Bad Girl by Night (6 page)

In between her moans and sobs, she talked more about his cock. “It’s so deep inside me, baby. It’s so big and perfect. Perfect in my mouth, and perfect in my pussy.”

Colt, always needing to be the center of attention it seemed, said from somewhere behind her, “What about mine?”

She just laughed, even rolled her eyes. Then she turned to find him watching from the chair. “I love it, too,” she promised him with a naughty, teasing grin. “Bring it back here and I’ll prove it.”

And like a wild man, Colt immediately got to his feet and jumped up onto the bed, standing on the mattress—clearly he knew what she had in mind; clearly he’d noticed she liked to suck cock. The height wasn’t exactly right, but close enough—he stood alongside them, his knees slightly bent, allowing her to pull his now unsheathed shaft to her lips.

Just like every time she’d been in a similar position with them tonight, she loved having two glorious erections inside her, and she loved the way they watched her. Colt prodded her with more nasty talk. “That’s right, darlin’, suck me while you fuck him. Take us both all the way in, real deep. That’s it, now. That’s it.”

As she worked both guys over, Jake’s hands lifted to massage her breasts, and Colt gently held her head in his hands. She felt wild, at once powerful yet a little submissive—the world’s most carnal being. All of them moaned and groaned together until pleasure seemed to saturate the room, filling the very air around them.

When Colt withdrew from her mouth, announcing that he was going to come, she said, “On my tits,” and both men let out deep, lustful sounds.

Running her tongue over her upper lip, she lifted her breasts with both hands to give him an easy target. And he finished himself off with his hand, groaning deeply as she encouraged him, saying, “Come on me, come on me,” until hot white semen shot from the tip of his cock in three wild arcs, most of it spattering her breasts, the rest on her stomach and on Jake’s, as well.

As she reached boldly for Colt’s shaft one last time, licking the rest off for him, she wondered lasciviously if Jake had ever had another guy’s come on him before and suspected the answer was no. Then she made a sensual show of rubbing Colt’s warm juices into her flesh, massaging it in, looking down to see how it left her skin shiny for their eyes. She’d once been with a guy who’d wanted to come on her, and the truth was, she hadn’t liked it much—it had felt like an anticlimactic end to sex—but here, now, with
two
guys, with still more sex taking place, it felt perfect, and hot, and dirty.

So perfect, in fact, that it made
her
come. As she rubbed the last remnants into her breasts as if it were body lotion . . . with both of her men watching her and moaning at the sight—and with Jake still fucking her—she felt it rising quick and hard. She pinched both her still-moist nipples slightly—and then the rush of hot pleasure came in a deluge, forcing thready sobs from her throat as it rocked her body, making her pitch forward slightly until she was clawing at Jake’s stomach for purchase.

When he let out a noise, she thought she’d hurt him—her eyes bolted open and she said, “Sorry.”

But when he grabbed tight to her arms and she saw the hungry look in his eyes, she realized it was excitement he was experiencing, not pain.
“You’re so fucking hot
,” he muttered, teeth clenched—and then he flipped her on the bed, to her back, that quick.

It was startling, and she knew it had shown in her eyes.

Somehow he’d stayed inside her during the brisk move and now she was under him, and he held her pinned to the bed by her wrists as he fucked her with wild abandon. She cried out at the intensity of the strokes, but at this moment she didn’t mind feeling a little overpowered, a little shocked, because it also turned her on. And maybe it wasn’t like losing her power since she knew she’d driven him to this, she’d gotten him this aroused. Maybe it was just a whole
new
kind of power she’d never known about before.

And yet . . . she was lying to herself a little, working too hard to tell herself she was still in control here. Because his eyes on her as he thrust into her—deep, deep—were as penetrating as his cock. It felt as if they were probing hers, trying to see behind all those shields, all that armor, almost as if . . . as if he knew there was something else underneath.

She didn’t look away—she simply tried to look tough, tried to be Desiree through and through. And she was. Everything she
felt
was Desiree—all that heady abandon, all the dirty pleasure coursing through her, body and soul. And yet . . . was there another hint of softness sneaking in, a different sort of surrender?

