Dirty Talk (A MFM Ménage Romance) (The Dirty Series Book 2) Read online

  “Don’t defend the jerk, Lucas,” he snaps.

  This is quite the change in roles for us. I’m usually the one to lose my temper; James is calmer. Patrick’s illness, has, however, taken its toll. After the stroke, the two of us spent days at his hospital bed, not knowing if he was going to be okay. Once he was well enough to be discharged into an inpatient rehab center, James had to fight with an uncooperative insurance company who flat-out refused to pay for the treatment. We’ve both drained our bank accounts and maxed out our credit cards to get Patrick the care he needs.

  If I had to do it over, I’d make the same choices. Family is everything. My own father kicked me out of my home when I was sixteen, and Patrick took me in. I owe him everything.

  It isn’t the financial stress that has James hanging on by a thread. It’s Patrick’s disposition. James’ father used to be the liveliest guy in the world, cheerful, smiling, laughing, always cracking jokes, but since the stroke, he’s changed. He’s impatient and moody. He chafes at his new limitations. He’s already scared off two speech therapists.

  “So you talked to Bollington?” Patrick needs a psychologist, but he belongs to a generation that views talking to a shrink as a sign of weakness. “I’m not ready for the loony farm yet,” he says stubbornly every time the topic comes up.

  “He’s going to see him tomorrow,” James replies with a sigh. “That is if I can convince my father to leave the house.”

  Not good odds then. “What about Sophia’s brother?” I ask my friend. “He’s a therapist too. He seemed cool.”

  “I thought about it. Then again, maybe dad would be more comfortable with someone closer to his age.”

  I guess James is right. Patrick is sixty-one, though he’s never struck me as an old guy. He’s always been filled with energy.

  Not anymore.

  I look around. The coffee shop has emptied out. Cassie’s disappeared into her kitchen, so I can’t grill her about the asshole she’s going out with on Friday. It’s time for us to go home and work on our script for tomorrow’s show.

  “You ready to head out?”

  James rises to his feet. “Might as well,” he replies. “I’ve got to take a look at the roof as well. I think it’s leaking.”

  Ah, the joys of being totally broke. The house we bought is a complete disaster. Cassie called it a wreck, and she’s being charitable.

  “Let’s go.”

  James turns to look at the counter one final time. “I don’t like that guy,” he mutters under his breath.

  Me too, buddy. Me too. Still, what can we do? We’ve both asked Cassie out, and she’s declined. We’re not crazy stalker creeps. We can take rejection.

  This guy better treat her like a fucking princess. I don’t like the way a lot of people in New Summit treat Cassie. When they’re not giggling at her pageant videos, they’re shaking their heads about her wild teenage years.

  Maybe it’s because they’ve known her since she was a child, but they don’t see the adult she’s become. Kind and generous to a fault. Nobody notices that Cassie always has a cup of coffee for the homeless guy who lives in the park. At the end of the day, they don’t see her take the unsold cookies and muffins to the small community food bank. At Sophia’s party, Mia told us that it was Cassie that gave her the seed money to start her boutique.

  Of course, it doesn’t stop them from asking her to sponsor their soccer teams and their various fundraisers. No, they’ll take her money, and they’ll accept her generosity as if it’s their due.

  I’ve been with more women than I remember, women that were interested in sleeping with a celebrity, women for who I was just a notch on the bedpost. I never minded.

  After Patrick’s stroke, I’m painfully aware of my own mortality. Sleeping around isn’t enough—I want more. I want stability and permanence. I want to love and be loved. I want to wake up every morning next to a woman who makes my heart skip a beat.

  Cassie’s still in the back. I push open the front door and step outside. If she were mine, I think silently, I’d tell her every single day how special she is.

  At my side, James curses under his breath. “What’s the matter?” I ask him.

  He grimaces. “Nina’s not working on Friday,” he says. “She wanted us to man the bar, remember?”

  Realization dawns. We’re going to get front row seats to Cassie’s date.

  I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

  3

  Cassie:

  At eleven, I make my way to Mia’s boutique with two cups of coffee and a cranberry-orange muffin for her and a chocolate-chip one for me. “I gave my last carrot muffin to Dr. Bollington,” I confess before she asks. “Sorry.”

