Dirty Little Secret

by Amber Rides

  He was wearing those ridiculous pants, the ones which make no sense at all, because they’re white and somehow supposed to be appropriate for painting a multitude of coloured surfaces. The only good thing about them was the fact that they hugged his ass perfectly. It was too bad that a fresh brush and a t-shirt obstructed my view. I pinched my own arm as a punishment for thinking it, and took another step toward him.

  His gruff voice made me freeze.

  “You can stop trying to sneak up on me, blondie. I can smell your stank-ass Gucc-uess-anel-berry perfume from here,” he said without turning around.

  My irritation spiked. How did he make himself sound like that – sexy and dirty at the same time? Like he’d smoked a pack of cigarettes and found the cure for lung cancer all at once. And more importantly, why did I like it so much?

  Because it’s his bedroom voice, I answered myself.

  “Fuck you,” I said, before remembering why the phrase was off limits.

  He didn’t let it slide, either.

  “Later,” he replied in that same, lying-in-bed-with-my-boxer-briefs-on-and-nothing-else voice.

  Goddammit.

  “Can I help you with something, princess, or are you just here to ogle the help?”

  “I wasn’t ogling,” I protested, then stopped as I realized how defensive I sounded.

  “If you’re going to tell me how wet I made you the other day…”

  A flush crept up my neck. “Hardly.”

  “What? I was just going to say that I already know. I filled the bucket myself and dumped it myself, too, didn’t I? Oh wait. You thought I meant…” He trailed off with a lascivious chuckle. “I guess you’re here about our unfinished business, then. Not to worry, baby-doll. I took care of that myself.”

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  But it was a lie. I did want to know. Desperately.

  “Well, I won’t tell you about her then.”

  Her? Jealousy, unexpected and unwanted, made my temple throb.

  “I’m just here to give you a message,” I said in a tight voice.

  “So give it.”

  He kept painting, and the rhythmic motion of his lateral muscles moving up and down with the brush rendered me momentarily speechless.

  “Any time is fine,” he added.

  “You could at least do me the courtesy of not making me give it to your backside.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints about my ass before.”

  “Well log this as the first of many, then,” I grumbled.

  He turned to me slowly, a smirk on his face. Heat bloomed between my thighs as he ran a lazy look up and down my body, pausing at my short skirt, and again at my chest before he finally stopped at my face.

  “Nice outfit.”

  “I’m playing tennis,” I said with a lame gulp.

  “Did I ask?”

  Did he have to? His gaze said it all.

  “The club is very traditional,” I added. “We have a dress code. Which actually brings me to my point. You’re not following it.”

  His smirk widened to an amused grin. “I’m afraid I couldn’t do that particular outfit justice. I don’t have the legs for it. But it suits you in an uptight kinda way.”

  “You’re super funny,” I said, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to make my mother cringe. “But not everyone appreciates a redneck skin-show while eating their brunch. It makes some people want to puke up their eggs benedict.”

  “Like, who, specifically?”

  Like me. But the lie stuck in my throat. Because really…I did appreciate it. And the last thing I needed was him calling me out for it.

  “Like my mother,” I said instead.

  He chuckled again, a low, unsettling sound that made me want to do…Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then he grabbed his white, V-neck from his back pocket. When he slipped it over his head, I realized it was almost worse. The t-shirt dipped low along his collarbone and hugged his abs. The understated sex appeal made my lips tingle.

  “Thank you.”

  I turned on my heel and headed back toward my brunch, sure that I somehow failed to get the upper hand I’d been counting on.

  CUTTER

  When she spun on those dress code tennis shoes, flipping up that dress code skirt and bouncing that dress code ponytail, my pants became uncomfortably tight in all the right places. Again.

  Fuck.

  I think I actually missed that self-righteous piece of ass over the last two days.

  Her hips continued to sway as she got further away.

  At the very least…I had missed her actual ass. Tight, and perfectly curved as it was.

  Still. She and that superior tone of hers needed to be knocked down a peg or two.

