Wicked Dirty

by J. Kenner

She shook her head, her eyes wide.

  "This," he said, and then kissed her, tentatively at first, but then wilder as she opened to him, her desire for him so real and intense it humbled him.

  She still had the sheet over her chest, but now she let it drop, then moved onto his lap, so that she was naked and straddling him over his jeans. "Touch me," she demanded. "Take me."

  He moaned, so hard now it was painful. And it wasn't even her body that was affecting him--though Christ knew he wanted to lose himself in her soft curves. It was the fact that she wanted him. That she so clearly desired him.

  And that the truth about who he was hadn't extinguished the fire between them. If anything, it had strengthened it, because he knew that she wanted him. That it was him. The man, not the actor, not the prostitute's son. Just him.

  He let his hands roam over her back, her soft skin. Then he cupped her head and pulled her close, kissing her wildly, making her moan.

  She whimpered, and he couldn't get enough of her. And when her hips moved and she rubbed herself against his jeans, he thought he'd come right then.

  "That's it, Sugar. Baby, that's so hot."

  "You're teasing me."

  "I like watching you want me. Your skin flushed. Your lips swollen. I want to tease you. To draw it out. To make you beg so that there's no doubt that you want me."

  "I've wanted you since the first moment I met you," she said, and he felt the truth of her words cut through him. "But that was only physical. Now I want you, Lyle," she said, and his head spun with the satisfaction of hearing his own thoughts reflected back at him.

  "Please," she murmured. "Please."

  "What do you want, baby?"

  "Everything." She climbed off him, then stretched out on the bed. "Everything, but mostly you." She licked her lips as she met his eyes. "Touch me," she demanded. "Touch me, please. Touch me, and then make love to me. I want to explode, Lyle. I want you to make me explode."

  That was an offer he couldn't ignore, and as she watched him, her eyes heavy with lust, he stripped, then got back on the bed.

  Roughly, he spread her legs, then just sat there on his knees as he let his eyes roam over every inch of her. Her polished toenails. Her smooth legs. Her sweet, wet pussy, open and ready for him. She was completely smooth, and he could see the flower of her core. The heat of her need. And when he lifted his gaze to her face, he also saw that she was biting her lip, her head turned as if embarrassed.

  "You're beautiful," he said. "Do you have any idea how turned on it makes me seeing you like this? Wet and open and ready for me?"

  She didn't say anything, but she met his eyes, and didn't turn away again as he continued his lazy inspection, this time punctuating his examination with kisses. Her belly button, her abdomen, her breasts. And then finally her sweet mouth.

  "Please," she begged when they broke a heated kiss. Her arms went around him, her fingers clutching her back. "Please don't make me wait."

  "Your wish," he said. "My command."

  He trailed kisses back down to heaven, wanting to taste her first. To take her to the edge and push her over, making her come before he thrust himself inside of her.

  When his mouth closed over her pussy and she trembled under the torment of his tongue, he knew that it wouldn't take long. She was so aroused, so damn close. And when he flicked his tongue over her clit, then sucked gently, she arched up, crying out even as she reached for his head, holding him in place as he ate her out, as she cried his name, as she shattered all around him, letting herself go completely in his arms.

  He didn't let up, not even when she begged, and he used his tongue to squeeze the last bit of the orgasm from her until she was begging him to fuck her, to be inside her.

  "Please," she demanded. "Now, Lyle, I want you now."

  He didn't hesitate. How could he when he was so close he was about to explode? When he was so desperate he thought he might go insane if he couldn't feel her tight around his cock. He couldn't go slow--he tried, damn him--but she was so wet and so ready that when he thrust into her, he went hard and deep.

  She moaned, her soft whispers of yes driving him as he pistoned inside her, chasing a rising passion until, finally, he couldn't hold everything inside him any longer. She was tight around him, milking him, her hands on his ass as she worked with him, forcing him harder and deeper so that when he finally exploded, it felt as if they were one person.

  And when the world fell away and he collapsed beside her, he knew that he had never felt like that before. Because it wasn't about sex, but about the woman beside him. A woman who'd gotten under his skin and into his heart. A woman who murmured his name and curled sleepily against him.

