Getting Dirty

by Mia Storm

  “Put me down!” I shout, pounding his back with my fists. Marcus is six four, and it feels like I’m about a mile off the ground.

  “Whatever you say, sis.” Marcus slides me off his shoulder and sets me back on my feet.

  I turn and Nate is grinning at me from the top of the stairs, his deep dimples turned up full blast. He’s closer to my five nine with a solid wrestler’s body, and he likes his T-shirts tight to show off his defined arms and chest, the V of his back, and some drool-worthy abs. He probably weighs more than Marcus even though he’s half a foot shorter.

  I’d crushed on Nate for most of my freshman and sophomore years, while he and Marcus were a year ahead of me, tearing up our high school and taking no prisoners. He could date anyone he wanted, whenever he wanted. And that was never me.

  Even though I hated it, I knew why he never thought of me as anything but Marcus’s little sister. I looked like Marcus’s little sister. But for my sixteenth birthday in May, someone must have mail ordered me boobs. I went from an A cup to a C overnight, and by August, though my size five jeans still fit, they were very snug through the hips and thighs.

  The night before he and Marcus left for college, Nate finally noticed me, and though I’d never been with anyone else, I let him notice all of me. I don’t regret it. If I was going to cash in my V-card, he seemed like a better choice than any of the other guys I knew from school. I trusted him, so I wasn’t scared. He knew it was my first time and he went slow. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t awful either. It felt really good to be the sole focus of his attention for that half hour. The fact that he didn’t call before he left for school didn’t surprise me. I never really expected anything more from him.

  But I’m pretty sure Marcus doesn’t know. Things wouldn’t be this easy between them now if he knew his best friend had stolen his little sister’s virtue five months ago.

  Nate’s charcoal eyes flash and instantly I know where his mind is. The same place as mine. But I also know he won’t give us away by saying anything inappropriate in front of Marcus.

  He walks over to me and holds out his arms. “Give papa some sugar.”

  Okay…except that. But he’s always said that, even before he fucked me.

  I step into his arms and his hug is a little tighter and a lot longer than usual. “Missed you, baby girl.”

  “How’s Nevada?” I ask when he lets me go.

  “Cold as a witch’s tit.” His eyes are still alight and they warm me from the inside out. “Marcus says you applied to Stanford. That’s like…” He trails off and makes the “mind blown” gesture with his hands next to his ears. “You have any fucking clue how hot a girl with brains is?”

  Marcus punches his arm and throws him a dirty look. “Stop fucking hitting on my little sister, dude!”

  Nate’s eyebrows go up and he fists his hand into his longish dark hair. “Have you seen your little sister? She’s hot.”

  Okay…so maybe I was giving Nate too much credit.

  “You lay a finger on her and I break it off and shove it up your ass,” Marcus threatens.

  I take that as my cue. “I’m gonna hit the sack,” I say, gesturing toward my door with a wave of my hand. “But it was great to see you, Nate.”

  He pulls me into another hug. “Yeah, baby girl. You too. I been missing on you.”

  I slip through the door just as Marcus takes Nate to the floor. I hear them bash against walls as they migrate farther down the hall to Marcus’s room, and then they’re pounding against his furniture and the wall between our rooms.

  I catch myself smiling as I climb under the covers. He missed me. I don’t want to read anything into that, but I can’t help wondering if I left a bigger impression on him than I thought. I drift off to the familiar sounds of the two boys I grew up with and realize just as I slip into sleep how much I miss them when they’re gone. The house is lonelier without them.

  ∞

  Rain has started during the night. I wake to the soft beating of fat drops on the roof and window. I also wake to warm breath in my face and a hot, thick body in the bed next to me.

  “Hey, baby girl,” Nate breathes, his wet lips caressing my cheek as they move.

  My heart starts to race as I roll to face him. “Hey. I’m guessing Marcus doesn’t know you’re here.”

  He shakes his head, the tip of his nose rubbing against mine. “Had to wait till he passed out.”

