I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances

by Sophie Brooks

  His tip felt so soft against my parted lips; he bucked a little, recklessly seeking contact. I had planned to toy with him, to use my tongue sparingly, barely touching at first, but his action brought a scent of his previously hidden parts to my nose.

  I loved the spicy, musky smell of sex as much as I loved the smooth hardness of cock.

  Oh, fuck it!

  I wrapped my lips and plunged. My descent was fast and furious, nose buried in those lush curls within a second. I heard him cry out and did it again, and again, just feeling his rigid texture and his need –

  my fingers grasped his base and squeezed it tight; he whimpered, trying to thrust–

  my other hand felt below his balls, caressing the soft skin beyond –

  I deep-throated him and swallowed over and over –

  Raf exploded. I felt his jizz splatter against the back of my throat. Being as deep as he was, the bitter liquid invaded my sinuses, his powerful, musky scent reminding me that I had had almost three very stiff martinis and that the world wasn't as stable as it used to be. I swallowed, then swallowed again. The rest was dripping down my nose and my eyes were tearing up. Having Raf Rinaldi come out my nose was much like being a victim of pepper spray.

  I reached for the tail of his shirt and, half-blind, wiped my nose on it.

  "What the…hey." His voice didn't have any more bite and hardly any bark left. "You can't do that to my shirt."

  "Sorry…" I lifted my head, finally meeting his dazed, glazed-over eyes. "That's just your cum. You came so big, it came out my nose."

  His laughter split the air and, for whatever reason, he seemed pleased with himself, as though he did something he ought to be proud of.

  "Stuff it! It frigging hurts."

  "Oh." He handed me a box of tissues, and I turned to the side and emptied my nose of what didn't belong there.

  "Why does it hurt?" He asked.

  "I dunno. It's just bitter and it stings – I guess the pH is all wrong for that part of the body, y'know?"

  "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. He had a silly grin on his face, an expression similar to my current laptop wallpaper.

  Then it hit me.

  "Hey, you didn't roar for me!" My voice must have shown some hurt.

  "I know," he said. "I held back in hope that you'd give it another try soon."

  Bastard.

  Then again, this way I'd get to keep my ringtone.

  I GOT UP and stumbled into the bathroom, the mixture of alcohol and unexpected chemical attack suddenly causing a chain of reactions in my body. As soon as I managed to slam the door shut, I fell to my knees once again, this time before Rafael's toilet bowl.

  The contents of my stomach ejected like a desperate fighter pilot. Rafael's jizz was all gone, Rafael's martinis were all gone, my long-gone dinner was…wasn't there. Well that explained a lot. I hadn't realized how late it had gotten.

  Oh God, never again. I promise.

  Never again will I drink on an empty stomach.

  I heaved again and again, but nothing came out. If you never had dry-heaves before you're lucky; few sensations are as disconcerting as feeling your stomach spasm and contract, trying to expel a vile substance that is, unfortunately, no longer there.

  "Pearson?" There was a knock on the bathroom door. I heaved again. "Are you okay?"

  I didn't bother with a reply. What kind of a moron would ask a question like that? However, in not too long the bathroom door opened and Rinaldi came in with a tall glass of ice water.

  "Have a sip. Not too much."

  I rinsed my mouth and spat into the toilet. My long hair now plastered to my face, which was most likely reddened and splotchy with sickly sweat. Never, to my recollection, had I felt less sexy than at that moment.

  I closed my eyes, resting my forehead on my arm. Only vaguely do I remember having felt a smidgeon of gratitude for the cool, moist towel on my forehead.

  MORNING came, and with it a mean headache. My eyes didn't want to open and face the world. Searing embarrassment flooded me as I recalled the events of the previous night and I suppressed a groan. The best I could do was sneak out of Rafael's apartment before he woke up.

  Rafael. Not just Rinaldi. Rafael.

  At some point, I began to think of the tall and handsome by his first name. Up till very recently, we had spat our last names at one another with contempt, foregoing all honorifics. Manners, the veneer that made polite society a viable concept, were almost absent in our interactions.

