Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,50
That will make it even more satisfying when I kick your ass.”
The doors slide open, and we head up the stairs into the sunshine and smells of mustard, sauerkraut and beer-battered onion rings. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that we skipped breakfast.
I pull my sunglasses out of my bag and slide them on, searching for the familiar iconic yellow building with the green-and-white-striped awning. “But first, I’m starving. What do you say we stop at Nathan’s for one of their famous hotdogs?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ainsley
“THAT THING IS not sleeping with us.”
I laugh and plop the giant Day-Glo green inflatable alien in a place of honor in the dead center of the bed. “You’re just mad because I won it instead of you.”
“I’m not mad, I’m repulsed.” Jake grimaces. “That thing is hideous. Couldn’t you have picked something useful, like an iPad? Or a jar opener?”
“He’s useful. Put him in the passenger seat, and you can drive in the high-occupancy vehicle lane during rush hour. And I think he’s kind of cute, in an ugly sort of way.”
“I live in Manhattan. I haven’t owned a car in years. Hell, I don’t even have a driver anymore. I’m fine with Uber, taxis and the subway.” He sits on the foot of the bed—as far as he can possibly get from the alien, I note—and kicks off his Vans, giving the alien a side-eyed glare. “How do you know it’s a he?”
“Lucky guess.”
I toss my bag on the dresser and start to shed my clothes like they’re on fire. It’s been a fun day—we rode every ride and played every arcade and carnival game in Luna Park—but it’s been a long and hot one, too, and I’m in serious need of a shower. With a little encouragement, maybe we can have a repeat of this morning, and I can get Jake to join me and scrub my back.
And my front.
The shirt goes first, then the bra. When I pop the button on my cutoffs and start to lower the zipper, Jake lets out a low growl.
“Are you trying to torture me?”
I slide the zipper down another inch. “If I were, would it be working?”
“Fuck, yeah.” He strokes his already growing erection through his shorts. “Put me out of my misery and lose the Daisy Dukes. And whatever’s underneath them. I want you naked.”
“What about you?” My voice is a breathless whisper, my heart’s racing like a subway train—express, not local—and my damn nipples are standing at attention again. Knowing how I affect him is the biggest turn-on going.
“What about me?” he asks right back, stroking faster.
“Shouldn’t you be naked, too?”
“That can be arranged.”
He stands, grabs the hem of his polo shirt with both hands, and lifts it slowly, teasingly, like in a cheap porno. But way better, because unlike most of those guys—yeah, I not ashamed to admit I’ve watched a few, my trusty vibrator at the ready—Jake’s got a body that’s worthy of a Marvel superhero. I take the time to appreciate each abtastic inch of fine, firm flesh as it’s revealed before the shirt is over his head and on the floor.
Way, way better than PornHub and my rabbit.
“On the count of three,” he says, unbuttoning his shorts and reaching for the zipper tab. “One.”
Our zippers slide down.
“Two.”
Our thumbs hook into our waistbands.
“Three.”
We’re naked and on each other faster than you can say nymphomaniac, our clothes strewn carelessly around the room. We smash into each other, everything—lips, chests, legs—coming together like a perfect, frantic puzzle. It’s more than a kiss. It’s an erotic dance, a prelude to fucking.
Or something more than fucking.
Without warning, he slows things down, removing his mouth from mine and hoisting me into his arms, cradling me against him as he starts to move toward the bedroom door.
“Where are you taking me?” It’s the second time I’ve asked him that question today. I hope his answer is as perfect as it was last time. This day has been the most fun I’ve had in ages. And the most fun I’ve had with a member of the opposite sex—in or out of bed—in, like, ever.
And it’s not over yet. Not by a long shot.
“My room.” His eyes shoot daggers at the alien, still holding court front and center on my bed. “I’m not making love to you with that thing staring at me.”
Making love. Something more than fucking. Another perfect answer from a guy who’s turning out to be pretty perfect, too.
“Shower,” I blurt out, suddenly remembering my initial reason for