Dirty Rowdy Thing

by Christina Lauren

  But he also knows I flew up to visit Finn for less than a day. So when I mention that he was at the party last night, I’m pretty sure my dad puts two and two together.

  “It was a good distraction . . .” I mumble, even more quietly admitting, “not that much happened.”

  His eyes dance with restrained teasing. “He’s in town for the grand opening?”

  I nod, leaving out the part where it seems Finn is staying for a couple weeks. I can’t decide if I’m excited about this news, or irritated. As if I don’t already have enough to think about, now I’m going to be forced into seeing him every time I want to socialize?

  Dad watches me as I doodle in the dry concrete with a wet fingertip. I’ve never had to hide my interest in boys, my distress over girl-dramas, or my fears and anxiety about life from him. Growing up, our deal was that as long as I always came to him first with the big things, he would do his best not to lecture, judge, or go into what mom calls his Protective Latin Rage.

  “Distractions are sometimes nice,” he says, watching me. The problem with being raised by such an amazing man is that it’s nearly impossible not to compare every boy I meet to him. Every single one falls short.

  I shrug.

  “With everything going on in your life, it’s too bad he lives so far away.”

  I look over at him. “He’s here for a couple of weeks.”

  Dad laughs at my grim expression and lifts himself out of the pool. Water pours off him into puddles at his feet, reflecting a hundred dots of sun on the ground.

  “I adore you, my beautiful, fierce girl.” He bends for a towel and dries off his chest and arms as he says, “And I know you. I bet you’re thinking of all the reasons why you shouldn’t spend time with him.”

  “Of course I shouldn’t—”

  He cuts me off with a hand gently raised in the air. “I know you never let anything come before family; that’s how I raised you. But soon you’ll want to be at every appointment, sitting nearby for every possible second. You’ll be online, reading every detail you can find. You’ll be hovering, offering her food, a sweater, movies, gifts. I’ll be doing the same. And together we will drive your mother crazy.” Crouching down in front of me, he whispers, “Please, Tulip, let yourself be distracted when you can. Have some fun. I envy you.”

  OLIVER’S HOUSE IS a tiny, single-story stucco cottage in Pacific Beach, with ocean-breeze-dulled blue paint and faded, chipped red windowsills. The sidewalk out front is cracked and uneven, and the lawn is a mottled calico of yellow, green, and brown. Unlike his glossy new store downtown, this place isn’t much to look at. But I know the area well enough to guess what it cost him and that being able to climb up to his roof at night and see the sunset over the ocean is part of the appeal.

  After swimming for a while, I’d gone inside to find Mom and Dad in the living room, cuddled together on the couch and reading their books in easy silence.

  I offered to make them lunch. They weren’t hungry. I offered to run some errands. They had nothing for me to do. So I stood, fidgeting at the perimeter of the room until Dad looked up at me and gave me a sad little smile.

  Mom will need me, but she doesn’t need me today. She doesn’t need anyone but her guy, and what he needs is to be her entire world right now.

  I drove to Oliver’s in a fog, on autopilot, trying not to second-guess what I was going to do. My father was basically telling me to enjoy Finn—though not in those exact words—and why not? It isn’t like Finn and I have misaligned expectations. We’ve spent a combined total of maybe one full day together, and have been naked for most of that. Before this weekend, our most meaningful conversation occurred when I showed up at his house and he told me to help myself to anything in the fridge while he ran out to get condoms.

  I smile at the R2-D2 knocker and rap twice at the door with it.

  The house inside is silent, and all around me the ocean wind whips past the tall, willowy palms. Finally, I hear footsteps just in front of the door and it swings open.

  Finn pulls a dish towel off his shoulder, using it to dry his hands. He’s shirtless, and his jeans hang low on his hips, revealing the black waistband of his boxers.

  “Hey, Ginger Barbie.”

  In one heartbeat I’ve gone from relieved anticipation, to hating this moment. I feel vulnerable and on the verge of tears, but there’s nothing particularly sympathetic about Finn. Drunk Finn was an anomaly, all soft expressions and playful. Daylight Finn is efficient and brusque, good for fishing, fucking, and—apparently—washing dishes.

