Diego: (Brighton Bad Boys 3)

by Tilly Delane

No, wrong again. Like we own each other.

  Like we’ve always owned each other.

  Diego

  Kissing her is like coming home.

  Or how I always imagined coming home would feel like.

  It’s relief and feeling safe.

  It’s hot and sweaty and raw.

  It’s warm and sloppy and comfy.

  It’s leaving behind all pretence.

  And a whole lot of tongue.

  So much tongue.

  So much hunger.

  This girl is on fire.

  For me.

  Not for the danger, not for the perceived status, not for the money, but for me.

  She’s not here to demurely please the boss and then cream off the top.

  She’s here, in my lap, because that’s where she wants to be, where she belongs.

  My hips buck on their own accord as she wriggles her pussy over the hard ridge of my dick and groans into my mouth. If she wasn’t holding my tongue hostage, I’d be laughing at the next realisation that hits me.

  This girl is never gonna whimper. She’s gonna growl and roar as she takes her pleasure. The dainty little kitten is a lioness in disguise.

  The thought alone makes me feel my orgasm gather in my spine.

  I extricate my tongue from hers and pull her forehead to mine.

  “Kalina, baby, slow down. I’m gonna spurt like a teenager if you don’t slow down.”

  That gets me a pair of lips twitching into a grin against my mouth.

  “I don’t care,” she says, and takes my hand from her cheek to slip it into her dress and hold it over her heart. “Can you feel that? Feel how fast that is beating? That’s how turned on I am at the thought of you creaming your pants just because I kiss you. Go on, make a mess of yourself. I made a mess of myself all day, looking at you.”

  Have women told me I’m good looking? Sure.

  Have they tried to please me with dirty talk? Sure.

  Never done a damn thing for me other than remind me of cheap porn.

  I’ve never felt a comment someone made in my fucking balls before, but now I have.

  Before I can process, though, that my sweet, innocent, untouchable, too-young language student clearly speaks fluent vulgar, real fluent vulgar, she goes back to work, without any words.

  Her tongue slips back into my mouth and her pussy starts rocking relentlessly against my crotch. Lucky me, she loses herself in her own pleasure so much, her hand loosens its grip on mine and I get to slip it further under her dress to find a perfect tit.

  It’s tiny, but oh so perky.

  And it nestles into my hand like it’s got a mind of its own, begging me for caresses.

  I always thought I wanted that whole boob-spilling-out-of-my hand thing. Boy, was I wrong. Her pointy little tit feels amazing, like a perfect, exotic fruit made to sit whole in my palm and to be devoured whole. I flick my thumb over the hard nipple, and she presses further into me with a low growl in her throat.

  Her move is aided by our driver speeding up as we hit the motorway. The velocity melts with her ferocity and she is pushed up hard against me, but her riding the buttons on my jeans is becoming painful now. Before I can say something, though, she already knows. She lifts her butt up and detaches her mouth from mine once more.

  “Off,” she says, reaching between us and popping the first button on the fly.

  She keeps her arse in the air while I undo the rest and shuffle to tug my jeans and briefs down to give my junk just enough space to spring free.

  She doesn’t look down.

  She doesn’t inspect the goods like all the others do.

  She just wraps her delicate hand around my girth, positions me and looks into my eyes as she slides her hot, wet pussy down on me.

  Then she just sits there.

  And smiles.

  “Fuck, Kalina,” I press out. “I’m gonna come and you’ll be so disappointed.”

  “You keep saying that,” she says on a laugh. “Now, shhh.”

  She kisses me softly to seal my lips and then draws back to keep looking into my eyes as if they were the only thing that mattered here.

  I know what she means, though.

  Sure, we’re connected below, and I want to move so badly I think I’m gonna die if I don’t, but - BUT! - up here are her eyes, deep and so dark they’re nearly black, and yet so open I think I can see her soul.

  Her face turns serious and I know she feels the same.