  A woman who'd seen all of him, and wanted him still.

  He breathed deeply, pulling her closer, not wanting to lose the connection even as exhaustion overtook him and he drifted into the dark.

  * * *

  He didn't know how long he slept, but he came awake with a start when Skittles jumped on his chest and began sniffing his face. "Hold up there, tuna breath," he said. "This is a little too much intimacy considering we don't know each other that well."

  "Speaking of intimacy," he murmured as he rolled over, disappointed to find only rumpled sheets. He considered asking the cat where Laine was, but the question was unnecessary. Even if the smell of frying bacon didn't give her away, the house was small. It wouldn't take too much effort to find her.

  He slid out of bed and pulled on underwear and his Tee, then headed toward the bedroom door, patting his leg so the cat would follow him.

  Skittles, however, was turning circles on his pillow, apparently ready to settle down for his mid-morning nap.

  "Suit yourself," Lyle said. "But don't expect me to save you any bacon."

  "Sorry, what?" Laine asked as he stepped into the kitchen.

  He waved the question away. "Just talking to your cat."

  "Yeah?" She slid into his arms for a good morning kiss. "And just when I thought you couldn't be any more perfect, you go and impress me with your feline-human relations."

  "Oh, is he a feline? 'Cause I'm not sure he realizes that."

  "Good point. I know you like bacon since you ate your weight in it at the hotel, but the eggs at the buffet were scrambled, so I don't know if you like fried."

  "Fried is perfect. You're perfect," he added, standing behind her with his arms around her waist as she flipped the bacon. "I had no idea you could cook."

  She turned in his arms. "If by cook you mean bacon, eggs, slice-and-bake cookies, tuna salad, and anything with Stouffers on the label, then I'm a righteous chef. As for all other categories? I'm pretty much a disaster."

  "Peanut butter sandwiches?"

  She wrinkled her nose as she shook her head. "I always rip the bread."

  "Pasta?"

  "I can never remember how long to boil it."

  "Canned soup?"

  "Okay. You caught me. I guess I really do have mad cooking skills. Now let me focus or you'll have raw eggs and burnt bacon."

  In the end, he had to applaud her bacon and egg skills, and he dug in as she stood beside the coffee maker waiting for her cup to finish brewing.

  "There is a serious amount of junk mail in this world," she said, tossing flyers aside. "Not one real--oh."

  "What is it?"

  "I saw it last night and forgot about it--I wonder what could have distracted me," she added with a sexy little smile.

  She held up a brown envelope, then sliced it open with a steak knife. "Someone sent a letter by courier."

  "What is it?" he said, noting her frown as she glanced at the thin sheath of papers she'd pulled out.

  When she didn't answer, he stood up, worry running through him like ice water. "Laine?"

  "It's about my house," she said, her voice flat and dull. "It's from a lawyer. My father's filed papers with the court as a co-owner."

  "Asking the court to do what?"

  She met his eyes, hers full of hurt and confus
ion. "It's called a partition," she said. "And it means he's going to force a sale."

  21

  A painful coldness sweeps through me, leaving my skin prickly and everything just a little bit painful.

  Numb. I've gone completely numb.

  I force myself to swallow, then look at Lyle, who's looking right back at me, his face lined with such horror and confusion he could almost be a mirror.

  "I can't lose my house," I say. "Not now. Not right after you paid it off."

  "Not ever," he says firmly. He's right beside me now and he takes my shoulder, turning me so that I have no choice but to face him. "He's your father. Can't you call him? Ask him to put the brakes on? Figure out a way to stop this?"

  I try to think. "I don't have his number. Hell, I don't even know where he lives."

  "But this lawyer might. Call him. Tell him you want to meet with your dad. Ask why he's doing it."

  "Okay." My voice sounds horribly small in my kitchen, and when Lyle holds out his arms, I'm ridiculously grateful for him to just hold me.

  "What time are you supposed to meet Greg and Anderson?"

