Good Girl Gone Badd Read online

  "Evangeline, I need some words here, honey." He was breathing hard, and when I peeked up at him, his jaw was clenching and his eyes were narrowed, as if focused and straining.

  "Which words?"

  He tugged at the waistband, and an inch of my belly was exposed. "I really, really wanna think I'm reading you correctly, here. I feel like you want this, but you're scared of it. That's okay. If you want to dabble at being naughty with a Badd boy, sweetheart, I'm your man. I can lead you into temptation and show you the time of your fuckin' life, and then when you're ready, you go back to Yale and you'll have some dirty memories of the time you had some fun with big ol' Bax in Ketchikan, Alaska." He tugged a little more. "But if you're really not sure, you say so, and you're safe from me. I won't try nothin', I'll just walk you the rest of the way to the Kingsley's and that'll be that. But I need to know what you want, either way."

  What did I want? I wasn't sure. I had no idea.

  That wasn't entirely true. I did want him. Or, at the very least, I felt something deep inside that I'd never felt before. With Thomas, I'd gone along with things because it felt adult and daring and I knew he expected it of me, and I'd liked it when he kissed me and I'd liked it when he groped under my shirt and laid me back on the bed and it had felt like I was getting lost in something. Even though it'd never amounted to more than a few brief and unsatisfying fumbles in the dark, little more than Thomas moving briefly and finishing and leaving, it had made me aware that there could be...more.

  I wanted that more.

  It was a sure bet that Bax could give me more.

  But I was terrified.

  Thomas and Father were going to find me, sooner or later. If they caught me dallying with a local, especially someone like Baxter...oh, there'd be hell to pay.

  But wouldn't it be worth it? And couldn't I have my fun and then leave and act like nothing had happened, that I'd gone off to get some space and was done?

  I had my own money. Well, Father's money, which I'd more or less stolen depending on how you looked at it, because even though he'd given it to me as an allowance, it was, technically, dependent on me obeying his rules. He tolerated me defying him in regard to Yale because he still hoped I'd change my mind, that I'd eventually end up toeing the line and marrying Thomas.

  But god, Baxter made me feel...so much.

  He was so different from anyone else, so big, so hard, so wild. He was totally free. He did what he wanted, said what he wanted, and he took what he wanted. But he wasn't a pig about it. He seemed to genuinely care that I really wanted this.

  "I don't--I don't know."

  "You don't know," he echoed.

  I shook my head. "Unh-uh." I was uncharacteristically inarticulate, for some reason.

  "What aren't you sure about?"

  I stared up at him. "Everything. You. This. What I want. What I should do."

  "Keeping me stuck in no-man's-land, huh, halfway between yes and no?"

  I winced. "I'm sorry, Baxter. I just...I truly don't know what to do." I dared to touch him, to put my hands on his broad shoulders, feeling his warm skin and the rippling power of his muscles under my hands. "I...I am attracted to you. And there is a part of me that--that does want to--to let you lead me into temptation. Truth be told, I'm already there--I'm very tempted. But--I don't, I'm not--"

  He laughed. "You don't do things like this," he filled in. "You're not that kind of girl."

  I shook my head. "I don't, and I'm really not."

  With one hand, he tugged at the waistband a little more, and now the line between my lower belly and bikini line was being teased, and with the other hand he reached up and tucked a lock of my hair away from my face and then brushed my cheekbone with the rough pad of his thumb. "Sweetheart? You couldn't be more obviously not that kind of girl."

  "It's that obvious, is it?"

  He laughed again and nodded. "Yeah, it kinda is." He stared down at me, and I wasn't sure if he was thinking, or assessing, or just looking at me. Deciding, maybe? "How about this: we'll operate on the assumption that I've got a hair trigger when it comes to you saying no. Okay? So I'm gonna keep going, and when you really, truly want me to stop, you tell me. But don't say it if you don't mean it, because I'm not gonna play around. So I'll keep on leading you into temptation, and you just follow my lead. Ask questions. Say what you want, if you figure that out. Or, just trust me and let me do things my way."

  "Your way? What is your way?"

