Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty 2)

“So that was a bunch of questions in a row. Seems like it’s my turn now, according to our deal.”

She laughs, a soft acquiescence in her nod. “Hit me. What do you want to know?”

God, woman . . . so much. Everything. What’s her favorite flavor of ice cream? Does she like candlelit dinners or fun nights out? Has she ever had eight and a half inches of thick cock up her ass?

But I try to focus, or at least to keep my horniness in check. What do I really want to know about her?

I eyeball her, curled up in the corner of the couch with her arms wrapped around her knees, perfectly at home in my room, my presence, her cheeks flushed as she waits to see what I’m going to ask.

Finally, I know. “Tell me a secret.”

It’s not a question but a demand, and I want to see what she shares when given an open-ended opportunity. She’s demanding all of my deepest, darkest secrets, so it seems only fair to own hers too. And I want to see . . . she’s filling my head with all these dirty thoughts and desires. Just how dirty is that mind of hers?

Her puffy lips frown, but it seems to be in thought as she searches her mind for what she wants to say.

Finally, she narrows her eyes, looking at me defensively. “Okay, this might not seem like a big deal at first, but let me tell the whole thing before you judge.”

I nod, and she takes a steadying breath, which makes me curious what exactly she’s about to spill. “I like to . . . knit. Scarves, sweaters, socks, hats, anything I can get a pattern for. I knit.”

I can feel my face scrunch up in confusion. “Knit? Sweaters? This is your big secret?”

I know I just said I wouldn’t judge, but come on. She’s gotta be fucking with me, especially after all the emotional shit I just shared about my music. She wants my deepest secret, wants my daughter exposed even if she doesn’t realize that’s what she’s doing, and she tells me that she knits? Seriously?

I can feel the flames of anger licking at me from inside, and I shake my head, poison dropping from every word. “I thought we had a deal, Elise. But if you want to shit on the arrangement, fine. We’ll go back to pat PR answers. Get up, get out of my room. Let’s go back to the living room, the kitchen . . . somewhere less personal to me.”

She stands, breath heaving as her tits rise and fall, pointing a maroon-tipped finger at me as she speaks just short of a yell, her eyes sparkling with anger. “I said to wait to judge, you asshole! But by all means, jump to conclusions that I’m giving you a superficial answer. FYI . . . I’ve literally never told anyone that.”

She grabs her bag and shoes, stomping barefooted toward the door. I can hear the truth in her vehemence, and it surprises me. I jump to my feet, reaching out but not stepping toward her. “Wait.”

Again with the orders, but she doesn’t seem to mind given that she stops immediately, looking back at me over her shoulder but not saying a word.

I sigh, gesturing toward the end of the couch. “You’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Sit back down. Please.”

The nicety feels foreign on my tongue. I’m used to telling people what to do and they do it, no please or thank you required, except maybe to Carsen or Sarah since I try to be less of an ass to them.

Elise returns to the couch but perches on the edge, ready to rage again at any second as I stand in front of her, looming. It feels telling, symbolic. She’s wild chaos, on the edge, and I’m ordered control, caging her in.

I keep my voice steady and look her directly in the eye. “So you knit.”

She lifts her chin, and the posture suddenly feels very heated with her lips mere inches from my crotch, looking up at me with fire in her eyes. I feel my cock twitch in my jeans, thickening and straining to be closer to her. My fingers dance over my thighs, playing invisible chords to keep from grabbing her by the hair and taking what I already know I want so desperately.

Needing to stop that freight train from crashing into us for both of our sakes, I sit on the coffee table, my knees wide on either side of hers, my eyes waiting impatiently for her to continue. Finally, she sighs and nods, relenting to my unspoken request for her to continue.

“Yes, I knit. So the story is two-sided, I guess. When I was a kid, my parents would ship me off to my Gran’s house every summer. It was awesome and occasionally boring as hell, especially for an active kid. I couldn’t run through the house. She had all of these really fragile things that I swear only old people or people with too much money have.”