Dirty Secrets (Get Dirty 4)

He presses me firmly against the window, the cool glass against my cheek and breasts in contrast to the heat he’s building at my core as he tugs my hips back, forcing me to arch for him.

He smacks my ass, and I whimper in need. “Good girl,” he praises me, and I can’t help but circle my hips, wanting more, needing more. “Tell me. Who do you need?”

“You,” I whimper, and at the first thrust of his finger inside me, I involuntarily clench down, wanting to feel every inch, even if it’s not his cock.

His groan is guttural from beside me, and his finger slips deeper, curling and making my fingers claw against the glass.

“So fucking tight, Allie. I don’t know if you can even take my cock in your tiny pussy. It’s going to be a stretch, that’s for damn sure.”

He’s dirty, his normally formal tones forgotten as I drive him as wild as he’s driving me. And his words are enough to bring me closer to coming, imagining how full I’ll feel when he finally gives in to what we both want.

A gush of wetness eases his way as he adds a second finger before beginning to fingerfuck me in earnest. My eyes flutter closed at the overwhelming sensation, but Dominick slaps my ass, his voice harsh and commanding.

“No, keep your eyes open and on the crowd below you, so clueless to your getting filled with my fingers right above them. So close, but they don’t deserve your exhibition. Only I do, so give me one, Allie. I’m watching, and I want to see you come for me.”

Instantly, I’m on the edge, ready to shatter at the slightest stimulation, and Dominick does what I don’t expect. He shoves another thick finger inside me, and the stretch verges on pain, but the pleasure is so overwhelming that I come hard, crying out his name and steaming the glass with my panting breaths.

Ignoring his order to keep my eyes on the audience, I focus on Dominick, whose eyes are burning with something bigger, deeper, darker than lust as he watches me. I can feel my juices leaking over his fingers, and the weight of his gaze sends me spiraling again, an aftershock orgasm riding the wave of the first.

His fingers still deep inside me, he growls into my ear, “Tell me, Allie. In this moment, whose are you?”

I don’t even think about my answer, the word quietly falling from my lips unbidden and honest. “Yours.”

I see the flash in the depths of his eyes though his expression doesn’t change, and then he presses a gentle kiss to my neck before whispering in my ear, so soft I almost miss it, the breath of absolution upon his soul. “Mine.”

Chapter 8

Dominick

Looking at the front door of the duplex I’m standing in front of, I’m struck by how often my business is conducted in the most innocuous of settings. The door’s painted bright blue, like sunny skies and happiness. The house itself is a bright white, seemingly freshly painted.

I can appreciate that someone is caring for the home, and even their color palette. Nothing garish, but also nothing beige and boring. It’s tasteful, and that’s something I can give credit for. Though who’s doing the caring leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I glance once at Gavin, who stands by the car at the curb.

At his nod that everything is clear, I lift my fist and knock twice. There’s a screeching cry from inside and a hushed voice whispering, both sounds getting closer to the door.

When it creaks open, I see a tiny woman with a bundle of blanket in her arms. I can’t see the baby cradled there, but as most people aren’t in the habit of caring for baby banshees, I make the obvious assumption.

The woman looks confused but continues her bouncing attempt to soothe the baby.

“Can I help you?” Her voice is high-pitched, not unpleasant, but it adds to the youthful effect of her threadbare cutoff shorts and tank top. The only major signs that she’s not a high school babysitter are the tattoos trailing down her left arm and the possessive way she’s holding the baby, obviously her own and not a paid charge.

I can understand her feeling of protectiveness, though her first mistake was in opening the door at all to a stranger she doesn’t know. She might be experienced, but she’s not that wise.

“Myra Cole?”

I remind myself to say it as though it’s a question, though I already know exactly who she is.

“Yes,” she replies warily. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Dominick Angeline. May I come in?”

My name means nothing to her, a pleasant surprise. Myra’s blue eyes scan me head to toe as the door inches closed ever so slightly.

Smart woman.

“What’s this about?” she asks, bouncing the babe and stealthily moving the door another two inches closed with her hip. The baby, sensing the tension in her mother, stops caterwauling, and I get a glimpse of a round, if still mostly bald, head.