Dirty Dix (Hard Love Romance #1) (2 page)

She wraps her small fingers around her left bicep, as if attempting to hide the red finger marks. “I’m…fi-fine,” she stutters unconvincingly, but quickly recovers. “I’m fine. Thanks for the save.”

“No problem.” I’m mesmerized by the way her straight teeth tug at her lower lip, because in no way is she doing this on purpose.

She’s not openly flirting with me, or trying to get into my pants, and honestly, it’s like a breath of fresh air. She’s simply a hot, young, innocent girl with no ulterior motives, and no expectations to where our strange, yet electrifying encounter might lead.

I’ve forgotten what innocence looks like—how fucking sad is that?

“I’m Madison,” she says, extending her hand, and my huge palm dwarfs her tiny one as we shake.

“Dixon,” I reply with a genuine smile.

“So, do you make it a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?”

“What can I say, it’s a hobby of mine,” I reply with a casual shrug, and Madison laughs.

“Well, Dixon, thank you again for coming to my rescue.” I nod, letting her hand go as I realize I’m still creepily shaking it.

“Anytime. Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask as I don’t fail to see a small shiver pass through her body.

“Honestly, I’m okay. His bark is worse than his bite.”

I notice she doesn’t elaborate on who her assailant is. I want to say more, but for once, me, the fancy, sweet-talking shrink, is speechless. And the reason for that is because I have a feeling Madison would see through my bullshit and call me out for the fake I am.

“Maddy? Are you out here?” asks a concerned voice from behind us.

We both turn, and I suddenly have the urge to grab my nuts to protect them when I see a flaming redhead storm our way. She glares at me before focusing on Madison.

“Are you okay?”

Madison nods.

“I’m fine,” she replies, giving me a small smile as she extends her hand my way. “This is Dixon.”

Her friend looks at me, making it no secret she’s sizing me up. “Where did nimrod go?” she asks, totally ignoring me, and I smirk, as I like this girl’s spunk.

Madison brushes a tendril of hair behind her ear and frowns. “Oh, he left. Dixon saved the day,” she reveals, giving me a shy smile.

Her friend looks at me once again and this time it doesn’t appear she wants to skin me alive. “Well, in that case, it’s nice to meet you, Dixon,” and she gives me a small wave.

“Likewise,” I reply. “And it was nothing. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

Or wrong time, as the closer I look at Madison, the more intrigued I become. What is the matter with me?

“Well, regardless, thanks for looking out for my friend.”

I give her a small, polite nod, as her protectiveness over Madison reminds me of my friendship with Hunter and Finch. Madison is, without a doubt, someone worth protecting. I mean, look at her.

I can’t stop my eyes from darting over to her, and I’m surprised to see her returning my gaze. Her friend must also sense some weird stare-off going on between us, because she clears her throat, an octave higher than needed.

“Well, we better go back inside. Our friends are probably waiting for us,” she explains, breaking my trance-like stupor.

Dixon, don’t be a chump, talk to her. But what do I say? I haven’t properly spoken to a girl in so long; especially not to a girl I actually
wanted
to talk to. I’ve forgotten how to communicate with the opposite sex—and “faster” or “fuck me harder” doesn’t count. So like a wimp, I stand mute and smile.

“Okay, well, it was nice meeting you,” Madison says, biting her lip, lingering.

“You too. Stay safe.”

I restrain from groaning, as who the hell says “stay safe” other than your parents? I open my mouth, ready to add in a quirky response, but Madison is being dragged toward the entrance by her friend.

She suddenly turns over her shoulder and yells, “I work at The Pony Bar. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, come visit.”

Before I have time to reply, she’s gone.

What the
hell
was that? Madison has left me standing on the pavement, now questioning
my
manhood.

Like a chicken shit, I let the first girl in forever who I actually liked, leave. I need to go back in there and talk to her. I need her to see what a great guy I can be. But that’s the problem; I’m not a great guy. This week, I’ve fucked four different women, and I can’t even remember most of their names. Or faces. They all blur into one disgusting regret, one I wish I could erase but can’t.

Girls like Madison are too good for the likes of me, and I’m doing her a favor by keeping away. However, tell that to my attentive dick, who became interested in Madison the moment she opened her mouth. Yes, she’s fucking gorgeous, but the fact I didn’t see her as a conquest is what I find myself most attracted to. I haven’t felt that way since…Lily.

