Getting Dirty

by Rachael Stewart

  Heaven flows through my entire body, my head falling forward as my eyes open to take her in, wide with shock, with desire, with all manner of mixed-up emotion. And then there’s her hum of satisfaction, reverberating around my length as she takes my all. She’s not quitting and I don’t want her to. She’s taking my every last drop, forcing out reality and making me want more. So much more.

  I soften my hands in her hair, caressing instead of holding. I drag in a breath and then my brain rips through the haze—you fucking idiot—and sends guilt and hatred hot on its tail.

  And it’s not her I loathe. I know that with ice-like clarity now.

  It’s me—all me.

  * * *

  Something flickers in his gaze, and for a second I worry that it’s regret I can see. I don’t want Ash’s regret. I want the fire back. The same fire that has me all wet, aching, needier than I can ever remember. It’s the perfect antidote for life. Powerful, all-encompassing, a perfect distraction.

  I release his cock and put right his underwear—but I don’t zip him up. I’m not done yet. Not if I have my way. I lick my lips as I stand and take pleasure in his touch as he tilts my head towards him, his thumb and finger gentle on my chin.

  ‘You’re pretty talented.’

  ‘Call it practice.’

  His eyes flash and his fingers flex. He didn’t like that...

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve had plenty of practice too.’ I throw it back at him and run my teeth over my bottom lip. I want to push him. I want to toy with his obvious conflict. I want this twisted game to go on for however long he will play it. ‘I bet your tongue is skilled in so many ways—or do you use your fingers more?’

  I take hold of his hand upon my chin and slowly lower it down my body. My breasts prickle inside the confines of my bra as he travels through the valley between them and over my exposed midriff, which has me sucking in a breath.

  He isn’t stopping me, but that war is back. I can see it in his gaze. At any moment he’s going to back away and leave, and the very idea is making my heart beat that little bit faster and urging me on.

  I lift myself up on tiptoes and lean into his ear, my free hand working my skirt up, my other hand drawing his hand down. ‘Feel how wet I am...just for you.’

  I slip his hand inside my lacy knickers, press his fingers into my wetness. His breath hitches in my ear, a curse hot on its tail.

  Better. So much better.

  My lips lift in victory as I dare to lean back, to meet his eye, and slowly I circle my hips over his touch, my hand still tight on his.

  You’re not going anywhere, Ash, not yet.

  His lips are deliciously parted and I love it, taking advantage to sink my tongue inside his mouth and coax his own into action. He comes alive at last, his fingers moving of their own volition, his mouth crushingly sweet as he takes control.

  He slips his fingers deeper, enters me as his thumb grazes my clit and I buck on the spike of pleasure that runs through me, the continued onslaught of his mouth catching my sigh of ecstasy.

  I raise my hands to his shoulders and cling to his body for support, my lower half on a shameless ride of its own.

  I struggle to catch my breath as his thumb works me to fever pitch, his mouth endless in its brutal exploration of my mouth. I tear my lips away, press my forehead into his shoulder and remember the audience taking in our brazen display, enjoying what they can see, what they can hear.

  I look to where his hand is buried in black lace. His movements are quick and dizzying, his fingers in deep. He’s skilled, all right, and I’m seconds away from combusting. My nails bite into his shoulders, my body tenses up and I fling my head back to look at him, to register the blazing heat of his gaze.

  ‘That’s it—come for me, princess.’

  His words, his hand, his skill... Every muscle floods with heat, my insides are wound so tight, and then I burst from the inside out.

  ‘Fuck...’ My eyes clamp shut, my body spasms and he locks his arm around my waist, holding me tight. He won’t drop me. I won’t fall. It’s perfect—perfect and safe.

  His thumb rolls over me, slowing against my heightened sensitivity, and then he palms me, his hot heat pressed against my wetness until my body eventually stills and my breathing calms.

  My head falls forward, he withdraws his hand and reality seeps in.

  Nothing’s changed. Life is as it was before. But for those blissful few minutes it was gone, and for that I am grateful.

  Slowly I raise my lashes and calm my expression. He doesn’t need to join me on the comedown. He doesn’t have to shoulder what I do.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  He curves his hand around my behind beneath my skirt. ‘You’re welcome.’

  And then he releases me to fasten his trousers. He steps back, his attention off me. So off me that I’m floundering.

  I look away and smooth out my skirt, suddenly awkward, sheepish. Do we just say goodbye? It’s what I would normally do. But I don’t want to. Already the chill is taking over and the distance is building between us. I want the warmth back.

  What’s the likelihood of us seeing each other again? I’ve been coming here for years and never seen him, regardless of his claim that Jackson is a mate. Maybe he’s not from London. Maybe he’s just visiting.

  So many questions burn through me and I can’t give voice to a single one.

  Regardless of his actions, he said I wasn’t his type. Would that still be the case now we’d had our fill?

  He’s very still and I risk a look. He’s staring at me, but I can’t read him. He’s impenetrable, cold. While his blue eyes seem to pierce me, strip me bare. My confidence is in tatters. Obliterated with the surprising force of my orgasm and his sudden detachment.