  Or were they? Did we, perhaps, merely express our dissonant liking for one another in a coarser, more primitive manner?

  Being carried over broken glass.

  Cool washcloth on my forehead.

  No, Rafael wasn't an indifferent cad. He only acted like one.

  Returning stolen goods.

  Doing work for free.

  Likewise, I wasn't a hardened criminal. I was merely a soft-hearted one.

  Slowly, not rustling the crisp, white sheet that covered me I slid to the ground. The softness of the white carpet silenced the soft tap of my feet as I landed. Crouched behind the bed, I realized I was dressed in nothing but a pair of Rafael’s black silk shorts.

  I LISTENED.

  Nothing.

  The heavy rain outside didn't shed any light on how late or how early it might be.

  With painful stealth I straightened, only to find that the other side of Rafael's bed hadn't been slept on. A feeling of doom came upon me. He must have cleaned me up, changed me into his own clean underwear, and he was probably still asleep on his own sofa. My arms crossed over my bare chest as I pattered outside his bedroom, the layout of the apartment now so familiar I could have found my way around in absolute darkness. I peered down the hallway and into the large living room. It was still the way I remembered it from my first break-in: half of it was full of boxes and assorted pieces of furniture jumbled all together, the other half was a tidy, modern living area with a leather couch and a large, flat-screen TV. The couch was where I had given Raf one of the best blow-jobs in living memory – and I expected to see him there, asleep.

  Except he wasn't there. Only a pillow and a blanket remained.

  "Rafael?"

  Not hearing an answer, I walked over, a vague sense of guilt washing over me for having driven him out of his own bed. Then I stopped, utterly flabbergasted to see my green, wet rappel line coiled on the glass coffee table, rainwater still weeping onto the gleaming surface. My black clothing, formerly soaking wet, was washed and dried, neatly folded on top of my backpack next to it.

  I halted my steps, thinking. It wasn't easy to penetrate the drowsy, sore cobwebs of my mind, but eventually I managed: Rafael had gone up to the roof to retrieve my rope in pouring rain. He had washed and dried my clothes. What happened to the garments he lent me the night before? If he'd stripped me out of them, I must have been a real mess.

  A white sheet of paper was stuck in the coils of the expensive rope.

  Hey Pearson,

  I got your rope. Your climbing harness is still in the vent and if you fail to use it next time, I'll never want to see you again, you idiot. You could've died, you dimwit. Sorry to make you sick. I'm at work. Let me know when you're ready to leave.

  Rafael

  I sat on the sofa, reading and rereading the note over again, trying to discern extra bits of meaning from between the lines. His upset over the harness was rather unexpected, as was the "sorry" part. Maybe he was just sorry about getting me drunk so fast – no guy will admit to tasting like that. The thought of his martini made my gorge rise and I sat up straight, regaining my composure.

  My cell phone told me it was almost eleven. First, I'd shower. Then, I'd dress. Then, I'd snoop around. Raf was a closed book to me. Judging by his apartment I’d have to conclude that his character was akin to having a case of split personality. Streamlined, modern décor clashed with boxes of tchotchkes and antiques. I wanted to use my nefarious skills not to purloin objects, but rather to a
cquire information about the object of my infatuation.

  HALF an hour later I felt a lot more civilized, and I applied my newfound energies to cracking Rafael's safe. Now you might think this was an evil thing to do, but I had a good reason. I wanted to learn more about him and what a man puts in his safe says a lot about what sort of a man he might be. Resolved to only take a gentle peek, I approached the cheap painting replica in its ornate frame and swung it open, revealing a gray, metal door with one simple dial.

