Perv (Filth #1) (2 page)

“
I've heard about you.”

That's...not a good thing. Not in the tone she's using. “Have you?”

“
Former army and, when you were on leave, you stripped on the low.”

My skin goes dead cold. “Never have I stripped while I served my country.”

It's a fucking lie. I did and it's why I can be between jobs. I lived within my means even when I was pulling in ten grand a month. My government check paid all my bills, and I stuffed the rest in bank accounts and sometimes mattresses.

She adds, “I'm not trying to trip you up.”

Maybe, but you never know. “And what does all that mean?”

“
It means, I'm not going to let you fuck me and drop me,
Sugar
.”

Fuck.

This is my problem. Women talk. I can't guess who she might have known, and it won't matter. If she knows my old work, she probably knows my every trick, because women fucking brag. Or whine. Depends on what I did to end things.

I'm not always as gentle as I liked to be. Some of my past...lovers, for lack of a better word, don't get that it's over when I talk slowly and use euphemisms. Apparently when I say things like “I want you to come on my tongue” that is considered dirty talk, not relationship goals.

Who knew?

Fine. I know, but that is not the point. I'm honest and upfront. It's part of my moral code. I don't fuck with women with low self-esteem issues, because
my thing
is not for the faint of heart. I eat pussy. Some say I eat pussy like a god.

Why does licking pussy get me off, of all things?

Imagine ice cream. No, cake. Even bad cake is still cake. There can be strawberry, chocolate or lemon filling. The core flavors can range from red velvet, vanilla, chocolate, or whatever you create. Cake can be made in every size and shape. You tell yourself you shouldn't indulge, but if the cake is good, you do. Year after year, event after event—there's never really a bad or inappropriate moment to eat cake.

Pussy is my cake.

A woman's come is her own personal-flavored icing. If you want to wish me a happy birthday, place a candle between your pussy lips. I will feel warmed by the gesture and touched at your thoughtfulness.

You did all this for me? Aw. Shucks.

I take a drink for fortitude. This pretty woman with an interesting walk already—
this woman
with brown skin that seems to glow—is going to leave while I haven't had a taste of her yet. I've reached a point where I need to know.

Then think, Nate.

“
Well, Sugar, aren't you curious if you heard the truth about me?”

Her body is still angled in my direction. The cues are there. Her friends are still watching with interest. A quick scan of their faces and, nope, none I've ever tasted.

“
If you can strip real well?” Her gaze travels down my torso, my legs, and I'm meat to her.

I've been that before and don't mind it. I work out once a day for a few hours. It's all habit for me now. Has been since I signed up to die for Uncle Sam. You can take the boy out of the military, and he still might have an eye twitch and a trigger-happy finger.

“
Never did that,” I say again.

“
You have the body for it. Bet you can do the whole Magic Mike routine.”

I've done it before, a two month tour, and that is why I could own a Ferrari if I wanted one. “Not what I meant, and you're smart. I know you know that.”

Tongue on lips again, and again my scalp tightens on my skull. My attraction has nothing to do with her playing hard to get. Her mouth is full, a shade lighter than mocha and my primitive self finds her appealing.

But, seriously, what the fuck?

She's shot me down. Walking away is the next step. Or should be. I let my gaze track over the club to see if anyone else catches my eye. The night is young, and the music hasn't even been set to ear-bleed yet.

No one looks as interesting as her.

With a sigh, I bring my full attention back to Stealth and Heels. “Since you seem to know everything about me, tell me something.”

“
Tell me my name.” She raises a brow.

Fuck.

I pull a hand through my hair and figure shit is going south anyway. I lean down so my mouth is right on her earlobe. “Stealth.”

She puts a hand to my chest and laughs. “What?”

“
You put your tits on the counter to get the bartender's attention. That's stealthy so...Stealth and Heels.”

“
And or in?” There's amusement in her tone and she hasn't pushed me away.

“
And.”

“
So you're admitting you have no idea what my name is?”

“
Yup.”

To my surprise she leans into me, leaving no room between us. My cock perks to attention. Her dress is a second skin. I can pretend for a moment she's bare against me, and though I'm not a tits man, hers are full and soft—I want to lick, bite and suck them until her eyes roll back.

She tilts her head and we're cheek to cheek. “I know what you are, Nathan. I know what you need.”

She's speaking words, but all I can hear in her low, sultry tone is
fuck me hard
. And I'm an accommodating man. “Are you going to give it to me?”

What? I'm not going to say no. Or talk her out of whatever she's planning to do.

“
You torture women, you know that, right?” The huskiness in her voice is the best friction.

“
Torture?” I ask.

“
Mind blowing head. And then they have to somehow live the rest of their lives cold turkey or with second best. That makes you an asshole.”

“
Not my fault I'm good at what I do.”

She shifts and her skin brushes my cheek again. “It is when you know damn well the woman is looking to settle down.”

“
I never lie.”

“
You never turn a woman away either.”

“
They're all adults.” I don't fuck women who need help. Genuine help. Telling her that feels too much like defending my life choices. I, also, don't make a woman believe I can love her. That's cruel.

She huffs. “You have every intention of destroying her world.”

Red flashes over my vision at the accusation. “And what are you going to do about it, Sugar?”

She laughs—I'm not sure if it's
at
me—and I fucking feel the sound in my every bone. “You want a taste of me, Nathan?”

She's needling me, and I nip her earlobe. She moans, pressing a hand to my chest, but not to push me away. After all that we circle back to what I want in the first place.

I ask her, “Where do you want to go?”

She grabs my hand and shifts closer into my space. My fingers brush between silky thighs, soft inner skin and then there's wet heat. I glance down, shocked and fucking ecstatic that Stealth and Heels is a fucking freak. In a room full of people, with her friends twenty feet away, she's put my hand up her skirt. She's taking the lead and I don't mind that.

