Dirty Charmer

by Emma Chase

  And I’m hard again—my dick jutting out thick and long and ready to go. ’Cause I’m talented like that.

  Abby’s mouth hangs open a bit—the perfect width for me to walk over and slide my cock between those pouty lips. That would also be fun.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay?” I tempt her—’cause I really think she does.

  “No.” She drags her eyes off me by sheer force of will. “Too personal.”

  “I fucked you with my tongue until you came, love. I don’t think ‘too personal’ exists any longer.”

  Abby shuffles her sweet little arse across the bed, slipping on her dress quickly—and hiding as much of herself from my eyes as she can in the process.

  Rude.

  “Too intimate, then. This is an arrangement, remember? No entanglements—which means no sleepovers.”

  I blow out a breath and rub my hand down my face.

  “All right. I’ll take you home, then.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I really do.”

  “Tommy, we agreed—”

  “It’s the middle of the fucking night, Abby. Any man who would let a woman see herself home in the middle of the night is a first-class tool—and I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a tool.”

  I walk around the bed, stepping behind her and zipping up her dress.

  “And it’s not about entanglements.” I brush her hair off her shoulder, and scrape her earlobe slowly with my teeth, breathing against her neck. “I just want to make sure you get home safe and sound . . . so I can fuck you again.”

  She shivers at my words—the good kind of shiver. And then she nods, seemingly convinced.

  And I almost have myself convinced as well.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Abby

  ETTA AND LUKE AND KEVIN were right. Self-administered orgasms are most definitely not the same as orgasms delivered by someone else. And ones delivered by a sex-god bodyguard are a whole new definition of better.

  Tommy was—Tommy and I—were nothing short of magnificent. I didn’t know sex could be like that—wild and reckless, yet safe at the same time. And that’s how it felt when I was in his arms, above him and beneath him—safe.

  Wanted and protected.

  Secure enough to say anything, do anything. Everything.

  It was mind-blowing. Eye-opening. Perspective-shattering.

  And though a voice in my head warns me to stick to the plan—to not allow myself to be distracted—another bolder, braver voice says I can’t wait to do it again.

  To feel all Tommy made me feel, over and over, and as soon as humanly possible.

  When he dropped me back at my flat last night, I kicked off my shoes, fell face-first into my beloved bed and slept like the dead for four blissful hours. The bottomless, dreamless sort of sleep that pulls you down deep and wraps you in darkness and sends you back into wakefulness refreshed and energized—like fizzy soda has been injected into your veins.

  Medically speaking, I know that’s not feasible. That in reality I’m experiencing a cocktail mix of hormones and endorphins and dopamine—but it’s how it feels.

  Wonderful.

  I should’ve slept with Tommy weeks ago, or hell, years ago—he was right about that too. I’ve never felt so fantastic to have been wrong. The intensity of it, the release and joy that surged through me, was breathtakingly exquisite. And those sensations stayed with me—had me humming my way through my morning shower, and I’m still humming when I step out of the lift onto the surgical floor.

  It’s possible, at some point, I may break into song. A bawdy ditty about a dark-haired lad with a shameless smile, muscles to spare, and an absolutely brilliant cock.

  Dear God—only one night and I’m already talking dirty in my own head. And I don’t even mind.

  Though I’d suspected I appear as good on the outside as I feel on the inside, it’s confirmed when Etta spots me near the nurses’ station before rounds. And she shakes her head, smiling in a secret, silly sort of way that says she knows precisely what I did last night.

  “The magic peen is a hell of a drug.”

  I laugh. “The magic peen?”

  “You’re practically floating on air. Like he jizzed pixie dust all over you.”

  I giggle out a groan and cover my eyes with my hands. “Etta. Too much.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows.

  “And yet not nearly enough. I want the details, you dirty girl—don’t even think about holding out on me.”

  Before I can begin to answer, the lift pings open behind us and Kevin strolls out of it. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, as if it was tugged so forcefully the style is now permanent. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, even though he’s inside. Familiar-looking sunglasses . . . bodyguard-looking sunglasses.

  And he’s whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

  “Top of the morning, ladies.”

  “Well, well—it seems like Abby’s not the only one who got lucky last night,” Etta says.

  Kevin takes off the sunglasses and folds them reverently in his front coat pocket.

  “Lucky is the understatement of the year.”

  “He went home with Bea last night,” Etta tells me.

  I didn’t spend a tremendous amount of time with Bea on the nights that she was guarding me, but what I know of her, I like. She’s forthright, spirited, a little rough around the edges but a good egg all around. A potentially excellent yang to Kevin’s ying.

  Etta concurs.

  “If my medical career doesn’t pan out, I think I’ll become a professional matchmaker. I told Bea she’d be a fool not to give Kevin a go—and that she shouldn’t be put off because he’s quiet.”

  Kevin grins like the cat who ate all the canaries.

  “I can officially say she likes the quiet ones. A lot.”

  Then he leans toward us, wondering, “But do you think it’s weird that all three of us hooked up with bodyguards last night?”

  Looking completely sincere, Etta says, “I didn’t hook up with Harry.”

