Dirty Kisses Page 7

  I’m in no mood to rouse the beast, so I let myself in through the back and tiptoe to my bedroom. I’ve been schlepping in a few boxes at a time, and it’s starting to feel more like a storage facility for Nordstrom than it does a place to call home.

  I close the door to my room, only to be met with a bright orange bag with the WB logo printed on the front sitting in the middle of the bed. I recognize that bag. It’s from the bookstore. I have hundreds of these plastic totes, but I know for a fact I didn’t put it there. I peer inside, and my stomach drops. The notebooks, the beautiful silk scarves, the cheery pink shoes, the game day polish, the sweats—it’s all there. I suck in a sharp breath and retrace my steps until I land in the living room.

  “What’s that bag doing sitting on my bed?” It comes out so sharp and accusatory that for a moment I hate the sound of my own voice.

  Jet keeps his gaze straight ahead at the television, shirt off, muscles rippling, those tattoos of his seem to be animated in this murky light, and my stomach implodes with heat.

  “Hello to you, too.” He tips his head back, offering me a tight, yet brief smile. “They were putting it away. Turns out it’s against the bookstore policy to hold anything, so I thought I’d pick it up—save you a trip.”

  “Oh.” Crap. “Um, thanks. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. And I plan on paying you half of the rent until I can find my own place.” God, it’s like I’m suddenly the queen of lies. I don’t even have a paying job at the moment. Something tells me they wouldn’t hire me as kitchen staff in the cafeteria if I groveled. I hate the idea of going back to Stilettos, but as for now, that’s my only option.

  “No worries. I’m not looking for money. You’re welcome to stay until you get it figured out. Do your thing. Go back to dancing.”

  Go back to dancing?

  A self-righteous anger boils in me at his sudden burst of sarcastic kindness. Jet and I have been a lot of things to each other, but kind to one another isn’t one of them. This is the same Jet Madden who was down at Stilettos just as much as I was.

  “You know, arrogant superiority isn’t a good look on you.” A knot builds in my stomach as soon as I get the words out. I’m pretty sure biting the hand that feeds me—or in this case houses me—isn’t the best idea.

  The muscles in his jaw redefine themselves, and I find this vexingly sexy. I’m not sure I’ve ever been infuriated by a boy who looks this wickedly delicious—who I darn well know tastes devilishly delicious, but at the moment my inner rage is winning out, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming.

  He swings his head over in my direction. Those pecs of his spring to life like a couple of pit bulls—rather fiercely sexy looking pit bulls, but that’s beside the point.

  “You know what’s not a good look on you?” He rises and heads in my direction with a slow, deliberate swagger. Those jeans of his hug him in all the right places. To be honest, I’m a bit shocked he’s able to stuff his junk into any pair of Levi’s now that I’ve been up close and personal with the weaponry he’s hauling around.

  “What’s that?” I take a bold step into him. My chest grazes over his without meaning to, and an electrical jolt so powerful nearly knocks me off my feet. His lids hood over as he leans farther in, those full lips inverting for a moment as if readying for a bite.

  “The hurt and suffering you’re trying to hide,” he says it slow, just this side of a whisper, and my heart stops beating at the sound of his cutting words.

  “I’m fine,” I insist, a little too loud. “And, by the way, it’s called holding it together. I’m not hiding anything.”

  “It’s called lying to yourself,” he counters without missing a beat. “You’re going through a lot, Daisy.” There’s a soberness, an earnestness I’ve yet to see in Jet, especially when it comes to dealing with me.

  “I’m over it. I’m going through nothing. I’ve never been a person to let my circumstances control me.” Almost a lie. “This will all go away, and, until then, I’ll find a way to survive. It’s what I’m best at.” I lean up on my tiptoes and scowl at this roaring beast before me. “Why don’t you head to the nearest bar and do what you’re best at—luring coeds to your bed!” I stomp off and slam the door to my room like a sonic boom.

