Page 2 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

Cillian works the streets. He and his army of toy soldiers handle the day-to-day, making sure this big old Duster ship runs with military precision at the customer-facing end. An undertaking indeed when your clients represent the upper echelons of New York’s high society. Cill’s the only brother who’s married. His wife, Sarah, is the sister of Paul Delaney. Razr, as he’s more affectionately known, is dating my baby sister, Bailey.

Ours is a small world. What can I say?

My attention switches to the last remaining brother.

Dylan O’Connell.

The second youngest at thirty. Same age as me. Delectable Dylan hides his extreme male hotness under a dodgy haircut, professor-style grey suit, and old man spectacles. He’s weird in a nerdy kind of way. He’s also eye candy.

Totally. Fucking. Delicious

In fact, I’d give anything to be able to unwrap that outer layer of his and see what tasty delights lay hidden behind that dowdy exterior. It’s my guess it would be the equivalent of revealing a Willy Wonka golden ticket.

I watch as his cheeks turn red. He’s realized I’m looking at him. I then watch as he pushes his prim and proper glasses further up his nose.

Fuck prim. Fuck proper. Fuck me.

I wish.

He shifts in his seat, his expression one of discomfort, likely because of my blatant ogling. Lifting his glass, he takes a sip of water, and I watch as his tongue flicks out to lick a stray droplet from his bottom lip. My gaze is automatically drawn to their now glistening fullness.

Tongue. Teeth. Lips.

I wonder what he can do with all three of them. Separately. Together. I then watch as his fingers tighten around his Mont Blanc pen like his very life depends on it.

“Jessie!”

“Eoin, I heard you the first time.” Going by his irritated tone, he’s been trying to catch my attention for some time.

I told a white lie. I didn’t hear him. Neither the first time nor the second.

I give myself a mental slap to remove the infatuated expression I’m no doubt still wearing. I’m sure Eoin deliberately spoiled my daydream just when it was getting to the good part. It’s like he could read my mind. Conscious I’m sucking on the end of my pen like a mini dick, I pull it from my mouth with a loud pop and smirk at him. He responds with one of his own.

Yup. He knows exactly where my thoughts have just been and who the star was in my very own smut show for one. Big brother has just witnessed me lusting over little brother.

I wipe my chin. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been drooling, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I then shift as discretely as I can in my chair in an attempt to stop my center from throbbing.

Fuck, I need to get laid. And soon.

See, my fantasizing over Dylan won’t get me anywhere. The reclusive O’Connell is never going to be able to scratch that itch. Dylan apparently has a cliché blonde he’s pining over. Who is she? No one knows. Do I want to stand on any invisible toes regardless? Nope. That’s something I do know.

If a man is rumored to be attached to any female aside from nuns, ones he’s related to, or ones that fall into the category of gay best friends, then that’s enough for me. He’s strictly off-limits. My whole life, I’ve been on the receiving end of glares and barbs from angry females when their men have shown an uninvited interest in me, even though I’ve done nothing to entice their unwelcome attention.

Could I kill the females in question if I wanted to? I guess. But it’s too much effort. And way too messy. Who wants blood on their shoes? Or, worse still, other bodily fluids?

I really should have been born into a family whose folks wanted their offspring to live the all-American Dream. I was a head cheerleader, after all, and I dated the quarterback. That’s a number one best-selling teen fiction novel right there.

Instead, I was born the daughter of a murderous biker. Go figure. Maybe I was switched at birth.

I glance around the ostentatious, white-walled room with its priceless artwork hanging from the walls, and its marble flooring. Placing my pen on the leather-topped circular table, I lean back in my chair, cross my legs, and straighten the skirt of my dark grey pinstriped suit before placing my hands on the armrests.

“The IRS, Jessie.” He’s borderline hissy now because I’ve kept him waiting.

“It stands for the Internal Revenue Service.” I just can’t help myself. I have boundary-pushing down to a fine art, and I like to hone my craft on old Eoin here as often as possible.

“I know that!”

“Oh. Do you want to know where things currently stand? Is that it?”

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