All thoughts of Lily come flooding back, and I suddenly remember why I was out here in the first place.

“Hey, handsome,” purrs a voice, snapping me back into the here and now.

Raising my eyes, I see the blonde bartender from earlier addressing me, inches from where I stand.

“Hey.” I quickly recover when I see her waiting for me to respond.

“I saw you inside.” She motions with her head toward the bar while checking me out.

I know I’m not ugly, and if I were a chick, I’d probably want to fuck me, too. I’ve always been tall, but I stopped growing when I shot up to 6’3”. My dark brown hair is naturally messy, always styled into a “fohawk” as one girl I was screwing called it, and my blue eyes complement my trademark dark stubble; most days, I’m just too lazy to shave.

“Oh, yeah?”I ask, unbelieving at how easy this is.

“Yeah,” she confirms with a slow nod, biting her glossy bottom lip. “Can I bum a smoke?”

“Sure.” I search through my pockets and offer her one.

As she places the Marlboro between her lips, she waits for me to offer her a light. I try not to recoil when she leers forward, pursing her lips like a fish while I light it. My horny libido tells my stupid brain that this blonde bimbo is exactly what I need to forget all about my encounter with the brown-haired beauty. They are exact opposites, and that’s what I need. This is what I do best.

“So, sweetheart. How long a break you got?”

She bats her fake eyelashes and smirks. “Fifteen minutes.”

Bending down to meet her short frame, I whisper, “I’ll make it the best fifteen minutes of your life.”

And that’s all the miles I have to put in as she flicks her cigarette to the ground with a sly grin. Reaching for the scruff of my shirt collar, she leads me around the corner and I make good on my promise.

It may be the best fifteen minutes of her life, but it’s the worst fifteen minutes of mine.

N
obody likes Mondays
—especially when you’ve had a shitty weekend. After jacking off in the shower—twice—you’d think my mood would have improved.

My weekend was strange. After boning the blonde on Friday night, I went home alone, which is no surprise, but oddly enough I was kind of disappointed. My number one cardinal rule is never, ever bring anyone home. My home is my sanctuary, it’s the one place where I can truly be myself, and I refuse to pollute that purity with my whoring ways. Also, I still see my home as
ours
. Lily is still ingrained into every crevice, and I can’t bring myself to taint the happy memories we once shared there.

But Friday night, I found myself wondering what it would be like to actually bring home a chick and fuck her in my bed, as opposed to screwing her up against a brick wall.

I’m a psychiatrist, so I know how the human mind works—most of the time. My need for comfort was triggered by the lovely Madison. Her innocence sung to me, and I haven’t felt that way for a long while. As brief as our encounter was, there was
something
there. Too bad I was too gutless to find out what that
something
was.

I felt fucking disgusting after consorting with the blonde, so for the rest of the weekend, I kept my nose clean and out of random chicks’ crotches. It was fairly boring on all accounts, but I feel somewhat unpolluted after my sexual abstinence for two whole days. That’s a long time for someone who uses sex as his shield.

“Dr. Mathews, your twelve-thirty appointment is here,” Ms. Vale says through the intercom on my phone.

Her singsong voice jars me out of my rut, and I clear my voice before replying, “Send her in.”

Pulling up my new patient information sheet on my laptop, I begin entering Ms. Juliet Harte’s details into my computer.

Age: 26

Gender: Female

Address: 18 Union Square West, New York

Problem: Sex Addiction

Oh boy.

“Dr. Mathews?” asks a soft, velvety voice, which has my dick standing in direct salute.

Raising my eyes from the screen, I see that Ms. Juliet Harte is complete perfection wrapped in pure sin.

Her long blonde hair is wrapped into a twist, and strands fall around her face, drawing attention to her “come fuck me” blue eyes. The sexiest lips I have ever seen are coated in a clear gloss, and images of what those lips could do to me have me subtly rearranging myself in my seat.

My newfound celibacy has just mentally motorboated Juliet’s perfect breasts. However, putting my game face on, I give her a small smile and gesture to the leather chair in front of my desk. “Please take a seat.”

She nods and saunters over, making sure to straighten out her cream tunic dress before taking a graceful seat.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Harte,” I say with a nod, getting the formalities out of the way.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Mathews,” she replies, her eyes focusing intently on me.

I see no fear or apprehension behind her poised gaze, and her self-confidence is an absolute turn-on. But I have a job to do.