Even when he pulled out and brusquely turned her over again, tugging her up onto her hands and knees, she still felt it. Even when he could no longer look into her eyes. As he thrust his cock back into her from behind, his fingertips digging into the flesh of her hips, ass, she experienced it again. A sense of surrender.

She’d had sex in this position many times, but always, up to now, this and anything else she did to please a man, or to please herself, had felt like something she’d either orchestrated or at least given her full consent to. She hadn’t given her consent to this. And yet, the pleasure, both mental and physical, remained. It was just different. Different in that—as Jake fucked her hard and deep now, as he made her cry out, made her feel out of her head from the hot strokes pummeling her body—she felt . . . a little bit like herself. A little bit like the person wearing all that sexual armor had gotten up and walked out of the room at some sneaky point and left
her
, only
her
, to deal with all this. And pleasure or not, that was just a little bit too much to take.

“Spank me!” she yelled.

Because giving him a command, having him obey it, would turn this all back around, make it right again, make her feel like she was
supposed
to feel. Completely.

“Spank me,”
she said again, lower, but with force.

“Are you a bad girl?” he rasped behind her.

“Oh, yes! I’m a very bad girl and I need to be punished.”

And so he drew back his hand and smacked her ass, and she said,
“Harder.”

And so he did it again, this time harder. And she cried out with an abject rush of pleasure because it had worked—it had given her back that sense of orchestration, of having power over him.

Her blue-eyed stranger, she realized, had rescued her again, unknowingly. Because for one brief moment in their encounter, she’d become what she’d claimed she wasn’t: a damsel in distress. She’d dropped her guard, or maybe she’d let him rip it away from her. But she had it back now. And the fact was, the command she’d issued had brought her more than mere control—she
loved
to be spanked, because that extra flare of sensation shot through her like one more naughty delight, and because she
was
a very bad girl.

“Aw, aw shit—I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come in you,” Jake groaned behind her, and so she steeled herself, gritted her teeth, and tried her best to stay upright—but as he growled his orgasm, his drives came so hard they pressed her flat to her stomach in the bed.

He collapsed atop her that way—then finally rolled off her.

She was facing away from him and almost turned to look at him—but then decided against it, decided it would be better to just stay quiet, to pretend she’d fallen asleep that fast, the way guys often did afterward.

It wasn’t her normal endgame. But she felt . . . more spent than usual. Less like Desiree than usual. She feared the very act of looking at him, right now, would make her more vulnerable than she wanted to be. So she simply closed her eyes and willed sleep to come.

 

 

S
he wasn’t sure how long she slept, but she opened her eyes to find herself naked on a bed with her blue-eyed stranger.
No, stop—he’s not
your
anything. He’s just a guy you fucked. Like every other guy you fuck.

Colt lay sprawled, even more naked than her—since she still wore her sexy shoes—in the chair where so much of their sex had taken place. He slept, too. The room lay quiet, still. Jake’s jeans remained bunched around his thighs.

She studied them both. She’d just had a ménage à trois. Sex with two men.

This part, the after part, was usually surreal enough on its own, yet finding herself with two guys instead of just one made it wildly more so.
But it doesn’t matter. It’s just one more secret, one more thing nobody knows about you. Tomorrow it’ll seem like a dream, just like always.

Her muscles were tired, achy. It had been strenuous sex. Her mouth still felt swollen, stretched, the area between her legs tender. It would be nice to just sleep here, but that wasn’t how her trips to Traverse City went. They had to be short and sweet. Well, short and hot. Short and nasty. It was definitely time to go.

Easing up off the bed, she took pains to be quiet, not shift the mattress. Usually, after sex, she and her partner at least exchanged a few words, said things like, “That was nice,” or “That was hot,” or “That was amazing.” She hadn’t done that this time, but she was sticking to the game plan from here on out—which was to leave without further interaction if possible. And it usually was.

Sometimes she suspected the guys she had fucked woke up as she was leaving but pretended to be asleep. That was fine with her. Occasionally one of them would open his eyes, say a friendly goodbye. Also fine. Once, though, to her surprise, a guy had actually acted hurt by her attempt at a silent departure. She still remembered how offended he’d seemed. “You were just going to leave without even saying goodbye?” Like they’d just shared something special. Like they were high school sweethearts or something.

