by Dakota Gray
COPYRIGHT
PERV by Dakota Gray
Copyright 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Self-Published Edition 2016
BLURB
I'm honest about what I am. You want to screw until you can't see straight? I'm your guy. You want to experience the best oral orgasm of your life, don't pass go and collect two-hundred dollars. Eating you for dessert is my specialty. I live for that. Skinny, average or meat on your bones, I don't care. Blonde, brunette...white, Asian, black...
Are you pink where it counts? Then you're my type.
I'm your guy.
For the duration of our affair, I will call you Sugar because I can't bother to retain your name. That's the kind of man I am, and you will know that going in. I make sure of it.
So it's not my fault her friend loved me, but She is going to make me pay for that.
And I'm too addicted to her taste to walk away.
AT A GLANCE
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~PROLOGUE~
“Where do you want me?”
It's not the nerves in her voice that gets me off. It's the way she walks toward me in my bedroom despite them. She struts like a woman who knows the power she wields between her legs. The power over me—a man who doesn't give two shits about relationships or connections. There is something in this universe that can make me kneel, and she has complete control of it.
But that's not important. None of it is, as that delicious roll of her hips keeps me mesmerized. My work here is almost done, and that's a damn shame.
The chair cushion groans as I lean back to appreciate the view. The hem of her dress kisses her thighs, and I know she's horny, can damn near smell her arousal. I could if she stood close. She's not wearing panties and her pussy is bare.
That single thought settles into my stomach. Lower. My dick swells, throbs against the seam of my pants. If the night progresses the way it should, my cock will continue to throb, ignored, until all I will taste is her, and all she'll be able to say is my name.
Until then my world is her walk. That fucking hypnotic hip sway. When I met her a month ago, she walked so meekly. Her feet didn't make a sound when her heels planted on the ground.
Now, I'm not blasphemous enough to say I'm doing God's work, but my mouth, my tongue, and my fingers put that cocky swing in her stroll. Not once have I told her she's beautiful. Though her ash-blond locks, muddy gray eyes, and heart-shaped face ain't bad to gaze at when I'm tongue-deep.
Not once have I told her she completes me, she's the first to ever make me feel whatever way. Our relationship isn't about soft feelings. To be fair, relationship is too strong of a word for what we are. I'm a mouth and a cock.
She's my obsession.
She steps between my legs, pressing her softness against the rough denim. I keep my hands on the chair arms, but I'm not tempted—yet—to touch her. I drag my gaze to hers and let her see the simmer of annoyance, the hard edge of lust.
A shy flush creeps from her ankle to hairline. I shake my head. Yeah. Tonight is our last.
“Where do I always want you?”
If I let myself, I could close my eyes, press my tongue to my top lip and taste her already—pussy and strawberries.
“Your bed,” she breathes.
“How do I want you on my bed?”
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Still shy. After all the dirty shit I've done to her, a blush can still stain her cheeks. The reaction is endearing. Definitely why I kept her around longer than necessary.
She gives me her back and throws a coy glance over her shoulder as she walks to the bed. The mattress bounces as she settles on it. She doesn't meet my eyes, and her fingers curl into the edge.
“And next?” I ask.
The flush deepens as she lays back, tugging the dress up to her waist—thighs still clamped together.
That is why I'm ending things. She's got the walk but fuck else. For any other man she's perfect. For me...I don't know what kind of woman will make me reconsider my bachelor lifestyle. I only know what I don't want.
Shy is useless to me. Shy won't push me on a bed or against a wall and suck my dick like a Hoover. Shy expects me to be everything but the pervert that I am. Shy forces me to be crude to get what we both want.
“Spread eagle, Sugar.”
She melts at my Southern accent. As always, it's how and why I get away with some of the shit I say. I make the words drip like honey, and I've never had a problem eating them all back up.
Never would she think I simply can't remember her fucking name. Eva, Ellie, Eve, something like that. Maybe. Fuck if I know or care.
She's lifting her legs to notch her feet along the edge of my mattress. This isn't the moment I live for, but it's damn nice. Her pale skin ends and the pink begins. Her plump pussy lips would have covered her clit and inner lips, but not when she's spread wide for me. The small hood is complimented with a tinier inner labia. She’s shaped like a small butterfly. So fucking sweet.
Finally I push out of the chair. This is our last time and I plan to make it memorable. Then I'll tell her shit isn't working out. I just can't get past my own hangups or something equally emotional and convincing.
The rest of her life, she'll walk like she knows her pussy is a fucking goldmine. It can and has brought men to their knees. Even a hard case like me.
Before I send her back into the world with that loaded knowledge, I'll get what I need. Win-fucking-win. I'm living the perverted-American dream and I pray it never changes.
~CHAPTER ONE~
THREE DAYS LATER
“You're in between jobs?” The woman scrunches up her nose and I continue to smile.
