Perv (Filth #1) Page 4

  I say, “I need you to dig into your purse like you are looking for something important. I need to...collect myself.”

  She frowns at the instructions. “Why wou—”

  “If you think for one moment he's not watching our every move...”

  And because Samantha is that die-hard friend, she lifts her purse from the free seat beside her and starts to dig around.

  “I love you,” I say. “I love you with every snarky bit inside of me.”

  Her cheeks bloom red at the compliment. “I do this in hopes of getting every detail out of you.”

  Of course, but now I have time to cross my arms over my chest and will my nipples to stand down. They ache. He'd touched me. Held onto me, and whatever chant I had in my head about not fucking him, not being amused by him, never forgetting for one moment he's scum of the earth...that noise had dimmed. It was me and him as he claimed that small part of me.

  It's six thousand shades of wrong. I'm a traitor. To my very core. What about Loraine? What happened to how he'd hurt her? Hell, to the certainty I will not become another one of his victims.

  I wince. That's unfair. He may be a pig, but he seems like a guy who loves consent. Probably even loved being called Sir before breaking out a flogger. He probably doesn't utter a lie about the kind of relationship you'll have with him, and still he gets mad pussy.

  Hell, look at me. I'm considering the dark side. Me, the woman who once told her second grade teacher I glimpsed a pop quiz for five seconds and couldn't, in good conscience, take the test.

  That woman is tempted. The force is goddamn strong in him.

  Samantha groans and stops pretending to search her purse. “That look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one you're wearing right now...” Samantha tilts her head up and stares at the coffee shop's ceiling for a long second. “I want you to really listen to me right now. Put aside I want to sit here with popcorn and watch you and Nathan spar.”

  I open my mouth to argue all the reasons why the chemistry between Nate and I means jack shit. It's a no-go. He found me in Hartsburg. The city's not a metropolis, but it's big enough that up until now I have never seen him.

  Given I put his hand up my skirt after knowing him for five seconds for revenge... I can't throw stones over crazy inappropriate behavior.

  I nod. “It's put aside.”

  “Also put aside I'm an enabler with a mischievous streak.”

  “That's kind of a requirement to be my best friend.”

  “All that is a moot point. I think you should fuck him.”

  Her words slam me back in my seat as I gape at her. “What? You know—”

  She puts up her hands to waylay my rant. “I said hear me out, and don't say anything.”

  How hard it is to clamp my mouth shut is why I have never quite fit into the BDSM lifestyle. Obey is a debatable term for me, but Samantha...I have no doubt she has my best interests at heart. She knows I sometimes struggle with day-to-day things. She's counseled me as much as I've been a sounding board for her. The only reason I'm at the coffee shop, in the morning, is that we keep each other sane, grounded. I've needed that like I've needed to breathe.

  I flatten my palms against the table and nod. “I'm listening.”

  She starts to tick off her fingers. “He's fuckable.”

  “I...” I shut my mouth.

  She grins at me and looks like a pixie. Well, a pixie that would tell dirty jokes. “That's it. That's the only reason you should do it.” She laughs when I flip her the bird. “I'm kidding. Sort of. There's the Girl Code, sure. All ex-boyfriends are off-limits. I get it, and normally, I believe in it.”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly, still not sure why she thinks fucking Nate is good in any known universe. “But?”

  “You know what I saw on Friday? The real you. Sexy, flirty, and commanding. I don't know what he said to make you put two-and-two together about him being The Nate, but you were...lit within. I felt that from across the bar.”

  I curl my fingers into fists and glance out the window. What she's saying has a ring of truth. Sparring with Nate...I don't feel helpless. He's something I can rail against and get a reaction. Even though he's here in my coffee shop to fuck up my life, he didn't happen to me. I waltzed over to him. I teased a legit fetishist. BDSM is about control, rituals. Fetishism is about fixation, indulging.

  That thought gives me pause. I knowingly waved a red flag in front of a bull. Nate and I...What I incited within him has nothing to do with he's a man and can't control himself. My own conflicted feelings—lust and hate—pretty much ran up to him, slapped his chest and yelled, “Tag! You're it.”

