by Tilly Delane
The Brighton Bad Boys Series is intended for mature readers over 18 years of age only. If you have a lot of triggers, proceed with caution.
Copyright Tilly Delane, 2020
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Titles by Tilly Delane
Silas (Brighton Bad Boys I)
Rowan (Brighton Bad Boys II)
Diego (Brighton Bad Boys III)
Content
Diego(Brighton Bad Boys 3)
Afterword, Thank Yous, Contact & Begging for Reviews
DIEGO
Kalina
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Kalina, happy birthday to you.”
Grace is singing at the top of her lungs as she barges into my room, carrying a tray with a cake on it. I already know it’s raspberry and white chocolate, because Grace is the world’s worst secret keeper when she is excited. I also know that Silas baked it late last night, since the house we live in is small and you can’t really hide things like using the oven from the other occupants.
What I didn’t quite expect were the nineteen little candles on top, all lit, which wobble precariously as Grace navigates the many bits and pieces of small vintage furniture that I have accumulated over the last six months of staying here.
‘Here’ is a two-up two-down ─ as the British call it ─ house in Shoreham, a small town on the south coast of England, just seven miles out of Brighton, owned by Sheena O’Brien. Sheena is Silas’ mum. She is also landlady extraordinaire to one lucky language school student, c’est moi, as well as to Silas and his girlfriend, the very woman who is currently looking expectantly at me. I guess Grace wants me to hoof over on the bed, so she can sit down and let me blow the candles out.
I shuffle to make space for her, and she lowers her butt onto the mattress then shoves the tray in my face.
“Put your lips together and blow,” she says, and I giggle.
A nice, girly giggle.
“It is whistle, no?”
She grins at me.
“Blow the fucking candles out, Kalina, we have shit to do today,” she answers, and it occurs to me that being Silas’ girlfriend really hasn’t done the obscenities quota in Grace’s speech any favours.
The American woman in her mid-twenties who I met a few months ago wasn’t shy of the occasional cuss word, but she didn’t pepper her language with continuous swearing, like she does now. Grace also sounds more British all around now. I guess it’s what happens to people if they become so entangled with a British bad boy that they decide to move continents to be with him.
Not that Silas is a bad-bad boy. He’s a kitten compared to his friend Diego, aka George Benson.
My heart trips when I think of George, and that annoys the hell out of me. George ‘Diego’ Benson is everything I don’t want or need in a guy. Like the perfect do-not-shop-for-this list. Yet there is something about him that...
Argh. Don’t go there, K, don’t go there. Concentrate on the job.
I banish all thoughts of him. For now, anyway. Since he’s coming to London with us tonight to see a musical, tickets for which Sheena organised as my birthday treat, it’ll be a short-lived exercise.
Instead, I concentrate on Grace’s beautiful smile and the flickering sea of candles in front of my face.
I shut my eyes and blow hard.
“What did you wish for?” Grace asks immediately after the flames go out and puts the tray down on my lap.
That I could tell you my birthday is on Christmas Day, not in August. That I could tell you there are candles missing and we’re not as far apart in age as you think. That I could talk to you in my real voice. That I could let you see the real me.
I love this woman so hard. She is the first actual friend I made in such a long, long time. She is smart and kind and funny and just so totally Grace. I take the tray and stretch over to put it on a stool next to my bed then sidle up to her and sling my arms around her.
It’s a Kalina thing to do. Kalina is exuberant and pixie-ish and hugs people all the time, provided they let her.
Kristina, the real me, is much more reserved. She is a doer, not a hugger. Unless you’re family, then she’s quite tactile. She’s the Goth rock to Kalina’s chart pop.
Grace hugs me back hard, ruffling my short hair. Like a big sister. Like me, with my little brothers.
For a moment, I wonder if Grace would still like the real me, or not so much.
“That is secret,” I answer her question, muttering into her mane of long, dark red tresses, because that is exactly what people expect you to say. “Thank you, Grace.”
She draws back and looks at me with a little sadness.
“Hey, least we can do. Must be tough having a birthday so far away from home.”
I make a dismissive gesture.
“Pah, it’s harder on my parents than it is on me,” I declare.
The sadness disappears from her face and the smile comes back.
“Your English is getting so good,” she comments. “That was a perfect sentence. Go you, lady!”
Ah shit.
I shrug.
“Language school costs fortune, Tata says. So I work hard.”
She gets up.
“Yeah, but not today, you won’t. No studying allowed on your birthday. There is a breakfast table downstairs and presents, and then there is a spa day at The Palais, and then there is London. So get your pretty little ass in gear, lady. Prepare to be spoiled rotten.”
“Presents?” I ask, astonished.
I kind of knew about the spa day at The Palais, the hotel where Sheena is head of housekeeping, and I knew about going to London, but the idea of presents makes me feel extra guilty about this charade.
“Well, one,” Grace holds up a finger. “I couldn’t let everybody else give you something but not me.”