  I reach for his face and brush my fingers down his cheek. There’s stubble that feels like silk when I brush down, and needles when I brush up. He’s grown up this year too.

  His lips seal over mine and I kiss him back. He tastes a little like sour beer, but I don’t let that stop me. I’ve always loved Nate, and though most of that time it’s been more of a brotherly sort of love, I really like the feeling of his body in this bed with me. I really like the feeling of his mouth, growing hungrier on mine.

  I open my mouth for him and his tongue invades me, wrestling with mine the way he wrestled with my brother earlier, putting every ounce of himself into it.

  I reach for his boxers and push them lower, then I nurture his hard-on, feel it grow with the love I’m giving him with my mouth and hands and body.

  He lifts my T-shirt and tugs my panties down, and I kick them off. His fingers slip inside me and he moans a little in my ear, then kisses me harder as he fingers me.

  I rock my hips with the motion of his hand and stroke his dick. I feel it swell tighter as he takes his mouth off mine and sucks in a breath.

  “Do you have a condom?” I ask, because I might want sex with Nate, but I’m not so crazed that I don’t remember the logistics of the birds and the bees.

  He rolls to the side and feels for something on the floor, then lays me on my back and kneels between my legs. I hear the tear of paper. The muscles in my groin contract as I wait for him to fix it in place, knowing what comes next.

  His weight presses down on me and I spread my legs. And then I feel him pressing inside me.

  The first time we did this—the only other time I’ve done this—he had to push pretty hard to get inside and it stung a little, but I didn’t bleed or anything. This time, there’s no sting. He guides himself in with his hand, then starts to move, pumping against me. His breathing becomes more ragged, little groans escaping on puffs of air. He feels good inside me and I do my best to move with him. After a little while he stops moving and holds his breath.

  “You feel so fucking good,” he says when he lets it out. “I don’t want to come yet.” He starts pumping again. “Are you feeling me, baby girl?”

  “Yeah,” I say, because I am.

  I feel heat from the friction of his skin rubbing against mine, and his hair brushing my cheek. I feel his mouth on mine and when he pulls away to breathe, I feel his hot breath on my lips. I feel full of him and happy he came to me. Happy that he wants me.

  And when he thrusts hard into me one last time and groans, “Oh fucking Christ,” I feel powerful. I like that I can make him feel something that intense. I love that I can make him lose control, if only for a second.

  He lays on top of me for a few more minutes, catching his breath. “I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he breathes into my hair. “Nobody else feels like you, baby girl.”

  It’s okay if it’s a lie. I’m not jealous of the other girls he’s been with. There’s no point to that. “Missed you too, Nate.”

  He pulls out of me and lays on his side facing me. “You know how fucked up this is, right? Me wanting my best friend’s baby sister.”

  I shrug. “I’m not really a baby anymore.”

  “Fuck, no,” he says, brushing his fingers over my nipple through my T-shirt. He kisses the tip of my nose then sits up and peels off his condom. He rakes his boxers off the floor and pulls them up his legs as he staggers toward the door.

  I know this is what it is and I’ve always been okay with that. I don’t expect any sort of commitment or anything long term from Nate. But I watch as
he vanishes into the hall and can’t help but wonder how long it will be before I hear from him again.

  Chapter 2

  Caiden

  I know my interest in this girl is beyond inappropriate. I work for the university. I’m a few months from finishing my PhD in Comparative Literature. At twenty-five, unless she were a senior, she’s way too young to be on my radar. But there’s something about her I find mesmerizing.

  I desperately want to ask her how old she is, but even just the question hints at impropriety. She’s in Dr. Duncan’s upper level poetry class, so she’s probably at least a junior, though he takes an occasional sophomore. So…twenty-ish?

  Too young, I remind myself.

  When she first came in last week, dressed in a loose sweater and low-slung jeans, it was easy to overlook the fact that she has some very nice curves.

  But not today.