  “You know what?” I say, looking at my car parked at the curb. “This was a stupid idea.”

  “Wait. You came here to see me, not Oliver?” He takes one step closer.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Did you come here to finish what we started last night?”

  I turn to leave, having no idea what to say to such a blunt question. I mean, yes, I did come for that. But it’s bigger than just wanting to fool around: What I want with Finn is the sex that absorbs me and shuts off my brain. I don’t want to play cat-and-mouse, I don’t want to discuss it. I just want to do it.

  I can hear the playful mocking in his voice when he calls, “If that’s what you want, you just need to say it, Harlow.”

  I stand, facing the street for several deep breaths. A car drifts by, its frame lowered so it almost touches the asphalt, stereo bass blaring, vibrating up through my feet. The car slows, and the man in the passenger seat lifts his chin to me.

  “The next young freak I met was Red,” Too $hort raps from the car, his voice distorted through the crappy speakers.

  I square my shoulders, staring down the guys as their attention moves past my face to my chest.

  “I took her to the house and she gave me head.”

  At the lyric, the man in the passenger seat smiles lewdly, raising his eyebrows at the next line as if to ask me whether it’s true, whether I like to freak, and the car stops, idling in the middle of the street as if the driver expects me to jump in and party with them. I want to walk to my car but feel trapped between these guys and the cocky asshole behind me.

  Finn steps out of the house, pulling the dishrag off his shoulder as he comes to stand with one shoulder in front of me, and stares down the men in the car.

  “The fuck are they looking at?” he growls under his breath.

  I no longer care about the guys in the car. I’ve never had a man other than my father take a protective stance around me. The boys I’m used to would just pretend they didn’t see the car at all, or anxiously whisper-hiss that we should get back inside. Beside me, Finn is huge. I’ve never seen his skin in the sun, but the sun has seen him a thousand times. I’m tall, but he’s inches taller, and nearly twice as wide. His chest is tanned and bulky, clear of a single tattoo, but marked with the occasional tiny scar. A snag here, a cut there. He seems larger than life on this street full of salty surfer boys and skinny thugs.

  The car accelerates with a rumble, driving off down the street.

  “Those assholes wouldn’t know the first thing to do with you,” he says quietly, looking me over as if I’d been handled. And with that look, I see the same expression he gave me last night—possessiveness, interest, hunger—as if I’m not quite what he’d assumed . . . and that, maybe, he liked it.

  My heart is hammering wildly and—with the pulse of adrenaline in my blood—even more than before I want to go inside with him and let him take over every single thought.

  “Okay yes. I’m here to finish what we started.”

  He waits, thinking. For the first time, I realize he’s not wearing a hat. I can see his eyes in the sun—really see them, without shadow or the diffused light filtered through the heavy marine layer. I find that I like the way he studies things, especially me.

  His eyes seem so much smarter than his mouth.

  Case in point: “A girl like you is way more trouble than she’s worth,” he says with a little smile.

  God, he’s su
ch a dick. But the twinkle in his eyes tells me he’s pretty fucking happy I’m here, and the truth is, he can think I’m a high-maintenance diva as long as he’s able to make me forget for a little while. “I see.”

  “We can have sex, that’s fine. But just so we’re clear, that’s all it is.”

  I laugh. “I’m here for sex, not some deep bonding ritual.”

  He makes a gentlemanly sweep of his arm, indicating I lead us both inside.

  It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust once I’m out of the bright sun. Finn closes the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. I turn away, pulse tripping in wild throbs in my neck, trying to calm my thoughts as I pretend to survey the room. The sheer unexpectedness of it all catches me off guard, and for a beat I forget to be nervous.

