Good To Be Bad

by Lili Valente

  “Really? How so?” I ask, fascinated by this woman and her…zest.

  “She writes all about her big city Sexcapades. In depth. No subject is taboo. I’ll shoot you a link and you can read for yourself.”

  “Or maybe you could read me an excerpt or two? I’m guessing you’re great at reading aloud, what with your mastery of Z-words and all.” I lower my voice and set a hand on the small of her back. It’s the perfect fit. And even better? The way she shivers and shifts closer when I touch her.

  Thank you again, kismet. There’s nothing hotter than a responsive woman, and Gigi is like a cat who arches into my touch, who savors and purrs for it.

  Meow.

  “All right. Here’s a snippet. ‘It was a hot sticky night in the city and all the zeks were out wielding their zaks, hoping to get off work early and get lucky,’” she whispers in a narrator voice.

  I hum low in my throat. “Raunchy things, those zeks.”

  “Very much so,” she says. “Into handcuffs and scarves too, I hear. When they don’t have a zak in hand.”

  “Scarves you say…” I tap my temple, filing the breadcrumb she’s dropped. “Noted. Now I have a most important question,” I say as we walk to Camp Whiskey.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “These T-shirts.” I point to them, draped over her arm. “I feel it’s important we wear them out in public as soon as possible, so that everyone we meet can admire and envy our accomplishment. But I’m torn. If you were to put one on, it would ruin the stunning view I’ve been enjoying all night.”

  She presses her hand to her chest, faux shocked. “Were you checking out my décolletage?”

  “Guilty.”

  She grins, a naughty glint in her eye as she rolls her index finger at my pecs. “Then you should definitely atone by taking off your fancy clothes and wearing a T-shirt instead.”

  “What the woman wants…”

  As we amble down the block, I go with it, shrugging out of my jacket. I hook it over my arm and begin to unbutton my shirt.

  Her blue eyes go wide, traveling lasciviously down my chest as I loosen the buttons. I get to the last one and tug the shirt out of my trousers. Then I shed it too.

  She blinks, drops her jaw, makes a show of lifting it again with two fingers under her chin. “Wow.”

  I chuckle, pleased she likes the view, and hand her my jacket and shirt. When I’ve pulled on the T-shirt, I take back my clothes and then square my shoulders, preening for her benefit. “There you go, madam.”

  She sighs. “No. See, now you’ve gone and ruined everything, West.”

  “You prefer the dress shirt?”

  “I prefer no shirt,” she says with an adorable pout.

  “Well, I think I can make that happen. Later,” I say as we reach the door to Camp Whiskey. “For now, shall we find a booth and talk some more?”

  “Yes. Talk,” she purrs, having fun with the word, as if she knows that it’s just another word for foreplay.

  With her? It absolutely is.

  First, I pop into the lav to wash up. It would be rude to touch her after I’ve had my hands on all those cubes and Scrabble tiles, and since I fully intend to have my hands on her, I do the gentlemanly thing.

  I return to the booth, sliding in next to her beneath wooden cutouts of bears rowing boats and lolling in tree branches. Camp Whiskey has a rustic lodge invaded by kitsch vibe I enjoy and an unparalleled selection of whiskey and scotch. Even the speakeasy in the Village where I occasionally spend a lazy Sunday afternoon playing cards with Graham can’t compare.

  “This is my favorite part of Brooklyn,” Gigi declares, smoothing her dress. “All the space. I can’t get away with a crinoline in Manhattan.”

  I cast a glance at the flouncy skirt currently occupying its own zip code between us.

  She reaches for the fabric, folding it over her leg on one side. “Or…maybe not?”

  I slide my hand down her arm, enjoying the way she leans into my touch. “What do you take me for? A man who doesn’t know what he wants?”

  “What do you mean?” Her question is a little breathy, a little distracted.

  From my fingers trailing down her bare skin.

  Good.

  “I asked you out for a drink. Of course, I want to sit right next to you. Not at a respectable, giant-skirt distance.”