  “Harry?” I inquire, trying to keep up. “The lanky Backstreet Boy–singing karaoke chap?”

  Kevin nods. “They were practically welded together at the hip.” He turns to Etta. “You left together.”

  The way she blew her top when he was on the stage, I’m shocked Etta didn’t hook up with him right there at the bar.

  “He does seem like your type.”

  “He is,” Etta confirms with a sigh, and her tone goes dreamy. “We went for ice cream and walked around the city talking the whole night. Then he walked me to my front door and kissed me on the cheek. We’re soul mates. I want to take things slow with a soul mate.”

  “Right.” Kevin nods. “So you’re going to rock his world on the second night?”

  “Absolutely. He’s coming over for dinner tomorrow. I’m going to bang him so hard I’ll probably sprain something.”

  There’s the Etta I know.

  Our conversation cuts off there when Dr. Paulson appears across the other side of the nursing station.

  “Haddock—you’re scheduled to assist me on my transplant this week.”

  She’s tall and statuesque with short silver hair, a gracious, deliberate demeanor and a long, flawless career. Dr. Paulson is the surgeon all other surgeons want to be when they grow up.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m going to push you. You’d best be prepared.”

  My nod is sure and steady.

  “I’m ready. You can count on me.”

  Though I’ve said the words before—because no one wants to admit to the worry that they’re not up to snuff—this is the very first time that deep in the center of myself, I genuinely believe they’re true.

  Dr. Paulson narrows her gaze, analyzing and assessing me.

  “There’s something different about you this morning. Did you have something new for breakfast?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Behind me, low enough tha
t only I can hear, Etta snickers, “But she had dick for dinner.”

  I slide my foot back and kick her in the shin.

  “Well, whatever it is,” Dr. Paulson tells me as she picks up a chart and moves towards the lift, “keep it up.”

  I nod, smiling. “I will.”

  Once she’s gone, I glare at my terrible, awful best friend.

  “The next time you’re napping in the break room, I’m going to smother you with a surgical mask.”

  Etta sticks out her tongue at me and drags Kevin by the arm towards the group congregating at the end of the hall to begin rounds. I’m a step behind them when my mobile vibrates in my coat pocket.

  It’s a text from Tommy—as he programmed himself into my contacts last night.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: Free tonight?

  A bolt of heat strikes low in my stomach at the sight of the simple two-word question. But before it can burn me up, I type a reply.

  Me: It’s Sunday.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: I know. The day of rest. I rest best after fucking. I bet you do too.

  The man knows how to make an argument. But still I stick to my guns, shaking my head even though he can’t see.

  Me: I have reading to do to prepare for a surgery this week.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: You can read while you’re riding me. I’ll give it to you nice and slow so you don’t lose your place. Win-win.

  My breath whistles out of me. Because that’s how it was last night, on his sofa. Slow and deep. There’s a slick throbbing between my legs at the remembered feel of him inside me. Hard and thick and amazing. I felt so exquisitely filled up—tight and helplessly clenching around him.

  But still . . . I try to keep things in perspective.

  Me: We agreed to Tuesdays and Saturdays.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: I actually didn’t agree to that part at all. I don’t particularly like schedules.

  There’s a pause, the three dots taunting me. Then he adds a reply.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: And I want you again.

  My chest balloons with the sweetest thrill of sensation. And my lips slip into a giddy smile, without conscious intent or awareness.

  Because he wants me.

  And everything about Tommy Sullivan wanting me makes me feel alight and alive—more sure of myself, more powerful, than I can ever remember feeling before.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: This time I want it in your bed. Been thinking about it all morning. Your red hair splayed over those pink silk sheets you have—on your back, your breasts high and pointed and begging for my mouth. And your legs spread wide for me—aching for my mouth there too.

  A moan slides up the back of my throat—because I can almost hear him saying the words. Whispering them roughly against my ear. Sure in the sensual knowledge that all the things he wants to do with me, to me . . . I want as well.

  I send a reply, trying to tease.

  Me: You’re a very persuasive fellow.

  But Tommy’s done teasing now.

  Godly Orgasm Giver: Say yes, Abby.

  My hand trembles a little as I grasp my mobile. Because this is bad. Dangerous. I’m already breaking all my rules. But there’s a frenzied, frantic desire pulling inside me. Twisting me up and twirling me around. I’m caught in it, captured by it, completely at its mercy.

  At his mercy.

  So my fingers slide quickly over the screen, typing the only reply that’s possible.

  Me: Yes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tommy

  FROM THAT FIRST NIGHT ON, Abby takes to our arrangement like a kitten to warm milk. We hook up at her place and at mine, for long, slow, sweaty hours and hard, hot stolen minutes. Sometimes it’s planned days in advance—other times there’s just a moment’s notice. It’s consistently spontaneous, regularly impulsive . . . and there’s not a single thing about any of it that isn’t bloody fucking grand.

  Take where we are at the moment, for example. On Abby’s bed with her on all fours and me on my knees behind her. I like the way my hands look on her pale skin—gripping her waist as I pull her back and forth on my cock. I like the way her arse quivers each time my pelvis slaps against her. And I love the way she feels—the heaven of her slick, snug heat squeezing all around me.

