Filthy Gorgeous (20 page)

“Nope. It’s over.”

Thank God.

Slade 2-1 Strickland. Jockass is toast.

“I just don’t get it. All those wasted years. He said it was my fault for being too jealous.”

You have got to be kidding me? Sounds like Jockass is playing the victim so well I wouldn’t be surprised if he carries his own body chalk. Ladies, what is with this whole beating-yourself-up-over-a-failed-relationship thing that you do?

Seriously—quit it.

Men blame women, and women blame women. It’s the same shit in business. Men blame the system; women blame themselves. Rat boy is a needle dick, and if Ella is even halfway honest with herself, she knows it too.

She wipes a tear away from her eye, so I lean forward and draw circles on the back of her hand with my thumb. “Ella, you’re a beautiful, smart woman. He doesn’t deserve you. He never did.”

She can’t make eye contact. “Right. It’s just that we were together so long. Things weren’t always like this. We were great together, but as soon as he became a public figure, well …”

“Then he became an octopus,” I tell her.

She blinks, like she doesn’t understand. I explain. “You know—arms and hands everywhere?”

Now she breaks into a laugh. “I guess so.”

I nod. “Now each time you want a hug from Tyler, you’ll picture an eight-legged, slimy, subaquatic predator instead.”

She smiles weakly. “To be honest Alex, I’m mad at myself. After I dropped out of school we moved to Washington so Tyler could train. Then we moved from state to state, and I took temp work. He said it would be worth it, that when he ‘made it’ we could settle in one place and he’d put me through college. A couple of years back we moved to New York so he could join the Stars. And then he became the Super Bowl superhero. I should have put myself first. I’m an idiot.”

Did you hear that? She’s an idiot? He’s the goddamn idiot.

I twist a napkin, and pretend its Tyler Strickland’s neck. That won’t work; it’s like a tree trunk. I’ll have Parker hold him down, instead, while I foot-massage his colon. That’ll teach the fucker.

My torture fantasy is broken by the sound of Ella’s cell phone.

My eyes scan the screen.

Guess who?

Sensing danger, I wrap my hand over hers. “Don’t answer it, Ella. Don’t play his games.”

Too little, too late.
She picks up with her free hand.

I listen intently, and try to piece together the conversation. “No, you can go to hell! I’m not playing hard to get, I’m playing not interested! ... I’m keeping it … let’s just hope you have an easier time finding your next whore than you did my clitoris … I’m just sorry that there isn’t a clear history button in my vagina …”

Ella hangs up and throws her hands in the air as a signal of surrender. “Okay, I’ve had enough.”

Tell me about it.

I reach out and stroke the back of her hand again. “Ella, you thought he was a Darcy and he turned out to be a Wickham.”

She nods. And then I have a light bulb moment. “Finish your drink. I know just the thing that will cheer you up.”

She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Remember what Carrie said. Behave yourself.”

I chuckle. “Besties before testes, right?” I stand up and pull on my jacket. “Trust me; this is the most fun you can have with your panties on. Even Carrie would approve.”

Chapter Fourteen

Men love cars.

For many guys, their wheels are their pride and joy. Almost every guy has a car story. It could be the time he accidentally backed over his neighbor’s dog, or the time he lost his v-plates on the bonnet.

There is a reason for this obsession. Market research proves what men have known for centuries; beautiful women are ten times more likely to screw a guy who drives an expensive car than a clapped-out rust bucket.

Road head is the real reason why we’d rather own a Porsche than an SUV.

It’s the reason teenagers blow their monthly allowance to upgrade their four-banger. It’s the reason car manufacturers pay advertising agencies big bucks to produce commercials targeting sex-starved, middle-aged men.

The message is simple: you may be bald, missing several teeth, and in desperate need of a gastric bypass, but if you buy this supercar you’ll get laid by every bikini model in a ten-thousand mile radius.

History tells the same story. You think Elizabeth Bennett would cream-up at the sight of Mr. Darcy arriving at a ball driving a hack chaise?

Hell no! His coach may have been missing a V8 engine, but he relied on a different kind of horsepower to get the chicks.

I’m not boring you, am I? There is a reason for this history lesson. I’ve treated Ella to a self-guided horse and carriage ride in Central Park. I picked the most elaborate set of wheels I could find and slipped the coachman an extra fifty bucks for the loan of his top hat and tailcoat. The whip was a bonus—I’m stealing it for my collection.

Calm down, I know Ella is vulnerable. Of course I’m not expecting road head, but if she really wanted too, I’m not going to beat her away.

We’re enjoying a pleasurable ride around the park, and then I yank the reigns until we slowly grind to a halt by Bethesda Fountain. A look of concern washes over her face. “Why are we stopping?”

I wrap my arm around her shoulder and point across the lake. “See that building over there? Last weekend, in that very building, you nearly made the biggest mistake of your life by agreeing to marry that douchebag.”

She starts to cry. Not ugly cry, it’s more of a sob.

Shit.
This is not the reaction I was going for. I expected her to feel relieved. There’s nothing worse than woman’s tears. It makes a guy feel helpless. It’s the pits.

I tuck a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear, and wipe away a tear with my thumb. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She bites her lower lip and rubs my arm. “You haven’t. You’re right. I’ve had a lucky escape. In a weird way, I guess you could say you’re a hero.”

Did you hear that? I’m a fucking hero. She twists a wisp of her hair around her finger and smiles. I attempt a sneaky, composed side-glance in her direction, but she catches me. “You know, Slade. When you look at me like that, I can’t help but think that you’re at war with yourself.”

I raise an eyebrow suggestively. “I am?”

“Sure.”