  My heart jumps clear into my skull, and my adrenaline pumps so hard I can launch to the moon with my next step out this door.

  I’ve never felt so incensed, so ready to crawl out of my skin. Everything in me told me to leap onto his body and wrap my hands over his neck, but then the visual quickly changed to something far less productive, at least where murder is involved. My lips begged to latch on to his, and my hungry skin ached to feel his warmth just one more time. Deep down, I wanted to beg him to say those three little words once again, don’t fight it.

  The sound of footsteps trekking down the hall causes me to freeze in my carnal tracks. My body slaps with heat at the prospect of him barreling through that door, but the heavy thuds bypass this bedroom, and the soft click of another door makes it clear there’s no threat of Jet busting his way in to school me on another unwanted lesson.

  As much as I should be breathing a sigh of relief, I can’t seem to bring myself to relax or even kick off my shoes. How can I sleep under that man’s roof when I was just so outright rude to him? Sure, his little snide remark about my dancing wasn’t all that courteous either, but, in the end, it was a simple fact. And, believe you me, if the opportunity to do the Stiletto tush-push presented itself again, I’d be the first girl swinging around that glittery pole.

  As much as I’m remiss to the fact, I’m afraid if I want to catch a single second of shut-eye, I’m going to have to eat crow. I hit the hall and head toward Jet’s bedroom, where the biggest indiscretion of my life occurred—okay, so falling on that senator’s lap may win out in the horrible mistake category, but technically I was pulled into that compromising position, whereas the fact Jet managed to land me horizontal was a fully voluntary blunder on my part.

  I give a few brisk knocks before walking right in. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ve already seen all of his bits and pieces—oversized as they may be.

  There he is. Jet Madden lying in bed, nude, with all his very well endowed bits and well hung pieces.

  He rises to greet me and lands square in front of me. Shit!

  “Um”—I swallow hard. My throat is so dry. Suddenly, I’m dying for a long, cool swig of what this boy has to offer. I shake my head a moment, begging to snap out of my testicular trance, but it’s no use. The room holds the scent of his cologne far more than he does, and that body gleams in the moonlight like a steel blade without its sheath. His chest shines like a silver platter. Those marbled blue high beams he calls eyes hook to mine and hold me right there.

  I take a bold step forward and feel the heat emanating from his body like the afternoon sun off tar.

  Here it is—my moment to spout an apology and run with my pointed tail right back to my room.

  He closes the gap between us, forcing me to look straight up as if I were staring at the ceiling. “You file that restraining order yet?”

  My mouth opens then closes as I remember that conversation from the bookstore. So that’s what he’s doing. He’s goading me into an apology, not that I wasn’t prepared to give one, but still. He probably enraged me on purpose, out in the living room, because he knew I would feel bad. Of course, I would. I’m a good person. He knew all of these little seemingly nice things he’s done would crawl right under my skin, and, here I am, ready to grovel at his bare feet.

  “You really want an apology, don’t you?” I hack the words out in one continuous string.

  Jet knocks his head back and barks out a laugh. That wall of a chest expands and vibrates, creating sculpted striations that I’d like to iron out with my tongue. I mean my—oh, for shit’s sake. It’s like he’s cast some spell on me.

  “I’m not expecting an apology, sweetie.” His tone is so spitefully low and slow it causes
that tender part of me to spasm on command. Of course, it does. Jet knows every trick in the book to get a girl to O on cue. The sooner I get the hell out of his sexual dungeon the better for my vagina and me. He leans in low until his hot breath rakes across my cheek. “We both know it’d take an act of Congress for that to happen.”

  A dull laugh begs to bubble up, but I don’t dare give him the satisfaction. “I do have pull with the Senate. I’m sure I could make that happen if I wanted, but it’s going to take more than Congress. If you want an apology, it’s going to take an act of God.” I twist my face so close to his, those lips are within grazing range. I take a step back and catch my breath, looking at this tribute to the Sharpie with his blow up muscles, those neon blue eyes that look strangely backlit with the whisper of the moon tucked in them.

