Dirty Bad Wrong
Authors: Jade West
Dirty Bad Wrong
Jade West
Dirty Bad Wrong copyright © 2015 Jade West
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Cover design by Letitia Hasser of RBA Designs http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/
Edited by John Hudspith www.johnhudspith.co.uk
All enquiries to [email protected]
First published 2015
For Johnny and his dark muse.
May I always be blessed with such gems.
***WARNING***
This book is exactly what it says on the tin. It’s Dirty, it’s Bad, and some readers may find it very, very Wrong.
It contains a lot of sex, a LOT, and a collection of sexual practices that some readers may well find offensive. The novel is entirely consensual, but please use your own discretion.
Most definitely 18+ only.
IF YOU DON’T LIKE READING ABOUT DIRTY BAD WRONG SEX THEN PLEASE WALK ON BY.
On the flip side if you DO enjoy Dirty Bad Wrong sex, then I cannot be held accountable for any repetitive strain related injuries that may occur as a result of excessive sexual stimulation.
My characters are trained professionals, please do not try some of these practices at home (unless you’re really sure)
Thank you.
May the reading resume <3
Contents
The chains above rattle as I jerk in my bonds. My legs quiver, knees trembling, adrenaline pumping.
He circles me. I feel his footfalls. Heavy, purposeful. I can smell him, too. He smells of sex, and sweat, and musk. He smells of sin.
He smells so damn
dirty bad wrong
.
The tap, tap, tap of the cane against my thighs, so gently. I take a breath. The cane comes to rest, pressing against my skin, and he’s at my side, his lips at my ear.
“Steady,” he breathes and his warm breath sends tingles down my neck.
He trails a hand up my ribs, and my body flinches. Fight or flight.
In my chains I can do neither. And I don’t want to.
The glowing heat between my legs gives testament to one simple truth.
I want
him... the release he delivers through pain... the silky caress of the abyss beyond fear.
I
want
him to break me.
I
want
him to hurt me.
I
want
him to own me.
And then I want him to love me.
“Tell me what you need, Lydia.”
I gasp. His savage hand is on my breast. Gripping, twisting, hurting. My nipples come alive, begging for punishment, and I roll into his touch. It feels so fucking good.
I hear my own ragged breathing, the incoherent murmurs coming from my mouth.
He kicks my feet further apart, spreading me wide. I struggle to keep my balance, but the cuffs pull tight against the chains, taking my weight. Another tap of the cane on my stomach, harder this time, and then his fingers, teasing me open, grazing my clit.
Fuck.
Two fingers hook inside, pushing in deep. I hear how wet I sound. He groans his approval.
My words catch in my throat, but I force them out.
“Pain... I want pain...”
I gasp again as his two fingers lift me onto my toes.
“I did not ask you what you
wanted
, I asked you what you
needed
.”
“Pain … please, I need pain …”
He kisses my neck, and I’m lost in him, swimming in his darkness.
“I’m going to hurt you now, Lydia Marsh. I’m going to mark you, and break you, and own you... and then I’m going to make you cum so hard you’ll scream my name. Will I tell you what
I
need? I need to see you cry, Lydia. You’re so fucking beautiful when you cry.”
I screw my eyes shut under the blindfold and take a deep breath.
I’m ready.
Lydia
Six Months earlier.
Sicked up onto the pavement of single and homeless at twenty-three years old. I knew I must be hurting, even though I couldn’t feel a thing. Shock, I guess. Shell shock.
My toes tapped against the suitcase wedged under my desk. It wouldn’t quite fit in the footwell, sticking out like a big red beacon for the entire office to see on arrival. LYDIA MARSH IS SINGLE, it screamed, HER LIFE JUST GOT FUCKED. I died a little at the thought. I’ve no time for tea and sympathy; the nosey intrusion of strangers in the guise of friendship. Slaverings of pity laid on thick, pitted eyebrows and
there theres
. No thank you.
I breathed in the empty room; soaking up the empty desks in the eerie pre-work silence. It was still dark outside, London only just stirring as the faint kiss of dawn teased the skyline.
Single. Homeless. Screwed.
My mobile buzzed in my pocket, but this time I didn’t even reach for it. I’d no need of his bullshit messages, I already knew what they’d say.
Come home, Lyds, please come home. Please don’t leave me.
A twinge of sadness pinched my insides. Home. The home we’d shared, the home in which we’d laughed and fucked and made plans together. The home I’d called ours. But it wasn’t ours, not really. When push came to shove it was all Stuart’s.
His
name on the mortgage,
his
furniture in every room,
his
goddamn history there before mine. It hadn’t seemed a big deal. Why should it? I figured we were in for the long haul, for 2.5 kids and a joint bank account.
I thought Stu would always be there. But no.
One drunken night at a sales conference had put paid to that. I’d been home sleeping while he’d been out fucking. Carly Winters, admin junior. Bottle blonde, with a slightly orange hue and too much mascara. The absolute opposite of me. She looked Barbie-doll fake, plastic and insincere, but I guess
he
didn’t think so.
