Dirty Money

By: Jessica Clare



I rush out the back of the office and into the lobby—only to see Winky Jack heading back in. He’s got a coffee in hand and his sunglasses on. I smile at him as I pass by.

He stops and points at me. “Ivy!”

I halt, but inwardly I’m torn between snarling at him and just wishing I could race out the door. Instead, I keep a warm smile on my face and try to pretend that someone just stuck gum to the back of his expensive suit. “Hi, Jack, how did the open house go?”

“Fantastic. Got one or two couples that are very interested.” One of his cheeks twitches, and I realize he’s probably winking at me from behind his sunglasses. Eesh. “It was a great lead. Thanks for sending it in my direction.”

But I didn’t, I want to snap. You stole it. “Of course.”

He sips his coffee, ignoring the fact that I was trying to leave. “You said you had some comps, right? Mind emailing me those?”

“Sure.” I gesture at the door. It’s getting harder to smile by the second, but somehow I manage. “Listen, I have to go—”

At that moment, a man pushes open the glass double doors and walks into the lobby. He’s wearing a dirty trucker cap, an equally dirty T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. He’s got an enormous, bushy beard covering most of his face and glances around the building, thick brows drawn down as if he disapproves of everything he sees.

The receptionist gives him a blank look, and then her lips twitch with a smirk. She glances over at me and Jack as if to say can you believe this guy, then over at the client. “Can I help you, sir?”

He saunters forward with a cocky swagger, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Wanted to talk to someone about a house.” He’s got a thick Texas accent that tells me he’s from a small town and not a big city. They drawl more out east and west. I know, because it took me thirteen CDs of self-guided voice coaching to try to ditch my own accent.

The receptionist looks over at me and Jack.

Jack takes another sip of his coffee. “Looks like this one’s yours, Ivy.”

I’m torn. On one hand, I need sales. On the other hand, this guy doesn’t look like he has two nickels to rub together. That’s why he’s “mine.” Jack can’t be bothered unless it’s a million-dollar sale. I smother the stab of resentment I feel. “I do need to go . . .”

But Jack’s already turning and walking away. That . . . jerk. Grr. It’s not the client’s fault for having bad timing, though. It’d be rude for me to take my frustrations out on him. So I look over at the man with the beard and give him a smile, offering my hand. All right then, I said I wanted a sale, and fate is providing. “Hi there. I’m Ivy Smithfield . . .”

And my voice dies off, because he’s leaning against the receptionist’s counter, dripping red dirt from his hat and shirt, and devouring me with his eyes. I’ve heard that expression before but I’ve never experienced it. I’ve never felt like anyone was pulling my clothing from my body with their freaking gaze and eye-fucking me . . .

Until now.

Good . . . goodness. I’m flustered and don’t know what to think.





Chapter Three



Boone

This was a fantastic idea. For once, my brothers were smart and led me in the right direction. And even though I feel a bit like an asshole for coming into this fancy office with its shiny floors and glass everywhere I look. The receptionist looks at me like I’m scum, but it’s all worth it the moment she turns and I see her.

The woman from the flyer.

She’s more perfect in person than she is in the picture. Her long, blonde hair seems brighter, her smile more sincere. Up close, her skin seems translucent and flawless, and her mouth is a soft pink bow that is just begging to do filthy things to a man’s cock. Her eyes are a vivid greenish-brown that I can’t stop staring at. She’s wearing the same suit and skirt she did in the photos, right down to the shoes, and her tits look just as fucking amazing in it as they did in the photo.

As she extends her hand to me, I see perfect fingers tipped with a pale peach manicure. Her hand is soft as she slips it into mine, but her grip is firm. “I’m Ivy Smithfield,” she says, and her voice is soft, slow, and sweet. Fuck, it’s giving me a hard-on just to hear her voice.

I’m glad I did this, because I want her. I want her in my bed, right now, her long legs wrapped around my hips as I pound into her. She can even wear those beige heels of hers. I’ll let her put ’em on my shoulders while I fuck her. She can tell me dirty things in that smoky little voice of hers until I bust my nut.

Yeah, I like the sound of that, too.

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