Excitement fizzes bright in my stomach. I lean in and lightly graze my lips against her forehead. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I’m the only one …”

I trail my lips over her forehead and gently press my nose against hers. Closing my eyes, I wait for the inevitable slap.

It doesn’t come.

Heart pounding and unable to believe my luck, I kiss her softly on the lips. She slides a hand around the back of my head and strokes the nape of my neck. I brush her cheek with my finger, pull her toward me, and kiss her again—this time with more intensity. Our wet tongues join in unison, flicking and exploring each other without inhibition.

There’s no guilt this time.

She edges closer and presses her breasts against my chest.
Christ
. Cancel the paramedic; I must already be dead because I’m in fucking heaven.

My hands roam over Ella’s thigh, grasping and clawing at her flesh. I dive at her neck, kissing her, pulling at her skin with my teeth. My fingers crawl past the hem of her dress and snake around the edge of her panties.

“Oh, God …”

Her back arches. I pump two fingers in and out of her, alternating the rhythm as she writhes around the seat in pleasure.

Her voice is desperate, almost pleading. Breathy. “Take me …” I summon enough willpower to drag myself away from her neck and glance over my shoulder to check the area for inquisitive park wardens.

I’m panting. “What? Here?”

She pushes her palms flat against my chest and whispers softly. “No …take me to Pemberley.”

I yank the reigns of the coach again and we set off again. Driving a horse and carriage with a boner the size of the Empire State Building is no easy feat. What’s the maximum speed these things can travel, anyway?

Ella pulls herself onto my lap. Finding a gap between my shirt and my torso, she snakes her hand across the bare flesh of my chest and …
rip
.

Buttons are way overrated, right?

I think so, too.

Next, she loosens my belt next, and thrusts her hands inside my pants. She takes my erection in hand and slowly pumps up and down my shaft.
Holy God.

Think unsexy thoughts, Slade.

Boils. Cigarette butts. Frogspawn. Hilary Clinton.

She comes up to give me a playful kiss on the cheek, and then sinks down to her knees. And now she takes my throbbing tip in the warm wetness of her mouth. “Jesus …” I flinch in delicious agony and look down to see the full length of my cock disappear inside her insistent mouth.
Impressive.

Ella Bryant has quite the receptive gullet.

She quickens the pace, sucking harder and faster, again and again.

And I’m ruined.

I’ll never be able to go back to road head after getting coach head.

“Sweet Jesus …”

I look down and marvel at her technique. It’s magical. If a great blow job requires the successful collaboration of hand, tongue, lips, and saliva, then Ella Bryant is playing my skin flute with the skills of a Grammy award-winning musician.

And now she’s sucking my balls with a feverish enthusiasm I haven’t experienced since my dalliance with Sister Siddaway. She looks up at me with pleading, innocent eyes, and I struggle to keep hold of the reigns.

Christ
. I’m so close to losing it. As though she can read my mind, Ella releases my dick with a pop. She flicks her tongue around my shaft before pumping over and over, again and again like she’s shaking a cocktail. “Mmm, Ella we’re almost back at the avenue … oh, Jesus …”

She wraps her arms around my waist to steady herself, taking my whole length again with a greater intensity than before.

My body jars with lust.

I can’t hold back any longer. I steel myself against the seat of the carriage and quickly push her head aside. I convulse, and let out a strangled groan as I deliver a pulsating rush of creamy Slade juice straight into the top hat.

I’m panting, trying to regain my breath. “Christ, Ella…that was incredible.”

She laughs and takes hold of the reigns while I zip up my pants. “I guess I just got a little carried away.”

I smile to myself. I’ll say so.

We pull the carriage to a halt at the depot and I help Ella alight from the coach.

You know what makes me feel generous?

Getting a blowie.

I pull five-hundred dollars in bills from my wallet and throw them up in the air. We laugh as we watch them scatter in the breeze.

“Keep the change,” I tell the coachman as I hand over my jacket. I lead Ella by the arm and we cross the avenue. “Miss Bryant—I hope you’re excited. I’m going to do some very bad things to you once we’re inside…”

She squeezes my arm and smiles. “Okay … but we should hurry, Alex.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “Can’t wait, hey?”

“The coachman guy just put his hat on …”

We break into a jog and we’re still laughing our asses off as we cross the hotel lobby. Her eyes widen in amazement at the elaborate décor.

“Welcome to Pemberley,” I tease, pinching her ass.

We enter the elevator and we’re alone again at last. I brace my arms against the wall and brush my nose against hers. “I’m an impatient guy, Ella … I can’t go eighteen floors without tasting you …”

Her breath hitches, then she closes her eyes like she’s waiting for me to kiss her.
Wrong lips.

I sink down to my knees and push her dress north until it bunches around her waist.
Fuck me.

Red. Lace. Panties.

Pressing my face against her stomach, I nuzzle against her warm body and sprinkle her inner thigh with firm, lingering kisses.

She moans and runs her hands over my hair, tugging harder each time my lips creep closer to her pussy. I bury my face between the top of her legs and nibble at the inviting flesh beneath the lace trim. Her body tenses. “Alex! The door!”

Ping.

We hold our breath. The door flies open.

And breathe—there’s nobody there.

Grinning, I hit the button with my foot and get back to business. I pull the red lace aside and dig my tongue between her sweet, pink skin. Ella steels herself against the wall of the elevator as I suck and nibble at those juicy, plump lips. I push deeper, and her pink flesh molds tightly around my wandering tongue.

By the time we reach my floor, Ella Bryant is a train wreck of desire. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and escort her to my suite. We tumble through the door, landing in a ragged heap on the plush carpet.