  I flail to come up with a rebuttal. “I don't—”

  “You do want to fuck him. You want to do dirty things with Nate, and that's all over your face. When I walked in you were practically dry humping him.”

  I have to work on that. Both things, because I keep getting pulled into Nate's orbit. And if Samantha can see through me, Nate definitely will. “Why should I?”

  “Because you need one corner of your life that's a Loraine-free zone.”

  My heart constricts. “Do I now?” My tone is sharp enough to cut though.

  Samantha sits back in the chair. “Think of it as an exercise. Have fun. Pure unadulterated fun. Guilt-free fun. I don't care what society or the Girl Code says, fucking him isn't a betrayal. It doesn't make you anything but an adult woman scratching an itch. Make mistakes, because everything aside, I saw fireworks between the two of you at the club.”

  “It was loathing.” And I know that's a lie. The chemistry between us had almost incinerated my clothes.

  Samantha offers, “Maybe, but one night with him?”

  “If that's all it is...”

  “Sometimes that's all it needs to be, and you need this. When was the last time you even wanted to have sex?”

  Samantha had lost her husband a little over a year ago. She'd felt dead inside for eleven months, and then, boom, a fever hit her. She talked herself into going out for a quickie. It was great until the guilt kicked in. I'd helped her through it by being non-judgmental and supportive.

  She's returning the favor.

  She pushes with, “Do you want him: yes or no?”

  I close my eyes. “Yes.”

  “Then put everything else aside and have him. Have him until he's out of your system. Is he even your type?”

  I laugh. He is so far from my type. Beta males with sweet souls and dirty minds, and dirtier bedroom tricks are my thing, but I don't want her to be right. Already I feel a give inside me at the thought of Nate's mouth.

  I close my arms over my stomach. “I'm actually considering betraying—”

  “You're actually considering fun.” Samantha faux gasps and clutches her chest. “How dare you?”

  It all sounds so easy and tempting and... “He can't remember her name,” I whisper. “How can I—”

  “Which means he's a fuckboy. Don't fall for him. If you do, I'll be there with wine to say, 'I told you so.'”

  I would deserve that, at least. He probably uses women for money, hates his mother, has no ambition, and is the kind of asshole who would kick a woman out of his house if she were on her period.

  I'm safe.

  And really, the selling point is I do feel like myself. It's been so long but I remember this skin. A pang settles into my gut at how much I've missed...me. I've been a ghost of myself for almost a year. Shit, a ghost of a person. Now, I may not have let random men stick their hands up my skirt, but I'd flirt, I'd tease, and I'd let a man know it's going to take a lot more to impress me. We would both know I'm letting them into my bed and if they ask nicely, they can tie me up and spank me.

  Once again, I imagine Nate with a flogger gripped in his hand. He's shirtless and the golden hairs dusting his chest seem stark against his tanned skin.

  It's six thousand kinds of wrong but now I can't shake the image. I can't help but imagine his head between my legs
as I let him indulge his fetish.

  “I'm actually thinking about this.” There's a huskiness to my voice. “You're a horrible influence.”

  “You'll thank me by giving me every single detail.”

  I laugh, and I feel light for the first time in a long while. I steal a glance at him. He's on his phone. He's really going to wait. I'm going to give him a hard time, but once, just this once, I'm going to have him in my bed. I won't be fool enough to fall for him.

  ~CHAPTER FOUR~

  Two hours later I'm ready to flip some tables. The redhead—Samantha, refuses to shut the fuck up. She’s chatting about her family, their other friends, their boyfriends, their future imaginary children. And not once does she say Stealth's name. She is useless and refuses to leave.

  I spend two hours texting Tarek about all the ways I must have lost my damn mind. He laughs through most of the conversation and promises to forward the whole thing to Duke. Mostly to make sure Duke never lets me hire one of his paralegals again to stalk a woman.