“So today, we’ll mainly be discussing your history. Think of this as ‘a getting to know you’ session. In order to properly evaluate you, I need you to trust me. In no way will you be judged or condemned for your thoughts. No matter how perverse or wrong your thoughts may be, I need you to be totally honest with me. Do you think you can do that?” I ask with a smile.

Juliet nods. “Yes, I want to get better. I’ll do anything it takes.”

“Good,” I commend. “How about we take a seat on the sofa where we’ll both be more comfortable.”

Juliet’s mouth tips up into a secretive smile, but I ignore it as I reach for my notepad and make my way to the leather recliner. My eyes flick to the clock on my mantel, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through an hour session with this vixen, talking about her sex addiction, without ripping her clothes off.

Clearing my throat, I try not to stare as she takes a seat on the black leather sofa. As she slowly crosses her long legs, images of her black skyscraper heels digging into my ass while I fuck her up against my office wall assault my brain, and I barely suppress my moan at the erotic vision.

“So, what brings you here today, Ms. Harte?”

Juliet shifts in her seat, the leather creaking under her sinful ass as she replies, “I have a problem.”

I nod, encouraging her to go on.

“An addiction, I guess you could call it.” She pauses, lowering her eyes.

I wait for her to continue, as I will try my hardest to act professional.

As she meets my gaze, she huskily whispers, “I’m addicted…to sex.”

Those glorious words coming out of her mouth is what every hot-blooded American male wants to hear, but I appear unaffected as I ask, “How long have you felt this way?”

“For a while now.”

“How long roughly?” I press, my pen poised over my notepad.

“For about two years,” she discloses, her composure never wavering as I write down her secrets.

“I would like to talk about your personal life, Ms. Harte, would that be okay?”

She nods.

“Did anything happen around that time? Anything that may have caused this behavior change?”

I can see her mulling over my question. “Well, there was this one thing,” she states, and I remain impassive, allowing her to continue. “It was the first time I had sex with a girl. Does this mean I’m bisexual? Or gay?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“I don’t like to categorize sexuality, Ms. Harte,” I reply, pressing the notepad over my looming erection. “How did being with a woman make you feel?”

“I liked it. A lot,” she confesses. “There are some things men cannot provide in the bedroom.”

“And what’s that?”

“Being with a woman, it’s soft and familiar. They provide that gentleness and comfort a man doesn’t usually offer. The way a woman touches another woman’s body, exploring the soft curves and supple planes, it really is beautiful. But being with a man, it’s rough and raw. The way a man eats you out, compared to the way a woman does, is completely different. A man wants to devour his meal, while us ladies, we want to take our time and savor the taste,” she explains, her pink tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.

If my erection got any harder, I’d be able to pound nails into the wall. I know I have to steer this conversation into another direction before I show her not all men are barbarians, and we too, like to savor our meals.

“So apart from this event, did anything else happen? How’s your family life? Work? Social life?”

Juliet’s composure doesn’t shift, and she happily answers, “It’s all good. I live by myself in an apartment Daddy bought me. He’s an investment banker, and well, we’re quite well off. My mother passed away when I was seven, so I don’t really remember her. Daddy got remarried to Rachel, and Rachel treated me like I was hers. She has two children of her own, and they are both nice people.”

“Are they older? Younger? What’s your relationship like with them?”

“One older, one younger, and I love…both of them.” I don’t fail to notice the apprehension in her strained admission.

“What do you do for work?” I question, writing down her stepsiblings as a possible cause for her addiction.

“I work for a law firm. I’m just a file clerk, but I don’t really need to work, as Daddy takes care of me.”

I nod, feeling a tad disturbed that a twenty-six-year-old woman refers to her father as “Daddy.” I write down that a possible cause to her issues could be because she was sexually abused as a child. Most sex addicts describe their parents as being rigid, distant and uncaring. But in Juliet’s case, it seems her father was the complete opposite. I make a note to revisit this point later.

“What about your social life? Do you smoke? Drink? Take drugs?”

Juliet smirks, and straightens in her seat. “Yes to all of the above.”

Ms. Harte is getting more complex by the minute. “What drugs to do you take? Prescribed or illicit?”

“Mainly illicit,” she calmly states. “I like acid, ecstasy and cocaine.”

Holy shit, this woman is bad, bad news. But the more she confesses her sins, the more I want her.

“That’s quite a cocktail of drugs. When did you start using?”

