Filth Read online

  His stare drops to my cleavage for a fraction of a second then he shakes his head. “No.”

  “What happened?” I rest my elbow on the back of the couch and slide one hand into my hair. He tracks every moment. Even when my skirt shifts. Especially that.

  “What are you talking about?” he rasps.

  “You were dancing, and the woman left, looking a little pissed.”

  His brows furrow. “Grace and I didn’t see eye to eye.”

  Overnight he remembers women’s names? I call bull. “Grace? Is that really her name, or are you making shit up?”

  “What do you want, Stealth?”

  The nickname knocks me off my high. Not like I needed a reminder he's scum and I shouldn't be here, but...okay. Maybe I do. I'm not telling him to fuck off. I'm not getting up.

  Then why are you here, Robyn?

  Because I never want this feeling to end.

  A pang of guilt strums in me. I can at least admit to myself I'm working through some shit with him. I'm using him as much as he would use me to get off. I'm not looking to forget Loraine. I just want to remember what it feels like to breathe without an ache in my heart. To flirt, to laugh, to fuck without a care. Without the thought ghosting in the back of my head that Loraine should be here. Why the fuck isn't she?

  Thoughts like that just dig me deeper into darkness. Nate's not the light, but he's as close as I've come in a year. I'm not ready to lose that, even as fucked up as it is.

  “You...left without saying goodbye, and we weren't done.”

  “Weren't you? You got your revenge.”

  “I did, didn't I?” I got him back during our first meeting, and I've made him pay in small ways since. None of that explains sitting on the couch with him now. I'm here with no plans to leave.

  I sigh and answer honestly. “I wasn't done with you.”

  He scrubs his hand over his chin. “Tell me more about the Broken Virgin.”

  I flinch at Loraine's moniker. Samantha was right. I can't have my grief at the forefront of my mind. Not when I'm with him. It hurts. The kind that pours into you and leaves nothing in its wake.

  It's him and me.

  Nate and I.

  I repeat that a few more times until I can feel my heart beat again.

  I roll my shoulders. “How did you get that scar on your face?”

  “Most people assume it's a dimple.”

  “God's not that perverse.”

  He smiles at me as though he knows I'm trying to avoid his questions. Probably does. The fucker is smart. “Broken Virgin?”

  I glance at the floor. Why the hell does he care now? This is not how I wanted to use him, but the words spill out of my mouth anyway. “She cried for a month after you broke things off. That's what she told me, and I believe her.”

  He's silent for a moment. “How did you find me?”

  Shit. I hoped he was too fuzzy from liquor to think of that. Playfully, I scoff. “You mean after your diva flounce in the hotel room?”

  He snorts. “I marched out of the room after my ten minutes were up. I kept my end of the deal.”

  “Oh. I see.” His drunken glare is kind of cute. “As for how I found you, you're predictable.” I consider whether I should keep being honest and it feels right. Not like he can throw stones anyway. “I came to this club every evening. I was kind of surprised you weren't here. Were you doing something productive with your life? Or were you off fucking a horde of women?”

  “I built three computers from scratch.”

  Oh. He is very smart. It's too specific to be a lie, and I think Nate is past the point of wanting to impress me. Do I need to say smart men are a turn on? Despite my best efforts, I'm interested in Nate. “You build computers when you're bored?”

  “I've decided that's what I'm going to do to generate money.”

  “Why not work for a company that could use your skills?”

  “I don't like having a boss.”

  “Or conforming,” I guess without having to think too hard about it.

  But this line of conversation toes too close to normality. I search for an escape before his personality reels me in. My attention falls on the drink he's been babysitting this whole time. I pluck the glass out of his hand and knock back half.

  The scotch burns on the way down but I feel focused again. He doesn't need anymore, not with the hazy smile he's giving me. I put the cup on the table.

  “Do you have a ride home?”

  He breaks his attention from me and scans the club. Curious, I look too. Samantha is still at the bar and Elton is losing tips trying to fall down the front of her dress. And Samantha is beaming. Whether or not she goes home with him, my friend is going to have a good night.

