Dirty Money

by Jessica Clare

  “It won’t be stupid,” I breathe, excited. My nipples are hard under my jacket, and it’s like he just went down on me again, not just promised to let me cut his hair. Calm down, silly nipples. “No weird haircuts, I promise. I’m just going to trim it.”

  He nods slowly. “If you want.”

  I smile. “Then show me your bathroom. I’ll strip down for you, and we can get started.”

  Boone extends his hand to me and I melt a little. He’s going to hold my hand while giving me a tour of his place? That’s so sweet and oddly gentlemanly. I tuck the kit under my arm and put my hand in his, following close behind as he leads me through the trailer.

  He opens a door down the hall . . . and stops. Sighs.

  “What is it?” I ask, though I’m a little worried. Guys can have gross bathrooms. I peek around his shoulder, unable to help myself, and I’m puzzled at his dismay. It’s a bathroom. It’s clean, with a few bottles on the small sink, but it’s tidy.

  “This ain’t right,” he tells me.

  “Why isn’t it right?”

  He glances over at me and I can feel him squeeze my hand. “Because here I am, inviting you over for a night of no-holds-barred sex, and I made you drive over to my trailer. And then there’s this.” He gestures at the tiny bathroom.

  “What’s wrong with it? It looks clean.”

  “You deserve better.”

  I fidget, feeling uncomfortable. Does he not realize my place could be a twin to his? I wish that I could tell him that I didn’t care.

  But he wants an elegant girlfriend. One that knows her way around society and how to impress people. One that can sell him a big fancy house because she knows about fancy things. And if that changes, I might lose him. I . . . don’t want that to happen. Not yet.

  So I say nothing.

  Boone frowns at his bathroom a moment longer, and then gazes down the hallway of his trailer. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that it doesn’t matter. Maybe I can tell him a friend of mine lives in a trailer and it’s no big deal. But before I can come up with a story that will make him feel better, he tugs me down the hall after him, and we’re heading back toward the living room.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I have an idea. Get your purse.” He releases my hand and grabs his car keys from the kitchen counter.

  I move to the couch and pick it up, tucking the shaving kit back inside it. I’m a little confused by what’s going on. “Are we leaving?”

  He nods slowly, giving me another heated look that makes my toes curl in my shoes. “Since I don’t have the big house yet, I’m gonna take you to a nice, fancy hotel and we’re gonna do this right.”

  “I don’t need a hotel,” I protest. “Really. This is fine, Boone.”

  “It’s not fine. You’re classy and deserve better than this.” He gestures at his trailer with a shake of his head. “Ain’t right for you.”

  Isn’t it? I feel a stab of guilt at keeping my secret. It’s making me uneasy, because he’s so focused on how “classy” I am (a word I’m starting to hate) that I wonder how he’s going to act when he finds out I’m not anything like his picture of me. “Maybe we should just call this off, Boone. I don’t know—”

  “No,” he says quickly, moving across the trailer to my side. Then, he’s looming over me, his larger-than-life presence eating up all the oxygen around me as he cups my cheek. “I want this. I want you, Ivy. You have no idea how bad I want this.”

  A small smile returns to my face. “Don’t I? You tell me all the time.”

  “Well, if you know how badly I want you, you should know that I want this to be right for you. It ain’t sitting right for me that the first time I fuck you is gonna be in some lousy, run-down trailer. You deserve the fancy sheets, the nice bed, the lobster tail, the works.”

  “Oh, so now we’re going out to dinner?” I tease, and then gesture at my very low neckline, where my breasts are practically escaping my suit jacket. “I’m not exactly dressed for that.”

  “We’ll get room service. Whatever you want. I just want to do this right.”

  I shake my head. “However we do it is right. I promise you, I don’t need all that—”

  He silences my protest with a hard, fierce kiss that leaves me dazed. When he lifts his mouth from mine, he nips at my lip one last time before saying, “This is how it’s gonna be.”

  And what can I do but agree? “All right.”