  Light shoots in through the oceanside windows, causing slanted shadows to be cast across the acacia wood flooring throughout the living room and small dining room. The furniture looks vintage, but refurbished, and surprisingly well coordinated. The couch and chairs are various shades of blue. A large Aztec woven ottoman serves as a coffee table. A few framed photographs stand on a side table adjacent to the sofa, and there is a small urn with twisting bamboo growing in intricate curls on a stunning multi-tone wooden dining room table. The table’s made from random cuts of wood, light and dark wood intermingling, and although the long side is smooth and polished, the jagged edges of the short sides give the table a striking, artistic feel.

  “Oliver surprises me,” I say. “This place doesn’t look like a bachelor pad.”

  Finn laughs. “He’s tidy.”

  I glance at the dish towel draped over his shoulder. “You’re doing dishes.”

  With a little one-shouldered shrug, he murmurs, “I’m tidy, too.”

  “So Ansel is the slob?” I ask with a smile. My heart is beating so hard I can hear the whoosh of it in my ears. I miss the ease of conversation after tequila. His brows pull together, and I clarify: “One of you must be messy . . . based on my completely sexist statistics.”

  “Actually, he’s the biggest neat freak I know. Perry is the slob. There goes your theory.”

  “Of course she’s a slob. She’s the Beast.”

  Finn stays quiet, his expression unreadable. I don’t exactly expect him to start bashing one of his best friends, no matter how horrible she might be.

  “Why are you still in town?” I ask finally. “I thought you never missed a shift at work.”

  He smooths a hand down his mouth, over his chin, holding my gaze for a beat. “You seem to always be present for the exception to that rule.”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “Business.”

  “Business?”

  “Yeah.” He takes a couple of slow steps closer to me. “Why are you here?”

  “I thought we clarified that outside.”

  “I know what you’re here for, but not why.”

  “My . . .” I stop, changing my mind against telling him what I’m really doing here. Too heavy. Too much. “I just wanted to get out of the house.”

  His brows draw together, and more questions seem perched on his tongue, but instead of asking them, he holds his hands out, taking one last step closer. Palms up, he moves his hands in a seesaw gesture. “Finn . . . shoe shopping . . . Finn . . . shoe shopping.”

  “I guess you won.”

  He gives in to the smile he’s been fighting. “Tell me why me. You’ve got a city full of rich kids waiting for you to climb between their sheets.”

  Heat seeps into my bloodstream and he reaches out, toying with the strap of my dress. “None of them are any good,” I admit.

  “Oh, really?” He doesn’t sound at all surprised.

  “I’ve never been with a guy who made me come. Without my help.”

  I ignore the smug tilt of his lips when I say this. At least, I try to hide the way I’m shaking inside, so desperate for the sensation overload that happens when he touches me. But maybe he should see. Maybe it’ll make him want to outdo himself today.

  “So, just to be clear,” I whisper. “I’m using you for sex.”

  Finn reaches behind me and I feel my eyes falling closed, my senses rising in anticipation of his first touch. He gently gathers my hair in his hands, barely brushes his fingers against the nape of my neck as he bunches the strands into a twist and closes a single fist around it. “Then start by kissing me.”

  He’s holding my head by my hair; I try, but I can’t move any closer.

  I try again but he’s holding me still, smiling darkly at my lips. I close my eyes and reach out, running my hands up his bare stomach and over his chest. His skin is impossibly warm. He’s hard and smooth, nipples tightening under my palms, and he lets out a sharp hiss when I scratch my nails over them, loosening his hold on my hair. This feels familiar, and also not: This time the sex isn’t rushed or cramped, drunken or spontaneous.

  It’s intentional, and we have all afternoon.

  At least, I think we do. Uncertainty about his business here tickles my thoughts, but that evaporates when my hands move up his neck, and I brush my mouth over his. With a groan he slides his lips across mine, easing his tongue inside, and all at once it’s fevered. He pushes me back, turning me, and we stumble down a hall, knocking against a wall, where he stills, pressing the length of his body to mine.

  “Last night I wanted to eat your pussy,” he says directly into my ear. “I still want it. I want you wild, squirming all over my face. What do you think of that?”

  I think it sounds like an excellent plan.

