Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  Jude nods. “I want to hear it.”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve never shared this part of my life with anybody before, but I feel comfortable with Jude, far more comfortable than living with somebody for two weeks should make you. Maybe it’s because I know he’d never let anything happen to me.

  “My parents died when I was very young, too young to remember. I must’ve been one or two years old. All I’ve ever known is Patrick. We were at the same foster home together. He protected me from the other kids. You know what kids can be like. He was my cool brave older brother; that’s how I saw him at the time. He didn’t let anybody push me around. And when he hit me?” I laugh grimly. “Well, to be honest, he’d been hitting me for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t new and I didn’t question it until I got older. As soon as he was old enough, he took me from the foster home and we jumped from apartment to apartment. I was in and out of dozens of schools; maybe that’s why I love those documentaries so much, because I can catch up on some of what I missed. When I was seventeen—this was a couple of years ago, I’m nineteen now—I got a job at the bakery and my life has been Patrick and work ever since, with a few beatings here and there.”

  I stop, taking a deep breath, shocked by how much I’ve spoken. “Sorry.” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to overshare.”

  He lays his hand atop mine, pressing it into his leg. “You don’t have to say sorry to me. I’ll protect you.” His tone is fierce. “I’ll protect you from Patrick, that creep Barry, I’ll protect you from the whole damn world if that’s what it takes. I swear it.” He speaks intensely, clenching his jaw, and anger burns in his eyes. I wouldn’t want to be the target of anger like that.

  “What about you?” I ask, eager to change the subject. I feel like I’ve just pried open my ribs and flashed him my heart. Deep secrets aren’t unearthed easily and my life spent under Patrick’s thumb is my deepest, darkest secret without a doubt.

  “What about me?” he responds.

  I flip my hand, interlock my fingers with his, and give his hand a squeeze. “Men don’t become hitmen for no reason, Jude. And I remember the night I walked in on you with the photograph . . . You were muttering in your sleep, something about your parents.”

  “Oh.” He flinches. “That.”

  He pauses. I say nothing, giving him space to open up. After a while, he sighs.

  “It’s not a particularly exciting story. We were driving and they skidded off the road into a lake, all of us. I managed to get my seatbelt off. I didn’t think, Emily. I was like an animal, spurred into survival. I just unclasped Moira’s belt and dragged her out of the lake. Moira’s my little sister. When I go her to shore, I resuscitated her. By the time she was coughing up water, the car was deep in the lake. But I tried.” He smiles tightly, as if the memory brings him both relief and pain. Relief that his little sister lived, pain that his parents died. “I dove, but the car was too deep and they were already dead. I tried to drag them up, but my air started to run out. I was almost seeing black by the time I resurfaced. By then there were adults on the shore, shouting at me to get back. I tried to dive again. Some trucker leaped into the water and dragged me out.”

  He lets out a shaky breath.

  “It was just me and Moira after that. We clung to each other, protected each other. I promised I’d never let anything hurt her and I’ve kept that promise. She works as a nurse now.”

  “You protected each other,” I whisper, imagining what that would’ve been like. Sure, Patrick stopped the other kids from hurting me, but only so he could hurt me himself.

  “Just like I’ll protect you,” he says solemnly. “When I promise to protect somebody, Emily, I keep it. I promise you, I’ll never let anybody hurt you again.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes for a long, long time. Outside, New York throws up its nighttime sounds, a cacophony of shouting and honking and screeching, but inside we are in a bubble, silent, alone.

  I feel safe, I realize. It hits me with a thud. I’ve never really known what safe—really safe—feels like.

  “Thank you for opening up to me, Jude.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I should be thanking you. Look at this place. You’ve done a great job. It looks like a real home—”

  I don’t plan it, but I’m incredibly attracted to this man. Not just his body, his tattoos, his strength, but his emotions, too.

  I lean across the couch and kiss him on the lips.

  I feel a jolt move through his body. Surprise, maybe. I can’t blame him. I’m just as surprised by myself. The surprise doesn’t last long. I feel his passion open up, passion which has been pent-up for weeks. He groans and presses his lips harder into mine. I return the pressure, savoring the rough feel of his lips, the manly feel. I breathe in through my nose and smell his cologne, musky. This man shared himself with me. He protected me. I don’t care if he’s a killer. To me, he’s just Jude.

  He moves his hand down my chest and cups my breast. Sparks dance on his fingertips as the fabric of my t-shirt rubs against my nipple. I hear myself moan, muffled by his lips. With his other hand he reaches up and slides his fingers through my hair, pulling me close to him. I roll over, sit in his lap. His cock is hard, pushing urgently against his pants. I sit on it, grinding my lips. It’s like there’s a creature of lust inside of me which has been waiting a long time to come out and play. It’s playtime now and it can’t stop itself.

  We stay like that for a long time, me grinding my hips, him massaging my breast. And then he breaks off the kiss. He’s red-faced, as red-faced as I must be.

