Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  Now . . . nothing.

  I’m stewing over these thoughts when a man arrives. He wears a plain blue polo t-shirt and has the hurried appearance of a courier. The bundle of flowers he holds blocks most of his face.

  “Miss Castle?” he says.

  “Uh . . . yeah?”

  He places the flowers on my bedside table, beside the magazines. “These are for you,” he states. “Sign here, please.”

  Feeling as though I am outside of my body, as though all this is happening to somebody else, I sign his e-signature machine and watch as he marches from the room. A moment later, I grab the envelope which sits propped up between two rose stems. I tear it open and there, in cash, is two-hundred dollars, along with a note: Give it some extra thought, gorgeous. You’re beautiful as you are, but you’d be a hell of a lot more beautiful if you put some real effort in.

  That son of a bitch, I think, crumpling up the letter in my hand. Does he think this is a joke? Does he think this is time for stupid jokes?

  “Nice flowers,” Tracey says, as she skips into the room. She is completely unharmed. Looks positively healthy, in fact.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, thinking: Who saved me? Was it Brody? But I have no clue. The masked machine gave nothing away. “Tracey, the Coffee Joint . . .”

  Tracey nods. “We’re out of work,” she says. “For now, at least. No idea how long the insurance company is going to take. You know what they’re like.”

  I glance at the crumpled note, the flowers, and then into Tracey’s too-calm face. Can this day get any worse?

  Chapter Eight

  Darla

  Leaving the hospital, I take a deep, long breath, savoring the sensation of fresh air swimming down my throat. It’s cool and refreshing, despite the heat of the day. I smile up at the sun, closing my eyes, and let it rest upon my face. Three days in the hospital and if I ever have to eat another congealed mass of something for desert again, it’ll be too soon.

  I catch a cab to my apartment and drop onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. My apartment is a small one-bedroom with an adjoined kitchen-living area. Books and clothes are strewn across the floor, but not so many for it to become overly messy. Each dropped item reminds me of the Coffee Joint. Invariably, they were dropped before or after a shift. I was reading a book, it was time for a shift, so I placed it on the floor for later. I was returning from a shift, bone-tired, and so I stripped down to my underwear and left the clothes on the floor. It annoys me. I spend a few minutes tidying and then return to the couch.

  I trail my finger along the edge of the envelope, undoubtedly from Brody. That jerk, I think. But there’s a shiver along my spine, a good shiver, a warm shiver, a shiver I find myself imagining is Brody’s forefinger. I am imagining him sitting behind me, shirtless, muscles tensed as he restrains the urge to jump on me. And as I imagine, my body betrays me. I want to be angry, and yet my heartbeat thumps like mad and my pussy cries out to be touched.

  Screw this, I think. He thinks I can be bought, does he?

  I shower, I change, and without giving myself time to contemplate what I’m doing, I catch a bus down to the fire department, envelope in my pocket.

  The fire department has big wooden double doors, like a barn, and when I walk across the stone floor, my footsteps echo all around me.

  A few yards away, there is a gym room; I hear men grunting and laughing.

  I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but then I can’t hold it in any longer.

  “Brody!” I scream.

  All at once, the laughing and the joking stop. For a moment, there is silence. And then the noise of squeaking sneakers on the stone floor.

  Three men poke their head around the door. One of them is Brody. A fine layer of sweat covers his forehead and his arm muscles almost bulge from his t-shirt. I can tell he’s just been lifting weights. Several of his veins are large and well-defined.

  Brody steps out of the room and waves his friends away. “Some privacy, fellas?” he smiles, all easygoing, like nothing in the world is wrong. He walks with his usual swagger, and that infuriates me even more. He has a cocky smile on his face and his steps echo even louder than mine did. Each step provokes a powerful beat of my heart, until it is like a drum in my chest.

  Finally, he reaches me, taking his sweet time.

  I reach into my pocket, take out, the envelope, and thrust it into his chest. “There,” I grunt. “You can take your tip and go to hell.”

  He reaches up reflexively and catches my hand. “Whoa, what’s all this about?” he says, in a projecting voice, meant for the four ogling eyes still peeking from the gym room.

  “I’ll tell you what it’s about,” I say. I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it securely. It’s like trying to dislodge my hand from a vice. “It’s about you trying to buy me, and being damn rude in the process. What’s all this shit about telling me to improve my looks? Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t treat people like this, Brody. You just can’t. Do you have any idea how stressful these past few days have been for me? And then I wake up, my throat sore and my job ruined, to a mean, small note.”

  I stop, gasping for breath. My anger got ahead of me.

  I watch his face. For a moment, something flickers across it, something human, something real. Then his arrogant mask returns and he grins sideways at me. “Listen, beautiful,” he says. “You’ve lost your job. I don’t think coming down here and trying to pay me for sex is the best course of action right now.”

  Is he serious?

