Page 91 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

“I had no idea another Duster wedding was on the horizon. My congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” I smile.

If Eoin’s not going to make things official between us, then I’ll force his hand. He will be mine.

And then I’ll remove all traces of Jaine Jones not just from his phone, but from his life.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT

JESSIE

Jessie’s Apartment, Hudson Yards, New York

“Do it, Jessie.”

I’m standing outside Dirty Dylan’s apartment, trying to work up the courage to knock on the door. Why? Because I want to know what the hell’s going on.

We fucked. This morning. Over his desk.

No niceties. No wining and dining. It was pure, unadulterated sex. The kind the Bible warns you about. The kind you participate in at your own risk as partaking will see you sent to the bowels of hell, condemned to live in the house of Satan forevermore. Well, I’m already the spawn of the Devil as my daddy is Lucifer. Trust me, I’m used to living in those fiery depths.

And now I know what all the fuss is about with desk sex. Why Eoin and Candice favor it so much.

Hot. Impulsive. Raw.

I’d like to sign up for some more of that, please. Lots more.

Pushed around. Pinned down. I’ll be wearing those beautiful bruises he inflicted on my skin for days.

But before I do, I need to know where this is going. My daddy raised me to have pride in myself. And I do. Jessie O’Brien is no-one’s sidepiece.

The wi-fi is also down. So, aside from wanting that answer, there’s another reason I’m standing here. I know the wi-fi is dedicated to his apartment and mine, so either Dyl’s been fucking around with it, or there’s a legitimate outage. Right now, I can’t work. That’s causing me another problem.

I knock. My heart pounds in my chest in a matching fucked-up rhythm.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The door opens moments later, and he’s standing there in all his glory in a white fitted tee, those slim hips of his wrapped invitingly in a pair of dark blue jeans. Hips that earlier today were thrusting between my very receptive thighs as I was bent face down over his desk.

His hair is wet from the shower, so he’s obviously been working out. Having looked surprised initially, his expression has switched to the impassive one he seems to favor these days. I guess he’s not quite so pleased to see me as he was earlier today.

Great.

I’m no longer sure how to play this. It’s all well and good me trying to portray the confident and sassy Jessie. But he’s seen both sides so there’s no fooling him. And with that less than welcoming response, I suddenly have no clue what to say.

“The wi-fi,” I stutter.

“Sorry. We were messing around with the setup then we had an issue with the reboot.”

We.

Did he just say what I think he did? He must have. He used the word ‘we’ twice in the same sentence.

“Jessie.”

I immediately recognize the voice. Grace Ryan.

She appears behind him in nothing but a dressing gown. White. Fluffy. Over-sized. The type they provide in posh hotels. Like the establishments the Dusters own a plethora of in Manhattan.

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