Dirty Little Secret (Dirty #1) (8 page)

“I work in a lumber yard, actually,” I corrected. “The painting is community service.”

Shit.

I hadn’t meant to bring that up, and Melissa picked up on it right away.

“The
country club
needs community service?”

“Forget it,” I
muttered.

“Seriously,” she
persisted. “If you’re going to do community service, why waste time on the people who already have everything they could possibly want?”

I forced a chuckle.
“People like you?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions again. I have what other people think I want. Not what
I
want.”

“I think I’ve got something
here
you want.”

“We’re talking about the country club, not about me.”

“I just go where they tell me to,” I informed her. “Service whoever they tell me to service. But you can vouch for that, can’t you?”

“
Whom
ever,” she corrected in a cool voice, ignoring my innuendo.

“Whomever,” I
agreed easily. “And I accept your apology.”

“Apology for what?”

“Jumping to conclusions about
me
.”

“What conclusions? You’re the one who’s been sitt
ing there, judging me!” she replied, exasperated.

“The conclusion that
I’m fucking irresistible.”

“More like that you’re
a fucking jerk.”

“Melissa?”

“What!”

“When you say the word
fucking,
I get hard as hell. Almost as hard as when I think about smacking your ass with my paintbrush and the sexy little look on your face when you came against my hand,” I said. “I’m going to hang up now, and let you think about that.”

I pushed the off button on my phone before she could reply, and grinned.

“Don’t worry, baby-doll,” I murmured out loud. “We’ll talk again soon.”

MELISSA

One hundred and thirty-five hours.  That’s how much time had passed since my accidental engagement. 

And f
orty-eight hours.  That’s how much time had passed since I last heard Cutter’s amused, sexy-as-hell chuckle, sending heat straight to every erogenous zone on my body.

I didn’t know which amount of time seemed liked longer.  Either way, the days were dragging by. 
Going out, coming home, avoiding Shelby and Danny, and unable to ease the perpetual want. 

And I couldn’t sleep.

At three in the morning, I was standing in front of my mirror, twisting the ring on my finger, trying to find a way to make it look natural.  Any way I turned the stupid thing, it looked wrong.  Too shiny.  Too big.  Too much.

You might be thinking I felt guilty, and that the ring served as
a grim reminder that I had betrayed what it stood for before it even landed on my finger.  But it just wasn’t true.  I didn’t feel bad at all.  Not on Danny’s behalf, anyway.

Instead, I felt like I’d betrayed my body by placing the ring on it.  Because my body didn’t flip-flop the way my mind did.  My body
knew
what it wanted, and what it wanted was Cutter.

I gave the ring a final frown, then slipped it off and dropped it on my dresser.  I immediately felt ten pounds lighter.

But I had no sooner crawled into bed when the shrill sound of my home phone - which my parents insisted I keep - made me jump.  I grabbed the plastic receiver with my heart in my throat.  I knew it was him, even before he spoke.

“Did you miss me, baby-doll, like I missed you
?”

His voice had that
honeyed tone again, and my relief at hearing the sound of it was acute.  My blood went hot.  I couldn’t form an intelligent retort.  I could barely form a coherent thought.  It was instinct that made me hop up from my bed, glance out into the hall, and then close my door softly.  Not because I didn’t want to get caught, but because I wanted him to myself.

I climbed back under my covers, wondering why the frilly, flower-patterned fabric seemed objectionable all of a sudden.  Apparently,
Cutter made me second-guess even the little details of my life.  I suddenly needed leather and lace.  Not cotton sheets.

But what would he look like, wrapped in nothing but a cotton sheet?

Oh, God.  Those sculpted abs.  Those broad shoulders.  That tattoo, rippling across his back…

“Melissa?”

Good God.  Why did he always make my name sound like sex wrapped in chocolate?

I
forced a sigh.  “Believe it or not, I have a life outside of your constant harassment.”

“We could change that,” he said roughly.