  I stand to round Nate up. I need to get him home and sober so we can go back to being temporary lovers. I offer him my hands to help him up. The oh-please look he gives my palms makes me smile. Before I can shoot off a smart remark about him underestimating my strength, he closes his hands on mine and tugs me.

  I land on my ass in his lap. Our cheeks brush in the mini-collision, and I can't hold in the grin.

  He growls at me, “I don't need your help.”

  I think he made that statement pretty well. I pull back to meet his gaze. “Are you sure? You looked pretty broken when you left the hotel. How often did you think about me?”

  It was a playful response, but the way his eyes darken give the words more weight than I'd intended. He doesn't say a word, and yet, I have the answers to my questions. He closes his thumb and forefinger on my chin, forcing my mouth level with his.

  There's a moment where I can turn my head away. Push him back. Remind him he's drunk or at least too tipsy to believe kissing me on the mouth is a good idea. That's not what we are.

  He questions my intentions and I'm not sure what they are from moment to moment.

  I'm barely holding on. He shouldn't take it to mean more I’ve grappled onto him as a last ditch effort.

  But it's not fuckboy Nathan looking at me with his eyes dark, his face flushed. It's Nate, a man who wants me. So when he dips his head to press his mouth against mine, I don't pull back.

  He swipes his tongue into my mouth and I feel that caress at my very core. My body remembers this mouth, this tongue. It's craved the heat. It's missed the teasing way he scrapes his teeth against sensitive flesh.

  I moan, and that's like encouragement for him to take me deeper. I let him, as I brush my fingertips against the pulse in his neck. Really, I just want to touch some skin. I curl my fingers into his collar and rest my knuckles along his throat.

  Another moan forms when he arches his hips up. His dick is firm and thick against my ass. If he continues that soft, slow grind I'm going to leave a wet spot on his jeans.

  And he won't care.

  I should.

  Nate breaks the kiss. Every reason I shouldn't go home with him rushes forward, but he's still Nate as he holds my stare. A man who wants me. A man who doesn't care to look at my broken bits, and I don't feel them as he keeps looking at me with desire so strong, I can't remember the sour taste of revenge.

  I was wrong when I first met him. It's not a spell between us, it’s a web, and I walked into it. No matter how many times I try to brush away the strands, I'm just pulled in deeper.

  I drop my gaze to his lips. His mouth is a mess from my lipstick. I wipe the stains away, and wish—there's no point.

  I say the only thing that matters. “Let's get you home.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  NATE

  Between the short dress and her legs, Robyn manages to get us a cab in less than two minutes. Despite common sense, I mutter my address with her paying rapt attention and try to stay awake during the ride.

  Soon enough she's ushering us up my steps, into the condo, and then my bedroom. I throw my arm over my eyes and assume she's left until my kitchen cabinets slam shut. No money is hidden in the kitchen so I don't worry too much. Even if she does discover a sock full
of Benjamins, the most she'll get away with is ten grand.

  Eventually she comes back into my room with a big glass of ice water and a ham sandwich.

  “Eat and drink.” She smiles. “Be merry.”

  I drag myself upright because food and water is a sound idea. No matter what I do the night before, I'll rise at 4:59 a.m. “Why are you taking care of me?” I ask around a mouthful of sandwich.

  “I don't believe in unfair fights.”

  I read between the lines. “You see us on equal footing when I'm sober?”

  She settles next to me on the bed. Her hip is a soft cushion against mine. “Yup.”

  Which means I get to her. I try to remember a distinct moment when her facade faltered—at the club when I called her Sugar, and during my ten minutes. Other than that, she's only shown me what she wanted me to see of her. I've lost count of how many times I've shown her my hand.

  She offers the water to help me wash down the sandwich. “Your eyes are a little clearer.”

  I drink half, then set the glass on the nightstand. As I scoot down to get comfortable in my bed, I tell her, “Duke remembers you.”