  As Finn pulls away and tugs me down the hall, I count three bedrooms—three tiny bedrooms—with his at the end, on the street side of the house. It’s pretty empty, other than a full-size IKEA bed against one wall and matching dresser against the other. Finn’s suitcase rests just next to the closet door.

  Removed from the sun streaming through the windows, this side of the house is cool, and we trip in and stop, only inches apart. His warmth grows and ebbs with each of his heavy breaths. I’m practically gasping, my heart is thudding so hard.

  I almost never feel intimidated—and I’ll be damned if I ever let a guy get the upper hand—but if there is an alpha dog in this room, it isn’t me. Tossing the dish towel back over his shoulder, Finn lets his eyes move from my mouth, to my neck, and lower. My nipples harden beneath my thin dress, and he licks his lips, humming.

  “I’m going to tie you up this time,” he tells me, slipping one strap of my dress off my shoulder. With his lips trailing across my neck, he asks, “You into that?”

  I blink up to him, a little caught off guard. I . . . might be? I’ve never been tied up. But to be completely honest, I’m not all that surprised Finn wants this. In Vegas, and again in Canada, he was rough and tender in equal, drastic measure. He spanked me, pinned my hands over my head, and withheld orgasms, only to push back inside and kiss me so tenderly I came with a scream. And then he pulled out and made me come again with his mouth.

  The first night we were together, we only had sex one time before we passed out cold, but he made it last three hours. Finn likes to call the shots, and right now, I’m going to let him.

  “I can be.”

  “Last time you showed up unannounced, I was just down to fuck,” he says. “Today, I think I want to savor this. Unless you’ve got somewhere to be?”

  I shake my head, closing my eyes. It feels so good to just put it all in his hands. To shrug away every single worry and let him tie me up, eat me out, fuck me until I can’t walk. I don’t know him well enough to trust him with anything else, but I trust this man with my body.

  “What’s that?” he asks with a tiny edge to his voice, ducking to meet my eyes.

  “No,” I say, eyes fluttering open and my voice coming out thick before I clear my throat. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

  He nods, walking over to the closet and pulling a length of red rope from a high shelf.

&nb
sp; “You just happened to have rope in the closet?” I ask, my voice high and reedy.

  “Didn’t want to leave it in my truck in case someone took it.” He grins at me. “This is really nice rope.”

  I’m pretty sure few people in Pacific Beach would have any idea that the rope in the back of a pickup truck is really nice rope, but I can hardly complain. I’m glad he didn’t have to leave the room to go get it.

  But when I look down at it, this rope doesn’t seem like something he’d use on a boat. It’s soft, has the sheen of silk.

  “You carry silky rope around in the bed of your pickup? Should I Google you, Finn?”

  He laughs a little, dropping it at the foot of the bed. “I was pretty sure I’d get you naked while I was here.” He lifts his chin, silently telling me to do just that.

  “How confident of you.”

  His eyebrow flickers up, as if to say, Well? and he pulls the towel from his shoulder, walking a slow circle around me as I pull my dress up and over my head. When I slide my underwear down my legs and step out of them, I feel a whisper of fabric against the back of my thigh.

  And then a sharp pop against the exact same spot.

  With a gasp, I turn and gape at him. He’s snapped the towel at me, like a fucking teenager in the kitchen. The sting turns warm, making me more aware of the cool air in his room.

  “Come here,” he says, ignoring my surprised expression.

  “You’re not going to whip me with a dish towel.”

  “You’re right, I’m not.” When I start to take a step closer, he snaps it again, barely grazing my hip. “I’m going to tease you with it.”

  “What happened to just getting naked and—”

  He pops me again, this time on my upper thigh. “You came to me, not some skinny-dicked kid in Del Mar. And I’m doing this how I want.” His eyes soften. “It’s not like I’m going to leave you needy, sweet thing. I wouldn’t do that.”

  I exhale a jagged breath and nod. Whatever he wants to do . . . it’s why I’m here. I close my eyes, giving in to the semi-drunk sensation I get when I’m this close to him, and he’s the only thing I can sense in the room.