  His lips brushed mine again, a teasing hint of a kiss. "Oh, you'll find out." He tugged the waistband lower yet, and now the elastic, taut around my waist from the pressure of his pull, inched down in the back, sliding down over the top of my butt, baring the upper few inches, and now the slightest amount of my privates were exposed and my heart thundered wildly. "One thing you should know about me doing things my way, though, Eva: I'm the kinda guy who gets off on a woman's pleasure. Meanin' the harder you get off, the harder I get off."

  "I like the sound of that," I whispered, unsure where the bold words had even come from.

  God knows there's been little enough pleasure in my life that didn't come with expectations, I thought.

  Or...so I'd thought.

  But the way Baxter stiffened, and the way his eyes fixed on mine told me I'd accidentally said it out loud. "Babe, you really gotta explain that comment."

  "I just--" His eyes were fierce, fiery, and made me forget what I was saying, and then when I remembered, the unvarnished, unfiltered truth came out. "Everyone expects things of me. My father expects me to do everything his way, and do what he wants. Thomas expects me to marry him, to be his trophy wife, to go on his stupid dates and to sleep with him just because we have a history, and even my friends at Yale...they know who my father is, and they've all seen Thomas, and they want to be close to me because either they want a piece of my father's influence and connections, or they're hoping Thomas will notice them and forget about me, which would be fine by me, but they still just don't seem genuine, and if I go hang out with them I'm always wondering what their angle is."

  I growled in frustration and anger, a snarl that'd been building up inside me for a long damn time. "And guys, god, don't get me started on guys. They either want to sleep with me, or--like the girls--they want to get close to Father for his political and business connections...and with men it's both: they try to sleep with me in hopes of getting close to Father. And when I don't play their games, they're gone. Like all I am to them is sex and networking. I'm not a virgin, but I haven't had as much experience as I might wish simply because there are literally zero men with the slightest ability to even pretend as if they like me for more than my cup size and their stupid fantasy of me putting out for them even when they put less than zero effort into wooing me. They think their daddy's bank account and their trust funds and their portfolios and their internships and their fancy cars are enough to impress me, like I'm going to see the stupid shiny Porsche their father bought them and I'm going to just...just fall onto my back with my legs open and beg them to sleep with me, because fancy cars just impress me so damn much."

  Baxter blinked at me. "Wow. That's...a lot to unpack."

  I thumped my head forward against his chest. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have unloaded on you like that."

  He brushed his thumb over my lower lip. "Nah, honey, don't apologize. You gotta unload that shit. You can't keep it buried inside forever, or it'll fester. I know I may not seem like it, but I am actually a good listener."

  I frowned up at him. "Why wouldn't you seem like a good listener?"

  He shrugged a big shoulder. "My size, my looks, the fact that I'm a football player and an MMA fighter...and the way I talk. People just assume I'm a stupid meathead. I don't exactly go out of my way to dispel that notion 'cause, for the most part, I don't really give a shit, and it's kinda useful to be underestimated. But sometimes, I do give a little bit of a shit about what people think."

  "So far, Baxter, you seem to me like a rather more complex
individual than you get credit for."

  "I like to think so. And I also like to think at some point, the right person will see that, instead of just...assuming shit about me."

  "Like when people assume that because I come from money and power, that I'm nothing but a spoiled rich bitch, like those ridiculous rich kids on Instagram?"

  Our gazes were locked, and the intensity between us, a kind of unspoken understanding, sizzled and sparked. We couldn't come from more vastly different backgrounds, but we both knew what it was like to be misunderstood and underestimated and relegated to one particular and unfair little box.

  He'd relaxed the pressure on the waistband of my borrowed sweatpants when I'd started venting, and now he increased it once more, slowly and inexorably dragging them downward, centimeter by centimeter.

  I wasn't wearing any underwear. After the shower, it had felt too good to be clean after all that had gone on that I'd not wanted to put my old, dirty underwear on, and so I hadn't. I'd not been expecting...all of this.

  "Pretty much," Baxter said. "And for the record, you're a hell of a lot more than just a set of body parts to me, Eva. You got spunk, and you're sassy, and you're smart. You put shit out there, take it or leave it, and I like that. Also, I got absolutely no use for connections of any kind. I got seven connections--my brothers--and that's all I need. So...just want you to know, my interest in you is all about you."