  I took a deep breath and released the air, preparing myself. My fingers felt sensitive, itching with anticipation. With a controlled exhale, I took hold of the dial and spun it clockwise. The gears moved with smooth precision. I didn't hear any clicks, didn't see it stop at a convenient point all by itself. Lacking my stethoscope, I leaned my ear against the metal and slowly rotated the dial until I detected the slightest change in sound and resistance. The feeling was miniscule and unquantifiable; I probably only imagined it. Eyes closed, I felt a smile creep to my face as I slowly rotated the dial in the opposite direction. I passed the point of the first stop and waited for the next one – then I rotated the dial clockwise again, waiting for the final destination. It felt pretty good, like a highly sophisticated high-school locker. I leaned against the door gently; it's spring-loaded mechanism pushed it open and an automatic light came on. The safe wasn't huge, but it still had three shelves.

  The top shelf had a 9mm Glock on it and a few spare boxes of ammo. I recognized the gun and didn’t touch it.

  The middle shelf had an accordion folder with papers in it; I pulled it out and rifled through the contents, trying not to disturb anything. Insurance policies, a passport, a lot more cash than in the freezer, several loose family photographs, a birth certificate and a social security card, a car title, a Will and a Living Will, three death certificates. I felt my eyebrows rise as I gently pulled those out. Helen and Raymond Rinaldi appeared to have been his parents. The third one testified to the death of one Celia Rinaldi – its paper wasn't yellowed like the other two, and was dated to only nine months ago.

  Had he been married?

  He had said he was too depressed to deal with me the first time around.

  Shit.

  I replaced everything, taking care to make it the way it was – you don't need to have photographic memory to do that sort of thing, you just need to be observant enough.

  The last shelf held a thin, cardboard box. Well… I had already gone this far, I might as well see it all. I pulled it out and opened it. Gold and silver gleamed at me, reflecting the dim daylight. Green emeralds twinkled from an ornate necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings…it looked real all right, and pretty old. There were some other pieces, mostly women's stuff. The two men's rings that would have fit him, but I’d never seen him wear any jewelry at all. I slid it all back and shut the safe and closed the picture. Then I went to the bathroom and washed my hands and face again, barely able to breathe.

  WHO WAS this man? Not a single family photo was to be seen anywhere; his living areas, the ones that didn't look like an antique shop, were rather plain. Impersonal, even. I knew a little about his former work at Provoid Brothers, an investment house. Once their CEO got carted off to jail for massive fraud, I knew that Rafael Rinaldi, together with his colleagues Blanchard and Shiffer, started a new personal finance business not too long ago. The scandal had been in the headlines for months on end, but I remembered only the general basics. The corporate offices got dragged through hot coals. Some, like Blaine Kirby and his boss Kevin Toussey, were barred from work in the industry, while others got another chance. Rafael Rinaldi would have been one of those. His work history didn’t tell me much about him as a person, though. I needed to find out more.

  I'd opened and closed his drawers, and learned that he prefers silk briefs for underwear and not much else. His medicine cabinet revealed a snapshot of a healthy man prone to occasional headaches and an allergy to poison ivy.

  "HEY VICKI," I called my best friend right before I knew she'd go out for lunch. "What can you tell me about your former boss?"

  "Uh…why do you wanna know?"

  I hesitated. Not even Vicki knew about my shadier activities. "Um, I'm at his place right now, and it's kind of… weird."

  "What?" I heard her choke on something, and cough. "What are you doing there?"

  "I, um…I started something with him, as you know, and it sort of took on a life of its own… so anyway I stayed the night and he let me sleep in. What I wanna know is, why would he have this simple, masculine furniture right next to boxes full of, you know, knick-knacks? "

  "Gimme a second…you made me spill my tea." I hadn’t known Vicki to be a tea-drinker, not unless Mr. Wilson decided to wean her off coffee. My old boss claimed coffee was evil and smelled up the whole lunchroom.

  "Okay then. I'd joined Provoid Brothers as a temp. Rinaldi was on some kind of a family-related leave back then. I'd rearranged his files and when he got back, it really pissed him off."

  "What was the leave about?"

  "He'd never said, but wait. I'll ask…" I heard steps going down the hallway, then a knock on the door.

  "Hey Honore, a question for you…"

  I tuned out anything Vicki was asking my former boss, too stunned by the fact that my best friend would be on first-name basis with the cool, reserved man. Wilson, or preferably, "Mr. Wilson", never let anyone call him by his first name before. Interesting…

  There was a bit of a back-and-forth on the other side, then Vicki said, "Okay, here she is."