  "Nine-thirty," I say, forcing myself to think like a businessperson.

  Which, I realize with a sudden start, is what this is all about. I step back so that I can pace as I think. "He must have gotten some sort of notification that the equity loan was paid off. And maybe that gave him the idea."

  "To partition?"

  "To sell," I say. "After so many years and with property values so high in this neighborhood right now, this house is worth so much more than my parents paid for it. Real estate agents chat me up all the time. The last time I asked, the woman said she could get close to two million. And that was before I finished the renovation."

  "And he'd get half," Lyle says. "That's how a partition works. Unless you two can work it out, the court orders the property sold and you split the proceeds."

  "Unless we can work it out," I repeat, thinking that those really aren't pretty words.

  "He's your dad," Lyle says. "It's worth a shot."

  "I'll call, but it won't matter. He left when I was nine, and never wrote or called. Not even a birthday card. Not even after his son died. No," I add when he steps toward me, obviously intending to draw me into a hug. "I appreciate the thought, but I'm over being hurt by my dad. It was a long time ago. My point is that a man like that isn't going to care if he's hurting me or if he's stealing the memory of Mom and Andy right out from under me. He just wants his million.

  "And that," I say, "is about a million more than I have."

  * * *

  "Thanks for the last-minute meet," I say to Joy forty minutes later, when we meet at the Java B's a few blocks from my house. "Especially since I can't even stay that long."

  Lyle's been great, but this is a situation that calls for the kind of mass quantities of caffeine and sympathy that only a best friend can provide.

  "Are you kidding? Anytime your asshole father comes out of the woodwork I am totally there for you."

  I actually crack a smile, which feels really good.

  I'd explained the whole thing earlier on the phone, and now she asks, "What are you going to do?"

  That's the question that's been haunting me all morning, and the answer is that I don't know. An answer that Joy marks with a very definitive thumbs-down.

  "You have to be proactive. Find out where he lives. Rat him out on social media."

  "That only works on people who care about social media in the first place. I'm thinking that's not my dad. And besides, it would feel really icky."

  "You can get over icky," she says.

  "Noted. Next idea?"

  "You could just kill him, but since it's not the kind of deed where you get the whole house if he dies, then it wouldn't do you any good unless you're in his will. And you're probably not." She sips her latte. "Probably wouldn't work, then."

  "I'll pass on the murder plot," I say dryly. "Another suggestion?"

  "Pay him."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I'm serious," she says. "He's just interested in the equity. So buy his interest for what he would make when the court forces the sale."

  "I know what you meant," I say. "But where am I supposed to get that kind of money? I doubt Marjorie has a client who'll pay a cool million. And honestly, I wouldn't do it even if she did. Not now."

  Joy's brows lift. "Interesting. And relevant. Because I was going to suggest you ask Lyle for the money."

  I've just taken a sip of coffee, and when I gasp it goes down the wrong way, making me cough and choke as I try to suck in a coffee-free breath of air.

  "You okay?"

  "Lyle?" I say. "You want me to ask Lyle for a million dollars?"

  "Well, sure. I mean, he pretty much paid off your loan, so he probably already feels invested in the house. And we know he likes you."

  She frowns. "He does like you, right? Because I have to admit, I'm still a little confused. Are things between you real-serious or pretend-serious? Because honestly, I'm not sure if I should apologize for getting you into this in the first place, or say you're welcome."

  It's like she's flipped a switch, and all sorts of gooey thoughts and feelings fill me up. "Things are great," I say, unable to fight my brilliant smile. "And thank you," I add, then wink.

  "O.M.G., she squeals. "That's so fab. I'm really happy for you. See? I bet he'd totally give you a million to save the house."

  "Joy, that's--"

  "Perfect. I know. I'm a genius"

  "No," I say. "Not even close to perfect. I can't ask him for a million dollars. There's no way I could earn that much working for him--and don't you dare say sex. And I couldn't pay off a loan. Not in this lifetime, anyway."

  "But he'd probably do it for you, anyway."