  To be fair, I gave her a head-start of about fifteen seconds. I even counted them off out loud.

  “Fourteen pretty little asses. Fifteen pretty little asses. Ready or not, here I come.”

  I caught up to her just outside the laundry room. She yelped as I grabbed her wrist, and tried unsuccessfully to shake me off.

  “Let me go!”

  I ignored her imperious command. “What’s your name?”

  She stopped struggling and gave me curious look. “Why?”

  I smiled a purposefully toothy smile. “Because I’m going to report you to the manager.”

  She snorted. “For what??”

  “For sexual harassment.”

  “I’d hardly call asking you to put your shirt on sexual harassment. Maybe anti-sexual harassment.”

  “I’d say undressing me with your eyes is a definite no-no. Oh, and propositioning me while I’m working…”

  Her eyes went wide. “You can’t just make things up and expect people to believe you.”

  “Is that right? It’ll be your word against mine. I can be very convincing.”

  I released her, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I’m not telling you my name.”

  “Should be easy enough to describe you. Fake smile. Fake hair. Fake tits,” I ticked the descriptors off on my fingers, enjoying the increasingly irritated look on her face.

  My smugness only lasted for a second. She sprinted away.

  “Fuck,” I growled. “Probably running to tell eggs-benedict Mommy.”

  I took off after her, catching up just as she slipped into the ladies room. Did she think that was going to stop me? I pushed the door open and stood at the edge.

  “I’m coming in!” I warned.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Either you come out and tell me your name, or I’m gonna come in there and beat it out of you.”

  Her gasp echoed through the restroom, and I grinned.

  “Ready or not…” I called out.

  I found her standing in front of the mirror, in the middle of the room, with a deer-in-headlights expression on her face. I pulled the paintbrush from my back pocket, yanked the plastic wrapper off the brand-new bristles, and smacked it against my hand menacingly. She backed up until her ass bumped the wide, double sink countertop.

  “Where ya gonna go now, Little Miss Fake-It-Til-You-Make-It?” I asked.

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “There’s nothing fake about me. Just because I’m a nice person doesn’t mean I’m a phony.”

  “You’re a nice person?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe good at faking niceness.”

  “You can’t fake niceness,” she protested.

  “Did that strike a nerve? Is that why you ran off? Because you don’t like to be called out for the phony you are?”

  “You know what? I don’t care what you think. My smile – if I cared to share it with you – is real. I’m blonde down to my roots. And the tits that you can’t seem to stop staring at? Those are real, too.”

  “Prove it.”

  “F- “ She stopped, and I grinned.

  The girl would never be able to utter the words fuck you to me without being put in her place.
Hell, from the look on her face, she’d never be able to say the words again. At all. At least not with thinking about me.

  “Pleased with yourself?” she asked mockingly.

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I will be. Once you tell me your name.”

  “No.”

  Four steps closed the gap between us. I only meant to intimidate her, to use my body to coerce her, but the second I was near enough to touch her, my senses became overloaded. I could smell the sweet, clean scent coming from her skin. I could feel her nervous trembling.

  I wanted more. Badly.

  I reached out and ran the paintbrush from her ankle to her knee. When she squirmed, I continued up to her thigh. She shivered, and her breathing quickened.

  “Oh, you like that?” I murmured. “Or maybe I should stop?”

  “Yes.”

  The word was a breathy whisper, and I had no clue if she was answering the first question, or the second. I didn’t care, either.

  With my free hand, I hoisted her onto the counter, then trailed the paintbrush up her other leg. This time, I paused about an inch under her skirt and gave her a little slap. She shuddered. I pressed my hard-as-rock self between her legs, and she groaned.

  Jesus. For a snotty bitch, she was hot.

  I was going to lose control. That was the last fucking thing I needed with a girl like this. Give an inch – or in my case, twelve of them – and she’d take a fucking mile. I leaned back, and willed myself to stay in charge. I didn’t trust my hands, so I flipped the paintbrush around and slipped the handle into the side of her underwear. I twisted, and yanked them down.