  Boone looks thoughtful. “How much does a fancy hotel suite cost a night?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure.” Mostly because I’ve never stayed in one. Time to lie, again. “The last time I stayed in one it was about five hundred a night.” God, I’m such a terrible liar. He’s going to see right through me and wonder.

  But Boone only nods slowly. “All right, I don’t have that much cash on me. I gotta get it out of my savings. Come on.”

  I follow him out onto the porch, but I’m bewildered when he skips heading to his truck and instead pulls a blue tarp off of what looks like a four-wheeler. He holds a helmet out to me, indicating I should join him. “What are we doing?”

  “Going to pull money out of my savings?”

  “I . . . thought we were going to a bank for that?”

  He snorts. “Like I trust a bank.”

  “Shouldn’t you? You’re a billionaire.”

  He puts the helmet over my head and then puts one on himself. “I keep most of the big money in the company and don’t have access to it. Mostly because I can’t dig enough holes to squirrel it all away. My personal money’s here on the land.”

  Squirrel away? I’m suddenly envisioning Boone showing up for closing on his house with a freshly dug-up gold bar or three. “I’m not following you.”

  “I got several jars of money buried in a few spots. We’ll pull cash from one of those.” And to show me that he’s serious, he tucks a spade into his back pocket.

  It’s night. I’m in a suit and five-inch heels and he wants to go digging in the woods for money? This feels . . . bizarre. “We really don’t have to do this, Boone—”

  “Get over here or I’m going to sit you down and lick your pussy until you say yes.” The look on his face is challenging.

  Good lord, the man means it, too. I’m torn, because . . . that’s not exactly a punishment. And Boone’s as pigheaded as they come, I’m realizing. Me stalling or telling him that this isn’t a good idea? I might as well be trying to reason with the trees. I sigh and adjust the strap under my helmet. “Please tell me it’s not gold bars, at least. I’m pretty sure hotels don’t take those.”

  He laughs as he sits down on the four-wheeler and waits for me to straddle the seat behind him. “I may be a crazy redneck, but I ain’t that crazy.”

  Chapter Nine

  Boone

  Ivy knows of a fancy place downtown, so we head there in my truck. She keeps protesting that she doesn’t need a nice bed or a super expensive hotel room, but I need that for her. Ivy’s going to be my wife, and I’m not having our first time together on my shitty old bed in my shitty old trailer. She’s used to better and she deserves to be treated like the lady she is.

  I glance over at her as I drive. Even though it’s late at night, she looks fresh and pretty. Her mouth’s still a little puffy from my beard-scraping kisses, but I kinda like that look on her. She keeps a hand on the front of her jacket, pinching it together with her fingers so her tits don’t show to the world. Not that I’d mind that, but Ivy’s a lady, and that ain’t a lady thing to do.

  Then again, neither is going to a hotel late at night to have sex with me. Course, I don’t mind that, either. I feel a fierce surge of satisfaction just thinking about her, because she’s mine.

  Finally, she’s gonna be mine. I’m gonna take her to some fancy-ass overpriced hotel room, peel the clothes off her body, get a few glasses
of champagne in her, and lick every inch of her silky skin until she’s begging for my cock. Even now, I’m hard, my jeans tight in the crotch. But I can be a real patient man when I need to be. Haven’t I been patient waiting on her to come around to how good it could be with me?

  Longest damn week.

  But worth it, if I get her in my bed and in my life.

  We check in at the hotel, and Ivy seems even more nervous, holding her jacket shut and clutching her purse tight against her arm. I get one of the top-floor suites and, when I’ve paid, escort my woman to the elevator.

  “I think they think I’m an escort,” she whispers to me as we get in. “Did you see the way the clerk was looking at me?”

  I didn’t, but she might not be wrong. It’s late at night and weird things happen late at night, especially in hotels. I keep my arm at her waist, feeling possessive of her. “Nah. They recognize class when they see it. Probably just wondered what you were doing with me.”