  She dips her head, looking the tiniest bit shy, then raises her eyes, nibbling on the corner of her lip. “I like a man who knows his mind.”

  “You’ve found one.”

  The waitress arrives and takes our drink order, and as soon as she leaves, I return my focus to Gigi. My fingers travel up her shoulder, over her neck, under her hair.

  “Mmm,” she murmurs.

  Gently, I play with her hair. “What else do you love about Brooklyn?”

  She takes a beat, arching into my touch—she really might be part feline. “Oh, so many things. The architecture and the artsy vibe and how close we are to the shore for swimming in the summer. Coney Island, even though it’s tacky. And all the different kinds of people and food and music venues and shopping. We have the most eclectic and exciting shops in the world, I think. Though, I haven’t been many other places.”

  “Where else can you find a pickle shop next to a purveyor of handmade pork pie hats.”

  Her eyes light up. “Yes! Exactly.”

  I let my gaze roam down to her eclectic, exciting dress. “And you look like you fit right in here.”

  “Thanks. But that makes sense—I’ve been here my whole life.”

  My brows lift. “Really? That’s rare, isn’t it? I haven’t met many Brooklyn natives.”

  “A rare breed, spotted in the wild,” she says as the waitress returns with our bourbon and ciders. No whipped cream—alas, they were out—but I’m still looking forward to tasting cinnamon and clove on Gigi’s lips later.

  But hopefully not too much later.

  Anticipation is all part of the fun, but the more time I spend with this woman, the more I want to see more of her. All of her.

  I lift my glass to toast, and she raises hers.

  “What shall we toast to?” I ask, hoping she’ll pick something wicked. Or at least wanton.

  “Gentlemen’s choice,” she counters, ever the worthy opponent.

  Fine by me. I know exactly what I want. “Let’s drink to the best kind of games.”

  “And those are?”

  I lean close, brush a soft curl of her hair off her shoulder, then press a kiss to the column of her throat. “Bedroom games, of course.”

  She trembles, her next breath releasing in a soft whoosh.

  “I think I like those kinds of games,” she says as I pull back, and we clink glasses.

  “Think? Or know?”

  She takes a sip of her cider, moaning soft appreciation for the spicy, fragrant concoction. “I think it depends on the player, don’t you?” she asks in a whisper that sends darts of heat down my spine.

  Her voice. Her boldness. Mixed with that faint touch of submission. I don’t go looking for submission. But I’m a firm believer in listening to a woman, then giving her what she wants. And if she wants me to lead, then I’ll do just that.

  But a man should always ask. “I have one more thing I’d like to toast to.”

  “Multiple toasts,” she says musing on the first word. “That sounds promising.”

  “I always deliver on my promises,” I knock back some bourbon, savoring the cider and the burn.

  “Let’s find out.” She tilts her chin just so, offering those gorgeous lips and I take the gift of her mouth.

  I slide my lips across hers, a gentle sweep at first, tasting the cinnamon and apple of the drink and a hint of vanilla I’m guessing is her lipstick. I inhale the scent of her hair, letting the flowers and sweet spice go to my head. My mind becomes a haze of her lips and her soft murmurs.

  I cup her cheek in my hand, stroking my thumb gently across her soft skin as I press my lips a little harder, kiss
a little deeper, exploring her delicious mouth. A moan seems to fall unbidden from her and she arches even closer. With her hip against mine, her hand drifts up my chest, making my skin heat.

  I kiss her more deeply, tongues stroking, mouths discovering, breath mingling. Her moans and sighs are shameless and real, and I love them. Love hearing how much I affect her. Love too that her hand travels briefly across my beard, then grips the fabric of my shirt as she pulls me closer, making her wishes known.

  Making it clear that this doesn’t need to be a careful kiss.

  I rope a hand into her hair, threading through the strands, then giving a gentle tug, just to see how she responds. A small catch of her breath, followed by a husky moan of approval, is the answer.

  The perfect answer.

  I break the kiss, and she looks up at me, lust drunk. “Do that again? Please?” she says.

