Dirty Bad Secrets

by West, Jade

  How I’d love to give her the action her sweet little body craved.

  “They’re great,” I said. “Just what we need for the birthday bash.”

  “The birthday bash?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you even remembered.”

  “Two weeks this coming Saturday,” I said. “I’d never forget our baby’s birthday.”

  “I guess your card must have got lost in the mail these past few years,” he sniped, before his expression softened. Just a fraction, but it was progress. “Maybe Explicit will consider forgiving you if you give it a good one this time.”

  “I’m planning on it,” I said. “Explicit will have the best birthday party the world has ever seen.”

  He pulled a card from my hand. “And this is its big birthday bonanza, is it? One, two, three, four, I declare a tonguing war. Grab your opponent and wet your smackers, this little game is like thumb wars but wetter. Pin your partner’s tongue to the count of ten or until one of you bails out. No nipping, let’s keep it a clean fight.”

  “It’s good,” I smiled. “Our little games master has quite a way with words.”

  “Quite,” he said. “Shame her artistic flair doesn’t quite match up.”

  Topaz’s face dropped a little and her cheeks burned, and I felt it in my heart. “They’re beautiful,” I said. “Don’t listen to grumpy guts, he’d have them printed on ivory, in neat charcoal lettering.”

  “Classic and stylish,” he said. “Like our beautiful club.”

  I rolled my eyes, but the our didn’t slip my attention. “Truth or dare night,” I explained. “Birthday festivities of the dirtiest kind. People will be talking about it all year until the next one.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “It’s a tough crowd, I hope you can charm them.”

  “Watch me,” I smiled. “They’ll be dancing to my tune by the time the night is through, you wait and see.”

  The club emptied, and Topaz grabbed her keys as soon as she’d done wiping the bar down. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.

  A slight hint of awkwardness danced across her face, but she was off before I could question her.

  I pulled my mobile from my pocket. “Taxi time,” I said as Andy powered down the neons. “I’m beat.” I smirked. “Just not as beat as you.”

  “It was nothing,” he lied.

  I was scrolling through my contacts list when he held up his keys. “Want a lift?” he said.

  “How can a woman turn down an offer like that?”

  He flicked off the lights behind us.

  Andy’s wince as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat didn’t escape me. I smiled but said nothing, and the silence continued through London until we neared our destination. Only it wasn’t our destination. I’d moved rooms again.

  Vincent was persistent. Persistent and organised. He’d call through every guesthouse and hotel in the city if he had to, and I figured my best chance of evading him was to keep my movements erratic.

  “Not here,” I said. “You need to turn right and head a couple of streets across. I’m staying at at a hotel called The Poplar.”

  I felt his eyes burning into me, but I stared straight ahead out of the window. “Bed too hard this time? Too lumpy? Continental breakfast only? That’s always a deal breaker,” he scoffed.

  “Something like that.”

  I directed him until he pulled up outside, thanked him for the lift and unclipped my seat belt, but his fingers grasped my elbow, pulling me back inside as soon as I’d opened the door. “It’s him, isn’t it? Is he after you, Faye?”

  I shrugged it off. “Just better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? Are you scared of him?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s complicated.” I pulled away from him. “And it doesn’t matter. Goodnight, Andy. Put some ice on your arse.”

  I was away before he could argue, pushing my way through the main doors without even a glance behind. I could do without his questions, and I could definitely do without him sticking his oar in. I climbed the stairs to my room, then hovered with the key in the door, already well aware he was following me. “What?” I said, as he came into view. “Did I forget something?”

  He joined me at my door, and had slapped my hand from the lock before I’d even seen it coming. He pushed his way inside, casting his eyes all about the place. I gathered up dirty panties in embarrassment, piling them into my still open case, only to find he was gathering the rest of my shit. He dumped a load of my toiletries on the bed. “You’d better pack these.”

  “Pack?” I said. “What the hell are you talking about? I only just got here.”

  “You’re not staying,” he snapped. “Not with that sick fucking asshole on the loose.”

  I folded my arms. “And what do you propose? I’m not renting a place just yet, I haven’t even worked out which area I want to settle in.”

  He ignored me completely, tossing the rest of my clothes on the pile without a hint of slowing down. “Is that everything?” he asked when the case was full.

  I scanned the room. “Yes, just about.”

  He zipped it shut and hauled it from my bed. “Then you’d better get back in the fucking car, you’re coming to stay with me.”

  ***

  Chapter Eleven

  Faye

  I was too shocked to object. In truth, of all the probabilities for that particular day with that particular man, I’d have said the likelihood of being in his passenger seat, speeding through the night with my suitcase in the back, was slim to nil. I didn’t quite know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. He wasn’t forthcoming with conversation, either.

  The streets grew quiet as we left the heart of the city, and soon we were pulling up in a parking space outside an apartment block on the edge of Hammersmith. He took my case, and I followed without comment, trailing meekly behind as he led the way through the main foyer. The building was plush but sparse, with just the occasional leafy plant marking the way as we climbed the stairs to the third floor. He unlocked the door and held it open for me, ever the perverted gentleman, and I stepped over the threshold with a tingle of anticipation.