  I’m outraged, I’m angrier than I’ve ever been, and yet . . .

  No, don’t think it! Don’t you dare!

  But I can’t help it. He holds my hand tightly and I sense the power of him, massive and awe-inspiring. I try again to pull my hand away, but it’s playacting. I really just want to feel the power of him, to feel how strong he is, to feel how easily he can hold me. He tightens his grip and stares at me with his dark hazel eyes. Stares into me. That’s what it feels like.

  I’ll show him. I’ll give him a taste he’ll never forget.

  I pull myself into him, stand on my tiptoes, and plant my lips upon his. I kiss him deeply and for what feels like a long time. He’s caught off guard, but it doesn’t take him long to come to. He returns the kiss. Our mouths open; our tongues brush up against each other. Tingles spread through my body and I hear myself moan, can’t help it. When Brody makes to reach up and wrap his arm around me, I step away. Face burning, lips aching, body screaming, I take another step back.

  The envelope, forgotten, drops to the floor.

  “That’s all you’ll ever get out of me,” I breathe. What did I just do? I wonder. That’s not like me. God, he drives me so crazy! One minute I feel one way and the next—God!

  Brody touches his lips, as though wanting to savor the taste of me. The way he brushes his finger along his lip makes me want to kiss him all over again. But I fight the urge. I have to remember who he is, what he did, how he treated me. But when you have a tall, muscular, handsome fireman looking down on you—when the taste of him lingers on your lips—it is difficult to remember all that.

  When he darts forward, I don’t move. I tell myself I’m too stunned. But that’s a lie. The truth is, I want him to be close to me.

  He leans close to my ear and when he talks, his warm breath caresses my skin. “If we were alone, I’d tear off your clothes, lift you off your feet, and fuck you right here, Darla. I’d fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. I’d fuck you so hard and for so long that by the end of it you’d be gasping for breath, paralyzed by the pleasure. I’d give you the deepest, longest orgasms of your life. I’d make you mine.”

  He takes a step back.

  My lips tremble. My hands shake. My knees quiver so madly they almost knock together. He speaks with such confidence. I don’t doubt for a moment that he really would do all those things. My mind fills with images of him, naked, on top of me
and thrusting, his muscles and the heat and the passion and . . .

  I swallow, trying and failing to force the images from my mind. “I’m leaving,” is all I manage to say.

  I turn and pace away before he can say anything else. If he did, I don’t know if I’d be able to leave. He’s hot as sin and his words just make him harder to resist. I came here with the intention of telling him to shove it. Instead, what did I do? Wake both our bodies to the idea of each other. Wake both our bodies to the prospect of becoming lost in the pleasure.

  It’s only when I’m halfway down the street I realize I forgot to ask which fireman saved me. But then, none of that went exactly to plan.

  I decide to walk by the Coffee Joint to take one last look at it. When I reach it, I feel a stab in my chest. Tape surrounds it and it’s not recognizable as the stylish, cozy place it once was. It’s nothing but a soot-black mess now.

  “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

  I turn at the voice, leaping away; it spoke directly into my ear.

  Carl stands with his hands in the pockets of an oversized jacket, a jacket which reaches right up to his neck and almost down to his feet. He isn’t wearing his glasses and his eyes seem small, set deep within his head.

  “A shame,” he repeats, licking his lips.

  Before I can reply, he walks down the street, whistling unevenly under his breath.

  This is the strangest day ever, I think as I watch him go.

  I take one last look at my home-away-from-home and then I head toward the bus stop.

  Chapter Nine

  Brody

  I get Darla’s address from her friend, Tracey, the rocker chick who Marco thinks he’s going to get his hands on one of these days.

  When I ask her for the address—over the phone—she giggles and says: “Why, want to check up on her? I saw you, Mr. Strong Man, carrying her out like a real hero.” I know the giggle well, along with the flirtatious tone of voice. She’s trying to pull me in, trying to direct my interest toward her. Useless. Darla’s the one who’s been plaguing my mind all day and all night.

  I get the address and I head to her apartment the day after she came to the station. Goddamn, she’s a minx, coming down like that. And that kiss . . .

  I’m not usually the sort of man to go all creamy and soft over something as simple as a kiss, but the way she kissed me was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was like her whole body was screaming out for me—and mine for hers. I felt it. Little electric impulses all over her skin, touching me, drawing me in, sparking against me. And the way she moaned. That’ll be in my dreams forever, and then some.

  I knock on her door.

  When she answers, her face is conflicted. It’s as though she can’t decide whether to slam the door in my face or throw it open. In the end, she leaves it half-open, watching me with those bright, perfect green eyes.

  “What do you want?” she says.

  “It’s six o’clock,” I smile. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “No—what do you want?”

  “Good. I’m here to take you on a date.”