The scar on my left cheek looks like a dimple when I do. The dimple makes me look sweet, congenial. You can take me home to mama. I'll say “yes, ma'am,” and “no, sir.” In the bar's shitty, low lights my sandy brown hair would gleam, rounding out good ol' Southern boy with charm and manners. Never fails to amaze me they miss the glint in my eyes, but my baby blues are deceptive.
And Cali girls love accents, even in big cities like Hartsburg.
“Sugar,” I say, “I know what you're thinking. Unemployed and thinks his good looks can get him far.”
Her cocoa brown skin looks perfect as she raises a brow. “Yup. I'm thinking you probably can't even pay for my drink.”
“Sugar.” I drop my tone and put every bit of Georgia in the single word. Some ancestors roll over in their grave, but this is the honey. I catch all manner of butterflies with it. “What do you want to drink? It's on me. I won't even mock you if you get something girly.”
“Oh, you won't?” She laughs and whatever she put in her coiling curls glistens in the glowing light.
She's pretty, and not just in a serviceable way. Her brown eyes may be doe-shaped, but there's something in her gaze that's holding my attention. Not surprising. I'd caught sight of her when she'd first came into the club. Her walk wasn't timid. Closer to a strut, with long, sure steps. Standing next to her and leaning against the hardwood, I still have a few inches on her
. That makes her short and sexy as shit. Altogether, she's...interesting and I want to taste her.
Yes. Attraction is that simple for me. Would I like her to sit on my face? Yes. Proceed. No? Pass. I am nothing if not a simple man.
“I swear,” I say, “I will keep back any untoward remarks about your fruit being in your liquor.”
“You make a lot of assumptions.”
“Then what are you drinking?”
She leans against the bartop and makes eye contact with the bartender. She puts her tits—in the low-cut black dress she's wearing—on the bar. Tastefully displayed tits, sure, but still cleavage for days.
Now, this was my usual hangout. I often came with my friends, Duke and Tarek. They are buffers. Lone men in clubs are suspicious looking. The DJ ain't half bad any given night either.
But that's beside the point. This is my usual hangout. I'd been waiting five minutes to get noticed. She puts her tits on the bar like she's going into female-stealth mode for booze, holds Elton's gaze for five seconds and the man damn near floats over to her. She smiles, and the way her eyes crinkle even has me holding my breath.
What the fuck?
“I'll have a martini.” She edges her body in my direction.
I know it's a good sign, but I'm still reeling from the subtle moves she pulled on the bartender. Her smile though—it was seductive and shy. All she had needed was a lip bite, and at least three men in the vicinity would have proposed marriage.
I narrow my eyes and recalculate how I'm going to talk her out of her panties. She's going to require more than charm and a smile.
Elton finally manages to throw some attention in my direction. He's maybe in his early twenties, hits the gym enough he could probably moonlight as a bouncer for Fade. Blond hair, cautious brown eyes. Normal. “The usual?” he asks.
“Yeah. Scotch, rocks.” The exchange over, I go back to checking out Stealth and Heels.
Her brows are up. I know that she knows that I know she's knocked me off balance, but this is the game. At least I'm aware she's on my level. I pay for our drinks and slide in closer. My body is facing hers. I'm open, and if she wants to flirt with her hands she can.
“Martini?” I ask.
“I like my fruit to stay fruit. Though I've never turned my nose up at a margarita. Salt, booze and lemon goes well together.”
“But tonight you're a no-olive girl.”
“And you're a straight scotch boy.” There's an edge to her tone I can't pinpoint, but her lips curve into a smile again. “Now I'm sure that means something symbolic, but we both know why you're practically trying to crawl up my skirt.”
Yeah. I want her to sit on my face. She's not turning me away, yet, so I know there's still a chance.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her friends signaling to her the way women do. Is he okay? Want us to get rid of him? He's cute; you should fuck him. I have a love/hate relationship with women friends. They can be my best wingman or they can make my balls want to crawl into my stomach. They can ruin a perfectly good understanding. Depends. From a quick glance, I can see tonight her friends will be my wingman.
Interesting, though. She doesn't seem like the type to need friends to bolster her into men's beds. She has a brazen confidence that shines through, which makes me think she does what she damn well wants to.
“My intentions are pure, Sugar.”
“As driven snow?”
I laugh at her wit. “Just about.”
She brings the drink up to her mouth, takes the kind of sip with a head tilt that might make another man think about her throat and his cock in it, but I'm waiting for the challenge she's about to throw my way. The air around us has a bite of tension that has my skin tight on the bone. It's make or break time.
She finishes the display and draws her tongue over the moisture left behind on her lip. Don't get me wrong. It's fucking nice. There's a buzz in the back of my head now, but...
Some men are all about tits or ass. Doesn't matter if they are covered in shirts— fuck, parkas—the hint of tits or ass, can make their dicks do a salute.
Tongues are not my thing.
Tits and ass are not my thing.