  She sucks in a breath. “No, he didn't.”

  “You lied. About everything.” I'm the one lying, but more cracks show in her facade.

  Irritation flashes in her eyes. “He's an attorney of record for a competing firm. Believe me when I say that's not knowing someone in passing, much less fucking them.”

  I like the woman I see when her barriers crumble. She's still prickly as shit though.

  I lift my hand and rest my fingers on her cheek. “Who is the Broken Virgin?”

  Her mouth parts and she moves her hand from the bed to my stomach. “I want you to make me a computer. Two grand range. I save a lot of documents, PDFs, digital photos and run large databases. It'll be a personal computer, but I'll need decent security. If you do a good job, I can use some of my contacts to help your business along.”

  The offer stills my hand, and my heart pounds. “You'd do that for me?”

  “You can't suffer if you starve to death, first. I saw the inside of your fridge. You shouldn't have paid for that hotel room.”

  The warmth spilling into me goes cold. I grab her wrist and yank her against me. Her face is inches away from mine. Fear flickers in her irises. Good. I keep her wrist imprisoned above my head. Her breasts are crushed against my chest, and I can feel her breathing race.

  “Don't toy with me. That's a warning.”

  “What's after that?”

  I use her weight, her vulnerability, to flip her onto her back, and then I'm between her legs, looming over her.

  I lean close so she can see my eyes and know I mean what I say. “The threat.”

  She's trembling beneath me, her breathing’s short and choppy, but she doesn't break the stare. I've scared her, and she's not backing down. “Why does manhandling me make your dick hard?”

  I scoff. “I was hard before that. But let's see...” I lean to the side to flip her dress up to her torso. No panties, as I suspected. I slip my finger between her folds and she's wet. “Were you wet before or after, Sugar?”

  I'm not sure if it's the question or endearment that makes her jawline clench. “Even halfway to tipsy, you're a masher.”

  She doesn't answer the question, but I can guess she was wet for me at the club. The promised threat doesn't change the fact she's attracted to me. Genuinely attracted to me.

  And that trips me up. I hurt someone she loves. She has come into my life to hurt me back any way she can because of that. At some point, did her goal stop being revenge? And now she's just entangled in my bed?

  Huh. Sucks to be her.

  Do I care? Not really. I want her to knock it off. Forget revenge. It's pointless. We should fuck for a few weeks, until things get old, and she can go back to her life. She's smart, driven, and she knows how good her pussy is. What more could she possibly ask for from life?

  And that's how I find myself frowning down at her with my finger still buried in her slit.

  “Do you revenge fuck every man who hurts your friends?”

  “No.”

  “What makes me special?”

  She bends her leg and that shifts my finger deeper. I know she's doing it to distract me, and it'll likely work.

  Believe it or not, I have incredible impulse control. Do you know how easy it is to blow through ten grand in a month when you're twenty-two? Especially if you know you're going to get at least six the next month and the month after that? The only responsibility I had at the time was to send my mother at least two grand for three months until my father's life insurance kicked in.

  I only have one vice and I'm knuckle-deep in it. I'm also very picky about who I put my mouth on. “I haven't forgotten the question, Robyn.”

  She clenches around my digit. She likes the sound of her name in my mouth—my first time saying it to her.

  “You want me to stroke your ego?”

  Instead of taking the bait, I swirl my finger around her clit. Her knee falls to the bed. The last time I'd touched her like this I hadn't paid too much attention to her face. I’d had to focus.

  This time I get to see how she bites her lower lip when she's aroused. Not in the middle but on the side. It's subtle and sensual. And her eyes, God, they go hazy from pleasure.

  I should have watched her face more the first time. We are even. My touch shatters her facade. Something inside me loosens at the knowledge.

  I ask, “Were you supposed to fuck me?”

  She grabs my hand and lifts it to my nose. I laugh. That is a clear no—she's trying to distract me.