  I was pleasantly surprised when he flicked on the lights. A short hallway led through to an open plan living area. The ceilings were high, giving a sense of space and opulence, and the walls were decorated in a neutral cream. The kitchen was modern, all steel and granite with an island for extra space. He had few trinkets, with only a well-stocked fruit bowl jumping out for attention. The lounge section was dominated by a huge white leather corner suite, peppered with black scatter cushions. A glass and chrome coffee table bridged the distance between the seating and the wall-mounted TV, and a marble-topped dining table stood to the rear. I caught my breath as I spotted Vincent’s paperback placed face down on the top of it. The splay of the pages told me it was nearly finished.

  Andy followed my eyes but didn’t comment.

  “I’m surprised you’ve let me loose in your home,” I said. “Considering it’s my week. Who knows what I have in store for you.”

  He smiled but shook his head. “Coin toss stays in the club.” His tone was non-negotiable. “The rules don’t apply here.”

  “Convenient,” I smirked. Nerves were fluttering though my stomach, a whirlwind of tiny wings. “So, what now?”

  “I show you to your room. You can make yourself at home,” he said. I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed at the sleeping arrangements, even though I knew it was dumb as shit to consider anything else. He tracked back to the hallway, and opened a door to his right. “This is you.”

  It was a nice room, airy and light with a comfortable-looking double. It had built-in wardrobes and a dressing table, but very little else.

  “Lovely. Best room I’ve had since arriving.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” He dropped my case at the side of the bed. “Bathroom is opposite, there are towels in the rack by the door. Tea and coffee in the ki
tchen, probably some bread for toast if you’re lucky. Do help yourself.”

  “And where are you?” The words tumbled out unfiltered, but he didn’t break a sweat.

  “Next door,” he said, tapping on the wall to illustrate. His room was the other side of the headboard, and I found myself wondering if his was a mirror image. His face would be just inches from mine through the wall. “Goodnight, Faye. Don’t be late up in the morning, or I’ll leave you in bed and give you hell for it when you get to work.”

  “It’s my week,” I protested. “Don’t you be forgetting that.” I smiled to lighten the tone. “I’ll be up.”

  “Good,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  The bed was comfortable. Really comfortable. Crisp white sheets and fluffy pillows embraced me as their own, and I snuggled down with a sense of ease I’d been missing since Vincent’s text message. There’d been plenty more since, rambling declarations of love and devotion, the same old crap I’d been listening to for three fucking years, only these days it meant less. Maybe his magnetism was slipping. Maybe I really was getting over him.

  Although I didn’t fancy seeing him to put that theory to the test.

  The flush of the toilet sounded across the hallway, followed by the hiss of running water. I smiled at the idea of him wincing under the shower faucet as the water pummelled his bruises. The water eased off a few minutes later, and I imagined him towelling dry, crossing the hallway with just a low slung towel around his hips. Footsteps sounded across the floorboards, and his bedroom door clicked shut. I held my breath, listening hard for sounds of movement, and it sounded as though a wardrobe door creaked, but I could have been imagining it. My heart was racing way faster than it should be. I wanted to laugh at myself, laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, but it didn’t feel funny. Not at all.

  I stayed awake for a long while, wondering if he was awake too, wondering if he was thinking about me, thinking about us, contemplating storming my bedroom and paying me back for his wounds. Maybe he’d tear off my nightdress and bite my ass until I bled for him. And then he’d fuck me, fuck me hard enough to hurt, and I’d grip his tender fucking ass and beg for more, beg him and squeeze his ridged fucking flesh until he punish-fucked me into next fucking week. I shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t want to complicate things any more than they already were, yet still I wondered, and waited, and played with my horny little clit until I was stifling my moans with his fluffy white pillow, over and over a-fucking-gain.

  But still he didn’t come.

  I fucking hate early risers, and Andy Morgan was one of them. Figures.

  I was wrapped in a dressing gown with crazy hair, struggling even to remember my own name when he arrived through the front door in gym gear. I’d never seen him in gym clothes before, and it took me aback. He looked… different. Totally different. I couldn’t decide if I liked him better or worse outside of his suit. Naked, my clit answered. You like him best naked. His hair was still wet, which pointed to the fact he’d even bastard showered already. I pulled a face and flicked the kettle back on.

  He held up a racket in explanation. “Squash,” he said.

  “I’m surprised you know anyone dumb enough to want to play squash at this godforsaken hour.”

  “James,” he said. “Or Masque, as you know him.”

  Now that did surprise me. “How the fuck did you start playing squash with Masque? I didn’t even think you knew the guy.” A strange feeling of jealousy snaked around my stomach, and I couldn’t have actually told you who or what I was jealous about. It was totally bloody ridiculous.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “So it would seem.” My tone was sulkier than it should have been.

  “We did a charity run a few months back, if you must know. That’s when we became properly acquainted.”

  “A charity run? You and Masque?!” Fucking hell!