  She looks me up and down; I’m wearing a suit with a black tie. “And what makes you think I’d want to go on a date with you? Didn’t I make myself clear yesterday?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. She’s so fiery, like a firecracker that explodes again and again. I don’t think I’ve ever been around a woman with so much passion before.

  “You’ve got bills to pay and no job at the moment. Why not think of it as charity?”

  She bites her lip. “Do you always have to be such a jerk?”

  “More often than not, yeah.” I nod.

  I smile again, wider. I love seeing her squirm. Maybe that makes me cruel. Sure, but it’s hot as hell. Just the way the corners of her lips twitch, like she wants to smile but she thinks it’d be bad.

  “You’re a jerk,” she sighs.

  But she doesn’t slam the door on me. She steps back and lets it swing open.

  “I’m getting changed,” she announces, and paces toward the bedroom.

  Chapter Ten

  Darla

  What am I doing? I think, as I close the bedroom door and go to my closet. I still don’t know why I let him in even as I sift through my dresses and find one which will match his suit. I take out a sparkling green dress that matches my eyes, strip down, and change into it. All the while I’m thinking: Why did I let him in? What’s come over me?

  But when it comes down to it, the answer is simple. My body is overriding my mind, my sense. I know that if I sat down and reasoned it out, I’d stop this. I made my point yesterday. I told him point blank I wouldn’t see him again. If I go back on that now, I’ll look week. I know all this, but I feel the exact opposite. I want to go on a date with him. That’s the truth. My body aches just from the thought of it.

  I emerge from the bedroom a few minutes later, wearing my green dress, green heels, and shiny green earrings. My face is covered in makeup and despite the strange circumstances, I’m excited. It’s been a long time since I was taken on a glamorous date. Charley rarely took me out, and if he did he’d spend more time commenting on my appearance than enjoying the evening.

  Brody doesn’t need to say anything; his face says it all. He looks at me like a wolf who hasn’t seen a female in a long time, eyes wide, lips parted, teeth bared. He draws in a quick breath and jumps to his feet.

  “Wow,” he says. “Just . . . wow.”

  I incline my head. “Thank you, Mr. Ellison. Shall we go?”

  Around half an hour later, we are sitting opposite each other in a fancy restaurant. A rose sits in an ornate vase in the center of the table and the waiters all look like they could’ve dropped out of a regency drama. Art hangs from the walls, landscapes and portraits, and candles burn in sconces set into the walls.

  “Champagne,” Brody says. It’s not a question and in a quick moment, a glass of champagne is being poured for me by a stern-faced waiter.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, feeling disoriented.

  We sip our champagne and then Brody says: “You look amazing, Darla. Really amazing.”

  “That’s it?” I say, voice sharper than I intend. “No clever comment. No smart rebuke. No comments about how I need to make more of an effort?”

  He laughs, adjusting his cufflinks, which are silver and glisten in the candlelight. “I don’t think you could improve on that look if you tried.”

  We drink more champagne, we order food which we barely look at, and soon we’re on our second bottle and my head is swimming.

  “Anybody would think you’re trying to get me drunk,” I say. A smile spreads across my face despite myself. He looks dashing. That’s the word for it. Dashing. Like James Bond only way hotter. I find myself tracing the curve of his muscles through the fabric of his suit. Damn, I think. I’m getting hot. Hotter than hot. I’m boiling. Damn, has he cast a spell on me or something?

  “I’d never do such a thing,” he grins. “I’m really not the asshole you think I am.”

  “Really?” I laugh. “You could’ve fooled me. “You swagger into my work, hand me a wad of cash, and tell me I need to work on my appearance. What part of that doesn’t scream asshole?”

  His smiles come easily, unthreatened, the smiles of a man who is completely at ease with himself. It’s a far cry from Charley, who always seemed to be on edge and anxious, finding his only solace in constant criticism of my looks. Maybe I should tell Brody that’s why I was so upset, I think. But that’s the alcohol talking and I ignore it. First date—date!—mustn’t overshare.

  “I find that women like assholes, anyway,” he says. He waves a hand at me. “You’re here, after all.”

  “You’re wrong,” I retort. “I just like champagne.” With that, I take a long sip of my drink. My head spins and my body feels hot, the air close, cozy.

  “Ah, so you’re using me, eh?” He arches an eyebrow. “I should’ve known.”

  “I’m
a complete user,” I say. “You’re my fifth date today. I’ve had twenty glasses of champagne and five free meals.”

  “Ha-ha-ha,” Brody grunts. “If that was true,” he goes on, “I’d be forced to find these four men and do something about it.”

  “Do something about it?” I giggle. “Since when are you so protective of the woman you take such pleasure in criticizing?”

  He rolls his eyes, and then grows serious. “Maybe I do want to protect you,” he says. “Maybe you’re so damn beautiful and hot—maybe that kiss was so damn hot it got me thinking—maybe it’s taking all the strength I have not to throw myself over the table and take you right here.”