  She laughs. “I don’t blame you.”

  We sit on Mia’s velvet loveseat, and I eat my muffin, not bothering to be careful with the crumbs. Mia’s going to bust out her hand-vac at the end of our mini-break anyway. She’s not super-tidy at home, but she’s insanely particular about her store.

  “How was your weekend?” I ask her. “The hot shrinks still hot?”

  Her eyes shine like they do every single time I mention Ben and Landon. “It was lovely,” she says. “We took the boat out on Saturday. I’d have called you, but…”

  “But the three of you ended up bonking like rabbits.” I grin slyly as a blush rises up her cheeks. Mia’s threesome might be the talk of New Summit, but my friend still goes beet-red when someone mentions sex.

  “On a different note,” she says, “I hear that Stuart Sutherland is back in town.”

  “Yeah, he came into the coffee shop. He said he’s moving back to New Summit.” I wince, knowing that Mia’s not going to like what I’m about to say. “He asked me out on a date.”

  “Oh Cass,” she sighs. “Really?”

  “I know you didn’t like him in high school,” I argue. “But he’s an adult now. He’s a different person.”

  “I doubt it.” She sips her coffee with a disapproving look on his face. “I don’t think people change as much as you think they do. Tiffany Slater was a bitchy cheerleader back then, and she’s a bitchy adult now. Amy Cooke was a gossiping know-it-all as a teenager, and age certainly hasn’t improved her. Stuart Sutherland was a selfish football jock in high school. I’d say the odds of him being a douchebag are pretty damn high.”

  “Wow, where is this ire coming from?” I tease her. I know where. One of Stuart’s friends, a guy called Mike Payne called me ‘white trash’ once in front of Mia, and Stuart had chuckled. Mia’s still angry on my behalf.

  “You’re going out with him,” she says flatly.

  “It’s Stuart Sutherland.” I try to reason with my best friend. “Besides, there aren’t exactly a ton of dating options in New Summit.”

  “Lucas and James,” she replies at once.

  “Lucas and James,” I reply, ignoring the way my heart seems to beat faster at the mention of their names, “are vloggers.”

  “So?”

  “Mia, come on.” I give my friend an exasperated look. “I see a camera, and I want to hurl. I can’t see things working out between us.” I do my best to keep my tone flippant, but my throat is tight. It’s taken me years to get to the point where I can eat a muffin without hearing my mother’s voice in my ear, telling me I’ll get fat. I still flinch when I remember the time some cheerleaders found an old pageant video of mine and passed it around, making me the laughing stock of high school.

  Deep breath, Cass. It’s in the past.

  There’s an uncharacteristically stubborn look on Mia’s face. “Lucas and James might be celebrities,” she says, “but I don’t see why that should stop you from dating them. It’s not as if they’re asking you to be a part of their show. In any case,” she continues, “they’re really private. Have you ever heard James talk about his father’s illness on his show?”

  I guess she’s right. “How do you know so much about James and Lucas?” I ask, hoping to distract her. “I only found out today that James’ dad was recovering from a stroke.”

  “Sophia told me,” she replies. Of course. Landon’s sister is a line cook at the Merry Cockatoo, where James and Lucas bartend three nights a week. She gives me a questioning look. “James and Lucas hang out at your coffee shop almost every day. Have neither of them asked you out?” An impish smile appears on her face. “Or both?”

  I roll my eyes. “Mia, just because you have the ménage thing going on doesn’t mean everyone wants that.”

  “Really?” she challenges, her voice skeptical. “You’ve never thought about it? Two guys lavishing attention on you, making you feel like you’re the center of their universe? Never been tempted?”

  I’m tempted every single time I see Lucas and James.

  She catches sight of my expression. “Exactly,” she says in satisfaction. “And instead of taking a chance on something that could be really good, you’re going out with Stuart Sutherland.” She sounds disgusted. “Cass, I love you like a sister, but you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Want to come to the Merry Cockatoo on Friday?” I ask her, making another attempt to distract her from her ‘Cassie-should-date-James-and-Lucas’ obsession. “You can glower at Stuart all evening.”