She ignores my question as she slowly, and purposely, uncrosses her legs. I can clearly see the white triangle of barely-there cloth scarcely covering her pussy, but I remain professional as I don’t want to blow this. I know if I give in to my rampant libido, this will be the last time I see Ms. Juliet Harte, and after this introduction, I want more.

“Have you ever fucked while on acid, Dr. Mathews?” She closely gauges my reaction to see how I will respond to her crude question.

“This isn’t about me, Ms. Harte, but rather about you and your feelings. Did you want to tell me how you felt when engaging in a sexual act while high?” I coolly question, cocking an arrogant eyebrow.

I’ve been in the game for a long, long time, and it’s going to take more than a hot piece of ass with a filthy mouth to get me going. She’s testing me now, and Ms. Harte is a lot smarter than I gave her credit for. I must watch my back, and dick, with this femme fatale.

“It felt unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. My entire skin was on fire, and my senses were so in tune with my body, I anticipated every move my partners made. Every touch, slap, lick, pull, thrust, tickle, everything—it was amplified, tenfold, and nothing has ever felt that good,” she says, her pupils dilating, no doubt reliving the memory of her
ménage à trois
, as I didn’t fail to note her intentional mention of the word “partners.”

“So you enjoy sex?” My over-stimulated brain is begging me to stop with the torture.

She nods, and her eyes dart to my crotch. “Yes, I love it.”

“What exactly do you love about it? Besides the physical gratification, that is.”

Juliet smirks, before replying, “I love the power.”

Images of being cuffed to a bed while I call Ms. Harte “Mistress” flash through my brain, and I realize that this woman could be quite hazardous to one’s health.

Ms. Harte is one fucked-up little unit, and I can’t wait to find out what makes her tick.

A
n hour later
, I’m sitting in my chair, highly strung, and about ready to come in my pants. Ms. Harte is in the bathroom freshening up, as our session got a little heated and I reduced her almost to tears. I still can’t work out whether they were genuine or not, which troubles me. She really is an anomaly, which is a strange, almost-refreshing change, as most women don’t keep me guessing. But she does.

“So, same time next week?” she asks, exiting the bathroom and jarring me out of my thoughts.

Looking up from my desk, I see that she has applied a bright red shade of lipstick, which stands out against her pale hair. Nodding casually, I pretend to type on my laptop, appearing informal and laid-back.

“Sure, that’ll be fine. Please go ahead and schedule your session with Ms. Vale.” My curt response is a silent dismissal, and she reads it loud and clear.

”Thank you for today, Dr. Mathews. I feel…better,” she says, but I have a sneaking suspicion “better” was not the word she wanted to use.

”See you next week, Ms. Harte,” I reply, giving her a small smile.

“Okay, see you then.” She firmly nods and I keenly check out her tight little ass as she exits my office.

The moment the door closes, I let out a deep, agonizing breath and allow my staged composure to slip. That was damn intense, and the unrelenting wood I’m sporting is proof of how damn tense that really was.

If I were smart, I would tell Susanna to cancel any future appointments Ms. Harte has made and refer her to another doctor. But I never said I was smart. School smart—yes. But sex smart—hell to the fuck, no. I have never met such a sexually aggressive woman before, and I’m man enough to admit that Juliet Harte turns me on
and
scares me, all in the same breath.

I have no idea how to approach this as there is some unseen sexual spark between us. I know that sounds ludicrous, seeing as she is a self-confessed sex addict. But there is something more to her, and I’m intrigued to find out what.

Looking down at my lap, I sigh, as this tenting erection is going nowhere. Deciding to rub one out before my next client, I lock my door and make my way into my personal bathroom. The moment I switch on the light, her perfume assaults my nostrils and I take a moment to bask in her scent. The floral fragrance does nothing to help my predicament and I quickly unsnap the button on my pants, ready to get to work. However, my hand freezes as my eyes fall to the mirror above the basin.

Written in bright red lipstick across my mirror is a phone number—no guessing whose. Underneath sits a perfect imprint of her lipstick-stained kiss marks, taunting me with their blatant sexual innuendo. This is obviously Ms. Harte’s way of hinting that I call her, as I’ve already obtained her contact details via her client form.

Goddamnit, I’m screwed.

Surrendering, I unzip my fly, reach into my pants, and find my release within minutes. Who would have thought an innocent, lipstick-stained kiss mark could warrant such an explosive orgasm? But I know there is absolutely nothing innocent about Juliet Harte.