His cocky tone should’ve made me bristle.  Instead I had to fight off an urge to ask
how
we could change it.  My throat went dry.  An image of Cutter, tanned, muscled, and overtop of me, filled my thoughts.  I actually had to stifle a little moan.  My face flamed red, and I was ridiculously glad he couldn’t see me.

“Thanks,
” I managed to get out. “But I’m all full up on crazy, overly testosteroned men.”

“Testosteroned? Is that even a word?”

“If it wasn’t before, it became one the second your over-sized biceps and over-inflated ego came into being.”

“So me and my muscles have been on your pretty little mind, then?”

“Not in the slightest,” I lied.

I waited for him to call me out on it
, unable to dismiss the nagging voice that pointed out that at every turn, Cutter reduced me from a poised, thoughtful girl into this foul-mouthed harlot.  Okay, maybe not harlot.  But at the very least, my reaction to him was bordering on nymphomania. My mind was irritatingly bogged down by the idea of him in my bed. 

But he just chuckled.
“What
have
you been concentrating on, then?”

“Anything else, actually.”

He chuckled. “But you’re thinking about me
now
.”

“I am not
.”

“What’re you thinking about, then, right this second?”

“I don’t remember agreeing to this game of truth or dare.”

“Scared to tell me?”

“Fine.” I scrambled for a believable claim. “I was just thinking that I haven’t heard you swear since I picked up the phone. That’s some kind of record, right?”

“Liar.”

“Jerk.”

“You could just admit you were picturing me naked,” he teased.

“I was
not
.”
Not quite, anyway. Covered in a bed sheet was different than totally naked.

“You’re a bit of a goody-two-
shoes, you know that, right?”

“What’s so wrong with having morals?” I demanded

“Nothing,” he assured me. “In fact, it makes this more fun. A less principled girl would
already
be in my bed.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t be mad, baby-doll, I like you all sweet and indignant.”

“Why would I be mad? Some guy is stalking me and pretending like he knows everything about me when really he knows nothing. I love that.”

He laughed again. “You’re mad because I
like
something about you?”

“I’m mad because you’re assuming you know me,” I replied. “Again.”

“I think you mean
still
,” he corrected.

After a minute, he sighed loudly. “You know, you’re not actually
that
good, Miss Goody Two Shoes.”

“And why is that?” I threw as much defiance into my words as I could.

“Because you’re having phone sex with a guy you barely know.”

Why am I putting up with this?
I wondered. 

Of course,
I knew the answer.  The dampness between my legs made it obvious enough.  My face heated up, but without his blue eyes scrutinizing me, I recovered quickly.

“I’ve never had phone sex before,”
I said in a deliberately sultry voice. “Is it okay if I ask a question before we get started?”

“Ask away,
baby-doll.”

“Is it always this boring?”

“Ouch,” he laughed. “That hurt. Why don’t you start by tell me what you’re wearing.”

“You’re kidding, right? That’s your line? Why don’t just breathe heavy and let me hear the sound of you touching your own –“

He cut me off. “I can do better.”

“Wouldn’t take much,” I muttered.

“When I saw you standing on the side of the road, it was like no other girl had ever existed.”

I burst out laughing.

“Now who’s the liar?” I asked.

“You’re a tough fucking crowd, all right?” I heard the grin in his voice.

“Aaaaand. There’s the first curse word.”

“Did I swear?” he replied innocently.

“Yes.”

“What did I say?”

“Fucking.”

“Say it again,” he commanded, rough and sure of obedience.

I swallowed so hard I was sure he could hear it through the receiver. “No.”

“Say it again,
baby-doll, or I’m going to come over there and
make
you say it.”

“You don’t know where I live.”

“Oh, but I do,” he told me. “Your address was right there beside your number in the phone book.”

“You wouldn’t dare show up here.”

“Wouldn’t I?” His tone was teasing, and cocky, and full of things done in the dark, behind closed doors. “You wanna test out that assumption?”

Keys rattled against the receiver. 

