Page 17 of Dirty Love

“Like I said, I can’t talk anymore this afternoon, but my vocal coach doesn’t have any rules about other uses for my mouth.” I wink at the blond one and turn around, denying him the view of my chest. But before I lose his attention, I undo the heavy leather belt that decorates the top of my hip hugger jeans and shove those to the ground.

The other one is staring at the ceiling now. That won’t do.

“You,” I purr. He looks at me. Good, he’s not embarrassed. I don’t have any time for chivalry, either, but it’s more easily worked around than nerves.

Nothing worse than a guy coming in his pants before I get my mouth on him.

“What’s your name, really?”

“Kevin Weston.”

I laugh. “And what’s your friend’s name?”

From behind me—closer than I expect—I hear the voice of steel again. “Wilson…Gough.”

Ah. “Wilson,” I say, blinking at him over my shoulder. Shit, he’s tall. Like a foot taller than me, and big. And he smells like he’d tasteamazing. Asshole.

I can hear my therapist in my head. It’s not this guy’s fault that he’s hot. That I’m fucked up and use sex as a replacement for everything in my life.

Better than tequila, I usually joke.

Dr. Yost really hates jokes.

I think Wilson’s not big on them either. He glares down at my half-naked body, then back at my face again. “This stunt isn’t convincing me that you’re unaffected by your encounters with Gerome Lively, Tabitha.”

“Should I give your friend a blow job, Wilson?” I lick my lips as I ask the question, loving the way the tension in the room ratchets up a thousand degrees. Welcome to my world, men. Where I finally have an advantage because fucked-up is my life, my every day, so now that you’re off-kilter, I can forge ahead and seize the upper hand. “That’s what I asked Lively, by the way, the one time I spent any time with him. He looked me up and down and told me that he’d like to split me in two. I slid my hands into his pants and told him I prefer to be split in three, and he’d need a friend to help.”

Blink.

That’s all I get. I’m supposed to get red faces and stammering apologies. Offers of trauma counselling and kind words about how none of it is my fault.

Instead I get a whisper that cuts me to the quick. “My friendisa bit tense,” Wilson murmurs, his eyes strangely warm. Not like he thinks I’m kidding—there’s a scary edge there that says, no, he knows exactly what goes on with Lively’s parties and he believes that exchange really happened. But he’s not going to let me shock my way out of this conversation.

Well, I’m not backing down, either. I spin, then sway my way towardKevin. Definitely not his name. Wilson’s pupils dilate when I say his name. This guy is cold and hard like granite. I reach behind me and unclasp my bra, then hold on to the cups in the front so it doesn’t fall away. Not for modesty—I don’t have any—but because the lure of what they can’t see is so much more powerful than what they can.

I get as far as reaching for his belt before he steps back, and I wobble, catching myself from falling onto all fours.

Then I hear it. A catch in Wilson’s throat, maybe. A groan of the quietest order.

And I drop to my hands and knees, pressing my ass in the air.

“Ms. Leyton, we’ll let you get ready for your performance now,”Kevinsays. I push back onto my knees and glance at Wilson, but he’s already standing.

Walking around me.

Walking away from me, because I’m a fucked-up mess and was no use to them.

Exactly what I set out to do, but damn, it doesn’t feel good.

Nothing about my life feels good outside the two hours I’m on stage, and I close my eyes, grateful that tonight I’ll get to escape for a bit.

I start shivering as soon as the door clicks shut behind them. I don’t even hear Grant come in a few minutes later.

“What did you tell them?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Of course I told them nothing.”

He sneers down at me. “I don’t know. Sometimes you get these crazy ideas in your head.”

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