“But I thought you chipped in on the theatre tickets already,” I protest, once again forgetting that my English is not supposed to be that good yet.
It’s happening more and more often around these guys because they make me feel too comfortable. I should have changed accommodation when it became clear I had to stay longer, but I didn’t want to. I like it here. So I extended my stay with Sheena.
Really, I should be finished with the job by now and be back home. This is proving to be one of the toughest cases I’ve ever had.
To my great relief, Grace doesn’t notice my slip up this time, because she is too busy explaining.
“Uh-uh. That’s old news. George took care of the tickets in the end. He wouldn’t let any of us pay him back a cent, I mean penny. Says since he was the one who insisted on renting a box instead of getting normal seats, it was for him to pay.”
“We’re getting a box?” I exclaim.
Grace’s green eyes go round and her hand flies to her mouth.
“Oh crap,” she mumbles behind her palm. “That was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Yup, George is gonna have your hide,” Silas says as he appears in the door. “Kalina, you’d better work on your acting skills before tonight and act really, really surprised when we get there. Now, are we having breakfast before the cats eat it, or shall we let them have first dibs on the smoked salmon anyway?”
At ‘smoked salmon’, I’m out of bed and sitting at the breakfast table in no time.
One of the few things Kalina and Kristina do share is an enduring love for all things seafood.
Bring on the caviar.
Diego
I’m in that magic state between sleep and consciousness while your dick is hard
and the dreams are good, when an unwelcome knock raps on my bedroom door.
“Diego?” my parents’ maid Daisy ─ yep we have a maid these days, complete with a black and white uniform and surgically enhanced tits ─ calls out hesitantly from the other side.
None of the staff here at the Benson Mansion really know whether to call me George, as my father does, or Diego, as my mother and most of Brighton’s lowlifes do, and Daisy is new to this stupid game that is my life.
“Come in,” I respond but refuse to open my eyelids.
Under the duvet, I wrap a hand around my dick and run the pad of my thumb over the slit to spread the large bead of precum that’s gathered there. The dreams were very good.
As Daisy steps into the room, I slowly, surreptitiously start stroking myself. I don’t want to scare her off of the bat. I’m pretty sure she knows what the deal is around here, but she is so new, I haven’t tried her out yet.
“Your father sent me to wake you. He would like you to join him for breakfast,” Daisy informs me.
Fuck. Not a sexy thought.
The old man wanting to have breakfast with me means he wants to talk shop, and I avoid mingling my business with his business these days. Most of the time, I just don’t want to fucking know.
My father is a complete cunt. His dealings hurt innocents. People. Animals. Society.
Me? I’m just half a cunt. The people ─ and it is always people, never other creatures ─ who get hurt in my line of business all know what they are letting themselves in for and are old enough to make that decision.
Plus, lately I’ve been trying to go properly legit. I have this fantasy that people will finally leave me the fuck alone if I do. Being a fledgling don in this city is a pain in the arse most of the time. People always want something from you. Your money, your connections, your hide.
They never just spend time with you for the sake of spending time.
There are exactly six people on the planet who I can just be me with. Two of them, Rowan and Raven, are presently in America. The other four I am taking to London to see a musical tonight. For Kalina’s birthday. A fucking musical. Never thought I’d be seen dead going to one of those. But that’s what she’s into, so that’s what she gets.
Thinking of Kalina gives me the familiar surge of lust, guilt and self-loathing that always comes when I conjure her face up in my mind’s eye. Or when I see her in real life. Or if I just think her name. Half her name, even.
The language student living under my oldest and best friend’s mother’s roof right now is the most hauntingly beautiful, sexy creature I have ever seen, yet so, so wrong in all respects. She is too young, too scrawny, too boyish.
I like tits and an ample bottom I can bite into, long hair that I can wrap around my fist while I fuck into a woman, who jiggles a little ─ not too much ─ from the impact. There isn’t a single jiggly bit on Kalina. Even her tiny tits appear to be made of the alabaster the rest of her seems to consist of. A girl like her, and at nearly seven years younger than me, Kalina is definitely a girl, should only ever evoke feelings of protectiveness in anyone, never ever carnal desire.
Yet even berating myself for thinking about her in that way in the first place makes my dick quiver in my fist. I can’t win.
I’m fucked.
Somebody is clearing a throat, and I remember that Daisy is still in the room, waiting to be dismissed.
“Come closer,” I tell her instead, smiling with my eyes still shut.
People call me handsome, reminiscent of Brad Pitt, back when he was younger and bleached his hair, and they say I have a killer smile. I’ve seen Daisy looking. They all do. Some look at my face, others at my purse. None of them at me.
But they don’t need to, provided they open wide.
I listen out as she steps up to the side of the bed. They are not hesitant steps. Good. I guess my father’s already put her through the drill.
“Want to earn a bit extra today?” I ask her bluntly.
I never used to pay for sex. I don’t need to. But lately I’ve started feeling more comfortable if it’s a business transaction rather than fucking with their dreams, literally, of landing me and my wallet more permanently.
