Dirty Whispers: A Dark Bad Boy Romance Read online

  “My brother,” I say. His hand is warm and strong. I can’t help but relive the kiss when he holds me so securely.

  I glance down at Patrick, unconscious but breathing, and try to pull away from the man. He shakes his head. “No way,” he repeats, voice stern.

  “Listen to me, Mister Whoever You Are, if you don’t let me go to him, I’m going to—”

  “I’ll kill him if he touches you,” the man states flatly.

  I roll my eyes. “Look, I don’t need a knight in shining armor, okay?” Are you sure? A voice asks. Are you one-hundred percent sure of that, Emily? Maybe a knight in shining armor is exactly what you need.

  The man shakes his head stubbornly. Then, before I can react, he bends down and picks me up by the waist. I let out a wail, but I’m sure there’s as much thrill as fear in my voice. He throws me over his shoulder, my arms flailing at his back, and turns away from Patrick’s prostrate form. “What are you doing?” I demand, voice breathless.

  “Getting you out of here,” the man says.

  He begins carrying me toward the exit. The crowd loves it.

  “Look at him go!”

  “There’s a brave man!”

  “Saving the girl!”

  Everybody’s drunk or drugged-up and nobody steps in to stop him. He carries me up a flight of stairs, maneuvering me as though I weigh nothing, and out into the pitch-dark night. Across a parking lot and to a car.

  I should be pounding on his back with my fists, kicking out with my legs, desperate to get back to my brother. But the truth is, I’m intrigued. I know I shouldn’t be. I know it’s wrong. My brother is laid out back there and here I am, not even putting up a good fight to get back to him. But when this mystery man lays me in the back of his car, I don’t dive for the handle. Instead, I sit with my hands in my lap, trying to catch my breath. There’s something about his touch. Conflicting voices scream at me. Go back! But he’s interesting! But what about when Patrick wakes up? Can’t a girl go on a ride of her own every now and then? Not you, Emily! You know that! But this is the first exciting thing that has ever happened to me.

  That last thought seals it. Always, it’s Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Everything happens to him and I’m just along for the ride, his quiet sister, his obedient sister, his beaten sister.

  When the man starts the car, I don’t jump at the door. I look at him in the rear-view mirror instead. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a cynical smile on his lips. He looks in-control as few men do.

  “My name’s Jude Kelly,” he says.

  “Emily Ness,” I mutter.

  “I’m taking you somewhere safe, Emily Ness.”

  I should fight, I should scream, I should break the glass and leap out into the street if that’s what it takes. But I don’t do any of that. I lean back in the passenger seat and watch as New York drifts by, the lights and the partiers and the twenty-four-hour stores. Jude drives us to a block of apartments and stops outside.

  I’m about to step out when he walks around the car and opens the door for me. “I can carry you again, if you like.”

  I step into the street. “I can walk,” I say shortly, still wondering what the heck I’m doing. I think of Patrick, back there, still out cold. Or maybe not out cold anymore. Maybe on his feet and swearing bloody vengeance. I swallow; there’s going to be pain when I return. But for some reason, that isn’t enough to stop me from following Jude through the lobby, into the elevator, and up to his apartment.

  His apartment is a one-bedroom place with a lived-in look. Clothes are strewn across the floor and empty beer bottles rest on the coffee table. No pictures hang from the walls. The only decoration is a large flat-screen TV which sits in front of the couch. Jude waves at the couch and I sit down, pushing aside a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Jude brings me a glass of water. I drink it down, savoring the coolness on my throat. I didn’t realize how hot I was until I drink it.

  I lay the empty glass on the table and Jude drops onto the couch next to me. I turn, realizing he’s looking at me. There’s a heat in his eyes, an intensity I’ve never seen before. His eyes are hard. His body is harder, every contour outlined under his clothes, packs upon packs of muscle.

  His eyes move up and down me, from my toes to my face. A shiver runs down my spine. I should stop this, I think. But a man has never looked at me like this before. Despite myself, my body starts to respond. Shivers, tingles, a tickling sensation between my legs.

  “You’re beautiful, Emily,” he says.

  When he leans across and kisses me, I should shove him away, or even just turn my head to the side. But I just want to taste it, if only for a moment. When his lips press into mine, I take in a long, deep breath. I’ve never moaned because of a kiss before, but there is sound escaping my throat. I don’t think; I open my mouth and push my tongue forward. He meets me, and for a while our tongues dance, clashing. Nerves tingle and dance down my tongue and over my body. Then he reaches his hand across and presses down on my pussy. My pussy! I should push him away. This is beyond bad. But I can’t.

  The pleasure is too much.

  He breaks off the kiss. His lips are red. The mood I’m in, suddenly his red lips are sexy, a sign of our kissing.

  He slides off the couch and kneels in front of me, hands working at my pants. He unbuttons them, pulls them down, along with my underwear. I’m bottomless, pussy right there, naked. I should cover myself, but I don’t. My clit is aching like mad and when he brings his face close to me, I don’t moan in resistance. I moan in encouragement.

