Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  “I’m going to lick your perfect fucking cunt.”

  He’s do dirty. He’s such a dirty man.

  Holding my ass cheeks apart—me bent over, hands propped against the shower tiles—Jude brings his tongue to my pussy. He licks me slowly, starting with my lips and trailing up and down them with the tip of his tongue. Then he brushes my clit. Just brushes it, teasing me, but that single touch is enough to send a rush of rapture through my body. I close my eyes as the ball of heat deep in my sex begins to grow. I know that heat well. It’ll grow and grow and when it’s too big, it’ll implode.

  “Fuck, I can’t hold back.”

  “Then don’t,” I moan.

  His tongue flickers back and forth on my clit so fast I bet it’s a blur. That perfect, oh-so-tender point of pleasure turns into an inferno. I close my eyes and in a few moments of mad licking I can’t feel the water, the bruises, the anger, the confusion, anything. All I feel is the euphoria of his tongue and his strong, hitman’s hands on my ass cheeks. He’s a dirty bastard. He’s a dirty, violent man. You’re bent over in the shower being fucking licked out by a dirty, violent man. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yes. Fuck it all. Fuck being the good girl. Fuck being the quiet girl. Fuck being the scared girl. Be his instead. Fuck, be his!

  The orb of fire becomes huge in my tender place. Every inch of me tingles. My legs begin to vibrate like crazy, my knees knocking together. My toes curl in an effort to keep gripped to the shower, lest the pleasure send me tumbling down.

  Bigger, hotter, steamier than the walls of the shower, hotter than the gushing water—hot, hot, hot. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I close my eyes shut so hard I feel, as if from faraway, a pang in my black eyes. But the pain passes quickly when the orgasm hits me.

  I never knew I could squirt, but when the orgasms strikes, pleasure like I’ve never felt gushes out of me, gushes with more force than the showerhead, more anger than our argument, more ferocity than Jude’s deathly trade.

  When it passes, I loll against the wall. Jude stands up behind me and leans forward. “You squirted all over me, baby,” he says, voice so damn sexy right now I almost come again just from his breath touching my ear. “Now I’m going to fuck you. I want you to squirt on my cock.”

  “Y-yes,” I moan.

  The water, my come, and the pre-come on his rock-hard, massive cock let him slide into me easily, as though his cock is meant to be in my pussy. He buries balls-deep, touching my sweet spot, and his abs press against my soaked ass cheeks. I close my eyes again as he fucks me, resting my forehead against the shower wall. He slides in and out slowly, both of us feeling every minute movement. Slowly, gently, passionately, he fucks me, and then he gets harder and faster until, before I know it, the tip of his cock is slamming into me with all our pent-up passion.

  It’s like he unchains himself; he lets himself go.

  He smacks into me. Each time his cock hits that wanting place inside of me, the orb of heat returns, grows bigger, and bigger and bigger. He pushes my ass cheeks together. “Fuck, your ass is perfect. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Emily. Fuck. Come on my cock.” His voice is desperate as he tries to hold himself back.

  As if his words are a trigger, the orb releases. All at once I come so hard, and for so long, moisture is coating my thighs. I’m wetter, something I didn’t think was possible, and Jude fucks me so hard now his cock is like a force of nature, in, out, in, out. Then, he pushes deep into me one final time, groaning, biting my ear. I reach up and touch his face as I squirt and he comes.

  We stay like that for a long time, his cock wilting inside of me, and then I stand up and face him.

  “Wow,” he says.

  “Wow,” I agree, and then step forward and kiss him, pressing our naked, tired bodies together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jude

  When I wake up, I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of déjà vu. At first, I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.

  Then I feel Emily in my arms, snuggled into the nook of my armpit, and it hits me. I woke up with Anna like this many times, though Anna usually reeked of stale whisky and weed. I remember looking down at Anna—as I look down at Emily now—but I didn’t feel then as I do now. Now, I feel a deep warmth in my chest, a safe warmth, a warmth unlike any I ever expected to feel after Anna was shipped away by her parents, after Mom and Dad died deep in the lake. I’ve only ever loved Emily, I think, with a jolt in my chest. It’s the truth and yet each time it hits me, it’s a surprise.

  I stand up, naked, and go about the room picking up clothes. Emily mutters in her sleep and pulls my pillow close to her, snuggling into it. I watch as she brings the pillow to her nose and sniffs it, a long breath, as though in her sleep she wants to trick herself into believing I’m still next to her. The desire to climb back into bed with her is so strong for a moment I almost succumb to it. She’s naked, too, and her naked body is the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes upon.

  When I’m dressed, I go into the kitchen and gather up my tools from the lockbox under the sink, buried far back amidst cleaning spray and sponges (all Emily’s purchases). I take out the box, unlock it, and tool myself up. Two pistols, a knuckle-duster, and a short, fat knife. I lock the box and return to the bedroom. I should leave right away, but I can’t resist one final look at Emily. There’s going to be blood today, nastiness, pain, and for the first time in a long time, I question it.

  What if I just climbed back into bed with her? I think. What would happen? What if I just snuggled in next to her and ignored this bloody business?