  “I can’t.” She blushes. “We’re going away for the weekend to a resort in Vermont.”

  “You go, girl,” I tell her sincerely. “I’m really happy for you. Ben and Landon are great guys.”

  Okay. I’m mostly happy for her. There’s a tiny, tiny part of me that’s wistful. I’d like what Mia has.

  Maybe Stuart will be the one, I tell myself silently. Somehow, though, I doubt it.

  Secret confession: I’m addicted to Dirty Talk. It’s a great show. James and Lucas are a magic combination of sexy-as-sin and friendly-and-approachable. I can fantasize about having sex with them in the back seat of a car, and I can also picture bringing them home to meet the parents. Not my parents, obviously, but you know what I mean.

  I have a busy week and don’t get a chance to catch up with James and Lucas’ show until Thursday. For a change, I have nothing planned for the evening, so I pour myself a glass of two buck chuck and settle myself on the couch, my laptop across my thighs. I’m wearing a long t-shirt and nothing else. Come on, who am I kidding? I’ve got James and Lucas talking about sex on YouTube, and I’ve got wine. Masturbation is a foregone conclusion.

  Ms. Meow, my orange tabby, is half-asleep on the chair across from me. “Don’t look up,” I warn her. “You’re too young to see this.”

  She gives me a disdainful look and tucks her head underneath her paw. Chuckling a little, I scroll through the listings. The guys upload a new video three times a week—Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. I missed Tuesday’s episode, so I look for that one, and when I see the title, my heart skips a beat. Dirty Talk—Ménage & More.

  Oh dear God, this is a wet dream come true.

  I click on the link, set the video to full screen, and settle the laptop on my glass-topped coffee table, along with my wine. What? I’m going to need both hands for this. James and Lucas are going to talk about ménage? It’s like they went into my mind, plucked out my naughtiest, filthiest fantasy, and made a show about it. Of course, I’m going to jill off.

  “Hey everyone,” James speaks first, flashing the camera a grin. He’s wearing a chocolate-brown button down shirt, his sleeves casually rolled up, his strong forearms in view. My insides clench a little at the sight. So hot. “Lucas and I have one heck of a show for you today. We’re talking about the pleasures of non-traditional sex. Specifically, ménage.”

  Lucas smirks. Today, he’s wearing a Metallica t-shirt from their S&M tour. Apart from looking as desirable as an ice-cream cone on a hot summer day, the guy has to have excellent taste in music. It’s not fair. “And we’re not talking about every guy’s fantasy. This isn’t about two hot lesbians who are crazy for your cock, fellows. This show’s for the ladies.”

  My fingers trail up my thigh. I close my eyes and let the sound of their voices wash over me. In my imagination, it isn’t my hands on my body. It’s James. In my imagination, Lucas whispers in my ears, calling me a naughty girl because I’m not wearing any panties.

  “Last week,” James says on the screen, “our good friend Avery called us in a panic.”

  Avery who? I go from zero to crazy-bitch-jealous in the blink of an eye. I’ve watched all of Lucas and James’ shows, and I’ve never heard of this chick. Who the heck is she?

  James continues talking. “Her boyfriend Kevin wanted to share her with another guy, and she freaked out. Avery doesn’t want to be on camera, but we have her on the phone. Avery, talk to us.”

  “Hi everyone.” Avery sounds perky but nervous. I immediately picture her as a petite blonde who looks like Kylie Minogue. “So yeah, Kevin and I were talking about fantasies, you know? And he said that his favorite fantasy is sharing me.”

  Okay, Avery’s killing my mojo. I’ve got wine, I’ve got my hands down there, and I’m ready to hear James and Lucas talk, not some chick.

  “And you freaked out because…” Lucas prompts. God, his voice. Smoky, deep, amused. Yup, I’m on board with Lucas talking. Shut up, Avery. Let the guys do their show.