  "And what exactly is the nature of your interest in me, Baxter?"

  "Thought that much was fairly obvious," he said.

  I kept my gaze on his, waiting for his answer. At some point, I'd dropped the plastic grocery bag containing my clothing, so my hands were free, and they were resting on his shoulders. Now, I skimmed my hands down his arms, cupping the bulge of his biceps, simply because I'd never been this close to biceps like his, the kind of muscles you typically only see on guys in the movies, or on a billboard.

  He ran his thumb over my lower lip, tugging my mouth open, touching my chin, and then he dropped that hand to my waistband, and now his hands were at my hips, he was pushing the sweatpants down, down over my hips. The wrought iron fence was cold against my skin as my buttocks were exposed, and the air was cool against the dampness of my privates; I wasn't breathing at all, at all.

  I was gasping past the throbbing lump that was my heart in my throat.

  He lowered the sweatpants until I was completely exposed from the hem of the shirt sitting above my navel to the top of the sweatpants, riding at mid thigh. His eyes remained on mine, however, rather than on the delicate, private flesh now exposed for him.

  "Eva, sweet thing...my interest is in making you feel things you've clearly never felt before. My interest is in touching you and making you scream, making you wriggle and writhe and beg me to do all the things you've never even dared to fantasize about." His gaze remained locked on mine, yet I felt his hand moving. Reaching. "My interest, Evangeline, is in getting you naked and fucking you six ways to Sunday, and then on Sunday, staying in bed with you from sunrise to sunset and listening to every last damn thing you have to say, about absolutely anything. My interest is in finding out how loud you can scream, and how many times in a row you can come."

  "Baxter--"

  "My interest is in throwing you onto your bed and spreading your legs apart and devouring this sweet wet pussy of yours"--and now, finally, he touched me as he mentioned the area by name, and his touch was delicate and gentle and slow, and I sizzled and I seared and I gasped--"until you can't take any more."

  "And--oh. And then?" I was encouraging this?

  What was wrong with me? I should be outraged that he'd dare touch me, I should be angry that he was taking such liberties with me even though we'd known each other less than three hours. I should...I should be squirming away from his touch because of what had happened earlier.

  But I was none of those things.

  I was letting him touch me, and I was enjoying it, and hoping for more.

  He laughed. "That's not enough?"

  He slipped a finger in; I couldn't believe this was happening. It didn't seem real, yet it was far too real all at once. It was a fantasy I was sure I was going to wake up from, yet for the time being I was blissfully content to play along with the dirty dream and let this man I'd obviously conjured up from the depths of my clearly depraved imagination do these wicked, dirty things to me, like finger my privates in public, at three in the morning on a quiet neighborhood street.

  "And then, if you're still hungry for more," he continued, "the nature of my interest would be in seeing you on your knees, naked, with that sweet, sassy mouth I been tryin' not to kiss all damn night wrapped around my cock, takin' as much of me as you can."

  I tried to swallow, my throat wouldn't work, and I was shaking all over, and his finger felt so thick and rough inside me, and I looked down because I wanted to see what this looked like, his finger inside me. God, even his forearm was powerful. He was barely touching me. Barely past the first knuckle of his middle finger, yet I felt absolutely split apart and filled by his touch. And he was curling, then swirling, and dragging it up and then down, and I realized he was just toying with me, letting me get used to his touch. His finger was so big, so dark and tanned and strong, and his knuckles were all so scarred from fighting, and this huge powerful hand was touching me, gently sliding inside me in a way I've never experienced, a touch that was sure and unhurried.

  "I don't know if I could do that," I said, unsure why I was admitting it in the first place.

  "Which part?" he asked.

  "The last thing you said. About...me...with my mouth on your...your...I've never--I haven't--"

  "Not a shock. You don't wanna do it, no big deal. You want to, I'll let you." He dragged his finger up to my...up to the part of me that sent shocks and shivers thrilling through me when he touched it. "Anybody ever do this to you? I mean at all, I don't mean just...out here, like this."