  I would lose my place as a hitter—or it would come into question at the least. I wonder, as I stand here looking down at the strong, independent, willful, fiery woman I’ve given myself to, if that would be such a bad thing. Maybe I should just leave the life and make her my life instead.

  But even as I think it, I know it’s just a silly dream. This woman has changed me, is changing me, but I doubt the change would ever go that far.

  Still, as I leave the room, I stop at the door and steal one last glance at her. She’s huddled up, her knees drawn to her chest, and then she brings her thumb to her mouth and starts sucking it. She looks damn cute and damn sexy at the same time.

  I leave before I really lose my nerve.

  Time to go to work, I think, as I walk into the hallway.

  Chapter Twenty

  Emily

  I open my eyes, a sleepy smile on my face.

  I was dreaming of Jude, of the sex we had last night. But other things, too, mad things which are blue-sky in the extreme. I dreamt that I woke up one morning, but I wasn’t here or in Patrick’s apartment. I was in our house. I woke up and Jude was standing over me in a bathrobe, hair wet, looking sexy and stern. He walked over to the bed and knelt down next to me. “Ready for the barbeque today?” he asked me. “Barbeque?” I responded. He nodded. “Yes, Jimmy’s looking forward to it.” I was about to ask who’s Jimmy when a little boy, red-haired and looking every bit like a miniature Jude, charged into the room and sprung up on the bed.

  Silly, I think, sitting up and massaging the sleep from my eyes. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. There’s no doubt about that. Jude and I are—what? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Not even that? Perhaps we’re just people who are having sex. Fuck buddies is the phrase, I think. But I don’t think it’s that, either. It must be somewhere in between.

  My first instinct upon waking is to get ready for work, but I texted Mrs. M last night and she shot a text back almost instantly, telling me it was fine if I took a little time off. She’s too understanding for her own good, but then, she knows my home life is less than perfect.

  I sit in bed for a long time, paralyzed by this unexpected stretch of free time. My life, always, is one long course of activity. I wake up, I go to work, and then I return home and Patrick whisks me up like a mad tornado and drags me to a fight, a deal, some other dark dingy place I have no business being. I can’t think of another time in my life where I’ve been a
ble to just sit with no consequences.

  But sitting up in bed can only be done for so long. I get up and get dressed, and then go into the kitchen. The kitchen. It’s still a wreck, glass and shards. Some of the glass has been crushed into the kitchen floor, telling me that Jude has been in here with his boots on this morning. So you’re Sherlock Holmes now? A voice taunts, sounding annoyingly like my brother. I push it away and let myself smile. I put on my sneakers and return to the kitchen, looking over the chaos, evidence of our fierce argument, an argument which brought us closer together. We’ve shown the monsters inside of us, and neither of us has run. Strange.

  “Right,” I mutter, looking from destroyed cupboard to exploded oven, “I think I’ve found my project for the morning.”

  I drink a coffee and eat a cereal bar, and then set to work. I gather up trash bags, a broom, and a dustpan and brush.

  I work from ten o’clock until around eleven-thirty. When I’m done, the place looks bare and empty—cupboards are still missing, stray pieces of glass cling to the oven—but at least it’s safe. Must get a vacuum, I think, and then laugh at myself. It’s not even my place. But it’s not like Jude’s going to buy one. Just the idea of Jude prancing around in the apartment with a vacuum cleaner is enough to make me giggle.

  I pile up the trash bags next to the door and then drop onto the couch. Let’s hope he doesn’t go crazy every time we have an argument, I think. We’re going to have to either get a new oven or pay someone to put some more glass in. New cupboards. New mugs. If he goes like that every time, we’ll be replacing it all every month.

  Part of me knows I should leave this apartment. I shouldn’t stay with a violent man. But Jude’s violence is different from Patrick’s. Jude, not once, made a move toward me as if to hit me. It didn’t even cross his mind to direct his rage at me—at my face, at my belly, at my tender flesh. It never once occurred to him to bring his fist down on me, like Patrick has done innumerable times. Jude was just angry; he broke things. That was all. Anyway, I reflect, bringing my fingers to the soft, puffy flesh around my eyes, Jude would never do this to me. Heck, Jude wants to kill the man who did this to me.

  That makes me shiver. Patrick the monster, Patrick the psychopath, Patrick the junkie, Patrick the man who deserves all the bad things Jude could do to him . . .

  And yet he’s still my brother.

  Don’t get into that again!

  I switch on the TV, turning to the nature channel, and lean back on the couch. The documentary is about penguins, the one with Morgan Freeman, about how they mate for life and go on journeys together, about how the couples’ calls are tailored to be able to find each other in crowds of thousands. I wonder if people ever get that close. I wonder if it’s possible. I wonder if love can really be like that.

  The documentary’s almost over when the apartment buzzer rings.

  My chest seizes at the noise, carving through the quiet apartment like a machete. I swallow, mouth dry, and walk on shaky legs to the intercom. Has Patrick found out where Jude lives? I swallow again and this time my throat’s so dry it’s like there’s something lodged in there.

  With a hand that won’t stop trembling, I press the answer button.