  And she can’t hack it for long.

  She burrows her face into my neck.

  “I can feel you,” she whispers and rocks ever so slightly.

  My dick quivers inside her and I’m two seconds from losing it when what she says clicks on a completely different level.

  Shit! SHIT!

  “Kalina,” I whisper, and gently try to push her off me a little.

  Enough so I can see her face again, but not so hurriedly I’m gonna shoot my spunk inside her from the friction.

  “Kalina, condom,” I manage to say. “In my back pocket.”

  She shakes her head and grinds back down.

  “You dirty, George? You fuck without condom a lot?”

  I’m not and I don’t, but I’m also not hyper-vigilant like some people. I take the blow jobs I’m offered without a rubber, but I won’t give head to any of the whores at the club or sink my dick into any of them without sheathing myself. I’m not fucking suicidal. And the last thing I want is one of them tagging me with a baby.

  I shake my head, but I put in the caveat.

  “No, but I’m no saint,” I confess.

  She shrugs.

  “Neither am I. I’ll take my chances.”

  I take a big breath and am about to lift her off me, when she realises what that sounds like and holds up a finger between us.

  “But I will not get pregnant. I have...” her voice trails off as she frowns, clearly searching for a word that isn’t in her repertoire. “Thing,” she says in the end, pointing down between us and then indicating something about an inch long with her thumb and forefinger. “Spiralka.”

  I catch her drift and stare at her in wonder. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her utter a word in Polish. It’s super cute, and it somehow brings her even closer. As if she just dropped the last curtain between us. I look at her with my heart exploding in my chest and my dick demanding to crawl even deeper into her, and I realise to my astonishment that I actually trust her.

  I never thought I would have it in me to trust a woman on her word alone. If any woman before her had told me she had the coil, I would have wanted to see a written statement from the doctor who put it in. Or better yet, I would have wanted to watch him put it in.

  “And I want to do this,” she carries on, dragging me out of my head again.

  She rotates her hips just a little so her clit slides over my pubic bone and spreads her cream all over me. “I want to feel you, George. I’ve wanted to feel you for months. Every time I see you, my first thought is what would it be like if you were inside of me.”

  She does that hip rotation thing again, and I make a strangled sound in my throat ─ before I can’t help myself any longer.

  I grab her by the hips and start fucking into her from below like a man possessed.

  But as desperate as I am, I don’t want this to end just yet.

  After ten or so hard pumps, I sling one arm around her and hold her still again, tight against my body, counting my breaths. It’s something Rowan, Silas’ brother, waffles on about a lot. Some tantric bullshit about drawing out your release with breathing techniques. I never paid attention. Didn’t see the point. I haven’t got time for shit like that. You fuck, you come, you get back to business. But it’s amazing what goes into your subconscious when you pretend to be too fucking important to be listening.

  I breathe through the tightness in my balls that tells me I want to shoot my load, and then I move again, slower this time.

  Kalina makes a sound of frustrati
on.

  “You’re killing me, George. I was so close.”

  “Me, too, baby, me, too,” I say, grinning at her. “But we’ve got another couple of hours to kill. And I intend to enjoy every fucking second till then.”

  I tug the top of her dress down to release her tits to my view.

  Kalina

  I nervously hold my breath when my breasts spring free from the clingy fabric of the dress.

  It’s stupid, really.

  He’s already hilt-deep inside of me. He’s hardly going not to finish what we started just because my boobs are too small. And I’ve never in my life felt self-conscious about my lack of curves.

  It’s just that all of the women I see hanging around him are about three times my size in all the right places. Plus, hanging around with Grace ‘Jessica Rabbit’ Turner for a few months can give any smaller woman a complex in the long run.

  It doesn’t help that he’s just staring at them and not saying a word, though the hand that was playing with the left one under my dress until a couple of minutes ago, isn’t exactly stopping now he’s got a visual. I take that as a good sign and relax a little.

