I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances

by Sophie Brooks

  I signed my fake name and time of entry.

  "Mr. Rinaldi. Third floor."

  "He's gone."

  "Yeah. He told me in no uncertain terms he wants the system running like a Swiss watch by the time he's back, too. Loud bastard. He gave me a key."

  "He sure is a loud bastard," Kirby nodded with a sneer, his eyes on the game again. I peeled off the counter and headed toward the elevator. Nobody attempted to stop me.

  Rinaldi’s door had a regular lock and two dead-bolts, which told me he knew a bit about not putting all his eggs in one basket. I knocked on the door and ran the doorbell, mostly for the benefit of his neighbors. Nobody opened the door to see who's in the hallway. I snapped on my latex gloves and reached for the picks in the bottom of my tool bag. The regular lock was butter-soft and turned almost on command. The deadbolts took a bit more convincing. With a bit of patience I felt - rather than heard - that click, and there was that tendril of thrill running up my spine as I felt the tumblers turn and align as the mechanism yielded to my desires.

  AS SOON as I was in, I locked the door again so nobody would disturb me. Then I did a quick walk-through. The apartment had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge dining room and a living room separated into what, at first glance, seemed to be a junkyard and a sleek, modern oasis of order with a flat-screen TV.

  I've said before that I can judge the character of a person by the way they keep their dwelling and belongings. Looking around, I'd have guessed that Mr. Rinaldi suffered from a split personality disorder. His kitchen was immaculate; nothing rotted in the refrigerator. His freezer contained not only five gourmet frozen dinners, but also the fairly common stash of cash. Lots of people hid their emergency cash in the back of their freezer, thinking it was so clever and original.

  Frozen assets: about five grand.

  Not much for a successful stockbroker. I palmed the icy Ziploc bag and slipped it into my cargo pocket. The act of theft made that spine-tingling warmth spread across my shoulder blades, wrapping me like a warm hug. I was focused. My hearing sharpened so much I filtered out my own heartbeat and the hum of the refrigerator.

  A noise.

  I froze, momentarily halted by the sound of the elevator opening, then closing again. A few moments of stillness passed before I dared to exhale and examine my surroundings with a keener eye.

  One bedroom was right over the 57th Street. The dark, elegant furniture was complemented by several Tokugawa-era Japanese prints. The nightstands and the bureau were all clean, like in a hotel room. His personal effects must have been minimal, and just a faint whiff of aftershave hinted at human habitation. How surprising, then, that the second bedroom – the one with the window into the alley and the fire escape – was cluttered with boxes piled on top of one another. Full bags of material tripped me up and I hissed as I bruised my shin on the odd piece of furniture. My heart sank. I’d had high hopes to make good use of the fire escape on my next trip in. I made it five feet into the room before deciding that backing out while I could was in my best interest. Had I tried to climb in through the window on the other end of all that junk, trying to make my way in the dark, I’d end up sounding like two raccoons fighting in a garbage can.

  The bathrooms were both clean and basic, tiled in white porcelain with dated fixtures, with white ceilings and walls that were painted in a conservative burnt almond color. The one in the back of the hallway was empty of towels and toiletries altogether. The one closer to the spartan bedroom held toiletries and first-aid supplies, and was surprisingly clean for a guy’s bathroom. A plush, black cotton terry robe hung on a door hook, waiting to wrap its owner in warm comfort. I checked the pockets, just to have an excuse to caress the soft material and breathe the scent of his warm and spicy and undoubtedly expensive aftershave. Its pockets were free of diamonds, cash, or contraband. So were all other potential hiding places in both bathrooms – the toilet tanks had only water in it, there was nothing terribly valuable in the cabinets, and the plumbing access showed only pipes and a dead spider.

  The dining room, on the other hand, had every single surface covered with collectible objects of various sizes. There were four half-opened cardboard boxes on the floor.