I can hear her swallow before she answers.
“What would I need to do?” she asks.
I throw off the duvet to reveal my hand pumping my boner.
“Suck me off,” I say.
She doesn’t miss a beat.
The mattress dips when she gets on the bed, and I roll onto my back.
As soon as her lips find my cock, I put my hands behind my head and let her service me.
She’s okay at this.
Not great, not bad, but a decent average.
She sucks nicely up top and pumps the base with her hand in a rhythm that works for me.
I relax into it.
Behind my shut eyelids, I see large brown, nearly black eyes, looking at me hungrily as a matt purple painted mouth runs up and down my shaft. I see high cheekbones in a heart-shaped face popping out more starkly as her cheeks are sucked in. In my fantasy, I hear her whimper with lust as she worships my cock like no other woman has before.
My orgasm comes hard and fast, the actual woman on my cock withdrawing before my load lands in her mouth.
I open my eyes and look at Julia’s blue irises and her pink, glossy lips as she scrambles from the bed with a demure smile and rights her uniform.
“Good?” she asks.
“Good enough,” I say.
I know I’m being a complete arsehole, but I intend to reimburse her well enough for her not to mind too much.
Still, the comedown is huge.
Not the right woman, not the right mouth.
“Tell my father I’ll be there in fifteen.”
Kalina
I love doing Grace’s makeup.
I’m a little bit peeved because today there isn’t much to do since she’s chosen to dress up as the bloody obvious ─ and eighties singer Tiffany was not exactly known for her dramatic eye shadow. She was all about that girl next door look. Sheer lipstick and lots of blue jean shades.
Possibly the trickiest bit of transforming Grace today was finding a fringe hairpiece that matches her hair colour. No Tiffany without a fringe. Or bangs, as my American friend calls it.
I pick a raspberry pink lip gloss and start dabbing it on Grace’s lips.
She is so damn pretty with her green eyes and her plump mouth that has these neat little folds at the corners, giving her a permanent cat’s smile. Her lips are so, so kissable. Whenever I apply lipstick on her, I want to kiss it off immediately, just to taste what they’d feel like.
Not that that’s ever been on the card between her and me, because I think Grace is very devoted to Silas. And very hetero.
I, like most self-respecting ex-boarding school girls, swing a little both ways, despite the fact that my school was mixed and the segregation between girls and boys was not even per house, just per floor. That’s good old Germany for you. Would have been unthinkable in Poland.
But even with the boys just a flight of stairs below us, we did a bit of experimenting on the girls’ floor. And I can’t say I didn’t like it. I really learned to French kiss from Lauren Watson, the girl in the room next door, and one of the disproportionately large number of British diplomat and army brats that boarded alongside me.
Lauren was something else, just thinking about her kisses still makes me wet now, years later, though I’m very sure I’d take a man over a woman any day in the long run.
A man with plump lips.
George has plump lips. I’ve heard people compare him to Brad Pitt in looks, but they are so, so far off. Even Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise doesn’t have a patch on naturally blond, grey-eyed, sultry-mouthed George Benson.
I sigh out loud, and Grace giggles.
“You alright there, lady? That’s one hell of a sigh. Need some private time before the limo gets here?” she teases. “Wanna share who you
were thinking about?”
I smile down at her coquettishly and shake my head then move around to the back of her.
“What do you mean, limo?” I ask evenly as I pull the headband gently over the back of her head and lift her long hair out of the loop.
“Well, it’s George. I’m fully expecting a limo, don’t you?”
I hadn’t given it a thought, beyond the fact that I get to spend a whole evening with the man I’ve been lusting over for months now. A completely off-limits man. Not that my heart knows that. It trips dutifully at Grace mentioning his name. It’s not interested in the prospect of a limo in the slightest, though. As far as I’m concerned, George ‘Diego’ Benson could pick us up on a rusty old bicycle. Though that would be a long trip to London. And I’m not sure where we’d put the others.
I’m so fucked.
I try to distract myself by combing Grace’s hair with my fingers. I love doing her hair almost more than doing her makeup. I miss having long tresses to play with. Of all the things I had to give up, getting rid of my hair was the hardest. It used to be down to my butt, and I used to spend hours experimenting with it. Updos, downdos, around dos. But long hair is a hazard in my line of work. It was the day I cut it that my father finally believed I was serious about my chosen profession.
One day, when I’m too old to do this shit, I’ll grow it long again.
Until then, I’ll just play with my friend’s hair.
Diego
The limo hire service is dead on time and the driver arrives to collect me from my parents’ house at three in the afternoon on the dot.
I don’t need to live with my folks.
I own an entire six floor building on the seafront, with a nightclub called TripleX in the basement, a cocktail bar on the ground floor and a bunch of apartments, most of which are rented out to hookers who want to work independently but who like the security I can offer them. One is also rented out to a couple of the bare-knuckle fighters from the league I run from TripleX, and another serves as the office for Santos-Benson Security, a legitimate stable of security personnel that I hire out.