  Eventually the torture of gossip ends, and the redhead leaves. I have about zero pride left, so I get up and order Stealth another drink and bring it to her since she's long since finished her first one. And Samantha threw it away on her way out. I'm not desperate enough to dig through the trash.

  I do have some standards.

  “How do you have money?” she asks me, amusement bright in her brown eyes.

  Important point: She takes my drink.

  Now I know I keep generalizing women, but I've made a study of them and their tics. If they do not like you, don't care for you, won't piss on you if you're on fire, they won't accept any kind of food from you. They can be dying from thirst and you offer them a water? They'd rather wither away to dust.

  She takes the tea. She might like telling me to fuck off and die, but she doesn't hate me.

  I offer her a smile and I know the scar on my cheek indents deep enough I appear harmless. “I have money because my mama taught me to save my pennies.”

  “Did she screw you up or were you born this twisted?”

  “My mama is a tried and true Southern belle who will shoot you with her .357 if you piss her off. I love her dearly.”

  Her brows go up, and I know what she's thinking. A Georgia boy, a Southern belle mama...my ancestors probably owned hers.

  I wait for her to ask about the Confederate flag, but instead she smiles at me—the eye-crinkle one that makes my dick hard.

  “So you were born twisted, and that likely means you don't care about anyone but yourself.”

  True, and there's no point in denying her words. “Are you going to ask me?”

  “About...” She tries to play dumb but I stare her down. She relents with a sigh. “If you were a racist douchebag, you would have said something by now that would show me.”

  Yup. I like her. “I'm twisted, and what are you?”

  “Vindictive when my friends or associates can't be.”

  I'm proof of her statement. “What do you do?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “I want to know everything about you.”

  “And then?”

  “I can tell you to fuck off and mean it.”

  Not a flinch in sight.

  “Let's put it this way,” she says. “I know Duke in passing.”

  Interesting. “How do you know I know Duke?”

  She doesn't blink. “I know everything about you, remember?”

  Sounds like a lie. I frown, thinking it through. It's a work day, and she's spent two hours shooting the shit with her friend. That could make her an attorney. She can write off the conversation as meeting with a client. I know for a fact she's mercenary.

  I ask, “And you know Duke?”

  “Hmm-hmmm.” She takes of a sip of my tea. Tongue. Lip.

  I can't breathe for a full two seconds. This woman is turning me into a Disney Princess. “You fucked him?”

  “He tried.”

  I pull out my phone because Duke will know her name. He would have likely done a background check, poked her finger for a blood sample to test her for everything under the sun, and maybe still even has her DNA on file.

  The bastard doesn't answer. I shoot a text to Tarek to have our wayward friend call me if he hears from Duke first. When I draw my attention back to her, she's laughing quietly.

  “I've never met Duke,” she says, “but you've proved my point. You're obsessed with what you can't have.”

  I take the tea I bought her, get up, and throw the cup in the trash. As I make my way back to my seat, she's sitting there with her arms crossed, looking pleased as fucking punch that she can toy with me without trying hard.

  Calm as I can be, I sit back down. I need to put things the way they should be. “Give me ten minutes.”

  We're both adults. She knows what I plan to do in that time. She runs her finger over her bottom lip. “And then what?”

  “I'll be out of your life.”

  “Okay.”

  I blink at how quickly she answers. I'm sure I'm hearing her wrong. “What?”

  “Name a time and place.”

  I narrow my eyes and skate my gaze over her face. If she means the words, I can't tell. I make note to never play strip poker with her. I'll be down to my nut hairs in no time.

  I'm going to be cautious, in case this ends with her laughing at me again. With a few keystrokes on my phone I'm on my personal health portal. I push my cell across the table.

  Hesitant, but clearly curious, she picks it up. “You test for everything? I thought you used dental dams?”

  “I’d rather be safe than sorry. Your turn.”

  She bites her lip. “Of course.”

  To my surprise, a flush darkens her skin as she pulls out her phone. Now she curls into herself and puts distance between us. Eventually she slides her phone to me.