  He leans in, gives the pert nipple of that one a long lick then tweaks it. My insides clench around his length, and I unfreeze fully. It’s not really possible to stay self-conscious when he leans in to the other one and sucks it into his mouth. All of it.

  My whole right breast disappears into this man’s mouth, and the sound of satisfaction he makes while he does it gives me the most unholy thrill of my life.

  And then he sucks.

  And tweaks.

  And fucks into me again.

  Slowly.

  Minimally.

  So each time he hits my cervix, he holds me down for a second and grinds his pubic bone over my clit.

  Until I can’t stand it any longer.

  “George,” I beg and grab on to his shoulders, hoping he gets what I need.

  He kind of tilts his head, so he can look up at me with my tit still in his mouth, and then he blinks his permission at me.

  Diego

  I wanted to drag this out for hours, but Kalina has other plans. And frankly, by now I’m so far gone, no amount of breathing exercises will help me last.

  She is so fucking gorgeous, looking down at me, her face flushed, her dark eyes heavy with lust and burning with the need to come.

  I suck her tit a bit harder, enjoying my fruit, and she groans so loudly I wonder how soundproof the soundproof glass that divides us from the driver really is. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but I don’t want her to feel embarrassed afterwards.

  Not that there is anything I can do about it.

  I’ve just given her the go ahead to ride me as hard as she needs to and like an avalanche, there is no stopping her now.

  She clutches at my shoulders, and then she starts moving in a way that makes her earlier hip circles fade into insignificance.

  This woman can fuck.

  And she is fucking me.

  Hard.

  Until she explodes all around me with the full-on war cry I expected of her, her tight cunt squeezing me relentlessly into submission, milking my dick of every last drop of my spunk.

  When she comes down, she collapses onto me with a giggle.

  Her arms wrap themselves around the back of my neck and her lips come to rest on the rapidly beating pulse in my throat.

  We’re panting, heart to heart, and she’s still holding my quivering, slowly softening cock inside of her.

  The impulse to retreat quickly ─ to catch and tie the condom we never used, before I drop out fully and we have a mess ─ is strong, but then I realise there is no need.

  The mess is already there.

  And it’s fucking glorious.

  Kalina

  After I come, I wait for the sadness to descend.

  I often crash hard.

  I have a bit of a history of post-coital depression. It’s not so bad that I don’t want to have sex a lot, but sometimes it really hits me. Then I have a bit of a cry, a bar of chocolate or two and a day in bed, and eventually I’m reset.

  I want to say that there is no comedown after finally - finally! - getting to ride George Benson’s fine, fine dick, but it would be a lie.

  I snuggle into the crook of his neck and revel in the afterglow of my orgasm as long as I can but inevitably, I can feel the tears pricking the back of my throat as he goes soft and plops out of me, the sticky mess we made quickly growing cold between us. I push my nose deeper into his skin to take a last lungful of his scent before I suppress my emotions and put on a game face. I will deal with the darkness later.

  This is why I prefer to fuck them and then get the hell away.

  But there is no escape here. We’re going seventy miles an hour on a motorway and there is probably around an hour left of our journey.

  So I plaster on a smile before I lift my face away from its hiding place and shuffle back on George’s lap.

  “Hey,” he says softly, and then he reaches out to help me pull the bodice of my dress back up.

  “Hey,” I say back, looking at everywhere but him, because I have a funny feeling that if he can look into my eyes, he’ll know that something isn’t quite right.

  He’s not stupid, though.

  He catches my chin in his hand and holds me still, so I have to meet his gaze.

  “You okay?” he asks me with a slight frown.

  I nod, still working hard to suppress the tears that want to come.

  “Hungry,” I answer.

  “Sugar crash? Or proper meal hungry?” he asks without missing a beat, while he lets go of my chin and starts taking his shirts off.

  Once the flannel lies discarded next to him, he pulls his t-shirt over his head.

  Now he decides to show me his chest.