  She’s silent, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe me. But she’s still going upstairs with me, so it must not bother her that much. ’Sides, I think my girl has a secretly dirty side. I like it.

  The room turns out to be bigger than my trailer. It’s got a couch, a sea of leather chairs accompanied by tiny wrought-iron tables, a huge balcony view of the Riverwalk, and a ritzy bathroom with a spa tub and a long marble counter. There’s a bunch of ugly-ass art on the wall, which makes me think they need to fire their decorator. At least the bed’s enormous, which is all I care about. I turn to Ivy. “You like it?”

  “It’s lovely.” She gives me a faint, shy smile, then sets her purse down and slips out of her high heels. As she moves around the room, I head for the phone and the room service menu.

  I dial the number.

  “What can I get you, sir?” the voice on the other end asks.

  “I want a bottle of your most expensive champagne and a couple of lobsters.” When Ivy wrinkles her nose, I add, “What you got for dessert?” The man rattles off something in French, and I get two of it. Because fuck it. I want to impress my lady.

  “It’ll be an hour,” the person on the other end promises. “This late at night our special orders take a bit longer.”

  An hour’s fine. I hang up and look over at Ivy, who’s gazing out at the Riverwalk below. She’s fucking gorgeous in the moonlight, all soft curves and long legs. She also looks . . . a little nervous. Her shoulders are tense and she hugs her arms to her torso. Maybe she needs something to occupy her. I know just the thing. “Well,” I drawl. “You wanna do the honors?”

  “Honors?” She turns around and looks at me.

  I scratch at my beard. “You said you wanted to shave me, right?”

  Her cheeks flush prettily and she smooths her bun with one hand. “Isn’t room service coming up?”

  “It’s gonna be an hour. That’s enough time for you to get all naked and trim my beard, right?”

  She licks her lips and they part gently, as if she’s considering it.

  I nearly bust a nut in my pants at that small gesture because she’s so damn sexy. I’m a red-blooded man and I’ve wanted women in the past, but there’s something about Ivy Smithfield that makes me think I never knew lust until I set eyes on her. She’s changed the entire game for me.

  “You shy?” I ask, half teasing. It makes my heart ache to look at her. So beautiful, and all mine.

  “A little,” she admits. “But I’ll work through it.” Ivy takes one last look at the lights of the Riverwalk, and then she closes the balcony doors and draws the curtain over it, making our room private. Her hands go to the front of her jacket and she starts to undo the buttons. The playfulness is gone from her expression, and she looks very serious, as if she needs to concentrate to do this right.

  Doesn’t she know all she has to do is smile and I’m hers? I’m easy to impress, and even easier to arouse, especially when it comes to her.

  Her hands tremble as she slides her jacket off her shoulders, revealing the silky pink-and-black bra that’s been tormenting me via her low neckline. Damn, she is fucking beautiful. Her belly is gently rounded and her hips are curvier than I thought. Her breasts are high and a perfect size, and her shoulders are a work of art. She’s gorgeous . . . and she looks so nervous she’s breaking my heart.

  On impulse, I start to undo my belt.

  She freezes in place, her little nipples hard and pointing through the fabric. “What are you doing?”

  “Gettin’ naked with you, so you don’t feel all uncomfortable.”

  The little giggle that escapes her warms me. “I don’t know if I’m going to feel better with you pantsless. What about when the food gets here?”

  “I’ll cover with a towel.”

  She gives a small little shake of her head, still smiling, and steps out of her skirt. Now she’s in nothing but her panties and matching bra, and god almighty, it is a sight to see. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and her legs are a dream. I want to stare at her for hours and drink in every beauty mark, every inch of skin, every strand of hair. “Maybe you’d better leave your pants on. But you can take your shirt off. Probably a good idea since it’ll just get covered with hair.”

  I can do that. I immediately tug my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor, and then wait for her to comment. I’m pretty cut, thanks to my time on a rig, and I normally work out a few times a week just to get some of the stress out. I’m not completely covered in tatts, though, and I hope she wasn’t expecting that. I have a few on my arms, and that’s it. But maybe she likes more? I hate the thought of disappointing my woman.