  “I’d like to do all sorts of things to you.”

  “Like…my favorite things?” she asks, both flirty and dirty.

  “If your favorite things include coming. A lot.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “However did you know?”

  “Lucky guess. I hope that’s not too forward,” I say playfully, though I suspect I know the answer.

  She tap-dances her fingers up my chest. “Oh, I like forward. I like it a lot.”

  “Good to know.” My fingers drift down, down, into the darkness under the table to the hem of her skirt. “Let’s see how I do in the first heat of the coming competition,” I say, then coast a hand under her skirt, up her leg, on the fast track for my favorite place.

  She moans before I even touch her.

  “But you’re going to have to be quiet,” I murmur into her ear. “If you keep making all these delicious, attention-grabbing noises I’ll have to stop.”

  She shakes her head. “No. Don’t stop,” she whispers, as my hand reaches the apex of her thighs.

  I bite my lip as I feel the cotton panel of her knickers, how damp it is, how aroused she is. My fingers travel to the waistband, slipping under it, over her curls, then between her legs, where they glide across that glorious slickness.

  She shudders, a beautiful, silent shudder that sends a tremor of lust down my spine.

  My cock hardens as I trace all that silky wetness. Gigi trembles as I touch her, her hand gripping my arm, like she needs desperately to hold on to something. To me.

  She parts her legs, widening them, giving me more access.

  I stroke faster, focusing my attention on that swollen bundle of nerves that’s pulsing, begging for touch.

  Touch I’m all too happy to provide.

  Her other hand grips the edge of the table, as she clamps her lips shut. Sparks sizzle across my skin as I watch her face. As I memorize the way her forehead furrows as her breath comes fast, then faster still.

  As her face becomes a map of exquisite torture.

  But the whole while, she remains quiet. Like a good dirty girl. “That’s right. Don’t let anyone hear you,” I whisper. “If anyone hears, I’ll have to stop.”

  A soft whimper falls from her lips but then she purses them.

  Dipping my face to her neck, I whisper against her skin, “So good. Just like that.”

  I stroke faster, sliding a finger inside her sweet center and crooking it, hitting that spot inside her that makes her thighs clench, and her breath stutter.

  “Ohhh, West,” she gasps. My name on her lips is filthy and needy. It sends the desire in me spiking higher, then higher still as she begs “Don’t stop.”

  Such a beautiful beggar.

  As if I could stop.

  I have only one choice now. To seal my mouth to hers and cover her lips with a kiss as she trembles, her body shaking, as my gorgeous stranger comes for the first time tonight.

  If I have my way, it won’t be the last.

  And I intend to have my way with her.

  Once she’s stopped trembling, I wipe my hand on a cloth napkin, press another kiss to her lips, and reach for my glass.

  Down the hatch.

  “Now, shall we get started on number two straightaway?”

  “I don’t want another drink,” she says.

  “I wasn’t talking about the drink.”

  Her swollen lips curve up at the edge. With glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, she nods. “Yes, please,” and I lift my hand for the check.

  5

  Gigi

  Sex plans are full of awkward moments.

  This is the “my place or yours” dilemma. Or, as I like to call it, “if he turns out to be crazy am I more likely to be murdered at my place or his?”

  I don’t seriously believe I’m going to be murdered tonight, but it’s a consideration for women—hence the baseball bat under my bed. I believe in listening to my gut. And my gut says that the only thing West is likely to kill is my bad luck streak with men.

  He’s just so delightful in every way.

  “I’m a fifteen-minute walk away,” I offer as we tumble out of Camp Whiskey. “Give or take ten minutes to rest if my heels start hurting.”

  “I’ll call an Uber.”

  A few minutes later, we slide into the back of the car.

  On the drive, he’s all hands and dirty talk. His fingers glide up my neck, threading through my hair. “I’d really like to put you on your knees,” he murmurs in my ear.

  That sends a ribbon of heat down my body. “So I can suck your cock?” I ask under my breath. I’m helpful like that.