  He grabs my thighs, parts my legs, and then shoves his face into my pussy. His tongue darts from his mouth and licks my clit. Oh. My. God. I’ve never felt pleasure like this. I’ve touched myself sometimes, in the shower, or in the dark under covers, but its never felt like this. He teases my clit at first, circling it with his tongue, and then he licks it with full power. Pressing his tongue down so hard it feels like a burning rod, pushing firmly into me.

  I lean back on the couch, letting my head roll, and start moaning louder and with more passion than I’ve ever moaned before. He digs his hands into my thighs—hands that just beat the crap out of Patrick!—and licks faster. Soon, his licking turns my clit into a fire-hot orb. A ball of pleasure so hot I’m surprised it doesn’t singe his tongue. He licks with more ferocity, trailing his tongue up my lips, down to my hole, and then with a quick jerk back to my clit.

  I’m moaning louder and louder now, and then—

  Oh . . .

  My . . .

  “God!” I cry.

  The orb of heat explodes and the orgasm rocks through me. I feel as though I am being thrown about the place, from wall to wall, crashing. I sink my fingers into his hair and press his face closer to me. Pleasure explodes. I moan louder, with more hunger, and then the orgasm surges through me one last time.

  “Fuck!” I roar, shocked at myself for cursing.

  When it’s over, Jude rises to his feet, offers me his hand, and leads me to the bedroom.

  We flop down, side by side.

  “Damn,” he says.

  “Damn,” I agree, hardly able to catch my breath.

  Chapter Four

  Emily

  We lie in silence for a time. Pocketed silence, a silence just for us, because outside New York is as loud and lively as ever. Horns honk, people shout, alarms blare, cars backfire, tires screech. But inside, lying side by side in Jude’s bare-walled bedroom, we are silent.

  After a while, the madness of the lust passes and I come to my senses. I take a blanket from the end of the bed and drape it over my naked legs. “That was something,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m half-naked in a strange man’s apartment. That he just went down on me and gave me the best orgasm of my life, easy.

  “It was,” he agrees. “Don’t know what came over me. Guess I couldn’t stand to see that big bastard hit someone so small and vulnerable.”

  “Who says I’m vulnerable?” I shoot back. Is it that obvious?

&nbs
p; Jude shrugs. “Just a guess,” he says. “I had to take you. I couldn’t let him do you like that. It’s too fucked up. Why does he treat you like that?”

  I feel a wall rise inside of me. It’s the same wall that’s risen many times before, the wall that blocks me from revealing just how awful Patrick is, just how scared I am of him. “It’s not that bad,” I murmur.

  “Right.” Jude laughs gruffly. “Of course it isn’t. And pigs fly every damn day. I saw it, Emily. I saw just how bad it was. Trust me, I know a thing or two about the bad shit in this world.”

  “What, you’re a philosopher as well as a kidnapper now, are you?” There’s acid in my voice. “I should tell you. My brother’s a very dangerous man.”

  “Not as dangerous as a mob man,” Jude says absentmindedly.

  A mob man. That would explain the tattoos. What have I gotten myself into?

  “Maybe you aren’t so different, then, you and Patrick. Neither of you take my feelings into account. You just picked me up and—”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining just now,” he cuts in.

  I feel myself blush. “That was different.”

  “Different, how?”

  “I . . . I couldn’t stop it.” My voice is weak, but I’m telling the truth. It really felt like I couldn’t stop it.

  “And the moaning, the begging, the screaming? What was that about?”

  “Oh, shut up.” I sigh. “Maybe I did like it.”

  “There’s no maybe about it.” With a groan, Jude climbs to his feet. He walks to the door. “I’m going for a drink. You can rest up or join me. Choice is yours.”

  “I’m going to lie here awhile,” I tell him.

  He shrugs and goes into the living room, closing the door behind him.

  I stare at the closed door for a long time, wondering at myself, at the entire crazy situation.

  Chapter Five

  Jude

  Maybe you aren’t so different, then, you and Patrick.

  I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but dammit, it does. Bothers me a whole lot. I take a swig of whisky, straight from the bottle, and turn on the TV. There’s a basketball game on. I half-watch it, but really I’m just thinking. Being compared to that piece of shit doesn’t feel good, not in the least. But she enjoyed it. She came. She was moaning. All true, but she didn’t sound too happy after the fact. And she isn’t in here, drinking with me. She’s in the bedroom, probably thinking about how her asshole brother and I are two sweet peas in a pod.

  My mind wanders when I drink. Shouldn’t let it, not with all the depressing shit that has happened to me, but I can’t help it. I think of Anna, my first love, and how she always tried to keep up with me. I drank; she drank. I partied; she partied. On and on until one day I realize Anna wasn’t partying because she wanted to, but because she needed to. Addicted to the booze and the pills, so damn addicted that her parents scooped her up and took her away from me, then shipped her to a rehab clinic. I’ll never see her again, and that’s alright. I’ve doubled down, committed to my path. I’ll drink as much as I want, blot everything out, live moment to moment.

  Mom and Dad.

