Filthy Fight (Hard n' Dirty Book 2)

by Alta Hensley

  Maybe it’s because I’ve had the morning from hell. It was cold when I woke up, and my little shack has no insulation to speak of. I was freezing and really didn’t want to get out of bed.

  Then I came into work and discovered that my supplier had delivered the wrong kind of barley. Worse, when I called them, they had the nerve to imply I should just make do with what they sent me. I should have chewed them out, but I’d bitten my tongue and politely insisted they correct their mistake.

  I was still cold, and couldn’t seem to stop shivering. Though I’m broke, I decided to warm up by eating a hot breakfast and drinking multiple cups of coffee. I headed to a nearby diner that serves breakfast all day.

  When I returned, I’d moved to the back, and I’d started cleaning the tanks. That took a few hours. When I was finally done, I was starving again, and ready for a break. I moved to the front to grab my jacket.

  And then I found the chair.

  At first, I’d been confused. Puzzled. Then I looked a little closer, and it dawned on me that I wasn’t looking at an ordinary piece of furniture. A normal chair didn’t need straps on the arms and legs. Didn’t need conveniently placed eye hooks. It wasn’t until the back fell away that I put two and two together.

  There had been a business card tucked in the seat. Dominic Wilde. Carpenter. The same guy who was supposed to be making our bar.

  A bar. Not a sex chair.

  That had been the absolute last straw. I marched out of the brewpub, determined to give this idiot small-town carpenter a piece of my mind. With each step, my irritation grew. Seriously, how hard is it for people to do their jobs?

  Dominic Wilde’s workshop is only a five-minute walk from the brewpub. I walked in, angry words on the tip of my tongue.

  Then he turned, and whoa. This guy might be a small town carpenter with a block of wood between his ears, but the rest of the package? Oh. My. God.

  Dominic Wilde is hot. Tall and muscled. He’s shirtless and oh-my-freaking-God. He’s got six-pack abs that wouldn’t look out of place on a magazine cover. A smattering of dark hair is sprinkled on his chest. Not too much, not too little. Just right.

  His jeans ride low on his hips. My gaze follows his happy trail, and my mouth goes dry. Holy eye candy. Will, my last boyfriend, had been lean, skinny and pale. This guy, on the other hand, exudes masculinity and raw sex appeal.

  His words hang in the air. I’d be more than happy to show you how it works.

  I inhale sharply, and my cheeks heat. Under my t-shirt, I can feel my nipples harden. Crap. I was scrubbing tanks. I was so irritated that I walked over here without realizing that my t-shirt was half-wet. I’m practically flashing the guy. “Did you just proposition me?”

  He smiles at me, slow and lazy, and answers my question with one of his own. “Are you interested?”

  He’s expecting me to back away. I can see it in every relaxed line of his body. The easy smile playing about his lips, the slight air of condescension as he gives me the once-over. He thinks he has me pegged, and he’s expecting me to scurry away like a scared little rabbit.

  Guess what, Dom? I’m not going to back down.

  “Is this what modern dating is like?” I return his once-over, taking in the muscled strength of his arms, the way the hair on his broad chest gleam in the sunlight, those tightly defined abs that I want to lick. Then my gaze drops lower, lingering at his crotch. There’s a bulge there. An extremely impressive bulge, one that makes my insides tingle. “Forget buying me dinner, shouldn’t you at least send me a dick pic first?”

  His eyebrows rise, and despite my best efforts to keep a poker face, I can’t stop my smug smile. His lips twitch. “I wasn’t raised by wolves, Cat. I never send a woman a picture of my crotch on the first meeting.” He reaches for a gray t-shirt and slips it over his head. “Why don’t we head to your brewpub?” he suggests. “And when we’re there, we can resume these negotiations.”

 

  By the time the two of us are back in the brewpub—Dominic gave me a ride in his pickup truck—my courage has drained away, and I’m sheepishly aware that I’ve been screaming at the guy like a harpy. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I murmur. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Retreating to safety?” His eyes glitter with wicked intensity, and the corner of his lips tilt up, as if he’s amused by me. “That’s understandable. Stuff like this is probably outside your normal experience.”

  Hang on. He just called me a prude, and that rankles. I don’t know why the opinion of a perfect stranger matters to me, but it does. Back in his workshop, Dom Wilde’s eyes had rested on my breasts, and for a second, there had been a hint of interest. Unlike Vicki, my priority isn’t guys, but when his eyes had turned heated, I’d been flattered.

  I lift my chin in the air. “I’m not afraid of your chair or anything else.”

  If anything, I’m fascinated by it. I wonder how it would feel to be seated in it, my ankles tied to its legs, my arms strapped tight. Would it be terrifying, or would it be a turn-on, or would it be both?

  Once Dominic Wilde had me at his mercy, what would he do? Would he unzip his jeans and push his cock into my mouth? Would he drop to his knees and stick his tongue in my pussy? He looks so laid-back right now. So relaxed. If I’m bound in the chair, would he change? Would he be demanding and strict?

  Get a hold of yourself, Cat. He’s a total stranger.

  “If you say so.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re just saying that to humor me.”

  He stares at me for a long second, and my nipples perk up again. “Okay,” he concedes. “I am humoring you. So tell me, Cat. Do you want me to show you how the chair works?”

  This is insane. There are a million things I need to do, and flirting with a hot guy is not on my to-do list for the day. But I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m like a moth, drawn to a flame, one that’s guaranteed to burn me. “Yes.”