  I could only shake my head. "Aside from me, no."

  "Then nobody's ever gone down on you," he stated.

  "Oh my goodness, no way."

  "But you one hundred percent are not a virgin?"

  I nodded. "One hundred percent. But...if there's degrees of not-a-virgin, I would probably count as only barely not a virgin."

  He laughed. "Yeah, I got that part."

  "Are you laughing at me?"

  He met my eyes as I stared up at him. "No, honey. Not laughing at you. Not in mockery or cruelty, at least."

  "But you are laughing."

  "A little." He touched that spot again, and I quivered. "Just because you're so damn sexy and erotic and gorgeous it's not even real, and you don't even understand how incredible you are. You, barely a virgin? It's crazy. I'd expect there to be a line of suitors a million miles long."

  He was touching me, the tip of his finger swirling in small circles, just so, in one particular spot way up high, and he clearly knew exactly what it would do to me, that it would make me gasp and that my knees would tremble and that my stomach and back would tighten and heat would pool low and deep in my belly. He clearly knew that I would sag against the fence as lightning blasted through me at his touch. He knew I would be weak, and grow incapable of supporting myself--he wrapped a hand around my lower back, clinging to me, holding me upright against his body. I stared up at him and breathed shakily as he kept going, touching, performing his sorcery.

  I'd done this to myself under the covers frequently enough in my life, but this was utterly unlike the way I touched myself. That was experimentation and release of tensions, this was...sorcery. Magic.

  "Baxter..." I breathed.

  "Yeah, honey."

  I clung to his broad shoulders and let myself quiver and shake. "I'm..."

  "Close?"

  I nodded.

  He grinned. "I know. I can feel it. I can see it." He pulled his finger down and slid it deep inside me, slowly filling me, gathering the moisture of my desire and the heat of my impending detonation, and returned h
is touch to where it had been. "You're squeezing. Clamping down."

  "I am?"

  He slid his finger back in, and now used his thumb to rub that spot, and I felt myself, as he'd said, clamping down around his finger, squeezing and pulsing as I neared the edge, brought closer and closer by his touch.

  "Feel that?" he whispered. "The way you squeeze? That means you're close. And those little noises you're making? Whimpering, gasping, all that? Means you're getting even closer."

  He was right. I hadn't been aware of it, but it was making all sorts of breathy little sounds.

  God, this dream was crazy. I'd obviously fallen asleep on the plane, and my pent-up sexual frustration was making itself known. This was a dream--it had to be: there was no way I was really doing this, letting a complete stranger put his finger inside my vagina, on a public street, three in the morning or not. No way. I wasn't like that. With Thomas, the lights had always been off, and he'd only fumbled at my breasts for a moment, and we hadn't even gotten totally undressed except for that first time after prom, and it hadn't even really seemed real, just a quick few moments of feeling Thomas above me and feeling something inside me, a little too big, a little too much, and it had hurt a little but not terribly--just a quick, sharp pinch--and then it had started to feel not too unpleasant, and then there'd been a flurry of Thomas making noises and movements, and then it had been over. He'd gotten dressed and popped a bottle of champagne and given me a glass as I held the sheet against me.

  That was sex, to me. That, even that, hadn't seemed real.

  This, with Baxter, felt even less real.

  Thus, it was a dream.

  I would never, ever, in a million years, ever do this for real. I wasn't this daring, this rebellious. I was a good girl. I got good grades, I had the right friends, wore the right clothes. My only disobedience in my whole life was my major at Yale.

  If anyone knew that I was even having this dream? God. And if, somehow, this was real? Oh god.

  The wild manic frenetic pulsing pounding inside me felt real enough, though. The heat and the pooling pressure felt real. Baxter felt real. His touch felt so real. And now, god, oh god.

  There--I was there, falling over the edge, crying out.

  I was dizzy and limp and he was holding me up and my thighs were clenching and my belly was spasming and my whole body was going crazy, twisting and writhing and jackknifing in Baxter's hold as a crashing tsunami of raw intense pleasure shattered me into a million pieces, and only Baxter was there to hold me together, his arms were all that kept me in place, kept me from floating mindless and weightless to the moon.