  Pink lace. Of course.

  I let them drop to the floor. The girl was panting now, and as if her eagerness wasn’t apparent enough in the rise and fall of her chest, when I took my thumb and slid it between her legs, she was wet and ready. I suppressed a self-satisfied smile. So much for not checking out my ass. I slipped a single finger inside and rubbed gently.

  “You still not gonna tell me who you are, baby-doll?”

  She made a throaty noise and thrust her hips forward. I slid my finger out again, ran it down her thigh, then grabbed her hair and yanked her head back.

  “Easy, baby-doll. I’m not in a hurry. I’ve got a nice, long…break,” I murmured into her throat.

  “Don’t – “ She cut herself off as I put my mouth on one of her nipples and gave a healthy suck through her shirt.

  I drew away again. “Don’t what? Do that? Or this?”

  I kept my gaze fixed on hers as I palmed her wetness and flicked her clit with my index finger.

  “Or…this?” I continued as I slid my finger into her again.

  I rubbed slow, then fast, then slow, and she closed her eyes. Her lips parted, and I knew she was close. So I slowed it right down.

  “Or were you going to say, ‘Don’t stop’?” I teased, enjoying the desperate look on her face. “I might be inclined to be a bit kinder if you told me what name you’d like me to call out.”

  “Melissa. Joan. Portia. Hanover,” she gasped.

  “Thank you. I’m truly grateful. Now do you think you could do something for me, Melissa Joan Portia Hanover?”

  “Yes.” The surety in her answer startled me, and I had to shake off my surprise.

  “I’d like you to say my name.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Say it. My name is Cutter.”

  “Cutter?” she whispered.

  “Say it again,” I commanded.

  She complied in a sexy-as-fuck voice that broke down my resolve to leave her on the edge, unsatisfied and begging for something she couldn’t have.

  “Cutter.”

  “That’s right,” I growled and plunged my fingers in, deep. “Can you do something else for me?”

  “Yes,” she moaned.

  “Come.”

  I didn’t wait for her answer. I pushed my thumb against her clit and held it there as I drew my finger in and out of her hot, wet pussy, until she cried out, shook gently, and collapsed against the mirror behind her. I wished – for an embarrassingly pathetic moment – that I could believe the enthralled look on her face was just for me.

  Then I finally got a hold of myself.

  “I need one more thing from you, baby-doll.”

  She glanced down at the bulge in my pants. I was tempted. Oh-so-fucking tempted.

  “Not that, Melissa,” I whispered. “I just want you to say one word.”

  She nodded, so I leaned into her, trailed kisses up her throat and around to her ear.

  “Say later.”

  I knew from her sharp intake of breath that she’d figured out my game.

  I chuckled with true regret as I withdrew my hand from her soft, yielding sex. I grabbed her lacy panties from the floor and shoved them into my pocket. Finally, ignoring both her expression and my very nearly painful hard-on, I turned and walked out.

  MELISSA

  It took me five full minutes to collect myself.

  What the hell was that? I asked myself two dozen times.

  I mean, logically, I knew that the jacked-up truck, asshat of a construction worker – Cutter? What kind of a name was that? - had made me pant like a bitch in heat while saying his name. He’d handed me – no pun intended - an orgasm. On a fucking platter. He had me so worked up, I could barely form on a non-cussed-filled thought. And then the bastard had then walked out like it was nothing.

  So maybe instead of wondering what had happened, I should’ve been asking why. I’d let him go further in four minutes than I’d even thought about letting Danny get in three years.

  And what was in it for him? He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Then a word snapped to mind.

  Power.

  He was exactly the kind of guy who needed to be in control. And unfortunately, I’d let him have it.

  Well. It was the last goddamned time that was happening.

  I slid down off the counter, pissed off as hell, but had to grab it again when my knees wobbled unsteadily. My insides ached with the after effects of his not-so-gentle ministrations. I wanted to chase after him.