  Perhaps it’s because I could see myself wanting more.

  More like what?

  A date. A normal, everyday date, like any normal, everyday woman would want.

  But you’re not one of them. Never have been... Never will be.

  The growing chill reaches my heart and I shiver.

  ‘I should go,’ he says, smoothing a hand over his hair.

  I nod, still speechless, my messed-up thoughts keeping me tongue-tied as I wrap my arms around myself.

  He starts to walk and then stops. My heart flutters, my head lifts, I’m hopeful. But then he continues on and I watch him leave...cold, sober, sad.

  I turn back to the ladies’ room, my head swimming with what’s gone down.

  You sure you want to let that go...?

  I’m already spinning on my heel and heading after him, but as I break out onto the pavement and scan the street all I see are the doormen. There’s no sign of him. Not even a lit-up car about to leave. Where in the hell is he?

  I look to the doormen, who are doing their best not to notice me. ‘Did you see where he went?’ I say, and they give me a brief look.

  ‘Who?’ one says.

  ‘The guy that left just ahead of me.’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  I think he’s lying. In fact, I know he’s lying. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m on the wrong side of the non-disclosure agreement now I’m outside the building that means he won’t tell me anything.

  I’m about to ask again when I hear a car door open behind me, down the street, and my heart soars. I turn towards the sound.

  Maybe he’s seen me... Maybe he’s coming back for—

  ‘My lady?’

  It’s my driver. Hope vacates my body, the chill returns, and I wrap my arms around my middle and head towards him. The sinking feeling inside me is ever more pronounced.

  It was foolish, anyway. I’ve read of infatuations that start with such a spark. I’ve read it in my mother’s diary, have been able to feel my mother’s lust and then love for my father through the pages. But I always thought
such a thing out of my reach. Every boy, teen, man has taught me that aside from sex I’m good for one thing only: money.

  No, make that two things. Money and a title. I have them both. And because of that I’m destined to become a spinster.

  My tombstone:

  Lady Coco Lauren

  Lived and died

  Single and alone

  Why did one chance meeting with a stranger make me hope for something more?

  CHAPTER THREE

  THREE DAYS HAVE gone by since my momentary lapse in judgement.

  Momentary lapse?

  Monumental fuck-up, more like.

  I swear I can still hear her moans ringing in my ear, taste her on my lips, my fingers... I’ve only to close my eyes and I see her dilated gaze looking up at me, her skin flushed pink, her body moving with sheer abandon in her quick-fire orgasm, my fingers buried deep—

  Fuck. There my dick goes, tightening inside my jeans, painful and persistent, nagging for release.

  What the hell’s got into you?

  Stupid question.

  She has.

  Her taste, her scent, her flirtatious little mouth. She’s got under my skin, exposed my inner desires. Making her come while others watched on, her sucking me off, me losing control...

  And not only that she’s fucked with my job, making me cross a line that I’m struggling to come back from. Making me question everything.

  But here I finally am. After three long days of battling my conscience, her insane appeal and every crazy doubt she has instilled, I’m back with it and tailing her. Because I have to. I’m a fucking PI—it’s what I do. I don’t fall for princesses, and I don’t give a fuck. I really don’t. I learned that lesson well, and no amount of honesty from her lips is going to change that.

  But I can almost hear my inner laughter, mocking me. As if it knows that I’m here because I can’t stay away.

  It’s two thirty in the afternoon and I’m standing in the shadows at an outdoor charity gala for the local children’s hospice, my eyes hidden behind shades and once more on her.

  I wear a baseball cap, a nondescript hoodie and jeans, my casual clothing blending right in with that around me. But she shines above everyone. Her hair is tied back, highlighting her radiant smile, her effortless grace. She wears a soft pink sweater, white skinny jeans and a pair of trainers. Nothing special, but on her...

  To her right is a child in a wheelchair, with no hair and pale, tubes travelling from her nose and arm to a bag of liquid high above. Coco ducks down to talk to her, her smile natural and vibrant, and the girl nods and murmurs in return, her own lips lifting.

  They talk a little more and I see Coco’s PA start to get edgy as she watches from the sidelines, her eyes flitting between the watch on her wrist, the tablet she has tight in her hand and the pair talking.

  It seems Coco isn’t adhering to the schedule, and as I look back to her I can see why. She has the girl laughing now, and the joyous noise is lighting up all those around them. Hell, even my insides lift. She doesn’t care for her schedule—she only cares for the girl.

  And then she stands and turns. For a second I think she spies me, and then I realise she’s wiping her eyes. She does it so discreetly, so smoothly, that any ordinary onlooker would probably miss it—but not me. I’ve come to know her gestures, her smiles, her laughs, those that are forced and those that ring true.

  She’s crying.

  My gut twists and sinks, and I double back.

  Guilt. That’s what this is. Guilt and another emotion I haven’t felt in so long it’s almost alien to me now. I don’t want to acknowledge it. I just want to get as far away as possible and that means telling her brother I’m out.

  You’re going soft, comes the mental gibe. The same one that has plagued me since we crossed the line at Blacks. And it’s backed up by the sensible argument that I’ve been blinded by what we did, what we shared. That ultimately she’s still the spoilt little rich girl I once had her pegged as—that her brother has her pegged as.