  The results are a year old. I try not to react outwardly to this news in any way. She's already blushing. I'm not going to be a dick about this.

  “There's a hotel down the street from here,” I say, still cautious but optimistic.

  She admitted, by way of those results, to having a sexless year. Do I want to know why? Yeah. Do I want to know how a woman like her could go so long without...touch? Sure. Can I fathom going that long without? Fuck, no.

  What's important is the way her expression softens when she realizes I'm not going to tease her or ask questions about her celibacy.

  “Get me another tea first,” she murmurs. “It was rude of you to throw mine away because I pissed you off.”

  I do because I'm her lap dog until I have my ten minutes. She's waiting for me at the door. There's no thanks or any show of gratitude. I don't fucking care. She's serious. In about twenty minutes I'll be sane again. She'll be out of my life and making someone else's a living hell.

  And because I'm on her invisible leash, I follow her out of the Starbucks. The hotel is in walking distance, in the middle of downtown so the prices are nothing to sneeze at, but it'll be worth it. Fifteen minutes and I'll be able to forget Stealth. I doubt I'll break her, but she won't treat me like meat. I'll be the guy who blew her mind.

  Yeah. My ego is finally limping along, and one day I'll care. One day I'll look back and cringe. Not today. My heart is banging against my rib cage and there's a thin layer of sweat along my forehead.

  I'm about to get my fix. No left nuts required. I lead the way to the first floor room barely noticing any details about the hotel. It's more than a little nice, and more than clean enough she won't mind taking off her pants.

  I insert the keycard, and we're inside after three beeps. I glance back and she hands me her tea as she slips out of her heels. I almost move to throw this one away, but I place the cup on the small writing table near the door.

  She takes the time to fold her pants along the starch line. I feel vindicated to see the black thong, but I'm a little dizzy at the sight of her ass as she slips out of them. Quarters could bounce on her ass, but t
hey might cling, too, just to stay close to her. I only have ten minutes so I can't imagine all the things I could have done. All the ways I would have gripped her ass as she rides my face. Ten minutes is all she's given me, and I'm going to do it old school. The classics are classic for a reason.

  She struts over to the bed, and without any direction from me, she sits on the edge, her feet notched perfectly the way I like. For a second my gaze fixates on her tattoo. It's Hermes' wing riding up her ankle. Fitting. Hermes was a cunning fuckface who toyed with all the gods and demigods just because he could. It's perfect for her, for this situation.

  She shifts, spreading her legs wider for me. My chest constricts and breathing is optional. I'm not sure if it's the sight of her on full display or that she knows my every tic. Who is the woman that told her my everything? Who exposed my every twitch and desire? Just opened me up for study and allowed Stealth to take it upon herself to be my karma?

  “Nine minutes,” she says and leans back on her elbows. “Scared?”

  I never understood how you could hate-fuck someone. I'm not wasting a boner on someone I can't stand.

  But I get it now. I'm going to put my mouth on her with nothing between us. I'm going to upend her world like she's done to mine by simply existing.

  I focus.

  Her inner and outer lips are the same shade of brown as her mouth. Her thick and long hood draws down to a perky clit that peeks out between her luscious folds. Her labia is a thing of beauty. Brown, then pink along the inside. They curve seductively right at her entrance. Not small, not big—I can press my tongue in between or suck them both without too much trouble.

  Eight minutes, and I can't stand there in reverence like I want to.

  That's okay. I only need three to make her come. The rest is buildup, and that's the true trick of the trade. Good pussy eating isn't all tongue to clit and don't stop. It's worship. It's control. It's patience.

  My steps thud slowly as I close the space between us. When I kneel at the end of the bed, I lightly rasp my nails from her knee to her inner thigh. Her breathing hitches. A soft, feminine sound. Any blood that has managed to remain in my brain heads south. I bring my hands to rest at her apex and massage the silky skin with my thumbs. More pressure as I glide my thumbs over her pussy lips. She squirms. Her hands move to her torso and ball.