Filthy (A Bad Boy Romance)(3)

Nothing I say seems to faze her though. Reaching back, she squeezes my balls, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from unloading all over her. That’s not the goal here. “You ready for that condom?”

Right. The condom. She took it; what did she do with it? But I hear the foil tear open, and a moment later the ring of the condom touches the over-sensitized skin of my glans. She sets it on just right, rolls it down, and then moves my cock toward her pussy.

I stop her with one hand. “I think I said I was going to fuck you from behind.”

Her eyes gleam. She’s so ready. “You do whatever you want, Cain.”

“Damn fucking straight I will.” I step back, grab her by the waist, and put her down on her belly on the counter. And take her.

God fucking damn. Jesus Christ, she’s so hot. Wet, slick, and tight as the fist she had around me just a few seconds ago. That cunt squeezes any harder on me and I might not be able to get my dick back out at all. But I shove into her hard, feeling the full depth of her. She lets out a sharp cry than warbles into a long moan.

Yeah, that sounds about right. I grab her hips and lean over her.

“You’re going to feel this,” I tell her. “You’re going to taste my come. You’re going to feel my cock in the back of your throat. You’re still going to feel my dick tomorrow.”

She grates out a groan, then, “Shut up and fuck me, you asshole.”

I clench my teeth in a grin. Guess I should do what the lady says. I pound her, watching the soft bounce of her ass, the straining of her thighs. Her toes barely touch the floor, and she’s having a hard time keeping herself grounded. That’s fine. She doesn’t need to be grounded. Doesn’t need control. The tight, sucking, slapping sound of our bodies meshing and meeting each other fills the room, and a violent heat pounds up my dick, into the small of my back, up my spine.

Her hands open and close like claws on the Formica counter. She’s managed to chip a nail. I like a woman who puts good, hard sex ahead of a perfect manicure.

I fuck her ruthlessly. Her body arches, her forehead pressing against the counter. I reach forward and grab her hair, jerking her head back, and she lurches up, supporting herself on her hands as I drag her torso toward me. My pace is so fast I wonder how much longer I can keep it up. I’m starting to feel the burn, both from fucking her and from the leftover strain of the fight. My knees ache.

Whatever. Pain just makes it sweeter.

She makes another sweet, strained sound, and I slide my free hand under her hips. My fingers grope and finally find her clit, swollen and slick, just above the thrusting thickness of my cock. I rub her in a circle, then back…

She loses her fucking mind. “God, God, God…” Like prayer is going to help. I just grin and keep thrusting, keep circling. She might be sore in the morning, but I doubt she’ll care. She’s bucking and thrashing so hard I can’t quite hold on to the fire pounding up my back, and suddenly I’m fucking myself into her harder than ever while my balls pull up and shoot about a week’s worth of come. I can feel the orgasm throbbing through my hips, my thighs, and my back, between my legs. For a second I think I might pass out, and then I realize I stopped breathing. I start up again. Breathing is important.

She’s digging her nails fruitlessly into the counter and gradually easing down from the climax. I look down and see my thumbs digging hard into her ass cheeks, the flesh gone white around them. Carefully I loosen my grip. I stroke her skin gently and then run my thumb lightly over the tight pink pucker of her asshole.

“I told you—” she starts, and I cut her off with a chuckle.

“Just mapping the territory.” I’m impressed she can even form words at this point. Hell, I’m surprised I can.

She lays her head down on the counter. “God.”

“You okay?”

I’m answered with a laugh. “You could say that, yeah.” She wiggles her ass in my face. “Let me up.”

I ease back, making sure she’s secure before I pull my weight completely away from her. She slides down and turns around. We’re quite the pair—her with her shirt off, breasts bare, bra hanging down her back, me with my pants dangling somewhere between my hips and my knees. Not very dignified. I drag at a couple belt loops until my cock is at least partially covered. No point zipping anything up. I’m too fucking tired, anyway.