  It always comes back to Mom and Dad. I remember when Dad drove the car straight into the lake. Goddamn old man wasn’t paying attention. Too busy singing along to the radio. I remember the pressure of the water, the gargling screams, bubbles rising. I remember unbuckling my seatbelt and grabbing my sister, Moira, under the armpits and swimming her to the surface. When I set her down, resuscitated her, and then dived back into the lake, Mom and Dad were stone-dead. Moira never blamed me, but damn, it’s hard to look your sister in the eye after something like that. Not that there’s love loss between us. We’re still close, or as close as two people walking different paths through life can be.

  I drink and I drink until my memories turn to vapor. The game ends. The after-game chat begins. Soon, I’m so drunk I can barely keep my eyes open. I want to go into the bedroom, lie down next to that precious-looking woman, maybe make her feel something again. But I’m too tired and her comment about me and her brother has rubbed me the wrong way.

  I set the bottle down on the table and lie on my back.

  I wake after what feels like a moment, but my head is pounding and sunlight slants in through the windows.

  She’s gone, I think.

  There’s no doubt about it. The bedroom door is ajar and the apartment is quiet.

  But who else draped me in this blanket, if not her?

  Chapter Six

  Emily

  A week passes and I don’t see Jude again.

  When I fall asleep at night, my mind returns to the way Patrick reacted when I returned that morning. Patrick’s a small-time drug dealer with a group of small-time friends. But just because they’re small-time, that doesn’t mean they’re not vicious, mean men. The bruise which blooms like a purple rose across my belly is testament to Patrick’s anger. I keep quiet, go to work at the bakery, and try to keep my head down.

  But often when I return at night, Patrick and his right-hand Barry O’Malley are in the living room, smoking and drinking. Barry is a psychopath. Small, leery, with beady grey eyes, he’s easily the creepiest man I’ve ever met. Despite his size, his arms are sinewy, proof of his violent, firecracker nature. I remember when I was younger, a little girl, seeing a slightly younger, slightly less drunken Barry beat the hell out of a kid for no reason. We were walking down the street, Barry twitched—and left the kid for dead. Once, he tried to slide his hand up my skirt. If I had it my way, he’d never set foot in this apartment. But of course I don’t have it my way.

  Sometimes, they let me retreat to my bedroom. Other times, Patrick grabs me and shoves me on the couch, forcing me to talk with them late into the night when all I want to do is shower and relax.

  “Did you know,” Patrick says one night, “Emily fucked the mob guy? Jude Kelly, or whatever the fuck his name is. Left me for dead and stayed at his place all night, fucking like a whore rabbit. Isn’t that right, Emily?”

  “We didn’t have sex,” I say quietly.

  “Huh?” Patrick snaps, trampling my words. “Don’t think you can start getting smart with me, little sister. I think you forget how much I do for you, sometimes. Do you have clothes on your back? Do you have somewhere to sleep? We’re orphans, but I didn’t let you suffer, did I? I took care of you, was a mom and a dad to you.”

  He really believes it, I think numbly.

  “You should be more grateful,” Barry agrees, leering at me over the rim of a glass of beer. Icy fingers move up my spine.

  “What sort of sister do I have, Barry, eh? Maybe she’s forgetting what business we’re in. Maybe she’s forgetting that when she spreads her legs and invites this Irish mafia fuck in, she’s not only betraying me as her brother, but she’s betraying our business. We’re always fighting with the Irish for territory, aren’t we?”

  He says this with unearned arrogance. The truth is, Patrick’s operation is about as grassroots as it gets. Him, Barry, and three or four of their friends, playing at being big time.

  I bite my tongue. Nothing good would come from me pointing out this inconvenient fact. My mind returns to Jude, how he looked asleep on the couch. I remember draping the blanket over him, the way he tugged it up to his chin with a sleepy smile on his face. I remember wanting to lie down next to him, feel the warmth of his body beside mine. On the nights where Barry and Patrick sit up, lying about me, I wish I was back there.

  One evening after a particularly hard day at the bakery—we were preparing a big order for a party, all whilst serving customers—I get into the apartment wanting nothing more than to crumple into a tired heap. When you’ve worked hard, sometimes all you can think about is your bed. Even a shower is out of the question. I just want to curl up in the covers, close my eyes, and let the peace of sleep take me. No stress, no problems, no whirring thoughts. Today I’m so tired I might even get to sleep without being hounded by Jude into my dreams.

/>   But as soon as I get into the apartment, I know that’s not going to be the case. Barry, alone, sits on the couch. He’s shirtless, showing a concave chest, the kind of thin that looks unhealthy. A white jagged scar runs down one side of his torso, probably received in some bar fight, though I’ve heard him lie and tell people he got it when tooling up five guys—all by himself. Bluster and blank-faced lies are standard routine when it comes to Patrick and his pals.

  “Where’s Patrick?” I ask, hovering near the entranceway. Patrick may be a horrible, evil man, but at least he’s the horrible, evil man I know. I can play him, somewhat. I can avoid the worst of him. Barry is like a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit, just waiting to go off.