  Against my will, my eyes track her to a table near the back of the resource center. I try to ignore my body’s reaction as I take in the full measure of toned leg between the heeled boots and her short skirt. I seriously doubt she gained the traditional freshman fifteen. Everything about her looks flat and firm under her snug-fitting sweater.

  My body can’t have a reaction to her. Messing with the undergrads in Dr. Duncan’s class would get me booted out of here faster than you could say Don Juan.

  She slips into a seat and glances my direction. I duck my head, pretending I wasn’t just totally checking her out. I busy myself behind the counter cataloging new references that Dr. Duncan has added to his reading list this semester. But there’s no way cataloging can hold my attention when she’s only thirty feet away.

  I’m forcing my eyes back to my work just as a loud, “Fucking—umph!” comes from the direction of the stairs.

  I spin in time to catch Jones, fellow grad school compatriot and my kickboxing partner, demonstrate perfect belly flop technique as he sprawls face down at the top of the stairs. His messenger bag first flips up and clubs him in the head, then flies open and spews its contents across ten feet of floor in a veritable yard sale.

  I’m thinking I should go over there and help him when, in my peripheral vision, I see Blaire crossing toward the stairs. I’m out from behind the counter like a shot.

  I chose Jones as my kickboxing partner because I needed someone who could push me. He’s six three, two inches taller than me, and outweighs my two ten by a solid twenty pounds. He’s got that rough around the edges thing going that ladies seem to dig on. And, unlike me, he’s an unrestricted free agent. His grandmother is footing his grad school bills, so he hasn’t had to grovel for scholarships, graduate assistantships, and work-study gigs to pay tuition. Meaning, he can date anyone he wants. And he does. He doesn’t have any qualms about dipping into the undergrad dating pool.

  I get to him a hair ahead of Blaire and haul him up by an arm.

  “Every. Fucking. Time,” he mutters with a scowl over his shoulder at the offending stair. “I’m going to sue the hell spawn who built that last stair deeper than the others.”

  “Are you okay?” Blaire asks, kneeling down and brushing up some papers fanning from a yellow folder that fell out of his bag.

  He’s momentarily dumbstruck, and that’s before his eyes even turn to her. It’s her voice—silk over sandpaper. Rough with just a little bit of purr on the kick. Super sexy. And when his eyes find her, I swear he fucking drools.

  I shove one of his books in his chest to snap him out of it.

  “That’s my usual entrance,” he says, putting on a cocky smirk and flicking his wrist at the stairs. “What did you think?”

  She hands him the file and another book she’s scooped up and smiles. “You’re a great flier, but your landing could use some work.”

  He takes his things from her and tucks them into his bag, grinning like a moron. “I’ve never been quite able to stick it.”

  She shrugs. “Sorry. The best I can give you is a seven point two.”

  I see his expression shift and know he’s getting ready to swoop in for the kill.

  “Was there something you needed, Jones?” I say, turning for the desk, hoping he’ll follow. But even if he doesn’t, I can’t stand here and bear witness to him hitting on Blaire.

  “Yeah.” He thankfully follows and when I get to the desk and turn back, I see Blaire heading to her table. And Jones’s eyes glued to her ass. “Do you know who that is?” he asks, his voice lower.

  I shake my head. “All I know is she’s in Duncan’s poetry class.”

  He nods slowly and doesn’t say anything else.

  “I’m sure you came here for a reason other than to ogle the undergrads.”

  Finally, his eyes shift to me. “Just needed that Hemingway biography.”

  I bring him around the side of the stacks farthest from Blaire and find his book, but when I hand it to him, he’s peering through the shelves to where we can just catch a glimpse of her. I shove the book at him. “Stop being a fucking pervert.”

  “She’s hot,” he says with a small shake of his head, “and I don’t think she’s wearing a bra.”

  I shove him toward the stairs. “Like I said, stop being a fucking pervert.”

  When we round the corner near the tables, he raises his voice and says, “So, I’ll be kicking your ass again in the ring on Monday, yes?”