  I rub a thumb over my engorged nipples. Normally, I’m all about my clitoris, but today, my imagination runs riot. It’s not my fingers that brush over my hardened peaks. Lucas and James wouldn’t hurry. They’d take their time. They’d explore every inch of my body, slowly, deliberately, until I squirmed with heat and desire, trembled with need, begged for more…

  Avery replies to Lucas, but I’m not paying attention to her, lost as I am in my fantasies. I think she’s wondering if her boyfriend is going to think she’s a slut if she goes ahead with it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lucas chides. The camera pans over to him, and I focus on his face. There’s a hint of stubble covering his jaw. He’s leaned back on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, looking relaxed and casually gorgeous. “If he’s going to ask you to fulfill his fantasies and then judge you for it, you should dump the loser.”

  “For the record,” James says, looking at the camera. “I love it when the woman I’m dating tells me her fantasies. I love that she trusts me with her secret longings. It’s very intimate.”

  That last word is lower, almost a caress, and it sends a jolt of heat through me. It’s no wonder Dirty Talk has millions of followers.

  I slowly trail my fingers to my pussy. I pretend that James’ chocolate brown eyes are boring into me, that his deep, sexy voice is directed at me. It’s for them that I spread my legs wide on the couch. I slide my forefinger into my cleft. I’m soaking wet at the thought of both of them touching me at the same time, watching me get naked, filling me to the hilt with their hard cocks.

  Thinking of hard cocks is a pretty surefire way to get me off. Just sayin’.

  “It’s a huge turn-on for me,” Lucas is saying. “I’m a guy. I like to watch, and watching a woman I care about go out of her mind with pleasure? It’s better than the best porn in the world.”

  I’m slippery with need. My entire body feels flushed and fevered. I’m shivering as I rub my clitoris faster. My head falls back. I bite my lower lip as I near my climax.

  James chuckles. “I’m a bit of a voyeur as well,” he admits. “But it’s more than that for me. I want the woman I’m with to feel adored, worshiped, lusted after.”

  Those magic words push me over the edge. Stifling a shout, I explode, my entire body flooding with release.

  The show comes to an end, but aftershocks still quiver through my body. Lost in my need, I’ve barely paid any attention to this episode. I need to watch it again.

  And I need to get rid of this inconvenient crush I have on Lucas and James. No more masturbating to Dirty Talk, I tell myself sternly. If you need to jill off, watch porn like the rest of the world.

  Ms. Meow gives me a disdainful look. Yeah right, her expression seems to say. I’ve heard that before.

  4

  James:

  In the vlogging business, consistency is king. Lucas and I do a show three times a week, no holidays, no breaks. We spend hours on social media, chatting with our fans. It isn’t the easiest way to earn a living, but we like our work.

  Here’s the deal. Readily accessible porn has fucked up the minds of people everywhere. Especially women. ‘My inner lips are too long,’ a girl said to us once at a party in Manhattan. ‘My boyfriend thinks I should get labia surgery.’

  We told her to break up with the douchebag. Seriously. A woman’s having sex with you, asshole, and you’re bitching about the shape of her pussy lips? Dickhead.

  Then there are all the women who believe that getting a Brazilian is an essential pre-date step. Ladies, listen to me. Real guys don’t let a little hair get in the way of some action, and anyone who insists that you need some time with hot wax before you get yourself some dick, is one.

  To be honest, most of the advice we give out can be summarized into one sentence. Don’t be a jerk, and don’t date one.

  We’re coming up on our three-year anniversary doing the show, which is, in our business, a huge milestone. One of our fans asked us how long we could see ourselves doing Dirty Talk, and we said forever, and we meant it.

  Of course, real life is getting in the way.

  Every day, the bills show up in the mail. Speech therapists, rehabilitation specialists, physical therapy—everything costs money. My dad, who owned an auto garage in Washington Heights, had health insurance of sorts, but the company has been dragging its feet on covering his treatment.

  As much as I don’t want to, I might have to give up the show and get a regular job, one with a healthcare plan that will cover my father. Lucas and I have a standing job offer from a cable channel that caters to a female audience. Sammie Teale wants to hire us to do an advice show from a guy’s point of view. “Our viewers will eat it up,” she’s told us repeatedly. “Women want to know what guys secretly think, especially when it comes to dating and sex. The two of you are perfect.”

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