  It doesn’t get better than this.

  “Tommy . . .” Her perfect moan floats through the room.

  Until it does.

  Abby’s head falls forward, her shiny hair swaying in time with the push of my hips.

  “You close?” I ask—but only to hear her say it out loud.

  Even through the condom, I can feel how close she is. How she gets wetter and her muscles begin that telltale tightening flutter.

  “So close,” she pants. “Please, Tommy. Please, please, please . . .”

  Abby Haddock begging to come is the sweetest sound I will ever hear.

  I run my palm up her spine, digging my fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her up. Because I want to be closer, need to feel her deeper.

  My arm is a band across her stomach, holding her still as the pace of my hips quickens. Abby’s back presses against my chest and she turns her head, silently reaching for my mouth. I kiss her roughly and slide my hand between her legs, pressing two fingers to her clit. And then she’s stiffening in my arms and moaning down my throat as the bliss takes her. Her pussy clenches me, making my balls draw up and electricity race down my spine. I come hard, surging hot inside her as a string of curses falls from my lips.

  For a bit, neither of us moves. We stay there still on our knees, pressed together and panting, with the same pulsing pleasure throbbing through our veins.

  Then Abby opens those pretty green eyes and laughs.

  “I swear it gets better every time.”

  And she’s not even a little wrong.

  A few minutes later, I’m buttoning my trousers getting ready to head for home and Abby’s in her gargantuan fluffy robe, heading for the bath.

  “What’s your schedule tomorrow?” she asks, her hungry eyes on my abs as I pull my shirt over my head.

  “I’ve got training with the new hires and a logistics review with a client’s security team. You?”

  “Rounds, clinic, and an observation of a frontal craniotomy that will run late.”

  “A brain surgery?” I lift an eyebrow. “I bet that turns you on.”

  “It’s very exciting, yes.”

  I nod. “Text me when you’re home no matter the time. I’ll come by and go down on you before you go to sleep.”

  Even after what we just finished doing, and what we did before that—which involved a whole lot of her mouth and my dick—Abby blushes.

  And it’s too damn adorable. I take her face in my hands and kiss her slow and soft. Then I reach around and slap her arse, just to keep her on her toes.

  And that’s how it is with us. No tiresome talk about feelings or the future, no hard-on-deflating debates about where we stand or where this is going, or even worse, where it’s not, no annoying arguments about priorities or divided attention.

  It’s just this simple. And easy.

  Just this fantastically good.

  * * *

  Speaking of priorities—mine are obviously in full working order, as evidenced a few days later when I get an incoming text from Abby first thing in the morning. I’m at the S&S offices bright and early, and right in the middle of a tutorial from Stella and Amos on our new computer software that reports on the arrest and release records of local police departments around our security system clients’ homes.

  Apple Blossom: My morning surgery’s been delayed. Can you come here?

  Like the best sort of magic trick, my smirk—and my erection—appear instantaneously. Because while it might not seem like she means it in a dirty way, I know better.

  Me: There, here, on your tits, your arse, against your lips—I can come lots of places.

  I practically see her rolling her eyes on the other end of the phone. And it’s hot—my fon
dness for Abby’s eye-rolling is almost as perverse as my rabid fetish for her frown.

  Apple Blossom: Meet me in 20?

  Me: I’ll be there in 15.

  Apple Blossom: Even better. 6th floor, end of the hall closet. Knock twice. I’ll be inside waiting.

  I’d knew she’d be like this. Reckless and wild. Bordering on dangerous with the right man. No—fuck that—with me.

  Me: Don’t start without me.

  My cock twitches at the mental images of just what Abby starting without me would look like. And I rethink that statement.

  Me: On second thought—do start without me. But only if you take photos.

  I don’t think she’s ready for sexy selfies just yet . . . but it never hurts to try.

  I slide my phone in my pocket and jerk my thumb over my shoulder, looking at Logan.

  “Duty calls. I have to head out—something suddenly came up.”

  And here’s where Lo’s serious side rears up to try and ruin all my fucking fun.

  “We’re right in the middle of this. It’s important.”

  I move backwards, holding up my hands like a lad sneaking out on chores to go and play. “You’re on top of it. You’re doing great. I have complete faith in you, mate.”

  “Tommy—”

  I make the sign of the cross in the air, blessing him—and then I’m jogging out the door, over to the Tube, because morning traffic is a mess and I don’t plan on wasting a minute.

  Fifteen minutes later I stand outside the hall closet door at the hospital. No one gave me a second glance on my way up, because here’s a bodyguard trick: if you look like you know where you’re going and act like you belong there, rarely does anyone have the balls to question you about it.

  I rap twice on the door and a moment later it cracks slowly open on its own. Like a horror movie . . . only with stupendous sex waiting on the other side instead of an ax murderer. I step in and close the door behind me and an endless black engulfs me before my eyes can adjust.

  “Abby?” I whisper.

  I can’t see her but, Christ, I can smell her. I inhale deep, devouring the scent that makes my mouth water—not for apples, but for her.