  I’ve never seen him without at least a t-shirt on.

  He’s all slabs and abs, just like Silas and Rowan, only sleeker. I’ve heard Silas say before that George is the welterweight to Silas’ middleweight and Rowan’s heavyweight. I can appreciate that now and for a moment, my blues are forgotten. I reach out and run a hand over the planes of his chest.

  “Proper hungry,” I answer his question, and he chuckles as he catches my hand to stop its explorations.

  “Give me half an hour, woman. You just totally rocked my world. Let me recalibrate.”

  He says it so casually. But I catch something in his eyes as I glance at him that tells me he isn’t lying.

  I got to him.

  I don’t want to think about the implications of that. I’m too busy being surprised at the fact he seems to be able to keep my sadness at bay, so I store that knowledge for later.

  He pushes the t-shirt he’s taken off into my hand and smiles.

  “Here, you can use that to clean up, unless you have a sink in that handbag of yours.”

  He takes me by the hips and gently lifts me off his lap, holding me steady until I’m safely seated by his side. Then he lifts his butt and pulls his briefs and jeans back up.

  While I do as he suggested and mop myself, he does up his fly then pushes the button on the intercom.

  “Chris,” he addresses our driver. “Can we stop at Pease Pottage, please?”

  I like that he says please.

  “What’s Pease Pottage?” I ask, while I fold up his shirt into a small cube, so our combined gunk stays on the inside.

  I look at it indecisively, because I don’t quite know what to do with it.

  “Service station,” he answers, and takes it off me, grabs his leather jacket from the middle seat opposite us and stuffs the tee into a pocket.

  I think of the pants in my handbag and grin.

  Looks like George Diego Benson and Kristina Kaminski are equally classy.

  He sits down again and puts his flannel shirt back on.

  I say a silent goodbye to his abs as he buttons it up, leaving only the top one open.

  “The pasty and the burger places wil
l be shut now, but if we’re lucky, they have caviar and blini in the all-night supermarket. That’s usually what they got left.”

  I know him well enough to know he’s not joking.

  “Will there be creme fraiche, smoked salmon and mackerel, too?” I ask, seriously excited at the prospect now.

  He laughs and slings an arm around me, drawing me to his side.

  As if I am his woman now.

  And I don’t want to overthink it.

  I had an orgasm and I’m not depressed. That’s more than reason for celebration, and I’m not pissing all over it with thoughts of the future.

  Especially if the immediate future has seafood in it.

  Diego

  We arrive at Pease Pottage a few minutes later. I step out of the limo as soon as Chris parks up in front of the entrance of the mini mall, not giving him time to come around and open the door for us. He gets out and stands in by the driver’s door, looking across the roof at me.

  “You want us to bring you a coffee?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head.

  “No, thank you, sir. That’s very kind but I had some sleep while you were at the theatre. If I have coffee now, I won’t be able to sleep until the afternoon once I clock off. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the toilet, please.”

  “Of course,” I answer. “Go ahead.”

  “No, no. I’ll wait until you are back, of course. Thank you, sir.”

  I nod, and for a moment I wonder what it must be like to have a job where you have to ask permission to go take a leak. Even at school, I often just got up and walked out, because it’s a bodily function, right? I got more detentions for going to pee without asking first than Silas got for talking in class. Quite an accomplishment, because even though he is a tight-lipped fucker now, back then we called him motormouth.

  Kalina’s legs appear in my view as she shuffles out of the limo and I reach down to give her a hand. Once she’s stood next to me, she pulls the hem of her dress down as much as possible and shivers a little. It’s August, but it’s two in the morning and it’s cold for a skinny girl with no panties, no tights and bare shoulders.

  I realise with a start that I’ve never considered somebody else’s body temperature, or general comfort, before in my life. Yet here I am, offering the driver coffee and thinking about a woman’s need for a jacket. The weeks hanging with Silas, Sheena, Grace and Kalina have turned me fucking soft.