I'm trying my fucking best to get to my thing, and she's about to tell me how. I can't get distracted. Women tell you exactly how to fuck them and, if you're smart, you'll dictate it word for word.
“Nathan Ellis, right?” she asks.
I blink, and all thought drops away for a moment. Did I tell her my name? I sure as shit can't remember hers, as always. “Yeah,” I answer, a bit wary now.
“I've heard about you.”
That's...not a good thing. Not in the tone she's using. “Have you?”
“Former army and, when you were on leave, you stripped on the low.”
My skin goes dead cold. “Never have I stripped while I served my country.”
It's a fucking lie. I did and it's why I can be between jobs. I lived within my means even when I was pulling in ten grand a month. My government check paid all my bills, and I stuffed the rest in bank accounts and sometimes mattresses.
She adds, “I'm not trying to trip you up.”
Maybe, but you never know. “And what does all that mean?”
“It means, I'm not going to let you fuck me and drop me, Sugar.”
Fuck.
This is my problem. Women talk. I can't guess who she might have known, and it won't matter. If she knows my old work, she probably knows my every trick, because women fucking brag. Or whine. Depends on what I did to end things.
I'm not always as gentle as I liked to be. Some of my past...lovers, for lack of a better word, don't get that it's over when I talk slowly and use euphemisms. Apparently when I say things like “I want you to come on my tongue” that is considered dirty talk, not relationship goals.
Who knew?
Fine. I know, but that is not the point. I'm honest and upfront. It's part of my moral code. I don't fuck with women with low self-esteem issues, because my thing is not for the faint of heart. I eat pussy. Some say I eat pussy like a god.
Why does licking pussy get me off, of all things?
Imagine ice cream. No, cake. Even bad cake is still cake. There can be strawberry, chocolate or lemon filling. The core flavors can range from red velvet, vanilla, chocolate, or whatever you create. Cake can be made in every size and shape. You tell yourself you shouldn't indulge, but if the cake is good, you do. Year after year, event after event—there's never really a bad or inappropriate moment to eat cake.
Pussy is my cake.
A woman's come is her own personal-flavored icing. If you want to wish me a happy birthday, place a candle between your pussy lips. I will feel warmed by the gesture and touched at your thoughtfulness.
You did all this for me? Aw. Shucks.
I take a drink for fortitude. This pretty woman with an interesting walk already—this woman with brown skin that seems to glow—is going to leave while I haven't had a taste of her yet. I've reached a point where I need to know.
Then think, Nate.
“Well, Sugar, aren't you curious if you heard the truth about me?”
Her body is still angled in my direction. The cues are there. Her friends are still watching with interest. A quick scan of their faces and, nope, none I've ever tasted.
“If you can strip real well?” Her gaze travels down my torso, my legs, and I'm meat to her.
I've been that before and don't mind it. I work out once a day for a few hours. It's all habit for me now. Has been since I signed up to die for Uncle Sam. You can take the boy out of the military, and he still might have an eye twitch and a trigger-happy finger.
“Never did that,” I say again.
“You have the body for it. Bet you can do the whole Magic Mike routine.”
I've done it before, a two month tour, and that is why I could own a Ferrari if I wanted one. “Not what I meant, and you're smart. I know you know that.”
Tongue on lips again, and again my
scalp tightens on my skull. My attraction has nothing to do with her playing hard to get. Her mouth is full, a shade lighter than mocha and my primitive self finds her appealing.
But, seriously, what the fuck?
She's shot me down. Walking away is the next step. Or should be. I let my gaze track over the club to see if anyone else catches my eye. The night is young, and the music hasn't even been set to ear-bleed yet.
No one looks as interesting as her.
With a sigh, I bring my full attention back to Stealth and Heels. “Since you seem to know everything about me, tell me something.”
“Tell me my name.” She raises a brow.
Fuck.
I pull a hand through my hair and figure shit is going south anyway. I lean down so my mouth is right on her earlobe. “Stealth.”
She puts a hand to my chest and laughs. “What?”
“You put your tits on the counter to get the bartender's attention. That's stealthy so...Stealth and Heels.”
“And or in?” There's amusement in her tone and she hasn't pushed me away.
“And.”
“So you're admitting you have no idea what my name is?”
“Yup.”
To my surprise she leans into me, leaving no room between us. My cock perks to attention. Her dress is a second skin. I can pretend for a moment she's bare against me, and though I'm not a tits man, hers are full and soft—I want to lick, bite and suck them until her eyes roll back.
She tilts her head and we're cheek to cheek. “I know what you are, Nathan. I know what you need.”
She's speaking words, but all I can hear in her low, sultry tone is fuck me hard. And I'm an accommodating man. “Are you going to give it to me?”
What? I'm not going to say no. Or talk her out of whatever she's planning to do.
“You torture women, you know that, right?” The huskiness in her voice is the best friction.
“Torture?” I ask.
“Mind blowing head. And then they have to somehow live the rest of their lives cold turkey or with second best. That makes you an asshole.”