  I laugh under my breath and mutter, “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

  Jones might be bigger than me, but I’m quicker. It’s usually a pretty even match.

  “We’ll see if you’re still laughing while I’m pounding you into the mat.”

  His voice is still too loud, and when I look up, I see it’s had the desired effect. Blaire is watching us.

  I shove him toward the stairs. “Whatever.”

  “I’ll work on that landing,” he says with a wave her direction.

  She smiles, and when he shifts like he’s going to head her way, I thump a palm into his chest.

  His attention snaps to me. “You cock blocking me, man?” he mutters.

  I cut him a look.

  Understanding dawns on his face and his eyes widen. “You thinking about tapping that?”

  I shake my head. “Get the fuck out of my library.”

  He grins and turns for the stairs. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he calls over his shoulder.

  When he’s finally gone I return to the desk and focus on the cataloging. As long as I keep my eyes down and my back turned, I can almost pretend the sexiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on isn’t just thirty feet away.

  “Excuse me.”

  So much for thirty feet. My insides seize and heart slams against my ribcage at the sound of her voice just behind me. When I turn, she’s standing on the other side of the counter, leaning forward on her hands. Her sable hair lays in loose waves to nearly her waist, contrasting with skin the color of cream. Her shimmering whiskey-colored eyes search mine for something and I’m dying to ask her what. The way she’s looking at me, I’d give her anything. Her arms push her breasts up and in, and her nipples bead tightly against the fabric of her heather gray sweater. And Jones was right. She’s not wearing a bra.

  My dick stiffens before I can will it into submission.

  “Blaire, right?” I say, stepping toward the counter.

  She smiles, her plump cherry lips puckering just so. “Right. Didn’t think you’d remember.”

  There’s no fucking way I’d forget. “Not too many Blaires around here. You made an impression,” I say, smiling back.

  Am I fucking flirting with her? Christ, I’ve got to rein myself in.

  “Thanks for helping Jones,” I add quickly with a gesture at the stairs.

  “That was quite the entrance.” The hint of a wily smile quirks her lips and a stone sinks in my gut with the fleeting thought that she’s about to ask me for his number. “But, now I could use your help.” She props a hip on the counter and leans back on her hand.

  I force my gaze off her chest and gl
ue it to her stunning eyes, the color of well-aged scotch. “What is it you needed?”

  “I read through the first five cantos of Don Juan and I was hoping to bounce some thoughts off you, since you seem to have an opinion on the whole thing.”

  I give her a slow nod. “Let me just finish up a few things here, then I’m all yours.”

  “I’ll be over there,” she says, pointing to her things on the table, as if I wasn’t already painfully aware of exactly where she was.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  I don’t mean to watch her go, but that’s where my eyes are until she lowers herself back onto her chair. I turn and adjust my jeans around my stiff cock, then go back to cataloging until it’s under control. I look at her a long moment, her back to me, testing myself. Once I’ve determined that my cock is, in fact, under my control, not hers, I step around the counter and slide into the seat across from her so I can keep an eye on the desk.

  “So, what were your thoughts on the first five cantos?” I ask, tapping her open copy of Don Juan with my finger.

  She leans back in her chair and watches my hand. “Is it just me, or is Don Juan a horribly flat character?”

  “You’ve discovered what I was saying about Byron being self-indulgent. Juan is often more a plot device than a character. The narrator is subsumed into Byron himself much of the time. As you move deeper into the poem, you’ll find Byron becomes more central to the poem than Juan.”

  “So he wrote about himself?”

  I pull the book closer and flip to Canto III. “You read this, right?” I ask, turning it for her to see.

  Her expression turns incredulous. “Yeah. What the hell was that, anyway? Byron totally hijacked the poem and started dissing on Coleridge, Wordsworth and…some other guy.”

  I nod. “Robert Southey. And then there’s the whole section at the end with a different verse in which Byron gives us his opinion on the fact that Greece is under Ottoman control.”