  “I want you,” he moans. “I’ve wanted you since the first night you stayed here.”

  I kiss him softly on the cheek. His beard tickles my lips. “You have me,” I say.

  He climbs to his feet, pushing me onto the couch. I’ve barely sat down when he scoops me up, bridal-style, and carries me into the bedroom. We walk over plush new rugs and past beautiful new paintings and then he lays me down on brand-new sheets. My heart is a jackhammer, pounding through my body. My chest is like a bellows, compressing and opening in huge movements. My body is warm, tinged with lust, and my eyes are fixed on Jude, standing over me.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he says.

  “Prove it,” I shoot back. I’m shocked by the strength in my voice, but it’s welcome. It’s been a long time coming.

  He leans over me, kissing my neck. I grab his strong back, massaging the muscles. The power of him. He’s like a wild animal.

  I can’t take it anymore. Lust overtakes me. I tug at his shirt, pull it over his head. He throws it into the corner and then pulls at my clothes. In a matter of seconds both of us are stripped, naked, and panting with anticipation. He looks down at me for a moment. His naked body is intimidating and magnificent at the same time. His arms and legs, his chest, his belly, his shoulders—every inch of him is covered in well-defined, corded muscle. His cock is huge and hard, at least nine inches, and his tattoos make him look like some Viking raider.

  He stares down at my naked body, taking me in, my lithe limbs and my pert breasts.

  “Fuck,” he mutters.

  He goes to the bedside table, takes a condom, and returns to me.

  Then we’re lost to the world.

  He lies on top of me, propping himself up with one arm, and with his other hand he reaches down and slides his middle finger inside of me. He buries it deep in my pussy, right to that spot which drives me crazy. He circles it with his finger, and with each stroke, my pussy gets hot. After less than a minute—I think, though time has gone loopy—I’m squeezing my legs around his hand, desperate for him to keep going. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been, soaked.

  I close my eyes. Everything pauses. And then—

  The orgasm releases. My body gyrates. I pant, gasp, moan.

  Then the orgasm is over and Jude slides his finger from me.

  “Do you want it?” he asks, voic
e deep. The hunger in his eyes makes my mouth dry.

  “Yes.” I don’t have to think about the answer. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  He tears the condom packet with his teeth and slides it on with a one-handed expert movement. When he pushes inside of me, I think I might break. His cock is huge, not just long, but huge around the base, a massive weapon of a thing. He pushes deep, deep, deep until he hits my sweet spot, still tender from his finger. He holds himself inside of me for a second, and then, slowly, I open for him. I feel my pussy loosen. Pain is replaced by pleasure. Searing pleasure. Steaming pleasure.

  “Fuck me,” I moan, my voice no longer my own. “Fuck me, Jude. Oh, fuck me. Hard.”

  “Hard?”

  “Hard.”

  Like a starving animal finally thrown a meal, Jude unleashes himself on me. He slides his considerable length out of me, pauses, and then pounds into me with all his killer’s strength. He hits that special place inside of me over and over. It’s like his cock is made for my pussy. With each thrust, he hits the spot, until all I can feel is the mounting warmth in my pussy.

  I stare into his face and he stares into mine. His teeth are clenched and moans come like the rumbling of an earthquake in his chest.

  I claw my hands down his back, feeling the hard-packed muscle.

  “Harder,” I breathe, barely able to speak. “Harder—”

  His body goes into overdrive. When he moans, spit flies into my hair. I don’t care, not now, not here with Jude. We’ve wanted each other all this time, a distant part of my mind thinks. We’ve longed for each other every single night. Every touch has been leading to this. We’ve been desperate for each other. And here it is, finally. Oh, it was worth the wait.

  I grab the back of his neck, tugging on him, pulling him inside of me. I bob up and down with the motion of his thrusts. The sheets stick to my back; my body is coated with sweat. But I don’t care. Right now, all I care about is the animalistic power of his body.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”

  Never mind that I don’t swear, never mind that I’m the good, quiet girl, never mind that my whole life has been spent playing the mouse. I’m a lioness now and nobody can stop me.

  “Yes, yes, yes . . .”

  I dig my fingers into his skin, pierce it. Blood drips over him but that only urges him on. I can’t feel anything now except for the orb of euphoria inside of me, an orb which gets bigger and bigger with each thrust, an orb which makes me forget about everything and simply be in this moment with Jude. Strong Jude. Loyal Jude. Hard Jude. Fucking hitman Jude.

  “I’m going to—”

  I moan so loudly my ears ring. I’m sure everybody in the adjacent apartments can hear me, but for once, my own pleasure seems more important than everybody else’s.

  “Come for me,” Jude groans, spraying sweat over me. “Come for me, Emily. I want to feel you go tight around my cock. I want to—oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “I’m coming!” I cry, bouncing so hard on his cock now I feel friction burns on my back from the sheets.