  “You!” I press my finger hard against his chest, and I can’t seem to remove it from his fiery, petrified flesh. Oh hell, Jet has me, and he knows it.

  “You.” He runs his finger over my boob and flicks it.

  I gasp at his brazen act of groping.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Leave my mother out of this.” He sheds a dirty grin.

  “You’re such a”—words get locked up in my throat as I stumble for one decent insult to bestow upon him. And that cocky grin! “Arrgh!” I launch at him, pressing my lips to his. My hips land over his waist in one quick leap before locking my legs around his back. My tongue lands in that hot searing mouth of his, and he probes me with a vicious intensity I have never felt before. This is animalistic, something wild, primitive, savage. Judging by that military salute his lap rocket just offered up, Jet is just as hot and bothered as I am.

  He pulls us backward until I’m seated on the bed, and his hands get right to work evicting every last layer of clothing from my body. Jet runs his finger down my torso in the shape of one, hot, long S before making himself at home, plunging deep inside of me, and a breath lodges in my throat.

  Jet locks those sexed-up, lust-filled eyes to mine, and his lips give the idea of a smile. I’m pretty sure that half-hearted grin means he’s claiming victory, claiming me or both, but at this moment in time, I really don’t care if Jet Madden wins. As long as we have a repeat performance of what happened last night, I really don’t give a damn.

  He leans in, pressing that intense gaze into mine until my skull catches fire.

  “On all fours.” He twists me by the hips until I’m on my knees. Jet parts my thighs before plucking a condom off the nightstand and rolling it on. It feels like eternity waiting for him as the cool night air licks a line up the most tender part of me. I feel far less exposed here in the dark, straddling Jet’s mattress, than I ever did in any of those photos circulating around the Internet that I’ve lived to regret so deeply.

  Which begs the question—will I live to regret this?

  Jet spears me in one, quick, hostile move, and I take in a searing breath.

  One thing is for sure—this time I won’t fight it.

  Jet

  For the next few days it’s a repeat performance—me manhandling Daisy Pembrooke’s tiny body over mine, and when I say repeat, I don’t mean style and routine. In fact, there is nothing routine about what goes on behind my closed bedroom door, not that there ever was, for sure not with Daisy.

  I will admit to having a schoolboy crush on the girl for as far back as the first day I laid eyes on her at the Black Bear over a year ago. She’s young, hot, blonde, tits to write home about, and a tight little ass you could only wish felt and tasted as good as it looks—it does on both accounts.

  Once I found out she was hitting the stage over at Stilettos, I made it a point to be there on a nightly basis—mostly in the back, mostly hidden from her line of sight. I’ll admit, it broke me more than it turned me on. She wasn’t full-on naked, but that’s not what tore me up. There was a desperate nature about her, something that shook me to the core and screamed that could be Lucky if I’m not careful. Lucky doesn’t realize it, but there is a far more concerning reason I’ve stepped up to be the father figure in her life after our own dad passed away. I read an article once that girls lacking a male figure in their lives were much more prone to end up in abusive relationships or working at shitholes like Stilettos.

  I’m not sure why any of those other dancers never elicited that sense of grief I felt when I saw Daisy up on stage, why I felt so brotherly, and at the same time unbrotherly toward her. Maybe because I saw her outside of that environment first with a backpack slung over her shoulder, knee socks up to her thighs, hair in a ponytail. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally found a girl who could actually hold my attention longer than fifteen minutes. Either way, I want to protect her the way everything in me demands I protect Lucky.

  Think Ink is bustling this Friday night, but I’ve got Dusty and Gunner working the chairs and Honey up front, so I take the rest of the night off and take Rex up on his offer to try to kick my ass in pool. By the time I get to the Black Bear, Rex and the boys are already nursing a pitcher of beer, laughing their asses off. I know for a fact the first game at WB is coming up, and Rex is set to strut his stuff. I won’t miss it.

