Sweet Liar: Dirty Sweet #1 Read online

  Fuck...this girl. She was going to be the death of me.

  A bead of cum gathered at the crown, and her tongue flicked out across her lower lip.

  “No,” I scolded with a stern finger. “This is not for your mouth.” If she were to take me that way, I wasn’t sure how long I’d last. Certainly not long enough, and while I was pretty sure she made me hot enough to recover quickly, I wasn’t going to make an ass of myself and prove otherwise.

  Her lips turned down into an exaggerated pout. “But I’ve been such a good girl.”

  “Patience. You’ll get it where you need it.” I reached around to her back to undo her bra while she stroked the length of me, causing my spine to tingle and my balls to draw up. “Take my jumper off,” I commanded, attempting to distract her.

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  If she’d still been holding me when she’d said that, I definitely would have exploded. How long had it been since I’d been with a woman? I tried to recall as she lifted my pullover up and over my head. Not too long. A matter of months. Six maybe. Not so long that I should be so near out of control.

  Except that the last time I’d been with a woman, it hadn’t been this woman. This woman hit my buttons, wound me up, got me hot like no one I could remember in a long time. Possibly ever, though that was likely an exaggeration. There was no way I was thinking rationally in a moment like this, after all.

  With my torso bare, Audrey found something else to steal her attention. “Dylan…you’ve been hiding some seriously toned pecs.” She traced the planes of my chest with the tips of her fingers, then bent forward to swirl her tongue around one very lucky nipple. When she moved to the other, she peered up at me, her eyes dark and dilated under long lashes.

  Breathtaking.

  That was the word for her. She stole the air from my lungs. She smothered me with her beauty, with her bewitching character. She made me heady and delirious, and if this was what it felt like to die of suffocation, I’d gladly choose this method of death anyday. Every day.

  I wound my hand in the length of her hair and sharply pulled her up to face me. “Take the bra the rest of the way off. Panties too,” I whispered against her lips. I kissed her, quickly. “I’m getting the condom.”

  I pulled open the nightstand drawer where I’d tucked a new box of condoms I’d purchased earlier in the week and retrieved a single black and gold packet. We hadn’t discussed protection, but if she wanted to learn, this was something I insisted be taught—protection. Always. Without exception.

  And thank God for a rubber sheath. It was the only chance I had at lasting more than a minute inside her.

  When I turned back to her, she was completely naked, and I had to blink several times in order to take her in without combusting. Everything about her was pink and supple. Her puffy, well-kissed lips, the bloom of her cheeks that extended down her neck to the dusky tips of her breasts, the flush of her pussy, wet and swollen between her spread thighs.

  Wet and swollen and waiting for me to fill her up.

  I stripped my clothes the rest of the way off at lightning speed, and ripped open the condom packet. I was seconds from rolling it over the throbbing steel jutting from my pelvis when she spoke up.

  “Can I put it on?”

  The few remaining pints of blood that hadn’t yet made it there, surged to my cock in a rush. “Have you ever put one on before?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head.

  “Then it seems this is the perfect opportunity to learn, doesn’t it?”

  She perched herself on the side of the bed, and I handed her the unwrapped condom. She studied it for a moment, working out which direction was up, then set it on my crown.

  “I don’t want it to break,” she explained as she delicately smoothed it over the length of me.

  She looked so innocent and naïve with her small hands wrapped around the circumference of my erection, her brows knit together in concentration. I was a dirty old man in contrast. A man old enough to be experienced at fucking by the time she was born. A man with scars worn on my aging skin and wounds that ran deeper, unseen by the naked eye. A man who knew better than to believe that sex with a woman like Audrey could ever be casual.

  A man who could still crawl to shore if he tried, but didn’t have the willpower to do anything except sink.

  With a burst of outrage—outrage at myself for being so foolish, outrage at her for being so potently irresistible—I flipped her so she was bent over the bed, lined myself at her entrance, and drove all the way into her cunt with one blunt thrust. She cried out at the force, her body trying to jolt forward, but I dug my fingers into her hips and kept her steady and in place, ready for me to pound into her again and again. She squeaked and wriggled and grew wetter until she adjusted. Then she moaned and leaned back into the slap, slap, slap of my thighs against hers.

  I wished I could watch her, wished I could scrutinize each wrinkle in her face while I stretched her and filled her and punished her pussy for being so perfect, so tight, so inexperienced. But I couldn’t face her right now, couldn’t look into her guileless expression while I fucked her like a well-used whore.

