Badd Motherf*cker: Badd Brothers (6 page)

“The fuck you are.” I managed to work up a good glare. “You just want to get your sexy paws on me.”

I caught his grin before my ability to focus on him went to shit. “Absolutely I do. When you’re sober, and in your right frame of mind. Right now, I’m exercising my gentleman manners, which are pretty fuckin’ rusty, I must admit. I won’t be copping any feels, but I will be taking a few good looks as payment, all right?”

I tried to stare at him, to get his measure, but shit, I was absolutely plastered and couldn’t even manage to make out one of him, let alone decide whether or not I was going to wake up with a sore pussy from being taken advantage of while drunk. Somehow, though, I didn’t get that feeling from him. I was being stupid, and I knew it, but I was drunk enough not to care. If I was going to get taken advantage of while hammered, at least he was hot. Hopefully I’d remember some of it, and hopefully it’d be good.

“Whatever. Just make it good, okay?”

He moved around behind me without letting go of me and fumbled with the hidden zipper of my dress. “Make what good?”

“When you take advantage of my drunk ass.”

He had my zipper open to mid-back, paused, and spun me around. Roughly, harshly, and good thing he had a strong grip on me because I would’ve gone down otherwise, and I don’t mean on him, I mean to the floor—Dru go boom.

 
He was angry. “Listen, Dru. I know I’m just a tatted-up bartender from the ass-end of nowhere, and I get I’m kinda rough lookin’. But I
have
never and
will
never take advantage of a drunk chick. Got it? You got nothin’ to fear from me. Your virtue is safe as houses, all right?”
 

I cackled. “Virtue? That’s rich. I lost my virtue to Jimmy Irvin in the back of his pickup after freshman prom.” I saw, even through my drunken and spinning haze, that he wasn’t amused. “Sorry. You said your name is Sebastian, right?”

He turned me back around—gently this time—and finished undoing my zipper. “Yeah, my name is Sebastian.”

Now that I was unzipped all the way, I felt free, finally. “Jesus, that thing was tight.” I experimented, taking deep lungfuls of oxygen, reveling in the freedom to fully expand my lungs for the first time in god knows how many hours. “Look, I’m sorry I offended you. But put yourself in my position for a second.
You
know you’re a good dude who won’t take advantage of sloppy drunk heartbroken should-have-been brides, but
I
don’t know that.”
 

He was watching me in the mirror, I could tell, and his eyes were glued to my tits with every breath I took. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I was wearing panties, but they weren’t much more than scraps of lace that could barely be called a thong.
 

My heart was pounding in my chest, and other parts of me were sitting up and taking notice of the fact that I was in a bathroom, my dress unzipped, tits one big breath from spilling free, and the man standing behind me was the drop-dead sexiest man I’d ever seen. And he was, even to my boozy, fatigued observational skills, attracted to me.

But I couldn’t stand up straight without his help, couldn’t even see straight. If he let go of me, I’d topple sideways, probably whack my head on the counter and would need stitches, and god only knew what kind of medical facilities they had in this town I was in, which, I suddenly remembered, I knew absolutely nothing about. I didn’t even know, geographically, where in Alaska I was.
 

Sebastian’s hands touched my shoulders. “Dru? You gonna puke?”

I shook my head. “No, no. Just…it’s been a really long day and it’s all sort of catching up to me.”
 

“Gonna cry again? ’Cause I’m not sure how to handle that shit.”
 

“No. I just…I need a shower.” I met his eyes in the mirror, or tried to. All I managed was to look sort of in his general direction or, at least, in the direction of the two or three of him that were rotating in front of me.
 

“You got it?”
 

I pushed myself upright, kept one hand on the counter, and tried to wiggle out of the dress. But considering it had taken all three of my bridesmaids almost an hour to get me into it, my chances of getting out of it alone while wasted were…well…not great.
 

“Shit,” I mumbled. “You’re gonna have to help me. But if you touch my tits, I’ll punch you. And Sebastian?” I glared in his direction best I could. “Trust me when I say you don’t want me to punch you. I’m Irish, and I’m the daughter of a Marine Corps drill instructor. I can lay you out, okay?”
 