  “Emily?” a woman barks, voice high-pitched and authoritative.

  “Um, yes?”

  “It’s Moira, Jude’s sister. Are you going to let me up or what?”

  “Oh,” I mutter. “Sure.”

  I press the button to open the door, thinking: Jude’s sent me a babysitter.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jude

  Tool greets me with a wide, toothy grin, shoving shotgun shells into a sawn-off. The bar is empty apart from a few old-timers sitting in the corner drinking whisky in the dancing-mote half-light and a few new-timers pouring the whisky for the old men. Tool leans an elbow on the bar as he loads his weapon.

  “Got everything you need, man?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, patting the holsters hidden near my waistline, just under my shirt. “Don’t know why you’ve always got to be so loud, Tool.” I gesture at his sawn-off. “Anyway, I thought you preferred—”

  Tool rolls his eyes. “A few times, man, a few times I used a hammer—and once a wrench—on some really nasty pieces of shit. Rapists and pedophiles and all that. Thought they deserved the special treatment.” He cracks the sawn-off, loading it, and drops it into a duffle bag at his feet. “And just ‘cause of that, I have to spend the rest of my life with the word Tool tattooed on my forehead.”

  I gesture at his head. “There’s no tattoo there.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” He scowls. “Funny man. You know what I mean. What about you, with your Judas Kiss?”

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “It’s just a punch,” I say.

  “Just a punch? Ha! Last time I punched a man—and trust me, I do it often enough—I didn’t fly through the air like a ninja.”

  “I don’t fly through the air. I just throw my weight into it, is all.”

  “I’d do that, but I’d end up breaking my knees. I think there should be a warning on cake, man: Don’t eat if you like your knees. Mine are shot to hell.” He pats his rotund belly affectionately. “Anyway, shall we get going? The van should pull up any second—” Tool grins. Outside, the screech of tires sounds.

  “Who’ve we got with us today?”

  “We’re the seniors today, man. The rest are green kids. Shouldn’t matter, though. I’ve heard this Barry asshole is a real monster, but no one’s too much of a monster for us, eh?”

  I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “We’ve got it handled.”

  We walk into the street, and then directly into back of the van. On the side of the van are the words: Sandwich Service! Sandwiches Direct to Your Office! Tool and I sit on one side, opposite three men who I haven’t learnt the names of yet. You get plenty of new fish in this business. The cold truth is most of these men won’t be able to cut it. They’ll be dead, in prison, or running in a couple of years. It takes an iciness to survive this life, the ability to freeze your veins, which most men lack.

  What about you? Your veins aren’t frozen anymore, are they? Not with Emily.

  I ignore the voice and listen as Tool drones on, which he tends to do before any job. The van cruises through the city, the only light the dim glow through the porthole-like back windows.

  “Have you all heard of this Barry guy?” Tool asks. He goes on before anybody can reply. “Because I have, and let me tell you, he sounds like a real piece of shit. He sounds worse than that, even. I don’t know if the boss told you, but this man’s a kidnapper, a torturer, and a rapist—of children. That’ll give you some idea of the kind of man we’re dealing with. I also talked to some buddies of mine last night, you know, to get a lay of the land. Man, man, the shit they told me would make toes curl.”

  “Like what?” an eighteen-year-old kid with freckles and a mop of brown hair asks.

  “You don’t want to know, kid,” Tool says. “But I’ll tell you anyway if you’re so damn curious.” The van goes over a bump. We all jostle in our seats and then sit back down. “My buddy’s got a buddy who’s got a sister. This sister, well . . . she can’t be the brightest light in the world, let’s just say that. This Barry asshole seduced her, took her on loads of nice dates, all that stuff. And then one day, out of the blue, he just beat the shit out of her. The man told my buddy that his sister was on life support for a while, multiple breaks, fractures, punctured lung. She still has health troubles now. So, ladies and gents.” He winces, and then chuckles. “So, gents. We’re dealing with a man who does not deserve to breathe. Never forget that. Hold it close. Push it deep into your mind. This. Man. Does. Not. Deserve. To. Breath.”

  The brown-haired kid laughs, and Tool’s eyes dart to him. “Something funny, kid?”

  The van goes over another bump. We’re all thrown up—and then down.

  “N-no,” the kid whispers, holding his hands up in a show of peace.
>
  “You laughed,” Tool says through gritted teeth. “You fuckin’ laughed at me.”

  “N-n-no, I’m . . . I’m s-s-sorry . . .”

  Tool leans forward, staring daggers at the kid.

  I clap Tool on the back. “Leave off, Tool,” I say. “Look at him. You’re scaring the poor bastard.”

  Tool lets out a laugh and rocks back in his seat. “I’m just fucking with you, kid. You’re my teammate. I don’t friendly fire. We’re about to meet the real enemy. Got some intel he’s going to be at a certain hooker’s apartment.” Tool strokes his sawn-off. “I don’t think he’s going to get the happy ending he’s looking for.”

  Everybody laughs, the tension dissipating.

  I clench my fists—my palms still sore from last night—and think of the moment I saw Barry pull Emily into his lap. The fear on her face. The fear on my woman’s face.