  Because that was exactly how I fucked her—like I’d paid for the hour. Apropos since I had a feeling, when this was all said and done, there would be a price to pay. I just hoped I could afford the cost.

  She was a good girl for me. She told me what she wanted with her sounds, with the rhythm of her breathing, with the way her cunt clutched at my violent stabs. She obeyed me when I demanded that she played with herself, and she stayed with the effort even as she shattered around my cock, her body convulsing with the force of her orgasm.

  And I wasn’t yet finished with her.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her to sit on my lap. I let her ride me reverse-cowgirl style while I licked the back of her neck and pulled at her nipples. When she tired, I spanked her upper thigh then gripped her hips and moved her body for her. She came again, stuttering my name, a sound that made me wild with lust.

  I couldn’t resist anymore—I had to watch her face.

  Again, I shifted her, laying her back onto the bed. I knelt in front of her, my knees driven wide. With my hands gripping her ankles, I spread her legs apart. She was completely on display now—the twist of her facial features, her tits as they bounced to my unrelenting tempo, her pussy as it swallowed each and every one of my cock’s thrusts. This time I didn’t have to tell her to touch herself, she just did, her eyes locked on me as she stroked horizontally across her clit—she was a quick learner. The best of students.

  “This,” she said, her gaze glossy. “I really like this. Watching you like this.”

  “You’ve had sex face-to-face before.” I was always quick to anchor things in reality.

  “I have. But never like this.” Her thighs tightened with her oncoming climax. “I’ve never watched anyone watch me like you’re watching me now.” Her words strangled as she threw her head back and surrendered to the pleasure, but I understood them well enough.

  Well enough to undo me.

  I shoved in, slipping past the grip of her pussy until I was planted as deep as possible, and with a rumble of curse words, I let my orgasm wash over me, bathing me like the cold immersion of baptism, leaving me drenched and soul-stirred and new and convinced that nothing, nothing would ever be the same.

  But hormones have that effect.

  When I was calm and thinking straight, after we’d stroked each other’s skin and bantered back and forth, after we’d each showered and washed up, I recognized the folly of the notion. Of course everything would be the same again. She was just a pretty girl—sweet and too young and sinfully wicked with her naivety. She was one of a million girls of the same mold. Maybe she was one of only a handful that would look twice at a forty-plus-year-old man, but she wasn’t unique in any way.

  I’d put her on a train, she’d ride off, and in a week she’d be nothing but a sordid memory to pull out when I jerked off i
n the shower.

  “I do hope this was somewhat educational,” I said when we’d reached the top of the escalators at Grand Central Station. It was as far as I intended to go. Watching her train take off from the platform was entirely too romantic for a curmudgeon like me.

  “So educational.” Her cheeks pinked, and I wondered exactly what it was she was remembering. “You’re a very thorough teacher.”

  She was being kind with her flattery. Yet, I smiled and accepted the compliment all the same.

  “Is anyone meeting you at the station?”

  “My roommate.”

  She had a roommate. She had friends. She had a whole life that I knew nothing about. Didn’t it feel like she knew every important thing about me? Every dull detail of my lame existence. Anything I hadn’t said out loud in our brief time together could be guessed at and pieced together while she was an enigma. A puzzle I was never meant to solve.

  I stopped trying. I let the cloud of mystery settle back around her and didn’t ask her anything else. And when it was time for us to part, I resisted the gut-deep instinct to pull her into my arms and kiss the hell out of her, and instead, pulled her in for a polite hug.

  “I suppose I have to believe in kismet now,” I said, because she deserved the sentiment.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Wonderful. Yes. It was some kind of wonderful.

  Then I walked away, refusing to look back, even once. Refusing to do anything but move on.

  * * *

  I flew home to London the following day despite Weston’s emphatic request that I stay for his upcoming nuptials.

  “Lose another week in the States to attend your fake wedding?” I chortled. “I think not.”

  “What if it’s not so fake?”

  “Even more reason not to stay.” I sounded as bitter as usual. Things did return to normal, then. As I knew they would.

  A week passed. Ten days. A fortnight. Every day my thoughts turned to Audrey. Her smile haunted my dreams. Her cute quips replayed unbidden at the oddest of times. The light soprano of her voice sounded in the chorus of every Christmas carol.