  Where did this seemingly neat and tidy individual amass such wealth of knick-knacks? I walked through, not spending much time. Only a few items caught my attention. There were four silver candy dishes, circa 1820s England, and since their design and quality varied, I picked the one in the middle. The nicest one would have been the first to be missed. I found a fabulous carving of a tiger, probably an antique ivory piece with ruby eyes, but the way it was displayed told me its absence would be noted, so I left it there.

  Thirty minutes had passed and I knew I had to get out soon. Computer maintenance wasn't all that complicated these days, and the guy downstairs might start to get suspicious. I looked around, frantic to find the magical third secret treasure to satisfy me. One more thing… just one more little thing.

  My gaze fell on a mid-size painting that hung centered over the dining room sideboard. The subject matter was neo-classical, but the quality was awful. I peered a little closer. A high-quality frame was being wasted on a cheap print with a paint-like acrylic layer on top. Mr. Rinaldi might have been an asshole, but judging from his other decorations he was a man of taste when it came to art, so why would he display such fake trash in such a prominent location?

  The frame seemed a tad thick. I jostled it with a gentle hand and almost jumped with a yelp when it swung to the side on a column of piano hinges. Behind it was a small wall safe.

  Bingo!

  Safecracking was something of a hobby of mine, and my fingers itched with desire to turn the two dials and make the mechanism sing for me. Time, however, was not on my side. I closed the painting shut. There would have to be another visit.

  Two days passed since my illicit adventure. Tuesday at work paled in comparison with the thrill of the untouched safe in the wall, and I was aching to get out of the office. My venture had earned five thousand, three hundred and eighty dollars, mostly in hundreds, some in twenties – enough for a Caribbean vacation for both Vicki and me. The antique candy dish of wrought silver sat on the table, where I could admire its fine workmanship.

  As I sipped my tea and ate slivers of chocolate-dipped orange peel out of my newly acquired and soon-to-be-fenced silver candy dish, I thought back to the apartment. I could never get in the same way again. And, next time, it would have to be a night job. The early summer was warm and it wasn't unusual for people to leave their windows open. I had even eased the locks of the casement windows in the bedroom open, just so I could push my way in later tonight.

  I BARELY resisted biting my nails. I felt as though eleven o'clock would never come as the far-away wall safe kept crooning its siren song. My microwave clock showed I still had ten minutes to go before departure. My patience ran out. I pulled on my lightweight, dark green jacket and a baseball cap, hoisted my black backpack, and headed out the door. I walked, using the twenty minutes to calm down and control my adrenaline level. I still could’ve backed out – I didn't have to go through with it.

  The idea died young. Backing out would’ve been like paying the entry fee to a water park and then talking myself out of getting into the water. There was no way I wasn't getting inside that apartment tonight.

  A brisk walk took me close to Rinaldi’s place. Two blocks away I ducked inside an entryway and stuffed my green jacket and baseball cap inside the bag. I caught my hair up in my black skull cap and hid every single strand by feel alone. I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt so it covered my head. No need to get caught on a security camera near my target area.

  The windows in the corner of the third floor were dark. I dialed Rinaldi’s number on my cell phone anyway, but nobody picked up. I sucked in a deep breath.

  Shit. I was really going in.

  THE SERVICE entrance in the alley wasn't equipped with an alarm and the lock wasn’t hard. Somebody must have mis
calculated, thinking there was no point protecting a self-closing door next to the Dumpster. I slipped in like a shadow and took the service elevator all the way up. There was a narrow staircase from the fifth floor to the roof. I took it up to the unlocked door. It creaked only a little as I pushed it open, but even that little sound almost made my heart stop.

  I scanned the flat, asphalt roof and the vents and chimneys to my left. The edge of the roof was to my right. Working fast, I reached inside my backpack and slipped a climbing harness over my black cargo fatigues. Putting my phone on vibrate, I slid it into a secure side pocket. The other pocket held my flashlight.

  I pulled a coil of heavy rope out of the backpack and fastened it to a sturdy chimney. Before I knew it, my feet were anchored on the rim of the ledge and, with the rope wound behind my butt and through my Silent Partner self-belay device, I leaned back, over the abyss. My eyes widened along with my smile as the thrill of being suspended over a street threatened to overcome my senses.