I’d never have known, not if he hadn’t been too drunk to put a rubber on it.
Oh my God, Lyds, she’s pregnant! She’s fucking pregnant!
I should’ve lost my temper, lashed out and kneed him where it hurts, but anger was a n
o
-
show. I listened to the whole sorry string of apologies without so much as a whimper, no hint of breakdown. No all-consuming rage. Nothing.
Don’t do this, Lydia, don’t block me out! Get angry! Scream, Lyddie, please! Hit me! Anything!
I’d gone to bed. Shut him out and waited for tears to find me. Tears never came, just the itches. Spidery itches, dancing under my scars and begging for the razor blade. It had been years since the calling found me, years since I’d taken a blade to my own skin.
Not again.
Not anymore.
In the early hours, sick of the insomnia, I’d packed a single lowly suitcase while he followed me around, begging and pleading and grovelling for forgiveness. It wasn’t a case of forgiveness. Forgiveness I could manage, after all,
all
people do stupid things, even the good ones. I’ve known that fact as long as I’ve known my mother… as long as I’ve been old enough to make excuses for her… as long as I’ve been old enough to try and make it all better again.
I could forgive Stuart for his stupid indiscretion but I could never stay. We weren’t blood, not like Mum and me. We weren’t bound by flesh and bone and years of responsibility. Stuart and I were done, just like that. Over.
He’d asked where I was going, like he didn’t know. Work, of course. Keep calm and carry the fuck on; smile through the pain like strong little Lydia always does. Anyway, I had nowhere else to go. Sad but true. One long-term friend from uni in my immediate circle, a couple of acquaintances not worth shit, and my mother back home. I’d have to call on Steph and hope we were still close enough that she’d offer me a sofa until I could get myself straight.
Just stay, Lydia, I’ll move out, I’ll stay on the sofa, anything. Just until you’re settled. Just think about it, Lyddie, you don’t need to do this! I don’t love her!
I turned off my mobile and dumped it in a drawer, then tried again to shove my case out of sight. It was no use. The thing wouldn’t budge, determined to show its big bold face to the world. I gave up and swept the hair back from my eyes, dark, wet strands clinging to my fingers. I was still soaked through from the downpour outside. Cold enough for the chill to break through the numbness, until I was craving my bed at home, the tangle of Stu’s limbs as we snoozed the alarm clock, his sandy hair like a bird’s nest against the pillow.
The hitch in my breath surprised me, the unmistakeable wedge of a lump in my throat. I could hardly recall the sensation, hardly remember the last time I’d cried. I broke for the kitchen on shaky legs, driven by desire to outrace the pain. Maybe I could scald it to nothing with a hot cup of black, burn it away before the itches came back for me. I took out a mug and flicked on the kettle, staring out of the window at the office buildings beyond. My reflection in the glass looked as tired as I felt, sunken eyes peering from sallow sockets. I stepped forward, leaning onto the worktop to check more closely. My eyes appeared even paler than usual, the green of my irises hardly more than a pastel wash, and watery. My eyes were watery.
I tried to choke the hurt down, hawking it back with the grace of an ostrich, unsure of even
how
to let it out anymore, but all I could see was Stuart; his smile bright with laughter, his clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor.
Flashes of our life jarred my senses. So many promises of forever and ever and ever. The only one who’d ever put me first, before all others. He’d loved me. He promised me so.
I gritted my teeth, but still the tears came, spilling from my eyes faster than I could blink them away. I was helpless against the barrage of sobs, which surprised me almost as much as the cheating. Lydia Marsh is a big girl. She doesn’t cry.
I jumped a clear mile at the touch of a hand on my arm, spinning on instinct to face my attacker. Humiliation piled on like lead as I recognised the dark brown eyes bearing down on me. James Clarke, Chief Technology Officer. Mr goddamn corporate and perfect at everything. I’d been with Trial Run Software Group over a year, and still I only really knew him by reputation. It was common knowledge he worked long hours, but I’d never been in the office at 6am to find out.
I backed away, sniffing out apologies, but his eyes held me steady without a hint of awkwardness.
“Do you take milk?”
I shook my head, wiping my cheeks on a sleeve as wet as my face, praying I wasn’t snotty or blotchy, or both. I watched him finish up my half-made coffee and make one for himself. My shaky fingers rattled against his as he handed the mug over, and he held on an extra heartbeat before he let go. I managed to mumble my thanks and he smiled gently. Then there was quiet, with only the low drone of the refrigerator to fill the silence. James leant back easily against the worktop and didn’t demand anything in way of explanation. He didn’t attempt to fill the emptiness at all, in fact, just sipped his coffee with his eyes on mine. I suspected then that very little on this earth would phase James Clarke.
“I’m sorry,” I managed.