  "Ms. Pearson," the familiar, smooth voice intoned. "Why are you snooping on Mr. Rinaldi?"

  "Oh… um… hello, Mr. Wilson. I am not exactly snooping. It just occurred to me that his apartment looks… disjointed, you know? So I wanted to know if something had happened in his recent past… just so I don't step in it."

  There was a prolonged silence before I heard the familiar baritone again.

  "His sister died. It was in the papers. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

  "Yes, and no. Thank you though."

  Silence stretched for a few beats.

  "If you would care to stop by the office, I might have a client for you. A small bakery – we're too big for them."

  I felt relief wash over me – relief and gratitude.

  "Ah… thank you. Thank you very much."

  "I take it you're keeping to our deal, then? You didn't poach BW&B from me?"

  I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.

  "Due to my actions… which I do not regret, by the way… due to my actions, Mr. Rinaldi is too embarrassed to set his foot inside your offices ever again. He… he sort of... strong-armed me into doing the work for free. So, technically, it's not poaching since I'm not getting paid."

  "Pearson." His voice said it all.

  "Had you not barged in like that, he'd have stayed, and I'd have stayed, and you wouldn't have to put up with Vicki."

  "Ms. Pearson, you will be pleased to know that your friend is more than an adequate replacement for you."

  As Wilson hung up on me, I heard Vicki's suppressed snickers in the background. When I had worked for Wilson, he’d never let me snicker while he was on the phone.

  There was no use procrastinating the inevitable. I called Rafael next.

  "Hey, it's Evelyn."

  There was a stunned silence on the other end, then Rafael replied.

  "How are you feeling – Pearson?"

  "A lot better than last night. I wanted to apologize… for everything. And I wanted to thank you."

  "Are you still at my place?"

  "Yeah."

  "When did you wake up?"

  "Two hours ago."

  There was a pregnant pause.

  "Two fucking hours?" I moved the phone away from my ear.

  "Yeah."

  "What did you take?" Exasperation warred with curiosity as he contained himself, giving me enough space to formulate an answer.

  "You mean except for your
black silk boxers?"

  Another pause. "You kept my underwear."

  "Yeah…" My voice got kind of breathy there and I felt a blush rise to my face again.

  "Is there anything, anything at all, you'd like to confess while I'm still speechless and in a fairly good mood?" His voice was a sensuous purr, affecting my sense of reason.

  Maybe.

  I had a lot to confess. I didn't know how he'd take it, though. He'd probably just break up with me, but we were not officially together in any capacity, and even if we were, that was likely going to happen from the very beginning anyway.

  Okay, here goes. "Ibrokeintoyoursafe."

  "Huh…go again?"

  "I broke into your safe. Just to see if it was hard, you know… it wasn't. But then I got curious and wanted to see what was there…"

  "Go on." His voice was measured, as cold as the rain the night before.

  "I'm so sorry about your sister, Rafael."

  "You fucking snoop." His voice was incredulous.

  "I wanted to find out more about you."

  "What the fuck for?"

  "'Cause…'cause I'm fatally attracted to you. Moth to flame, Rafael. Nothing else seemed to matter at the time."

  He was quiet for a bit and all I could hear was breathing.

  "Has it occurred to you, Pearson, that you might have a bit of a problem?"

  "I know I have a problem, Rafael. You're not the problem, though. You're the vacation from my problem."

  "Stay where you are. We need to talk about this in person."

  Yeah, right. My death wish didn’t extend that far. "I can't. I called Wilson and he's expecting me. He has a client for me."

  "You told him about poaching me off?"

  "I told him about working for you for free and explained it wasn't poaching."

  "What'd he say?"

  "He wants to take me apart personally…if you'd like to see me in person, take a number and hope I don't come back to you in pieces."

  I heard him cackle.

  "Alright then. I'll catch up with you later. Probably when you least expect it."