Did
I want to test it out?  Almost.  But I wasn’t going to.

“Fucking,” I
finally whispered.

“Is something
I’m very good at,” he filled in, then purred. “Baby-doll?”

“Yes?”

“If I told you touch yourself, would you?”

“No.”

“If I threatened to come over there again, would it change your mind?”

I
f he came here…I wouldn’t
have
to touch myself. He’d do it for me.

I stifled a little moan, and
glanced frantically toward my bedroom door.  If he came to the apartment, demanding to come in, in that self-righteous way of his… I wouldn’t be able to control myself, and I knew it.  Talking to Cutter was like drinking tequila.  It lowered my morals and made me consider doing things I wouldn’t if I was sober.  No, not just consider them.  He made me
want
to do them.

“You
can’t
come here.” My voice was raw.

“If I
asked
you to touch yourself, Melissa…Would you do it then?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer.  Which was good, because my hand had settled just below my belly button, and it was twitching eagerly, waiting for him to follow through.

“It’s all right, baby-doll,” he said instead. “I can be patient. I’ll call you again soon, all right?”

His bored tone irritated me, and I had a sudden urge to shock him.

“Cutter?”

“Yeah,
baby-doll?”

“If I asked you to touch
your
self, would you?”

He was quiet for a moment, and then he growled. “You don’t even have to ask me, baby. This conversation has me so worked up that I won’t be able to help it.”

When he hung up, the ache to speak to him again was palpable.

The next twenty-four hours were plagued by errant, sex-driven thoughts that made me squirm uncomfortably every time I moved.

When I was doing the laundry.
I don’t just want him to dirty my clothes, I want him to dirty
me.

When I was sipping on orange juice at the breakfast table, and I had to lick up a drop that slid from my lips.
Is his tongue as rough as his conversation? Would it stroke out a place in my body the way his words had in my mind?

My only small bit of satisfaction came in
my refusal to think his name, my refusal to put it in my mind.  Until my alarm clock clicked over to 3:02 a.m. and my phone rang, and I automatically gasped it out in greeting.

“Cutter?”

Oh, that laugh. “Who else phones you in the middle of the night?”

“No one.”

“Good.”  He sounded pleased.

“It’s only because everyone else I know has more sense and respect for my time,” I replied.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” A sarcastic comment had already been halfway out of my mouth, and the apology startled me.

“I’m sorry for covering you in mud, and I’m sorry for calling you in the middle of the night.”

“You are?” I couldn’t keep the suspicion out of my question.

“Yes. Especially the first part. The day we met, I was pissed off at someone else, and I took it out on you.”

“Who were you pissed at?”

“Myself, mostly,” he admitted.

“You were mad at yourself for what? Being such a fuckwad?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t believe you,” I informed him, then smiled to myself. “Say it.”

“Say it?” he replied.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What’s your excuse for making
me
say things?” I asked.

“Pure, unadulterated eroticism.”

“Pure, unadulterated control,” I corrected.

“Ahh,” he said slowly, dragging the sound out. “So now
you
want to be in control. That’s fine. We can pretend.”

“Do you have to turn everything into fuel for your own, personal Cutter-fire?” I grumbled.

He laughed, then said seriously, “Melissa, I was mad at myself for being a fuckwad.”

“A controlling fuckwad.”

“A controlling fuckwad,” he agreed, then added, “And I was a little mad at you, too, actually.”

“What for? We didn’t even know each other!”

“For wearing white pants. I hate white pants.” 

I rolled my eyes. “Well, I’m not wearing white pants now, so what’s your current excuse?”

“Am I still being a fuckwad?”

“Well, you’ve apologized for muddying me up, and disturbing me at an ungodly hour, but you’ve left out the part where you assaulted me in the bathroom at my parents’ country club,” I responded.

“Oh, we’re calling that assault now?”

I winced, recalling that I actually
had
told Shelby and Danny that Cutter assaulted me.  I was glad he couldn’t see my face.