Page 9 of Dirty Work

I break off the kiss but only to slide my mouth down her neck, leaving a hot, wet trail to the hollow of her throat. I’d like to explore even lower, to discover if she’s a basic bra or lacy lingerie kind of girl. Unfortunately, skilled as I am in the art of getting a woman out of her clothes, I can’t for the life of me figure out the thingamajig she’s wearing. There’s a row of buttons down the front, but when I try to undo the top one it doesn’t budge.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I groan. I try the next button. No dice. I’m ready to rip the fuckers off. “These goddamn buttons are driving me crazy.”

“They’re for decoration only,” she pants, arching into me. “There’s a zipper. In back.”

I reach around her, find the tab, and inch it down, my fingers grazing her bare skin on the journey. A line of goose bumps sprouts in their wake and I get a thrill knowing I did that to her, that she’s as into this as I am. I push the straps off her shoulders and down her arms, and the torture device drops to her waist, leaving her in only a pretty pink bra that barely contains her pale, perfect breasts.

Lacy lingerie. Score.

“Please.” Her slow grind picks up steam and her eyes drift shut. Her arms band around me like a vice, my fantasy about her nails digging into me becoming reality. She’s hot and wet against my thigh even through a layer of denim, and my sexual Spidey sense tells me she’s seconds from coming.

“Fuck, yeah. That’s it, baby,” I murmur against her neck, encouraging her. I tweak one nipple through the lace of her bra, and she sucks in a sharp breath. “Let go.”

A few more hip rolls and she does, throwing her head back and calling out my name. She continues to spasm for a few seconds until her arms loosen their iron grip on my midsection and she collapses against me, spent.

I pull the edge of one bra cup down and free her breast from its frilly prison, hopeful she’s up for another round where we both get off. Those hopes die a quick and painful death when an bone-rattling thump from the living room startles us. Because I’m the guy with the worst luck in the five boroughs, Roscoe, back from doggie dreamland, has chosen that exact moment to fall off the couch. He lifts his head and lets out a low, mournful howl that pierces my very soul.

Shit.This has the potential to be almost as bad as if the beast had been dognapped. My parents are going to flip out if their precious baby has a boo-boo.

“Don’t move.” I peel her arms from around my waist and step back, planting a hard, fast kiss on her bee-stung lips. “He’s probably fine, but I should at least check on him. I’ll be right back.”

I sprint to Roscoe’s side, and the howling stops as I do a quick head-to-tail exam. I’m no vet, but nothing feels broken. My diagnosis is confirmed when the big drama queen gets effortlessly to his feet and trots off toward my bedroom, presumably to take up residence on my bed.

“See?” I stand, wiping my hands on my shorts. “No harm, no foul. Now how about we pick up where we left off?”

But when I turn back to Ainsley, expecting to find her half-dressed and ready for more, my door swings shut with a hollow, ominous click, and she’s gone. I tunnel my hands through my hair and glare in the direction of my bedroom, swearing under my breath.

Fucking dog managed to cockblock me after all.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ainsley

“YOUDIDWHAT?With a client?” My bestie Mia gapes at me, her glass of prosecco stalled halfway to her lips. We met in contracts class first year of law school at New York University, and even though I’m no longer practicing we’ve stayed close. She’s one of the only holdovers in my life from my legal-eagle days—and one of the few people who didn’t think I was crazy for chucking it all and starting over.

“Who are you?” she asks, her cherry lips twisting into an impish grin. “And what have you done with my best friend?”

I knock back the rest of my drink and plunk the glass down on the table. I knew it was a huge risk going out on the town with Mia tonight. Two rounds in, and my tongue’s already as loose as my morals were in Jake’s apartment earlier. But it’s too late to take the words back now. As my great-aunt Elizabeth used to say, in for a penny, in for a goddamn ton.

“I dry humped his leg like a bitch in heat.”And came so hard I saw stars. Without even taking off my clothes.

Mia lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. You sure know how to break a sexual drought.”

I stare her down. “Who said I was in a sexual drought?”

“You did. The last time we were here.”

Here is Tammany Hall, our favorite Greenwich Village dive bar. The drinks are cheap, the floor is sticky and the decor is a cross between a bordello and a hunting cabin, with an odd yet somehow soothing combination of red velvet and taxidermy. But the atmosphere is always friendly and on game days you can catch the Yankees and Mets on the dueling flat screens above the scarred oak bar.

I decide to ignore the issue of my heretofore virtually nonexistent sex life and plow on. I’ve started this story. I might as well finish it.

Unlike Jake, who didn’t get to finish. At least not with me. Who knows what he did after I cut and ran? Or came and ran.

I slam the door on the image of Jake with his dick in his hand, sliding his fist up and down his impressive length until he shoots his load all over those washboard abs I felt under his T-shirt, and signal the waitress for another drink. “That’s not all.”

“There’s more?” Mia lifts her now-empty glass, indicating she’s ready for a refill, too. “Please tell me that after the dry humping, you ripped his clothes off and rode him like a polo pony.”

I wish.“Not exactly.”