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Filthy (A Bad Boy Romance)

By:Katherine Lace



The club stinks. It’s not that stale-beer, old-puke-with-a-side-of-piss smell you get in a regular bar either. No, this is a classy joint. Maybe not the best neighborhood in Los Angeles, but probably one of the top five. And it’s as classy as you can get with mob money rolling in hand over fist, which is to say, pretty damn classy. So it’s another kind of stink. It’s fresh blood and raw testosterone.

Most of it’s coming from me.

I still ache everywhere. The adrenaline’s still buzzing in my ears, and after the intensity in the fighting ring I think my dick would be rock hard even if I wasn’t here looking for a fuck. The ring’ll do that to you. It’s like your whole body revs, figuring you’ll be dead soon.

Which, frankly, I probably will be, after tonight’s performance. I fucked up. I know I fucked up. But I’m not mad at myself. I’m mad at my fucking boss. And I’m done.

I head for the long wooden bar at the back of the main room. It’s quality wood—oak, I think. Smooth, made by somebody who loved the work. It looks almost out of place, with the rest of this club so ultra-modern generic, shiny and machine cut. I run a hand across it. Shit, even that feels sexual. My dick’s so hard it’s going to have a zipper mark on it by the time I get it out of my pants.

Which hopefully will be soon. She should be here—she’s always here after the matches her dad runs—and I’m going to fuck her stupid if it’s the last thing I do.

Which, frankly, it probably will be. But that’s okay. One last fuck-you to Spada before he pulls my guts out. If I’m dead tomorrow, I might as well enjoy tonight.

“Tequila,” I tell the bartender. “Patrón.”

He gives me the eyebrow. “You got money?”

“Put it on my goddamn tab.”

“You won’t have a tab after Spada gets through with you.”

This pisses me off. Whatever happens between me and Spada is my business, not his. And I’m sick of it. All of it. Of Spada telling me what fights to lose, of Spada having my balls in a vise I can’t get out of. “Patrón,” I say again. “And keep it coming.”

He shrugs. He’ll get his money one way or another, I know. While he’s sorting out my shot, I take a look down the bar.

Oh yeah. She’s here all right. Jessica Spada is perched on a barstool about six down from mine, head tipped forward while she talks to the guy next to her. I don’t recognize him, but it doesn’t matter. Probably some third- or fourth-class Hollywood asshole. They’re a dime a dozen around here. Washed-up actors, singers, screenwriters. Everybody in LA comes here for something. He’ll be on his way soon. I’ll see to that.

The bartender sets the Patrón shot down in front of me, and I pick it up and toss it back. It burns down the back of my throat, burns more in the cut on my lip. It was a good match tonight, hardscrabble and intense. Or at least it would have been a good match if I hadn’t known I was supposed to throw it. And I tried. God knows I tried. Not my fault the asshole had a glass jaw. Spada should have thought about that.

Too late to worry about it now. I head down the bar to Jessica.

She’s fucking gorgeous. Has been since the day I first saw her, five years ago. She was barely legal then; now she’s all grown up. She’s not Jessie anymore; she’s Jessica. Ms. Spada to most people. The guys on either side of her are too close, look like they’re trying to stake claims on her. Well, they’re going to have to forget that shit. This woman is mine.

I slide up next to her, cock-blocking the asshole who’s trying to get her attention. “These guys giving you problems?”

She looks over her shoulder at me and then turns. Gives me a once-over with those blue eyes. A slight shift, and she’s facing me squarely. Fuck if it doesn’t suck the breath out of my lungs when she looks right at me. “Cain McAllister,” she says, and if I’d had any breath left, those last bits would have squeaked out to hear my name on her sultry tongue. The guys surrounding her look at each other and mutter a bit then decide maybe there’re easier pickings somewhere else. Somewhere I’m not. Good. They don’t want to fuck with me. It’s never a good idea.

She’s a beautiful woman, but it’s more than that. More than just those chiseled cheekbones and those big blue eyes and the way she strokes her tongue over her lower lip. More than just those soft, round tits that strain against her sleeveless sheath just enough to make you think they might pop out if you look at them wrong. No, there’s an air about this woman that tells you that if you want to do more than just look, she’ll make you work for it.