  “I like the way you think, but I’m not that selfish. I want you to ride me first, then I’d like to put you on your hands and knees so I can fuck you hard and deep, make you come over and over. And I’d really like to smack your ass as I take you over the edge.”

  Unicorn. Called it. He is officially a sex unicorn.

  And I’m going to ride him and play with that golden horn all night long.

  “Are we adding mind-reader to the list of skills you’ve mastered?” I ask.

  He grins, all wicked and sly. “No, but I can read your body language. You’re a woman who likes to have fun, who likes to feel good, and who deserves to be the center of attention. And your orgasm will be the star of the show tonight.”

  “Will it make multiple appearances?”

  “It’ll take encores.”

  “Standing ovations too.” I don’t know that I can bear this arousal as the car cruises the final block to my apartment. I might melt into a lust puddle before I get upstairs.

  But somehow, I’ll manage. I haven’t roped a unicorn only to lose him now.

  When we reach my building, West thanks the driver, and we get out. I unlock the front door quickly. My hands shake slightly, but not from fear. From excitement.

  Is it just the prospect of hot, sweaty, up-against-the-wall, bent-over-the-bed, upside-down sex?

  Well, yes.

  But there’s more to it. When I told West, “You get me,” before the cubing competition, I meant it playfully. Only now it seems he does get me. We vibe. We’re in synch. He’s like the ideal dance partner in my ballroom class. In a few short hours, we’ve clicked in a way I haven’t clicked with anyone in too long. I can’t help thinking this might be more than the no-strings hookup I imagined when I first spotted him at the bar.

  I mean, how often do you meet a man who makes your mind tingle every bit as much as your body?

  Shut up, brain, my body shouts. We’re in charge right now. Filthy sex first; romantic daydreams later.

  Yes, body. You’re coming in loud and clear.

  I briefly consider taking the steps two at a time, but my heels forbid it.

  Also, I don’t want to appear overeager.

  But who am I kidding? West knows how eager I am to get naked and shameless with him.

  Then we’re inside, and the door snicks shut. It’s the sound of the first half of the evening ending and the second half beginning.

  That’s what tonight feels like. A beginning.

  West holds my face, two big h
ands clasping my cheeks, his dark brown eyes holding mine.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he declares.

  What? No!

  “Why?” I ask, my voice pitching up.

  “You’re so unbelievably sexy we have to start with me on my knees.”

  “Oh.” I blink. And smile. And whisper, “Proceed.”

  West moves at lightning speed. He drops to his knees, pushes my skirt and the crinoline underneath up to my waist, then tugs my panties down my legs. I’ve barely stepped out of them when his mouth is on me.

  And dear God.

  I melt in seconds.

  My hands fly to his hair as I gasp, “Oh, God.”

  His tongue slides along my slickness, lapping me up, tasting me. Add in that scratch of his beard, and I am a happy camper. Oh yes, I am. He licks soft and tender at first, just the way I like it. My moans seem to lead him on, and he picks up the pace. Masterful with his lips, soon he’s sucking and nibbling on my clit, driving me wild. As I curl my hands tighter around his head, I thread my fingers through his thick hair, yanking him closer. I lean back against the wall, my spine digging into the plaster.

  It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt, the kind that reminds me how wonderful it is to have my pussy kissed senseless by a stunning British man on his knees.

  A man who is utterly devouring me.

  I babble incoherently, a string of oh Gods and yeses that make him moan against me.

  He kisses with so much hunger, so much desperation that his want flips the switch inside me. Bliss coils tight in my belly then unleashes with a force that makes my bones tremble. I shudder, coming on his lips with a loud yes, oh God, yes.

  My head is a haze. My chest is heaving. My skin is red-hot as he rises and wipes a hand across his mouth. “You were right. Why bother taking clothes off?”

  I gesture to him, making a circle with my finger so I can give an executive order. “Nope. Off. Now. Take off everything now.” I reach for his belt but wobble in my shoes. He steadies me, both hands on my hips as I kick off the heels.