  But it’s bollocks.

  I’ve followed her enough to know she cares about these charity projects. Not the front—not the face of it. She cares about these people. And she works hard. She barely stops—moving from one event to another. Even those lunches seem to be more a function of her public role rather than for her pleasure.

  No, the only time I’ve truly seen her do something for herself is at Blacks. That was for her. All for her. And I loved being able to give her that. Loved it too much.

  And there was her total honesty, her love for her grandmother, her need to bury the pain.

  My chest tightens as I fist my hands. I have no choice but to bring this to a close. Even if it could ruin my reputation. Philip Lauren isn’t the kind to take my withdrawal lying down, and the more anxious he becomes, the more his nasty side shines through.

  How the fuck I didn’t see this side to him in the first place, I don’t know.

  Liar. You didn’t see it because you didn’t want to; you were too interested in taking down another Jess. Another hoity-toity, good-for-nothing rich girl who only has love for herself.

  And more fool me... I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I deserve the pain that plagues me now, the sickening guilt, but the least I can do is tell Philip where to stick it. He’ll likely do his damnedest to see Livingston Investigations closed down as a result, but I’m not afraid of him or the threat. My PI work exists for a reason: to bury my past and save others from similar fates. It isn’t my bread and butter. I have property up and down the country that gets that for me.

  Not that I’ll roll over in the face of Philip’s anger—far from it. I might even have some fun with it. And if I can convince him there’s nothing to tell, maybe he’ll just walk away from whatever this vendetta is and leave both her and my business alone.

  I take my mobile out of my back pocket and send him a text.

  We need to meet. Friday. Usual place. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.

  I smile as I pocket my phone. It’ll certainly give me some satisfaction, watching the guy stew on it as I tell him what I really think of his sister and all that I’ve learned.

  Well, almost all—I’ll leave out the finer detail that starts with Blacks and ends with our brief spell of fun.

  If only I could forget about it...

  * * *

  Okay, I’ve officially hit stalker level.

  It’s been a week since I went all gaga over Tall, Dark and Handsome, and despite several visits to Blacks, he’s been a no-show. Which is as I expected, if I’m honest. So last night I swallowed my pride and confronted Jackson. He was his friend. He’d know where Ash lived, and with some gentle persuasion he’d tell me.

  What I didn’t expect was a grin as wide as the Thames is long and the information that Ash’s home address is just around the goddamn corner. It was obvious Jackson was matchmaking, and that gave me hope that whatever this connection between Ash and me is, it’s powerful enough for his friend to believe in it too.

  So here I am, at six thirty on a Friday evening, nervously toying with my bag as I stare at the exclusive warehouse development before me. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but I’m not fooled. This postcode doesn’t come cheap, and whatever’s hidden on the other side is going to be just as exclusive...rather like the man himself.

  And here’s another dose of truth: I didn’t expect him to be this well-off either. His rough, honest edge hinted at something more normal, something more ordinary—something I wanted to reach out and hold on to so bad.

  All I have to do is ring the damn bell and, fingers crossed, he’ll be at home and willing.

  So why I’m still standing here, ten minutes after my driver opened the car door to let me out, I don’t know.

  Derek’s probably watching me from the car and wonderi
ng exactly the same thing. I must look like I’m losing my mind.

  I pull my handbag tighter over my shoulder and scan my clothing. Today I’m dressed in black skinny jeans and a free-swinging white shirt—perfectly innocent and a complete contrast to the debauched ideas taking centre stage in my brain. My underwear is bang on, though. It may be white, but the crotchless panties and the revealing lace bra communicate exactly what I’m after.

  I take a breath and look to the frosted glass of the double front doors ahead that give nothing away, at the brick archway above that appears far more daunting than it should, and butterflies kick up inside my belly.

  What are you doing?

  Fuck it, I’m doing what I want—screw the judgement and the doubts. I head for the door. Reality can be pushed away for a night at least. I deserve this. A bit of fun...a bit of—

  The door swings open as I reach for the buzzer beside the entrance—the single, solitary buzzer. Christ, does he own the whole lot? And then he’s there, filling the opening, and I’m gaping like a fucking fool.

  ‘Coco?’

  His surprised expression all but does me in. He’s even more handsome than I remember, his jaw still unshaven, his eyes just as piercing beneath his dark angled brow, all rugged, rough and—

  His brow quirks.

  Fucking get with it, Coco.

  I straighten, my hands tight over the strap of my bag as I cling to it for solidarity when my legs want to give way.

  ‘Hi,’ I say—like this is totally expected, like I haven’t just stalked the bejesus out of him. ‘I thought we could do dinner...if you’re free?’

  I struggle to hold his eyes. He’s doing it again: reading me and all my fucked-up mental chaos. I lower my gaze but stand firm. He’s wearing a deep blue shirt and dark denim jeans. Very smart. And as I breathe in, I get the welcoming scent of freshly applied cologne. He looks and smells date-worthy.

  Oh, Christ, was I asking him on a date?