Page 5 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

This time? “Freak Like Me.” I nearly laughed. Fitting.

Good thing I was familiar with Halestorm. Otherwise, I’d have missed her little digs despite her body opening up for me like a flower turning up to the rain.

We’d just see how much she would open.

Slowly, I pulled my fingers from her. They were hot and sticky and when I brought them close to my mouth, the smell of her nearly laid me flat. So sweet and tangy and raw. But I wanted more than a taste. I wanted the whole fucking package, unwrapped for me.

I yanked at her panties. The expensive material—always expensive with her, from her red-soled shoes to her designer purse—tore into pieces and dropped to the ground like satin tears. Her body jerked when I reached for my zipper, yanking it down and freeing my cock from my

boxers. I dragged the swollen head against her ass, swallowing a curse as her back arched again, her miles of long blond hair tickling my dick.

My balls were throbbing and that little hint of sensation did not help.

She was supposed to stop me. To look back at me and say, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?

I’m not for you.

Never for you.

Her ass just tipped up at me tantalizingly, her dress rucked up so I could barely glimpse the backs of her milky thighs. I knew how wet she was. How easy it’d be to slide all the way in and drive her up onto her toes.

Then she reached back and clenched my leg, her nails leaving welts, and I stopped listening to what was left of my conscience.

She wanted rough? Message received.

Grasping my length, I lined it up with her soaked slit and shoved deep. One fucking stroke. Her body rocked forward, slamming against the piano and killing the music with a crash of the keys.

Concert’s over, fuckers.

I gripped her hips and pulled her back toward my lap. Groaning in her ear as she enveloped me to the root like a silken fist. She wasn’t playing anymore and I didn’t care.

I didn’t care who could see us beyond the half screen. People had left, but I knew some were still there. Listening. Probably watching. Desperate to know.

Give ‘em a show. She likes to be the star, doesn’t she?

She’d be the star for me. Sweet, seemingly innocent Lindsey York, spread open for my cock like a little fuck queen.

I hauled her against me, hard enough that she banged out a discordant series of notes on the keys. Quickly silenced.

Was anyone still listening to us now?

Relentlessly, I hammered into her, dragging back and pumping forward. She was so damn tight. Squeezing me. Dripping on me. Her breaths were choppy, and she reached back to grip a handful of my hair.

The quick scrape of her nails on my scalp. A tug at my roots. Neither dented the haze she’d caused. All I could feel was her cunt squeezing and releasing me, opening and closing around me, making me fight to get deeper, to make sure she felt me every time she sat down for a week.

She gasped and I wrapped my hand around her throat, drawing back her head so I could pant in her ear. “Just me. I’m the only one who gets to hear you come.”

She turned her head and pierced me with her brilliant blue gaze. “Then get your hand off my throat…you brute.” Each word was punctuated with an uneven breath.

I almost smiled, but I didn’t oblige her. My hand tightened so that her gasp vibrated against my palm. And she wet my dick even more.

“Dirty little duchess.” I licked up the side of her throat while my fingers pressed just hard enough for her to wonder how far I’d go.

She only rocked into me harder, her pussy in a vicious clench that made me work for it. Work for her.

Because she knew she was worth it.

I’d risked everything for her. For this.

---