  Alone, in the dark, unseen.

  Slowly, I slid my feet down the side of the building as I fed extra rope through my harness. The soft soles of my black climbing shoes made me feel every contour of the vines and flowers that were carved into the acid-rain roughened stone. Extra purchase was good.

  I traversed past the glowing fifth floor window, and past the dark fourth floor window, and I had started to breathe a bit harder when, finally, the third-floor window appeared. I landed on the generous stone parapet and straightened up carefully, with the window to my left and the abyss to my right.

  I unclipped myself and let the rope hang by my side. Slowly, I pushed the glass panes in.

  Only the streetlights illuminated the sparse bedroom interior as I slipped in and landed in a crouch. The white carpet was soft underfoot and gleamed a pale amber, reflecting the yellow glow of the sodium lamps outside.

  The bed was occupied. Its owner was sprawled naked on his back, with his head and shoulders shrouded in the shadows. The stark city glow, barely impeded by the sheer curtains, accentuated the shady ridges of his flat abdomen and his well-muscled legs. I stopped in my tracks, feeling as though a Grecian marble statue from a nearby museum landed on this stranger’s bed, displayed for my eyes to feast upon.

  He stirred.

  I broke from my stunned reverie and looked around fast. His closet was cracked open. I slipped in, not making a sound. Inhaling short, shallow breaths, my heart beat like a drum against the wall of my chest.

  I heard Raf Rinaldi stir again. His bed creaked, then it creaked some more, followed by the soft patter of his feet that was almost muffled by his lush carpet.

  I hope he won’t kill me on sight.

  I swear I'll never do this again.

  I heard him piss in the bathroom, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe I didn’t have to voice any rash oaths just yet.

  He flushed and washed his hands.

  More footsteps, this time in my direction. Once again I began to negotiate with the Powers-That-Be.

  "Fuck, it's hot." The low, sexy growl shot an arrow of heat down my spine.

  I heard him draw the curtains aside, opening the window even wider. The heavy evening air oozed in, bringing along more light.

  My heart sang in relief.

  Then I heard him get back in bed.

  So far so good. I'd have to wait until he was all asleep before I could make my exit out the window which he, being such a considerate gentleman, opened even wider for my convenience. I didn’t dare attempt cracking the safe with him there; in fact, I barely dared to breathe. I waited, wondering why the hell he wasn't on a vacation like he should have been.

  Light snoring reached my ears and I pushed the closet door to the side a little more, just enough to get out comfortably. With painful slowness I peeked around the wooden panel.

  There he was, now fully lit by the dramatic glow from the outside. His legs were spread apart and between them, jutting up from a thatch of curls, jutted a significant boner. Even though I was no stranger to that part of the male anatomy, it had been a while since I saw a full-grown specimen. Also, I had never seen one from someone’s closet while hiding there, trying to avoid detection. This situation had all levels of awkward written all over it, and as my mouth went dry I felt a hot blush rise up to my cheeks. All the same, I wasn’t quite willing to look away.

  Light pollution was the burglar’s enemy under ordinary circumstances, but right now I felt grateful for the ubiquitous, eerie glow. This guy, no matter what Vicki had to say about his personality, had the goods. A neon sign was flashing at irregular intervals from the building across the street. Its red and blue light reflected off the smooth planes of his muscles. He twitched, giving a slight moan.

  Sleep, dammit.

  Mesmerized, I watched his powerful thighs tense as his hand crept to his groin. He began stroking himself. I heard him gasp, and I knew that even though he might have been in a dream world, he wasn’t even close to being asleep. I bit my lower lip, working hard to control my breathing. Before me was a Grecian statue come alive, parts of it veiled in shadow, mysterious and beautiful. He was a gorgeous specimen of a man and – well, I’d been raised better than to intrude, except I’ve never seen a man laid out on display like this, let alone see him touch himself in such an erotic way. I was rapt, unable to turn away. I had found him – all of him - utterly fascinating.

