Dirty Deal (Dirty Rich 1)

It's not like that's the only reason why I relent.

Not at all.

God, this really is amazing.

I fall back onto Brendon's four poster bed.

I sink into the smooth sheets.

They smell like him. Like his earthy soap and like something distinctly Brendon.

God, they smell good.

I let my eyelids flutter closed and let my head fill with dirty thoughts.

Him next to me.

Pulling my t-shirt over my head.

Unhooking my bra.

Sliding it off my shoulders.

Dragging his fingertips up my torso, between my breasts, around my nipples.

Pressing his lips to mine.

He thinks I'm sweet. Innocent.

Everyone does.

And I am.

I'm a virgin, sure. But I'm not naïve.

I know what I want.

It's him.

A knock on the door pulls me back to the moment.

"I'm heading to work. You gonna be okay alone?" Brendon asks from the hallway.

He explained it at lunch—he and Emma have a strict knock, enter only if invited policy.

"Yeah. I have to get started on my summer reading."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I'll be fine."

"Promise."

"Brendon—"

"If you'll be fine, it will be an easy promise to keep."

It's a compelling argument. Even if I have no intentions of calling him. No matter what I need. "Okay. I promise."

"See you tonight."

"You too."

His footsteps move down the hallway. Then the stairs.

I can just barely hear the front door shut.

Emma is at work—she works at a department store at the promenade.

I'm alone here.

I've never been alone here before.

It's the perfect chance to work out some of this tension.

But not yet.

It sounds stupid, but I can't touch myself in the middle of the afternoon. That's so... intentional.

I only ever masturbate before bed. So it's for insomnia relief as much as anything else.

Still, I should take advantage of being alone in Brendon's room somehow.

Reading isn't quite as exciting or naughty as masturbating to thoughts of my new roommate slash guardian, but hey—

I do have dirty books on here.

I'm capable of fun. Of sexy. Of bad.

Just, I'm going to do it by myself in my pajamas.

I toss my sleep shorts on the bed.

Set my Kindle on the dresser.

Right next to the faded black sketchbook.

Wait.

That's Brendon's sketchbook.

It's right there.

I've never seen it by itself.

In his hands? Yeah.

On his lap? Absolutely.

Nestled under his arm? Of course.

It never leaves his sight.

And he snaps it fast whenever I get close.

This is it.

All the secrets to what's in that beautiful head of his.

His secrets.

None of my business.

I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap holding the pages together.

This is his.

It's private.

Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.

I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.

When he's alone, period.

God, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking.

This is wrong. What if it was your journal?

I force myself to set the book down.

To plant on the bed.

To cross my legs. Fold my hands. Keep my gaze on the floor.