was keep them fed, liquored, and entertained.

  Still; if I didn’t get to bury my dick in my new wife soon, I was gonna explode. Maybe literally. I’d been hard all fucking day.

  Well, not all day. But every time Katie kissed me, or brushed up against me, or looked at me like she was doing right now…

  Rock hard.

  I adjusted a little in my jeans, thinking about the welcoming warmth of Katie’s pussy, slippery wet and swollen… all hot for me and so sweet and tight—

  Jesus.

  I took a cooling swig of my beer.

  Time to fucking go.

  Only one slight problem. That being, I didn’t love leaving my little sister to the wolves.

  There were only a few people left by the fire, and my sister was one of them. After the reception had wound down and most of the wedding guests stumbled off to bed, my band, Dirty, and some of our closest friends had come out to the fire pit on one of the low cliffs over the cove to jam. We’d been drinking and playing songs, which had been incredible. With my sister, Jessa, here, it was like old times. The way it used to be when we were all together and she was still with the band. The best times.

  But now the music had died and everyone was kind of paired off and chatting. Jessa
and her friend Roni were huddled together, whispering in low, conspiratorial voices, glancing over at Dylan and his buddy, Ash. I didn’t even wanna know what that was about, though I was pretty sure it was about Roni, not Jessa.

  Dylan and Ash were drinking and goofing around, as usual.

  Brody, our band manager and another of my groomsmen, was sitting back in silence next to Maggie, our assistant manager, looking tense, just like he had the entire wedding. At least, whenever my sister was around.

  And there was Zane, his arm around my wife and that infamous panty-wetting grin on his face.

  “Unless, of course, you aren’t up to it.” Jesus; was he still fucking talking? At me? “Maybe you need a little nap? It’s been a long day, and you’re getting old. Pushing thirty. And you’ve been drinking… Maybe you just need someone to fill in for you. You know, get things warmed up—”

  “That kind of comment didn’t fly when I was dating her,” I told him, keeping my tone casual. No way I was letting Zane fuck with me tonight, and just because he was a recovered alcoholic and therefore sober did not mean he got to win some imaginary hard dick contest. I was plenty able to fuck my wife. Didn’t matter how late it got or how many beers were passed around; I’d been pacing myself, too. “It’s definitely not gonna fly now that I’ve married her.”

  Zane just laughed.

  Fucking guy.

  I could not wait ’til he fell in love. I’d have a fucking field day with that shit. The guy was always busting everyone else’s balls; he deserved some payback.

  Of course, I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting on Zane to get serious about a woman. Fucking around was kind of his lifeblood.

  Case in point: we’d just finished jamming on an acoustic cover of “Brown Eyed Girl”—Zane’s idea. He’d sung it specifically to serenade my brown-eyed sister, probably in part because he was happy she was here—we all were; it’d been fucking years since she’d been home to see us all—but also in part to piss off Brody. Because nothing ramped up Zane’s meddling urges like a guy who obviously had it bad for a girl—yet failed to make a play for her.