  Her eyes go wide as I rub my naked chest. She stares at me for a good, long moment, and then her gaze flicks to my face. “I . . . oh.”

  “You what?”

  Ivy’s face goes beet red. “Nothing.”

  Amused at her reaction, I tease her a bit more. “You disappointed?” I pretend to grab my nonexistent beer gut.

  “What? No!” She presses a hand to her cheek, and then moves closer to me. “I like the way you look. I was just . . . surprised. I don’t know why. I guess maybe I expected you to look . . . less . . . ?”

  “Rugged?” I supply. “Amazing? Manly?” I flex again, because how can you refer to yourself as manly and not flex that shit?

  Her hands go to my chest and she traces her fingers down my pectorals. Just like that, I forget all about teasing. Her small touch fills me with raging need, and it’s all I can do to stay still as she explores my body with her hands. I can’t even breathe when she grazes her thumbs over my nipples, because I’m picturing her doing that to my cock. Hell, I’m picturing doing that to her nipples, which are tight and juicy looking through the fabric of that bra, and so close that I want to reach out and taste them for myself. But this is her moment, and so I remain still.

  “Delicious,” she breathes, her hands moving over my collarbone.

  “What?” My voice sounds gruff, even to my own ears, but damn. I can’t think when she’s doing all this touching.

  “I didn’t expect you to look so delicious,” Ivy tells me in a soft voice. “I was expecting . . . I don’t know. Lots of chest hair.” Her hand slides over one pectoral, then the next, and then down to the trail of hair on my lower stomach. “But you have just enough. I like it.” Her hands seem to be moving all over me. “And I like all these muscles.”

  “Made ’em just for you.”

  She grins at that, but in my head, it’s not a lie. In my head, everything I do is for her.

  I lean in to kiss her, because I need the taste of her on my lips. But she only moves away and saunters toward the bathroom, peeking over her shoulder at me. “We’ve only got an hour, Boone. We need to hurry this along.”

  “Only an hour? Damn. How long’s it gonna take to shave a man?” I follow her, because I’m fascinated by the sway of her
hips and the way her ass moves. And god almighty, those long legs. Those are gonna be the death of me.

  “I don’t want to rush. I need to do it right, because I want to keep the beard and the hair. Just clean them up a little.”

  Well, damn. I want to keep the beard and the hair, too, but this is starting to sound iffy to me.

  She enters the bathroom and picks through the stack of fluffy white towels until she finds one the right size she wants, and then spreads it on the counter. She grabs another and tosses it over my shoulders, smiling and looking for all the world like she’s thrilled to be givin’ me a haircut.

  Women are so strange sometimes.

  “Wait here,” Ivy tells me. “I need to get my purse.”

  So I wait, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t see the big deal. I’m a little shaggy . . . okay, a lot shaggy. I rake my hand through my hair and I’m pretty sure it’s been a year or so since I got my last cut, and it’s at least six inches long. It goes in every direction, most days, which is why I like to wear a cap. I drag my fingers through my beard, thoughtful. It’s kinda scraggly on the sides but fuller toward the chin and ends in a sloppy point. I picture the suits that I have meetings with, and Bates. I don’t look like them at all. I do look just like a dirty roughneck.

  Maybe Ivy’s right. Maybe a change isn’t so bad after all.

  She returns a moment later with her little bag and then hops up on the counter. “I think we’ll start with the beard first, and then we’ll clean up some of your hair.”

  I don’t care what we do, so long as it involves her touching me. I lean in closer and she automatically spreads her legs as she sits on the counter, allowing me between them. My cock aches hard at that, and I press my body against the counter to try and stave off some of the consuming lust I’m feeling. Up close, she’s so pretty and perfect. Her hair is still in one of those tight knots and I want to pull it loose and see how long it is. But first things first . . . “You forgettin’ something?”