  Rex and I played Pop Warner together before his parents shipped him off to greener scholastic pastures. I played football all the way through high school, kicked some serious ass, too, but graduation came and that good time ended. I needed to help out my mom and take care of Lucky, so I got a job down at the local tattoo parlor. Old Biff died, and I took over the business, renamed it, booted it up to the twenty-first century, leveraging everything I didn’t have to buy new equipment, making the inside shine until it actually looked like it might be worth something, and here I am. Think Ink makes more in a year than I ever thought I would in a lifetime. I’d like to think that was my old man looking down on me with a smile, but God knows they don’t have windows in hell. My mother, on the other hand, saw some of the glory for herself before she passed.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out. A spark of hope spears through me, and for a brief moment I’m convinced it’s that girl who’s been haunting my mattress. I don’t know why the hell Daisy would ever call me, with the small exception of telling me off. But not to worry. It’s a text from the formidable, impossible to shake, Jody Kyle.

  Hey, Jet! Jody from Skyways Productions. We’re having a casual get-together at the Jepson Inn Thursday night at seven. There will be three other groups of production companies along with a few clients. It’s a great way to get your feet wet before you decide either way. You can speak to several other business owners who have already participated in the documentary. Would love to see you there. This is a great opportunity for you. I promise!

  “Jet, my man.” Rex slaps me five before I smack Cade and Owen over the back.

  “Let’s do this. I’m here to kick your asses in pool just like the doctor ordered.”

  “Tables are full.” Rex stands, as do the rest of them. “The girls said we could swap when we were ready, though.”

  The girls. That means Daisy is at the end of this eight ball rainbow. My gut tightens like a cable stretched and ready to snap at the idea of seeing her outside of the bedroom. We’ve been hit-or-miss back at the house with the exception of her nightly visit to sit on my face.

  We head to the back, and each pool table has a small crowd amassed around it. In the corner, I spot that petite little blonde who’s decided that rocking my bed is her new favorite pastime. But I’m the lucky bastard.

  The light hits her just right and adds a halo effect to her already angelic features. Daisy could easily be a model. If I spotted her on the street, and didn’t know a thing about her, I would have judged her harshly, just another WB debutante parading through life on Daddy’s money—pricey ride, fully loaded with all the bells and whistles, not the oxidized silver Honda she drives—a nice off-campus apartment in a secure building, penthouse, of course, full view of both the mountains and the school. The princess would love to see where her subject
s reside, but for now, the only subject of Daisy Pembrooke’s resides in my pants, and he is pretty damn happy to serve.

  She openly smirks when she sees me and hands her pool stick to Scarlett before crossing her arms over that ample chest as if the sight of me in the light offended her. For all I know, she could be scowling at me in the dark when I’m busy making her my own, but I’m not really too concerned with what facial expression she has going on so long as I hear that whimper, those soft moans that make me ten times harder, fight ten times harder to please her. She’s not the easiest to get where she needs to be. Her body is tense, too rigid at the start. It takes her a good long while to relax and let me navigate her to that happy ending she’s so greedy to have. But if anyone understands greedy, it’s me. That’s part of the reason I fight so hard to give it to her.

  “Dude, you’re staring at her tits,” Owen whispers. “Get a stick and let me whip you a few times with it.”

  I break my gaze and do as he says, only I’m not letting anyone whip me. Pool is my game. I’m in it to win it. I don’t go down for anyone—with the exception of Daisy, but that will be our dirty little secret for as long as humanly possible. I’m in no hurry to hear a word from my friends. What Daisy and I are doing is simply blowing off a little steam while blowing each other. She needs an outlet as much as I do, and it’s convenient. It works—for now. I don’t want to think about what might happen when she leaves—the abrupt ending that will make both my dick and me weep.

  I can tell by the way she looks at me that she wouldn’t have searched me out on her own. I’m pretty sure I’m not her type. Not that I’ve ever seen her with a dude. I’m guessing she’s into preppies who drive tiny little sports cars that match their tiny little dicks.