I’m up for some work. Shit, compared to what I just went through in the ring, this should be a piece of cake.

Her gaze flicks downward. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was looking at my dick, but the angle’s wrong. Still, if she wants to look, she’s more than welcome. I know she’ll like what she sees. I’ve got more than enough to please a woman, and right now it’s so hard I could put a hole in the bar if I move the wrong way. Shit, it’s all I can do not to take her right here—bend her over the bar, tear that dress off her—

“I’m fine,” she says suddenly. I have to take a second to remind myself what we were talking about. Right. Social Niceties. That was it. I settle in, one hip against the bar. Jessica gives me another look. “You don’t look so hot though.”

“You should see the other guy.”

“I did see the other guy.” Her grin turns sultry. “Hope he didn’t bust anything important of yours.”

I laugh and deliberately cup my crotch. “Everything’s still there. Lucky for you.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Lucky for me? What exactly do you think’s going to be happening here, sir?”

I like the way she calls me “sir.” I also like that she knows who I am. That she saw the fight. Not so great that she saw me win it when I wasn’t supposed to, but that’s between me and her father, not between me and her. What’s between me and her is going to be hot, sweaty, filthy, and rough.

I scoot a little closer, still holding my dick, feeling blood pulse beneath my fingertips. “’Bout anything you want to happen, hon.”

Her smile turns sultry and she gives me that look again, scraping down my body but not quite going below the waist. Then she reaches up and runs a finger across my lip. Presses into the cut there. It hurts, and I can’t help but wince a little. Not because of the pain but because I didn’t expect that from her.

“You think you’ve got what it takes?”

I catch her hand before she can lower it and push it down against mine where I’m cupping myself. It’s delicate in mine. Long fingers, smoothly manicured. My hand feels rough and awkward around hers. “Check for yourself.”

She just tilts her eyes up toward me, that smile still on her mouth. She doesn’t pull her hand away. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

Oh no. She’s not going to pull that shit on me. I move just a little closer. Just enough that her hand and mine are both shoving against the rock-hard length of my dick. “I know who you are, Ms. Spada,” I tell her in a low voice. “I know exactly who you are, and I don’t care what your father thinks. Now—you want to go someplace a little more private?”

She twitches her fingers so her nails scrape the denim next to my fly. I have to fight to not start shaking. “Yeah,” she says. “I think that’s a damn good plan.”

I slide in, let my lips rest right against her ear. “My place is only a few blocks—”

She backs off. Not a lot, but enough to let me know I’ve said the wrong thing. She’s having second thoughts. And I know exactly what she’s thinking. So I move square with her, looking her straight in the eye. My shoulders make her look tiny, sitting there on the barstool, and suddenly her eyes are wary, vulnerable.

“Look,” I say quietly. There’s a small pool of silence around us, just enough so we can hear each other, but no one else around us has a damn clue what we’re saying. It’s perfect. I tip my head toward her, catching her eyes, and lay a hand on her shoulder. Again, my body makes hers look so small. Breakable. “I know what’s going on in that head of yours, and I don’t like it.”

“Oh really?” Her tone is grating. She’s putting on tough airs—except I’m not entirely sure they’re airs. She can’t be any kind of shrinking violet, not with a father like Phil Spada. She’s had to learn to protect herself. From him and, right now, from me.

I move my hand against her shoulder in a soothing motion. I’ll tame her if I have to, although I don’t really want to take the time. I just want inside her where it’s hot and wet and tight. I want to fuck her into oblivion. I want to own her. Because she’s something I want, and she’s something I can take from Phil Fucking Spada.

“You’re afraid your dad’s going to go ape shit if he finds out you went home with me. Because I’m just one of his filthy fighters—I’m not good enough for you. Well, guess what? I agree. I’m definitely not good enough for you.” I lean forward, talking again right into her ear. “But you know what? I can fuck you from here to next Sunday and make you scream like you’ve never screamed before. I can fuck you so hard you’ll taste me in the back of your throat ’til Christmas.”