  “Quite, but it’s not as obscure as it sounds,” he said. “We have a famous footballer on our books, Jason Redfern.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not a total imbecile, Andy. I’m well aware we have Jason Redfern on our client list.”

  “Good. Well, there was some big deal about him raising money for sick kids when he was last in the country. PR stunt, I’m sure, but Raven got all passionate about it and roped the lot of us in. Even me. She’s somewhat tenacious.”

  “An Explicit fun run?” I laughed. “Did Masque wear his mask? I can’t imagine him taking the thing off.” The mystery of his actual face was crazily erotic. I fought back the need to ask Andy what the hell Masque really looked like.

  “Not just an Explicit fun run, and no, Faye, he didn’t wear the bloody mask.” He made himself a coffee and topped mine up. “We ran neck and neck the whole route, got talking along the way. We play squash once a week as a result, it hardly makes it a fucking bromance.”

  The idea of the two of them getting all sweaty and smashing a ball around was quite fucking hot. All ripped and grunting and competitive. I smiled as I sipped my coffee. “Who’s the better player?”

  “It’s an even match.” His eyes met mine, and they were dark. “That’s why I like playing him.”

  “Like hell,” I scoffed. “I know how much you like winning.”

  “Only when it means something,” he said. “I’d rather lose to someone who can put up a fight than come top over someone who doesn’t challenge me.”

  “I’m not so sure I believe that.”

  “Believe what you want, Faye.” He leaned against the kitchen island only to recoil like a snake as his ass touched granite. “I got my arse kicked this morning thanks to your psycho vampire attack. I was limping around the court like a battered old cunt.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And you’re going to be late if you don’t get your fucking ass in gear.” He pulled the mug from my hands. “Shower. Now. You have five minutes.”

  I couldn’t wait to get the bossy motherfucker in the office.

  ***

  My parcel arrived, next-day delivery. All I needed was an excuse to use it.

  It came close. Really fucking close, every fucking day, because that power-hungry sack of shit clashed heads with me at every single opportunity. Taking a secondary role in Explicit’s parenting did not come easy to Andy Morgan. It didn’t come easy at all.

  He argued every single one of my suggestions, just because he could, and whined like a bitch every time I demanded any actual information from him. He had this annoying condescending tutting sound he made whenever he’d catch me on the phone, making it perfectly clear I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but despite all of this, and the ever-present urge to slam a big fat dildo into his pretty-boy asshole, I was finding my feet.

  The office atmosphere was strained and hours were long, meaning the time spent at his apartment was minimal. We’d retire to our separate bedrooms with a grunt of goodnight, but there were none of the trysts I rubbed my clit off to every fucking bedtime. Most of the time he was so annoying it was easy to convince myself I didn’t want him, but my pussy never let me believe that for long.

  I wanted Andy Morgan alright, and I wanted him really fucking bad.

  To chisel my return in stone, it was clear I needed to put my stamp back on Club Explicit in one way or another, and the solution was easy. Our main entrance stairwell was classy, but tired, suffering from far too many drunken elbows knocking the artwork. It was the perfect place to put the Faye’s back statement piece, and by mid-week I’d made my plans perfectly clear to Mr Know It All.

  “No major refurbishments,” he hissed. “The rules were quite clear.”

  “It’s not major,” I snapped. “It’s a bit of fucking paintwork.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” he said. “This isn’t your call. There’s no way you’ll get that artwork done by the time we toss next, so chill your fucking backside.”

  But he was wrong.

  Mistress Raven pulled the strings for me, and she
must have pulled them bloody hard, because on Friday morning our resident Savage, known by day as Callum Jackson, the infamous London street artist, was well at work on my new mural. Andy nearly shit a fucking brick when he saw it, but even he couldn’t maintain his disapproval for long. Savage’s mural was a masterpiece, a blur of naked bodies lining the stairway, in various forms of play. They were in the throes of passion, armed with crops, and whips, and cuffs, and canes, and everything in between. It was incredible, and it brought tears to my eyes.

  Savage didn’t want payment, and he didn’t even seem to want thanks.

  At least that was one less thing for Andy to gripe over.

  Saturday was the day it all reached a head, and it’d been a long week brewing. We’d been working closely, so closely that my knee was pressed against his, and his thigh was burning mine through my skirt. So closely that I could smell him, smell his aftershave, smell his gorgeously musky fucking skin. So closely that I could feel the heat from his sweet fucking flesh. So closely that the atmosphere was charged and heavy and ripe to fucking explode.

  We wrapped up a load of website changes, and it became obvious he was aware of it too. The room was pounding with the beat of the bass on the main floor, punctuated by the occasional howl of pain. It seemed the whole fucking building was horny as fuck.

  “What next?” he said, as I wheeled my chair back to my own desk. “Do you want to toss the coin early? If you’re a good loser, I’ll tongue your sweet little cunt before I tan your backside.”

  His words were unexpected enough to make me shiver. He smirked as he noticed.

  “Like that, is it?” I said. “What makes you so sure you’re going to win? And what makes you so sure I’d even want you to?”

  “You want me to. I can practically smell your sopping wet snatch, Faye. Besides, you’d have no say in the matter.”