Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,47

thigh and roll her to her stomach, positioning my still dripping, iron-hard cock at her entrance. “We’ve got twenty-three more hours to fill.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ainsley

WHO SAID THAT the greatest danger is underestimating your opponent? Sun Tzu? General McArthur? Lady Gaga?

Whoever it was, they were right.

“I can’t believe I lost,” I say, covering my head with my pillow.

“Believe it, Nightingale.” Jake pulls the pillow away and points to the clock on the nightstand. “Read it and weep. Twenty-four whole hours, and I haven’t checked my cell phone or email once. Longer than that, if you want to get technical, since we slept through the deadline.”

He tosses the pillow onto the floor and rolls on top of me, his morning wood nestling between my butt cheeks. “Or fucked through it.”

“Nobody likes a sore winner.” I wriggle out of his embrace so I can sit, taking the sheet with me. He may be ready and raring to go again, but I need a breather.

He follows me up, pushing my hair to one side and kissing my neck. “Something tells me I’m not the one who’s sore this morning.”

Smug bastard. But he’s right. I am a little sore you-know-where. Twenty-four hours of almost nonstop sex—we took breaks to eat, use the bathroom and feed and walk Roscoe—will do that to a girl.

“I need a shower.” And to brush my teeth. Shave my legs. Pluck my eyebrows. It’s a testament to Jake’s sex drive that none of that shit seems to bother him.

I let the sheet drop, swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, completely unselfconscious in my nudity. No point in being modest with a guy who’s had his head between your thighs. Multiple times.

Jake’s eyes darken to chocolate pinpoints as they rake my naked body from head to toe, lingering a little longer than necessary on my breasts. Figures. He’s a total boob man. Not that my nipples mind. Predictably, they perk up under his heated gaze. I may be sore down there, but apparently they don’t care.

“Mind if I join you?” He throws off the sheet, and his raging hard-on springs free.

My nipples are tight little pebbles now, but my pussy is throbbing in protest. “Um, sore. Remember?”

He lifts his huge frame out of bed and comes up behind me, banding his arms around my waist and cupping my breasts in his beefy hands. “I can take care of that.”

I want to resist, but my traitorous body has other ideas, and I lean back against him with a sigh. “Even your penis isn’t that magic.”

“No.” He nips at my neck, then soothes the spot with a kiss. “But my tongue is.”

He’s right, as usual. An hour later—after we’ve gotten really, really dirty and then soaped and scrubbed each other clean—Roscoe’s been walked and fed and we’re on our way to the mystery destination Jake, as the winner of our little contest, has chosen for our date.

I’ve tried getting him to spill the beans, but no dice. I think he’s getting a kick out of keeping me in the dark. Either that or he thinks I’m going to flip out when I find out where he’s taking me. All I know is one, he told me to dress comfortably but leave my flip-flops at home. And two, we’re taking the Q train, so it’s somewhere in Brooklyn.

As we ride down in the elevator, I pull out my phone to text Aaron and Erin. They’ve been rock stars, picking up the slack at Odds & Errands while I play house with Jake. I owe them both a huge bonus in their next paycheck.

When I’m done giving them today’s rundown and letting them know I’ll be back at the office tomorrow—a little part of me dies as I type that last part—I stuff my phone back in my I Swear Because I Care drawstring bag and glance at Jake. He’s resting against the bar that runs along the back wall of the elevator, arms folded across his broad chest, a shit-eating grin splitting his face.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, trying hard to ignore the way the sleeves of his polo shirt pull taut at his biceps.

“You. On your phone. Maybe you should take your own advice and stop and smell the—” He taps a finger on his chiseled jaw. “What was it?”

“Daffodils,” I answer. “And I’m surprised you haven’t busted yours out to check your messages. Or call Connor.”

“Left it upstairs. Didn’t even bother to power it up this morning.”

Wait—what? I must