  My pussy goes tight, so tight Jude has to push with more power to thrust inside of me. I clamp my eyes shut, clamp my mouth closed, clamp my hands into fists, and ride the orgasm. It starts in that sensitive spot and spreads through my body in hands of pleasure, tweaking my nipples, rubbing my ass. Everything burns. I’m on fire. I’m exploding.

  I float atop the pleasure for what feels like a month.

  Then I sink down, panting, gasping, hardly aware of where I am. I feel spent and when Jude pushes into me one last time, burying his face in my neck, I’m glad. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss him on the cheek.

  He rolls aside.

  We stare at the ceiling , both of us recovering, and then Jude lies on his side and stares at me. Just stares. For a long time. I stare back. Slowly, we both begin to smile. Soon, we’re grinning ear-to-ear at each other like a couple of loons, and then we start laughing. I giggle and Jude chuckles, laughing into the night like two carefree kids.

  “That was incredible,” Jude says, placing his hand on my chest, between my breasts.

  “It was,” I agree, stroking the back of his hand, trailing my finger over mafia tattoos. “Let’s not wait so long until next time.”

  His grin does something I didn’t think was possible. It gets wider.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emily

  The next morning, I walk with a spring in my step.

  I remember when I was a girl and I saw people walking along like I am now—whistling a tune, a broad smile on their face—and wondering what in the world could make them so happy. I remember being angry at them, unfairly, but angry all the same. I remember wanting them to stop smiling because I could never imagine a world in which I was filled with such happiness. But today, I am that person, and it feels fantastic.

  Mrs. M grins at me when I enter the bakery.

  “Howdy, smiley.” She hands me my apron. “Somebody had a good night.”

  “How can you tell?” I ask, with a wicked smile, exactly the sort of smile I’d never normally give.

  “Oh, just a guess.” Mrs. M arches an eyebrow. “Do I smell man on you by any chance?”

  “You evil old woman!” I snap, grinning all the while.

  Mrs. M brings her hand to her chest in a melodramatic gesture. “Excuse me,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows in mock offense. “You will not talk to me in that tone, young lady. You may be my best employee, and the nicest girl I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, but don’t think I won’t bring out the baseball bat!”

  We meet eyes, and then giggle.

  “You’re mad.” I laugh, wiping a tear from my eye.

  I spend the morning in the back, baking and decorating cakes, whilst Mrs. M and another worker man the storefront. At midday, after the lunchtime rush, it’s time to switch. Mrs. M signs off with a wave and a smile and I man the storefront alone, the other worker—a youngish kid—going into the back.

  My happiness is infectious today. Every customer that comes into the store leaves with a smile on their face. Even a stern-faced businessman, wearing an earpiece, who looks as though he hates everything and everyone, gives me a smile as he takes his muffin. I wipe down the tables whilst tapping my feet. I clean the coffee machine whilst humming a tune. I fold napkins while bobbing my head.

  We shared. We made love.

  I relive last night in my head a dozen times, feeling his hands, his breath, his strength. I feel his muscles beneath my hands, the beads of blood from my eager fingers.

  I’ve heard the phrase walking on air many times, but I never knew what it meant until today. It’s like there’s a coat hanger wedged in my mouth; I couldn’t stop smiling even if I wanted to.

  But then the coat hanger is wrenched away, leaving me numb. No, I wish I was numb. Terrified is more like it.

  It’s the end of the day and I’m cleaning away tables, washing the last few dishes. The store is empty and the kid has gone home. I bend down under the counter to get the keys, and when I rise, he’s there, arms at his sides, eyes wide and bloodshot, seeming bigger and scarier than ever. A huge bear lumbering into the store.

  Patrick swaggers in, wobbling from side to side, clearly on something.

  “Hey, sis.” His words are slurred, coming out heyis. “How’s it going?” Howsgoing.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  I walk around the counter, hands raised. Why now? Why today? After two weeks of leaving me alone. Oh, yes, he’s on drugs, and people on drugs don’t tend to be too reasonable.

  Almost as soon as I’ve done it, I realize walking around the counter was a mistake. He jumps at me, backing me into the corner. I have no choice but to walk backwards. Then I hit the wall and he looms over me, mouth twisted in disgust.

  “I protected you,” he says, spit dribbling down his chin in rage. “I protected you, and this is how you repay me.”

  “Patrick—”

  He lifts his hand, fist clenched, and aims at
my face. “Shut up,” he growls. “It’s time for you to learn who the real fucking boss is.”

  Jude, where are you? Jude. Panic courses through every nerve in my body. I want to run, to fight, but these are life-old nerves, nerves which have seized up countless times as Patrick hits me.

  I close my eyes as his fist sails toward me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jude

  And I thought this day couldn’t get any better, I think as Tool explains it all to me.

  We sit in the bar—called The Leprechaun ’cause whoever named it thinks of himself as a funny bastard, I guess—sipping whisky. The curtains are drawn, just like they always are, and we sit in dusty beams of sunlight. Photographs of past hitters and hard men hang from the walls and a shotgun is mounted above the bar with the sign circa. 1922 below it.