Filth Page 4

  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, but Samantha...I have no doubt she has my best interest 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 up. I felt that from across the bar.”

  I curl my fingers into fists and glance out the window. 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 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.

  Samantha sits back in the chair. “Think of it as an exercise. Have fun. Pure, unadulterated fun. Guilt-free fun. Fun scares away grief. Believe me. And 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. “There's no way I can be with him and not think about her.”

  “That's why it's an exercise. It's not supposed to be easy.”

  We both know what grief is so I know what she's saying is both truth and all lies. “You're full of shit.”

  “Likely, but tell me you're not interested.”

  I swallow the lie that immediately springs to my lips then sigh.

  Samantha offers, “Maybe just 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. “Do you want him? Yes or no?”

  I close my eyes.

  He can't remember Loraine's name.

  He hunted me down.

  He's the kind of man who—you lose a little respect for yourself when you fuck him.

  For the first time in almost a year, I can press a hand to my chest and feel my heart beat. That isn't just an accepted fact—I'm alive. I feel it. My heart has raced, it's pounded, it's slowed down.

  I can feel it.

  It's not wrong to want that, but it is to want it with him. The woman inside me who has lived an exemplary life wants to rail. If all I want is dick, I can literally find anyone else. The next man who walks through the damn Starbucks can get it.

  But the next man won't be Nate. A man I've known for practically five seconds. A man my friend hated. Someone that has made me laugh, want to cry and punch him all in the same damn moment.

  Just the thought of him at the edge of my mind and lust leaves me breathless.

  Do I want him?

  “Yes,” I finally answer her question.

  “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 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 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 in his hand. He's shirtless, and the golden hairs dusting his chest seem stark against his tanned skin.

  It's six thousands 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.” She bites her lip and before she speaks I know what Samantha says next is going to gut me. “Tell me. When was the last time you had a moment when you weren't your grief? Where you weren't Robyn and Loraine. When you didn't relive the moment you held your best friend in your arms as she breathed for the last time. If you can tell me, I'll back down. I'll shut up. I won't ever bring up the subject of sex or Nate ever again.”

  I open my mouth and she interjects, “Work doesn't count.”

  I clamp my lips together and try to remember a time where I wasn't the broken pieces of my heart. It was a lifetime ago. Six months of our friendship involved me asking personal questions about Loraine's marriage to an oil tyc
oon—a rich philanderer. Another six months where we giggled late at night, likely boozey, and told each other our life stories. Then a year of being a cheerleader that she could beat the monster of cancer. Again. Watching her wither away. Lying beside her in hospice care as I held her hand, and the noise in her chest was more of a rattle than a breath.

  I can't remember a time when I wasn't defined by those moments.

  I can't remember Robyn.

  Who did I use to be? When was the last time I noticed anyone had looked at me and I could almost taste how much they wanted me?

  Even when I try to breathe through my nose I can taste Nate's desire. His ache for me is something I can touch, hold, pet. When I'm with him I can see, in the corner of my eye, the Robyn I used to be.

  I laugh at my dramatic thoughts, 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 want to be that Robyn I catch a glimpse of. I have to be, or I'll be forever lost.

  I'm going to give him a hard time, but once, just this once, I'm going to have him in my bed so I can remember.

  I won't be fool enough to fall for him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NATE

  Two hours later I'm ready to flip some tables. The redhead—Samantha, refuses to shut the fuck up. But I get it. Sort of. Stealth has laughed, moved her arms as she talked. She wasn't like that with the barista so it's not just me she puts on armor for. More importantly, I'm able to see her unguarded.

  She's vibrant. Even if I didn't know her, my gaze would be drawn to her.

  Samantha though, 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 she refuses to leave.

  I spend two hours texting my friend 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, order Stealth another drink, and bring it to her since she's long since finished her first one. And Samantha threw the cup 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.

  I've made a study of women 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 workday, 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. Her tongue feathers over her top lip.

  I can't breathe for a full two seconds at the sight of pink. 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.

  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 mid
dle 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. 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 they 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.