He seemed impressed, or at least, that’s what my admittedly compromised ability to read facial expressions informed me. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I swear.”
 

This was a fucked up situation.

But I’d gotten myself into this mess, and Dad had taught me to always accept responsibility for my actions, and to just take what came best I could and deal with shit without flinching.
 

Do what you gotta do, and deal with the emotions of it later
, Dad always said.

Do what I gotta do.
 

I put both hands on the counter, steadied myself, and looked at him in the mirror. “Help me out of this stupid dress, Sebastian.”

4

Sebastian

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
 

This was bad. I mean, it was goddamned amazing, but…it was bad. This girl was barely holding it together. I wasn’t about to ask what had happened, but it hadn’t been good. The way she’d just…broken down…out in the street—it put a fire in my belly, man. Pissed me the fuck off. Who could do something to a girl like that bad enough to make her break that way? She struck me as strong, tough, a take-no-shit sort of girl. She didn’t break easy. But out there in the mud? She just shattered. Alone. Broken-hearted. And I guess I was a sucker, because I couldn’t leave her out there. It was obvious she was in no condition to be left alone, and I’d fed her the scotch, which meant she was my problem now.

And now here she was, sexy as fuck, covered in mud, obliterated, fighting another breakdown, so exhausted she had circles under her eyes, and fuck, so goddamn beautiful. Wet, muddy, straggly auburn-red hair sticking to her face and her bare shoulders, that sexy-as-sin wedding dress all splattered with mud and drooping under her big, lush, cream and ivory tits, her nipples and areolae playing peek-a-boo, hips like fuckin’ magnets for my hands, and her ass—Jesus Christ, that ass. Round, full, juicy as a peach. But she was a fuckin’ wreck. I couldn’t do a damn thing. Couldn’t touch. Couldn’t put my lips to that creamy skin of hers, couldn’t kiss away her heartbreak, couldn’t fuck her so good, so hard, for so long she’d forget the name of whatever asshole had shredded her heart.
 

I had to be a gentleman.
 

And that wasn’t me.
 

I drank, I fucked, and I tended bar. I didn’t do the gentleman shit. The women who came through the bar were looking for one thing, just like me. A quick, simple, easy bang. No strings, no emotions, just bodily release and feeling good for a while. I didn’t have to bother caring what they liked or thought or felt. I could read their body’s reaction to what I was doing like a book, and I got them off, and they went back to their vacation, feeling dirty for having slummed it with the local bartender.
 

This chick wasn’t like that.
 

She was class. The dress had to be worth a mint, just like the shoes she’d left on the floor of my bar and that purse on the floor of the bedroom. But it wasn’t the money. She was no rich bitch; I could smell those, and I’d fucked plenty of ’em. She was just…
class
. She didn’t fuck randoms. She didn’t do hookups.
 

Whatthefuck was I thinking? I couldn’t fuck this girl. No way, no how, never. She wasn’t meant for me. I had to tame the beast in my pants, get her clean, and let her pass the hell out.

Internal scolding finished, I steeled myself, summoned all the self-control I possessed, and set to work helping the sexiest woman I’d ever seen out of her wedding dress…knowing I wouldn’t be setting a finger on a single inch of her perfect fuckin’ skin.
 

I had to tug pretty hard to get the gown down past her chest and, Jesus, every time I tugged, I bared more of her tits, which not only were big, but were all natural, bouncing like fuckin’ Jell-O every time I tugged. I felt my cock hardening in my jeans, and did my best to ignore it. A few more tugs, and the dress was at her hips, and then past them, and then finally she was standing there in front of me in nothing but a white strip of lace around her hips. Bare-ass, the white string disappearing between those sweet, lush, juicy cheeks. I could see her in the mirror and—Christ, the thong didn’t cover much in front either. I mean, for real, it didn’t cover shit. Her pussy was straight up eating that skimpy little thong like a last meal, and if I didn’t have a hard-on already, I sprung hard as goddamned steel at the sight of those plump pussy lips sticking to damp white silk. Yeah, she was wet. Not just from the rain and mud, either. She was staring at me in the mirror, those ridiculous blue eyes wobbling and focusing and wavering, but fixed on me with unreadable thoughts and emotions ripping across her features and blazing in her eyes.