He looked me up and down. “You need a change of clothes. I’ve a spare jacket in my office, it’ll dwarf you, but at least you’ll be warm.”
My eyes crashed into his, a world of pain swimming around my head. “It’s ok, thanks, I have a whole suitcase-full under my desk.”
“I see.” The look in his eyes told me he did, as well. He saw, alright. “What are you leaving behind?”
“The man I thought I’d grow old with.”
“And you’re sure this is really where you want to be?”
“No point in moping, right?” I choked on my words even as I said them, and James reached out to place a hand on my shoulder. A firm grip, not too presumptive, just there.
“Get yourself warm and dry before you catch your death. If you’d like an ear I’ll be in my office. I know how to listen.”
“I’m sure you’ve got more important things to be doing.” My laugh came out jagged and hollow.
“No,” he said.
“I’m sorry you had to witness my meltdown. How embarrassing.”
“You shouldn’t be. I’ve been dragged through the depths myself, Lydia. My offer was sincere, I don’t judge and I certainly don’t gossip.” His dark eyes didn’t waiver, not for a moment. They stared straight into mine, an ocean of calm amidst the storm, and there beyond them, was something else. A knowing.
“Thank you. I’ll be ok.”
“I’m sure you will.”
And then he was gone, leaving me to drown in my own mortification. At least there were no more tears.
***
I had absolutely no intention of spilling the sorry, desolate guts of my relationship to James Clarke. The extent of our working relationship was limited to the occasional shared meeting. I’m surprised he even knew my name.
I changed into fresh clothes and fired up my computer. No new emails, no reports to file. I’d finished up my outstanding project schedules the previous afternoon, so typically there was nothing pressing to do until regular working hours kicked in. The urge to check my text messages rose up, a morbid fascination to revisit the horror. It nipped at my ankles, begging for attention. That’s the only reason I decided to take a coffee up to Mr Clarke. That, and to apologise for my kitchen breakdown.
“Black, no sugar, right?” I said, handing it over.
“I’m impressed you noticed.”
“I’m an attention-to-detail kinda girl.” I hovered awkwardly, scouting around his office at the certificates and accreditations on his walls.
“Frank insisted I put them up. Apparently it looks the part when clients visit.”
“You should be proud of them.”
He shrugged. “Most of them aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. Sit down, Lydia, take a breath.”
The chair across from his was comfortable. I sank back into the leather, all too conscious of my lack of sleep the night before. “I’m sorry about the spectacle in the kitchen.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“It was unprofessional.”
“Professionalism has nothing to do with it. Do you want to tell me what happened?” His tone was even, and calm. He emanated calm.
I considered lying, playing it down to make it sound like a stupid row, but I doubted he would have believed me if I tried. “My boyfriend had a thing with a colleague a few months ago. A Barbie-doll wannabe with a fake tan. I’d be none the wiser if he hadn’t got her pregnant.”
James didn’t flinch, or rush to console me. “Does he regret it?”
“He wants me to stay. I’m sure he feels worse than I do.”
“What do
you
want?”
“I want to go home,” I admitted. “Shove it under the carpet and pretend life’s still good. But it isn’t. What we have together can’t really be
it
, not if some other girl’s carrying his baby, right?”
“That depends what
it
means.”
“In my book
it
doesn’t mean getting someone pregnant at a crappy work conference after too many tequilas.”
“That’s what your head says, what about the rest of you?”
“The rest of me will just have to toe the line and get over it. We’re done.” I met his eyes, determination bubbling through my spine. “So, how about you?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Me?”
“You said you’d been through the depths yourself. What did you do?”
He smiled. “I made the rest of me toe the line. What we had couldn’t have been
it,
right?”
“Your wife?”
“Ex-wife on all but paper.” He flashed his bare wedding finger. There was still a faint pale band where a ring would have been. His eyes turned heavy and serious, staring so intensely at me that I had to look away. “It wasn’t a pleasant time.”
“But it got better? You moved on?”
“It took me a while to lose the ring, but I’m now glad it’s gone. Genuinely.”
Stuart’s face flashed before my eyes again. I pictured him, and Carly, and their tiny little baby. Maybe she’d have a ring one day, the one that should’ve been mine. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
James Clarke moved with purpose, he reached across the desk and took my hands in his, they were warm and steady and so much bigger than mine. The shock of the contact snapped me out of my misery, and I was back in the moment, right there in his office. It was strangely intimate, but I didn’t feel the urge to pull away. “Listen to me, Lydia. Don’t beat yourself up. It’s ok to fall apart until you piece your life back together.”
“That’s not really my style.”
“I know it’s a cliché, but it can be good for you, to cry it out.”
“Any other suggestions?”
He stared straight into my eyes. “Suck it up, all the way inside. Put a wall around yourself and refuse to dwell on the pain, not even for a second. Every time a memory comes up just push it away. Slowly, but surely, it becomes second nature. The hurt fades.”