She slips down neatly and lands on her feet, turning to face me almost like it’s a dance move. Nothing in her face indicates she regrets anything we just did. I reach up and run a thumb across her cheek. She’s beautiful—oval face, gorgeous skin, a round, high forehead. I’m not sure she even wears makeup, and her hair is rarely done up in any elaborate way—it just falls from a straight part down on either side of her face, framing blue eyes and the sweet, soft curve of her mouth. I lean forward to taste that curve again.

As my tongue touches her lower lip, I realize I want this again. I could carry her into the bedroom and work her over one more time, right now. That hardly ever happens to me. Usually I’m one and done, but this woman is more than I hoped and more than I ever expected.

Her hand comes up and catches mine, draws it against her face. Carefully she breaks the kiss.

“I should go home,” she says.

“Stay,” I offer.

Her eyes widen a bit with a sort of shocked humor. “No way. Cain the Flame never lets girls sleep over.”

“How would you know that?” She’s right though. I do have a bit of a reputation in that area. Not necessarily a good one.

She shrugs. “I hear things.”

“I see.” I take in her bare breasts again, gently devouring them with my eyes, then grasp the sides of her bra and carefully pull it back into place, snapping the clasp. “Will you be safe if you go back home?”

“What? You mean my father?” She scoffs. “How is he going to know where I was?”

“You know it wouldn’t exactly make him happy to know you just did the nasty with me.”

“I know.” She actually turns a bit serious. “Yeah, I know that. Which is why I’m going to go home.” She strokes a hand down my chest. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“This doesn’t happen to me very often.”

“What? Getting fucked over a kitchen counter?”

“Getting fucked at all. Pop is, shall we say, not much in favor of my stepping out and about.”

“Unsurprising.” I wonder at her near-virginal tightness combined with her eagerness. This was by no means her first time, I could tell, but for someone who doesn’t indulge often, she’s hella enthusiastic. Or maybe that’s why she’s enthusiastic. “Especially since you’re hot as fuck in bed.”

She laughs. “How would you know? We never made it to the bed.”

“Okay, then you’re hot as fuck over a kitchen counter.” I’m reluctant to move away from her, reluctant to let her go. “Look…you sure you don’t want to stay the night?”

“I’m sure.” She pushes me, both hands right in the middle of my chest. “I really do need to go. This has been nice—more than nice—but I don’t want Pop getting any ideas about removing all your intestines and making some kind of macramé basket out of them.”

I wince at the image. She doesn’t mince words a bit, does she? “Yeah, I can’t imagine that would be pleasant.”

“So…we can’t do this again, all right?”

It’s not all right. Usually I’m the one gently pushing away the girl, giving her some goddamn excuse why I can’t see her again. “Give me your number.”

“Nope.” Stepping away from me, she starts scanning the room for her shirt. Finds it, slips it back on, and sorts out the buttons. “I’m going home.” She pauses then, giving me a cursory look. “You might want to slap a couple Band-Aids on.”

The smile I give her this time is wry. I could use a few Band-Aids, that’s for sure. “All right.”

With one more smile, she blows me a kiss then heads out the door.

#

I have a real problem with the sun when it comes pounding in through the curtains in my bedroom. Another seventeen hours of sleep would be helpful, but I’m not going to get it. Not even another two hours. I sit up and stare at the opposite wall.

The events of yesterday roll through my head. The fight, the fuck-up, Jessica Spada with her legs splayed open on my kitchen counter. Frowning, I rub my arm. I’m sore. My dick is trying to convince me I shortchanged it last night by not giving it enough of a release. I tell it to shut up and head for the shower. I have a bad feeling about today. It’s one of those feelings you have when you’re damn sure your luck has just taken a drastic turn for the worse.

Sure enough, when I get out of the shower there’s a message in the voice mail on my cell. “McAllister, you’re in deep shit. I want you here today at ten to talk about why you fucked up yesterday.”

Spada doesn’t even bother to identify himself. No niceties, no, “Hi, Cain, how’s the body holding up?” Because he doesn’t care. As long as I’m flinging myself out there, making him money, he doesn’t give a shit what kind of condition I’m in. That’s just a straight-up fact.