  What are you going to do if you catch him? Punish him with a blow job to prove that he’s not in control?

  I gripped the counter angrily. There was no way for me to come out of this on top.

  And my mom was waiting for me. I needed to get back to her. I made it two steps before realizing I was still panty-free. I glanced around the restroom stupidly.

  Oh, no.

  He had them in his pocket. I hurried out into the hall, careful to walk in short steps with my legs pressed together. When I reached the door and spotted him, I stopped.

  Shit.

  He was surrounded by his crewmates, and scowling darkly. There was no subtle way for me to retrieve my underwear. And he probably wouldn’t give them over willingly anyway. I tossed my gaze heavenward and resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be eating the rest of my brunch commando.

  As I slunk back up to the patio, I ran through a series of possible excuses for an early retreat. A headache? Not a total lie. Legs that felt like jelly because of a little too much action? Not unless I wanted my mom to disown me.

  But whatever I’d been about to say died in my mouth when I spotted the entourage at my table.

  Tables, I corrected mentally.

  Because there were now three pushed together, and a small crowd of people had gathered around, including both my parents, Danny and his parents, my sister and her husband, Shelby, a couple of Danny’s baseball buddies, and two of my first cousins.

  My mother jumped up and gripped my elbow. “What took you so long?”

  I was too confused to have the time to be embarrassed.

  “What is this?” I hissed at her.

  She smiled at the crowd and leaned in toward me. “You’ve got a little something on your shirt. So when they start taking pictures, lean the other way.”

  I glanced down at my chest, realizing that a small circle ma
rked the spot where the truck-driving lowlife had helped himself to a taste.

  Goddamn. Would the man never stop interfering with my life? I stifled a giggle at the absurd thought.

  “Sit down,” my mother urged with frown.

  Obediently, I grabbed the only empty chair and perched nervously on the edge. Danny began to speak, but it was hard for me to focus on what he said. The details of the table distracted me from his words. Mimosas. Actual eggs benedict. Fresh fruit. Too-white linens.

  “So…Melissa?”

  Danny’s gazed at me expectantly. Shit. He’d said something important, and I’d missed it. Everyone else was looking our way, too.

  “Melissa?” he said again.

  I cleared my throat, but my voice wouldn’t come, so I nodded.

  “That was a yes!” Danny announced with a triumphant grin.

  A cheer rose from our friends and family.

  Dear God. What just happened?

  Dread pooled in my stomach. Danny reached for my left hand, slipped a ring on my finger, and lifted both our arms over our heads. Flashes went off. My mom caught my eye, glanced meaningfully down at my shirt, and I shuffled sideways to hide the evidence. She gave me a thumbs up.

  I mustered a smile that I hoped was fitting enough for a surprise engagement to future-dick-in-his-mouth Danny Davidson.

  CUTTER

  Confession time.

  One. I skipped out on the rest of my community service work, claiming a headache. It might sound like a small thing, but I can only bow out once every three months, and every tiny malaise has to be recorded by a doctor. So wasting it on Melissa Joan Portia Hanover, while waiting at a walk-in clinic for a bogus note, was a big fucking deal.

  Two. I went to a strip bar. Which was far less shameful than faking an illness over a stuck-up girl.

  Three. I couldn’t get it up. The three girls onstage didn’t do it for me. The lap dance I dropped sixty bucks for didn’t do anything for me, either. Considering the fact that I’d spent the whole day fighting off a hard-on, it was pretty fucking embarrassing.

  Un. Fucking. Believable.

  Four. I snuck into a library and googled Melissa Joan Portia Hanover. Which really needed a confessional of its own.

  Not a big deal, you might think. People do it all the damned time, right? Look each other up on social media, track the movements of the people they care about, or are interested in. Not so for someone with my kind of history. Everything I do on the Internet at home is tracked and recorded. If I want to watch cats, playing with vacuums, my probation officer knows. If I want to watch any other kind of pussy, playing with any other kind of appliance, he knows that, too.