  I flop onto my back and press my palms to my eyes. “I'm pretty sure you're not crazy or a murderer, so I feel comfortable enough to offer you my bed if you don't want to go home. I'll fuck you in the morning, but I need to get some sleep to do it justice.”

  She shifted with me, and one of her breasts rests on my outstretched arm. “You'll give me cab fare if I want to go home?”

  Robyn likely knows the answer. I haven't let her pay for a damn thing since we've met. “My mother went to finishing school as a little girl and imparted every bit of unwanted knowledge on how to properly treat a lady.”

  “Where did she go wrong?”

  “She let me join the army. They turn boys into men.”

  She sits up and I assume she's making plans to leave. I dig into my jeans for my wallet. Her hands go up beneath her hair and I can't move. The dress falls to her waist. She hadn't been wearing a bra either.

  I'm probably wrong about the murderer part. Robyn is some kind of assassin. Her redheaded friend is her handler. The weekly meet at Starbucks is a check in. How do I know this? First, my brain stops working. Second, my heart barely lurches forward again a second later.

  I reach up and pinch the brown tip. Her nipple hardens and she moans so damn softly.

  “You're staying,” I tell her. There isn't an option now. We're fucking after I get a few hours of sleep.

  “Aren't you going to get undressed?”

  If I take off my shirt, the odds are good my pants will be next, and then I'm putting my dick inside her. I'll last about one stroke, which wouldn't do. “No.”

  She wiggles the rest of her way out of the dress. I can't do anything but stare. From head to toe, she's perfect. I don't throw that word around. I honestly don't care about a woman's looks or size. Her taste is the only thing that matters.

  But Robyn is perfect. She doesn't cover herself when she notices I'm looking at her like I'm about to take a bite. Nope. She turns around, throws her ass against my right leg and settles in for bed.

  I go to sleep with my shoes on because if I take them off, I'm ripping off my pants and putting my dick inside her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ROBYN

  Takes me a moment to realize I'm in Nate's bed and not my own. The comforter and sheets are soft as clouds and smell of him and laundry soap. I don't have to open my eyes to know he's
not in the bed. No one is accosting me, and it's too quiet.

  Here's the thing: I brought him home and he slept in the bed with me. Not a euphemism but actual sleep. I'd assumed he'd jump me the moment we cleared his threshold.

  No, Nate wasn’t a consummate gentleman, but I was beginning to see how women fell into the tangled web he wove. He is funny, smart, likeable—the charming bastard.

  But the most earth-shattering thing is that he knows my name. He’d murmured it during a disagreement. I don’t know how he found out, but he's dismantled another barrier between the woman he believes wants revenge sex and me, the real me.

  I should go and not come back. I should wait and fuck his brains out. I run my tongue over my teeth. I should hit the bathroom first and find something to brush my teeth with. Start with the little things first. It is a sound idea.

  I focus on tasks. I make his bed like a good houseguest. I leave my shoes where they are because I'm not sneaking out. The important component of the walk of shame is that I did something to be ashamed about.

  I pause outside the bathroom door. On the sink is a new toothbrush, unscented soap and a washcloth. There's a door further down cracked open. I lean to the side to peer in. I see a flash of Nate's forearm and there are...computer parts laid out on a desk.

  I huff. He wasn't lying. Nate made computers. He is confusing the shit out of me.

  Focus. Little things. I freshen up. Do my absolute best with my hair. I add water and pray the leftover product keeps me from entering the frizzy zone.

  By the time I'm sex ready and step into the hallway, I expect for him to be waiting outside the door. He isn't. Curious at how long he can be patient, I pass the office and enter the kitchen.

  Unlike the night before, I easily find food. While I slept he's picked up bagels, croissants, orange juice and milk. He hasn't bothered to remove the fruit from the grocery bag, but I pass those up to check out the living room.

  It was decorated by a guy. The dark blue couch does not match the checkered gray love seat. The flatscreen has all the bells and whistles if I were to base my opinion on the remote sitting in front of it. The most surprising things in the living room are the pictures scattered in almost every nook.