Page 1 of Addicted to the Bad Boy
1
FINN
“Goddamn,would you look at that sexy lil’ baddie?”
I lift my head from the custom four-stroke I’m building and glance over at Grady, who rubs his crotch and groans. He’s looking at the garage door where a gorgeous girl stands, looking like she’s here for a photoshoot.
She looks like a goddamn model, with streams of wavy chestnut hair flowing down across her full, buxom chest. Blood pumps instantly to my cock, and I bite my lip, picturing what it would be like to grab a fistful of her locks with my greasy hands and tug while I pumped her hard from behind.
Could a delicate little thing like her take all my inches?
I highly doubt it.
Her slim-fit, khaki pants hug her hips like they were made for her and taper down her long legs to a pair of clearly expensive heels. She’s obviously rich and looks as out of place here as a diamond in a junkyard.
She looks across the garage for someone to help her, and when her hazel eyes meet mine, I’m instantly woozy. My cock swells under my jeans, and I reach for my water bottle and gulp half of it down in one swig.
Christ, who is she? And how’s she doing this to me?
I’ve never taken Viagra, but I hear this is what it does to you—just makes you instantly hard whenever you get turned on. I thought I had enough self-control to keep my libido in check. In fact, I’ve never had much time for the gentler sex. I just turned thirty, and people keep asking me when I’m gonna find a “good girl” and settle down.
Until now, the answer was a resounding“never.”
But that’s changed. I think I just found her.
There’s a look in her gaze, like she’s hiding something, concealing a secret, and when she turns to the office, I feel abandoned. Like she’s already betrayed me. Fuck, what the hell is happening?
“Time to lay on the rizz,” Grady chuckles, rubbing his hands together while licking his lower lip. Grady is, and always will be, a lady’s man. He’s a bike mechanic from Chesterville, but girls chase after him like he’s Timothee-goddamn-Chalamet.
Out of nowhere, my jealousy and protective instincts flare, and I have to stop myself from driving a fist into his gut. Instead, I hold out my wrench to block his path. There’s no way in hell I’m letting Grady anywhere near this angel.
“I got this one,” I growl. Grady acts like he wants to argue but sees the anger in my eyes and backs off.
“Hey, whatever you say, boss.” I’m not the boss. Slate is. Grady just likes to call me that like we’re friends. We’re not.
The gorgeous princess is brushing her hair nervously behind her ear when I walk up. I hear her breath hitch as she starts to speak, causing her to clear her throat with an adorable little cough. My cock twitches again, already painfully hard beneath my grease-soaked denim.
Now that we’re close, I see that her beauty is on another level, the definition of perfection. Full lips, big eyes, slim-thick, and dressed like she’s on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Those designer clothes would be covered in grime and torn to shredsif I had my way with her. I bet a royal-looking girl like her has never been fucked like she deserves. She probably doesn’t even know what those hips were built to do. If I’m this hard now, I know I’d go at least three rounds with her, filling her with my cum until it was dripping out and she was nearly passed out, moaning my name over and over.
I realize I’m licking my bottom lip like a hungry dog and quickly nod to her car, a high-end Mercedes, parked out front. “Yours, I assume?”
“No—well…I mean y-yes,” she replies. She’s stammering for some reason. Is she afraid to be here at this down and dirty garage? Or is it something I’m doing to her?
“Didn’t steal it, did you?”
“No! It’s my—sometimes it starts, sometimes it doesn’t.”
I nod, but I barely even hear her. My mind is swimming with thoughts of the terrible, filthy things I want to do to her. Her expensive outfit is like an invitation, begging me to strip her naked and ruin her.
But what would this upper-class piece of ass want with a greaser like me? I bet she’s got a roster of Ivy League frat boys and Olympians at her beck and call, Harvard boys wearing blazers and Polo shirts, discussing their families’ plans for world domination.
Guys like that don’t know how to handle a woman like this. It’s like those douchebags who buy a sport bike, then only ride it around town, never truly pushing the engine to its peak. A woman like this needs rough hands, vigor, passion, and a hunger to please. Christ, I’d bury my face between those thighs for hours and never come up for air.
“This is Black IronBikes, princess,” I tell her. “Not Black IronCars.”
“Yeah, I saw that, I just thought—”
“You thought what?” I snap. “That you could march in here with all your money and have us peons do whatever you want?”