  Slowly, I sneaked my hand inside the cargo pocket of my pants and pulled out my old phone. I flipped it open and turned the camera on. There was just enough light for the screen to show what was going on in the pool of light before me. Trying hard to control my breathing, I kept my phone trained on the bed.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, almost silenced by the sound of blood rushing in my ears, a little voice nagged. It reminded me of my middle-class, conservative upbringing. Surely taking a video of someone in such a delicate moment was beyond the pale. I had no words for it, no justification. Yet I was a thief and it was my nature to covet what I couldn’t have. I'd never have this man – there was no chance our paths would ever cross. The best I could do was steal what was available at the time, keeping this little personal memento. An insignificant souvenir to play a few times, and then erase. I just couldn't tear my eyes away as my breath came in short, shallow pants.

  Rafael Rinaldi reached for something on the bedside table. I heard a click, then a squishy noise. When he touched himself again, there was a hiss of pleasure, followed by a slight groan. I saw his hips undulate, the thrusts small and intense as his cock kept sliding through his slick hand. He gasped, panting and cursing, his slick hand pumping. I hoped he'd be done soon. My phone had only so much charge left – YES!

  His voice was a growl and a moan and it resonated within the high-ceiling acoustics of his bedroom as he shot his wad. Thick ropes of jizz glittered, briefly luminescent in the neon lights outside. After a few calming breaths he sat up on the bed, still playing with himself, his eyes closed and his mouth pulled back in a languorous smile. Finally I got to see his face. He was handsome, with a strong jaw, and chiseled cheekbones were visible even while relaxed. I had never seen anyone do such a thing before, and I had never seen a man as devastatingly handsome as he was at that moment. All I wanted to do was toss the phone I almost forgot I held and go to him and taste his essence off his chest and kiss him until he forgot his own mother's name.

  Oh God, how I wanted that man.

  I peeked out just enough to see him walk across to the bathroom again. When he turned the water on, I used the noise to shut my phone and slip it back in my pocket. Soon I saw him climb back on top of the sheets and hug a pillow. This time, he fell asleep for good. The scent of his cologne, barely discernible before, developed with his increased body heat and mingled with the musky smell of sex. I stood in his closet with his suits caressing my back, emanating that very same heady scent and it was all I could do not to roll my eyes back in my head, lean back into all that luxurious fabric, and pass out.r />
  It was at least an hour before I could trust myself to move out the window and climb to the safety of the roof.

  My harness was in the backpack and the rope sat coiled under it. I flopped behind the chimney in exhaustion. Going up is a lot harder, even if you aren't distracted by the way your body and mind had reacted to the spectacle below. Wiping my face on my sleeve, I hid my climbing gear in a cooling vent for the next time.

  Next time?

  I felt like I couldn’t function in my current state – best get it over with. As I sprawled on the asphalt roof, the scent of tar competed for the memory of Rafael Rinaldi’s aftershave and his sheer animal magnetism. Few stars shone overhead, blinking dimly through the glow of signs and street lights from below. With a sigh of relief, I unzipped my pants and slipped my manicured hand under the waistband of my panties. Within moments, a sharp and silent rush of boneless warmth spread through my body. It took a while before I gathered myself enough to go home.

  CHAPTER 5

  He didn't have to hold me with such vehement firmness; I had no intention of going anywhere. My eyes sought his shocking pools of blue; the lines of his face were and hard, but the assessing warmth in his eyes betrayed more than just a glimmer of interest. I couldn't rip my gaze away; my peripheral vision picked up the sales display and the extra tables and chair, other patrons navigating to their prime-seating arm-chairs with their coffee fix of the day.

  I tried to find my voice and failed; my knees feeling a bit soft, the distance between us three feet too wide.

  His hand was strong and warm, with rough fingertips, the nails too short to dig into my palm.

  "You can let go of my hand now," he bit off. I realized I had just been standing there, in a public coffee shop, holding a strange man's hand, all for the sake of prolonging contact.

  "And stop looking at me like that."