She’d simply looked at him and been scathingly honest. “Yes.” No apologies.

“After everything we just did together?” the guy had said.

Geez, was he serious? He was acting like . . . a girl. “It was sex. Good sex. But just sex,” she’d reminded him—since he’d clearly forgotten she’d just picked him up in a bar and fucked his brains out after about five whole minutes of conversation. “Good night,” she’d added brusquely on her way out the door—sorry to be a bitch but not willing to let down her guard even an inch.

Which was why it was a little unsettling that somehow she’d let her guard down with Jake. Not with Colt—with him, it had all been what it was supposed to be. Hot, raw mutual pleasure. And with Jake . . . well, it didn’t matter now, and she could put those moments of weakness, of
realness
, behind her.

She slithered back into her dress without a sound, pushing back the sad sense of emptiness that sometimes plagued her in these moments. Locating her bra and panties, she stuffed them in her purse. That was another piece of the ritual: Don’t waste time putting underwear back on—once it’s over, it’s time to get out. Her heart always beat a little harder during this part—just hoping she could make a clean escape.

Going home would be the same as always. She’d pull off the road at the same little picnic area she always did, about halfway there, and change into the fresh undies, jogging pants, and tee she’d stuffed in an overnight bag that now sat in the passenger seat of her small SUV. She’d open a wet wipe from her glove box and remove her makeup. She’d run a brush through her hair, pulling out much of the hair spray and curl. And she’d return home with only a little laundry to prove the night had ever happened.

Tomorrow would be mostly normal. Memories, that tenderness between her thighs, and a small load of delicates would make it a transitional sort of day—back to real life—and otherwise, she’d go about her business as usual in every other way. And she’d feel like her real self again.

Then the next day would be
completely
normal, as would every day—until the next time. The next time that dirty need clawed at her. That need she couldn’t fill any other way than to drive someplace where no one knew her and engage in a night of hot, casual sex.

Taking careful steps on her heels across the carpet, toward the door, she stopped, looked back. At Colt, then at Jake. She’d been very attracted to them both, but certainly Jake in particular. She suspected that, in real life, he was a good guy. Maybe or maybe not a pilot, or a photographer, but a good guy. Who’d just fucked her brains out. The last part was all that mattered, though—the only memory she’d have of him. He wasn’t her first one-night stand and he wouldn’t be her last.

One final glance, and then she was out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, soon climbing behind the wheel of her RAV4. A few stoplights and she’d be out of Traverse City and onto the straight, open roads of rural Michigan, where there were no interstates but traffic was light enough that it usually didn’t matter.

She’d be home and in her bed soon, above the little shop on Main Street in Turnbridge.

She’d be Carly Winters again. Maker of furniture by hand, the old-fashioned way, just like her father before her. Winner of the pie contest at the Fourth of July Festival three years running. Town sweetheart.

If they only knew.

C
arly appreciated rituals, habits. She generally fell into bed in her apartment above the shop just after the late news at eleven thirty, but no matter how late she might have occasion to stay up—like on those occasional trips to the Lake Michigan shore—she awoke at seven thirty every morning with or without an alarm clock. She meandered to the kitchen, ate a light breakfast of toast or maybe a muffin from Beth Anne’s Bakery, said good morning to the big cat who was by then twining around her ankles under the table, then got dressed and made her way downstairs to start work.

The shop didn’t open until ten—and noon on Sundays—but she enjoyed those early-morning hours most. She liked knowing she could get absorbed in her work without being disturbed—it was just her and the wood and her tools. She liked the quiet view out the big front shop window—whether it was watching the snow fall on still winter days or the sense of solitude brought by misty blankets of morning fog in spring or fall, before the sun burned it all away. On summer days like today, the mornings were generally clear and bright—she would see other shopkeepers headed into work or maybe someone walking a dog up Main Street. It was the busy season, and Turnbridge was open for business. And while those winter days were more her style, summer was necessary—she earned seventy-five percent of her income between May and September.