My cock loves it.

So I close my eyes as she guides my hand to my favorite place on a woman. Is her clit thick and long or short and pert? Full lips or does everything sit out to greet me? No two pussies are alike and I love it. Live for that shit. Will she be chocolate brown until the pink begins? Because no matter the flavor, every woman is pink on the inside. I want to see what I'm feeling. Since seeing isn't an option, I'll take what I can get.

All I know is that she's swollen and wet. Her cream has a nice consistency. I can practically taste her salty tang. She doesn't gasp when I caress her to get my fill.

Seconds pass, but the moment seems to suspend forever before she pushes my hand away. I step back to check for a flush that must have darkened her cheeks. Nothing. Just assessing eyes.

I lift my hand to wave my finger beneath my nose. I can't describe her smell, but she can suffocate me if she wants to. I'll die happy, and they will not be able to close my casket on the postmortem erection. It will defy science.

A groan spills out while I slip my finger between my lips as she watches, a smile curling her mouth. Tangy and sweet and fuck me.

“
You like?” she asks, nothing coy in the question, just preening.

Based on her smell and taste, she should preen. “If you'd let me, I'd sit you on the bar and make you squirt.”

“
Just with your mouth?”

“
Yes.”

She studies me again, sizing me up, and then she scrunches up her nose. “Pass.”

No. Really. What the fuck? I clamp my mouth shut because it's dropped open at her rejection.

“
But it's been interesting, Nathan.”

What. The. Fuck.

I go to say her name and trip on Stealth. I close my eyes and tighten my jaw. When the urge to shake her passes, I glare down at her. Takes another second for me to clap, slowly, 'cause she's played me well, and there's fuck all I can do about it. She's had her moment and she should shine in it.

I'll forget her when I find someone else more willing. It won't be tonight. Tonight all I will be able to do is taste her. No amount of scotch will wash her out of my mouth.

And, really, what the fuck? Someone—likely a pissed-off former lover—who knows me, my past, and my fetish sent Stealth to fuck with me. There's no other reason for Stealth to walk up to me, let me get my fill, and then walk away. This is revenge—served wet and sweet.

“
Tell whoever sent you I fucking hope they get fucking crabs.”

She laughs then picks up her drink. “Cute and funny. You had potential. Night, Nathan, and have a nice life.”

I respect her mercenary tactics too much to wish her a long walk and a short cliff.

But give me time.

I sit up like the recently undead at exactly 4:59 a.m. It's a ritual from my army days I can't shake yet—up and at 'em before some asshole with a God complex wakes me. Doesn't mean I'm a morning person. I almost throw my alarm clock across the room when it goes off a minute later.

I breathe and take a mental inventory of myself and my surroundings. The deep throb in my shoulder is there. The shrapnel is gone, and so will the ache, once I work out the kinks. Only other thing aching is my cock. I need to piss, and...I shake my head and swing my feet from under the covers onto the carpet.

Darkness spills through my curtains so I can only make out the shadows of furniture—dresser, chair, nightstand, closet door. Some of that darkness is swirling inside of me.

Breathe.

I need coffee and to punch something, in that order, or there would be blood in the goddamn streets. No surprise, right, coming from a vet? I served in Afghanistan. Five tours under my belt, and then I didn't reup. That doesn't mean I'm naturally violent. Army doesn't teach regular soldiers hand-to-hand.

No. I need to punch the shit out of something because, despite the copious amount of scotch I'd downed the night before or that I'd trolled the club in vain hopes of finding a decent replacement for Stealth, I woke up and her taste still colors my tongue.

I washed my hands and brushed my teeth thoroughly before bed and there she is, fucking haunting my mouth in the morning. It's all in my head—I'm aware of that. Doesn't change a goddamn thing.

I need to run, sweat, and punch something. Maybe kill a cow with my bare hands then eat it. Then I can forget her, and the phantom taste of her pussy will leave me the fuck alone.

For the next hour my thoughts bounce between “I'll forget Stealth,” to “Fuck her, and not in the good way.” Eventually I find myself at Tarek's job. The London-Berg Gym sits on the outskirts of town and caters to the middle class and healthy.

My friend is on the weight-room floor walking a couple of clients through personal training. For a man who spends his life working out, he's not bulky. His arms aren't short-looking from too much muscle and there's still a neck visible, though both are covered in tats. His dark brown skin has a sheen of sweat when he meets my gaze. A nod of acknowledgment is thrown my way, and then his focus is back on his clients.

I hang back by the free weights to stretch first and to see if Duke is answering his cell this week. He's an attorney at a top firm and a slow week for him is sixty billable hours. Sometimes we don't hear from him. Tarek and I take turns saving his soul and sanity, but that only works if Duke answers his phone. Today he doesn't.

I stuff my phone back into my pocket, irritation twisting inside me. I'm only calling him for one reason—not to check up on him, though he needs it. Not to see if he can escape the office for a few hours. And, yeah, he needs that.

It's about
her
, and I should have fucking moved on by now. What's done is done as long as I ignore the gnawing ache in my gut.

I can sweat her out of my system, drip her out of me like a toxin. Or that's the lie I try to convince myself into believing. I hit the bench press. Three sets of ten at two hundred and forty pounds. Yeah. I'm trying to die, but I can still taste her, so death is the least of my worries.

“
I don't know how many times I've told you to have a spotter.” Tarek comes into view and takes the position above my head.

All I can really see are flashes of his brown skin, muscles, and gray sweats. He's the good guy of our group, which probably isn't saying much. As a friend though, he's as solid as they come.

“
Yeah,” I reply. “Teach the people in your gym the proper way to spot is to not have their nuts on my forehead.”