  "Even assuming he has a million lying around, I can't ask him for it. I'd be putting him in a horrible spot. And what if things don't work out between us?" I ask, the thought of losing him making me vaguely queasy. "It would be beyond uncomfortable."

  "Maybe, but at least you'd have the house."

  "At that price? I'd rather just have my memories."

  The words come without thinking, but as soon as they're out of my mouth, I know they're true. I love my house, and I'm still going to call the lawyer and I'm still going to fight this stupid partition action. But if it gets down to the wire, I'm not going to destroy myself or a relationship trying to save it.

  Because at the end of the day, I'll still have my memories.

  And maybe, if things keep on the way I hope they will, I'll have Lyle, too.

  22

  "We can knock down this wall and open the kitchen up to the dining and living areas, don't you think?" Greg asks.

  I snap back to attention, frustrated that my mind has once again wandered to my house. But as soon as I arrived, I'd asked Anderson to explain exactly how partitions work, and based on what he told me, I'm even more sure I'm screwed.

  Mentally, I rewind Greg's words. "I like it," I say. "But I think that we should have the sink on an island with bar seating. That way someone can be working at the sink and talking to someone either sitting at the bar or in the living room."

  Anderson and Greg look at each other and nod. "All right," Greg says. "That sounds good." He glances around the area, then back at me. "I think we're done. Pretty cool, huh?"

  "It's going to be amazing. Do you want me to write up what we talked about?" I ask Greg. "I can do a quick sketch too, if you want."

  "Perfect."

  I flash a smile at the two of them. "I can't believe we're really starting. Anderson, seriously. Without you--"

  "Believe me, I'm equally indebted to you two."

  "Should we go celebrate?" Greg asks. "Drinks? Fried food?"

  I check my watch. "I'd love to, but I have plans with Lyle. A going away party for one of his friends."

  "Congratulations, by the way," Anderson says. "You must be very excited."

  "I am," I say, playing the r
ole perfectly and flashing my ring.

  But underneath the shiny smile is a layer of melancholy. For the house I will probably lose. And for the man I'm falling in love with. Because I'm wearing his ring without having the slightest clue if this is really going anywhere.

  Wait.

  Whoa.

  Back-up.

  Love?

  I reach out, steadying myself against the kitchen cabinet, the word making my knees go weak.

  Had I really thought that?

  More, had I really meant it?

  "You okay?" Greg asks, and I nod automatically.

  "I'm a little lightheaded. Too much sun the last couple of days." I glance toward the door. "I'm going to head home and see if I can't draw up that sketch before I have to leave. Here tomorrow? Nine?"

  They both agree, and I hurry out the front door toward my seriously under-used Toyota. I'm eager to get inside, close the door, crank up some tunes, and drive, letting these feelings and revelations settle inside me.

  Greg, however, gets to me before I have the chance.

  "Hey, wait up," he calls, bounding down the front steps.

  I slide my hands in my pockets as he approaches. "Did we forget something?"

  "No. But I--I wanted to say I'm sorry about the other night. I didn't like the way he threw you to the wolves."

  "He didn't," I promise, then wince. "I'm sorry. I told you I'd explain everything, and I've been so busy..."

  "It's okay. I got it from Joy. So I know the score. But I still worry. And I swear this isn't coming from jealousy. We're friends, right?"

  "Absolutely."

  "I'm just afraid this is going to blow up on you. A fake engagement? That's a recipe for disaster."

  "It'll be okay," I say. But the truth is, I'm worried now, too.

  Because I really do love him.

  And for better or for worse, love makes you vulnerable.

  * * *

  "Faster! Faster!" Lara cries as Lyle swings her in a circle, airplane-style, then finally slows down and plunks Nikki and Damien's little girl onto the lush lawn. "Again," she calls, clapping her little hands.

  "Maybe later, kiddo," he says, sprawled on the grass beside her. "You've worn me out."

  From the seat beside me, Riley chuckles. "Wimp. Clearly, we're going to have to up your training regimen."

  Lyle lifts his head and scowls at his friend. "I'd say something rude, but there are children present. Hey, beautiful," he adds, turning his attention to me.