  I missed her. I ached for her presence. I was…

  Oh, fuck.

  I was pining.

  I’d most likely never see her again, and that was best. For both of us.

  But if our paths did cross in the future, if fortune deemed that we’d once more come face to face, I’d have to believe in kismet, wouldn’t I? Would I believe in more, too?

  Would I be ready to believe again in love?

  Only fate alone could know.

  Dylan and Audrey’s story concludes in Sweet Fate (Dirty Sweet #2).

  Want to read the first three chapters of Sweet Fate now? Just sign up for my newsletter and get them here. If you’re already a newsletter subscriber, you have to sign up again to get the chapters!

  The Dirty Universe Continues…

  There are more dirty men in my universe.

  And they all have filthy, rich love stories to share.

  Dirty Duet - Donovan Kincaid

  Dirty Filthy Rich Boys - a free prequel to the Dirty Duet

  Dirty Filthy Rich Men

  Dirty Filthy Rich Love

  Available Now!

  Dirty Games Duet - Weston King

  Dirty Sexy Bastard - a free prequel to the Dirty Games Duet

  Dirty Sexy Player

  Dirty Sexy Games

  Available Now!

  Dirty Filthy Fix - Nate Sinclair

  Available Now!

  Dirty Sweet Duet - Dylan Locke

  Sweet Liar

  Sweet Fate

  Dirty Wild Duet - Cade Warren

  Coming in 2020

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  Also by Laurelin Paige

  Visit my website for a more detailed reading order.

  The Dirty Universe

  Dirty Filthy Rich Boys - READ FREE

  Dirty Duet: Dirty Filthy Rich Men | Dirty Filthy Rich Love

  Dirty Sexy Bastard - READ FREE

  Dirty Games Duet: Dirty Sexy Player | Dirty Sexy Games

  Dirty Sweet Duet: Sweet Liar | Sweet Fate

  Dirty Filthy Fix (a spinoff novella)

  Dirty Wild Trilogy: Coming 2020

  The Fixed Universe

  Fixed Series: Fixed on You | Found in You | Forever with You | Hudson | Fixed Forever

  Found Duet: Free Me | Find Me

  Chandler (a spinoff novel)

  Falling Under You (a spinoff novella)

  Dirty Filthy Fix (a spinoff novella)

  Slay Saga - Slay One: Rivalry

  First and Last

  First Touch | Last Kiss

  Spark - short, steamy sparks of romance

  One More Time

  Ryder Brothers Close

  Want by Kayti McGee | More by JD Hawkins

  Hollywood Heat

  Sex Symbol | Star Struck

  Written with Sierra Simone

  Porn Star | Hot Cop

  Written with Kayti McGee under the name Laurelin McGee

  Miss Match | Love Struck | MisTaken | Holiday for Hire

  About Laurelin Paige

  With over 2.4 million books sold worldwide, Laurelin Paige is a New York Times, Wall Street Journal and USA Today Bestselling Author. Her international success started with her very first series, the Fixed Trilogy, which, alone, has sold over 1 million copies, and earned her the coveted #1 spot on Amazon’s bestseller list in the U.S., U.K., Canada, and Australia, simultaneously. This title also was named in People magazine as one of the top 10 most downloaded books of 2014. She’s also been #1 over all books at the Apple Book Store with more than one title in more than one country. She’s published both independently and with MacMillan’s St. Martin’s Press and Griffin imprints as well as many other publishers around the world including Harper Collins in Germany and Hachette/Little Brown in the U.K. With her edgy, trope-flipped stories of smart women and strong men, she’s managed to secure herself among today’s romance royalty.

  Paige has a Bachelor’s degree in Musical Theater and a Masters of Business Administration with a Marketing emphasis, and she credits her writing success to what she learned from both programs, though she’s also an avid learner, constantly trying to challenge her mind with new and exciting ideas and concepts. While she loves psychological thrillers and witty philosophical books and entertainment, she is a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy anytime there’s kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn’t seem to complain, however. When she isn’t reading or writing sexy stories, she’s probably singing, watching shows like Game of Thrones, Letterkenny and Discovery of Witches, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She's also a proud member of Mensa International though she doesn't do anything with the organization except use it as material for her bio. She currently lives outside Austin, Texas and is represented by Rebecca Friedman.

  www.laurelinpaige.com

  [email protected]

 

 

 
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