Fuck me.
 

I had to let go of her, had to clench my hands into fists and close my eyes and think about that time a delivery truck hit a puppy.
 

Naked old nuns.

Naked old
priests
.
 

Cold, wriggling fish.

Worms in the dirt.

When I opened my eyes, she was still staring at me in the mirror. But now I was looking, and her tits were on full display in the mirror, big, round, high, perfect, with dark silver-dollar size areolae and thick, plump, erect pink nipples, and any work I’d done to push down my erection was totally undone.

And she was just
looking
at me, and I swear to fuck she was thinking she wouldn’t mind if I copped a touch, if my self-control slipped a little.

“Quit fuckin’ lookin’ at me like that, Dru, swear to Christ.” My growl was the deepest, snarliest sound I think I’d ever made.

“Like what?”
 

“I dunno. Whatever you’re thinkin’, lookin’ at me like that, you best quit.” I tugged aside the shower curtain, adjusted the water mix so it wasn’t too hot or cold, and then grabbed her wrist in my hand. “Get in, angel.”
 

She stepped in, fumbled for the knob to add more hot water, and then glanced at me, steadying herself against the wall. “I’m still wearing my underwear.”
 

I ground my teeth, spoke through clenched molars, because now she was in my shower, all but naked, water sluicing down her skin, pasting her hair to her scalp and shoulders, and I was fighting every instinct I had, which was to climb in there with her and scrub her clean just so I could get her all dirty again.
 

I couldn’t help the pissed off glare I gave her. “Well pardon me, but there’s no way in fuckin’ hell I’m taking that off you. This is taking all my self-control as it is. So you’ll just have to shower in that fuckin’ thong, because I ain’t helping you out of it.”
   

“Oh.” She ducked her head back under the spray, rinsing her hair, then wiped her face and peered around the shower. “Shampoo?”
 

I snagged a bottle from under the sink and handed it to her.

She lathered her hair, occasionally steadying herself against the wall with one hand, or grabbing at me with the other. I was getting soaked by the spray, as was the floor but, fuck it, I didn’t care. Not then. Watching her shower? God, I was the luckiest bastard in the whole fucking world, and the most cursed: treated to the sight of her nude body, all that perfect skin, all those goddamn perfect curves, watching droplets of water slide down her breasts and between her thighs…
fuck
—but I was cursed, because I couldn’t touch.
 

And then she glanced at me, considering, thinking. She steadied herself with a hand on the wall, hooked her thumb into the lace of her thong, and worked it down around her hips, then slid her thighs together and wiggled her hips to shimmy it down to her knees, and then it was off and at her feet. She bent to grab it, went off balance, and I had to grab her shoulders to keep her upright, which meant I got blasted by the scalding hot water, and I had my hands on her naked wet skin, and now she was inches away from me, water running down her face and her eyes were wide and blue and frightened and aroused and full of sadness.
 

But she had her thong in her hand.

And, in that moment, her eyes on mine, her thoughts and feelings running clear as day across her face and in her eyes, her naked wet body pressed up against mine…

She set her soaked thong on top of my head, and giggled.

It dripped hot water into my hair and down my face and onto the back of my neck. I snagged it off my head, wrung it out, and backed away from her. I had to.

That giggle.

Motherfucker, that giggle.
 

Sweet, innocent, playful, sexy, breathy.
 

If I could make her giggle like that in bed, tickle her, tease her with my tongue until those erotic little giggles turned to moans, which would turn to begging, which would turn to screams of orgasm as I swept my tongue against her clit, tasting the sugar of her pussy…

I started for her, reached for her, fully intending to toss her onto the bed and make her beg for my cock in that musical voice of hers…

I got so far as to rest my palm on her hip, and then my fingers curled against her skin, and her eyes fixed on mine, and she wavered, fell back against the shower wall, breathing hard, tits rising and falling with each gasping breath, and fuck, fuck,
fuck
, her thighs were shaking, and I swear to Christ I could smell the desire from her pussy through the steam of the scorching hot water, and she was reaching for me too, but she still had one hand on the wall to keep herself from toppling over, and—