Badd motherf cker, p.5
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       Badd Motherf*cker, p.5

         Part #1 of Badd Brothers series by Jasinda Wilder
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  I had to tug pretty hard to get the gown down past her chest and, Jesus, every time I tugged, I bared more of her tits, which not only were big, but were all natural, bouncing like fuckin' Jell-O every time I tugged. I felt my cock hardening in my jeans, and did my best to ignore it. A few more tugs, and the dress was at her hips, and then past them, and then finally she was standing there in front of me in nothing but a white strip of lace around her hips. Bare-ass, the white string disappearing between those sweet, lush, juicy cheeks. I could see her in the mirror and--Christ, the thong didn't cover much in front either. I mean, for real, it didn't cover shit. Her pussy was straight up eating that skimpy little thong like a last meal, and if I didn't have a hard-on already, I sprung hard as goddamned steel at the sight of those plump pussy lips sticking to damp white silk. Yeah, she was wet. Not just from the rain and mud, either. She was staring at me in the mirror, those ridiculous blue eyes wobbling and focusing and wavering, but fixed on me with unreadable thoughts and emotions ripping across her features and blazing in her eyes.

  Fuck me.

  I had to let go of her, had to clench my hands into fists and close my eyes and think about that time a delivery truck hit a puppy.

  Naked old nuns.

  Naked old priests.

  Cold, wriggling fish.

  Worms in the dirt.

  When I opened my eyes, she was still staring at me in the mirror. But now I was looking, and her tits were on full display in the mirror, big, round, high, perfect, with dark silver-dollar size areolae and thick, plump, erect pink nipples, and any work I'd done to push down my erection was totally undone.

  And she was just looking at me, and I swear to fuck she was thinking she wouldn't mind if I copped a touch, if my self-control slipped a little.

  "Quit fuckin' lookin' at me like that, Dru, swear to Christ." My growl was the deepest, snarliest sound I think I'd ever made.

  "Like what?"

  "I dunno. Whatever you're thinkin', lookin' at me like that, you best quit." I tugged aside the shower curtain, adjusted the water mix so it wasn't too hot or cold, and then grabbed her wrist in my hand. "Get in, angel."

  She stepped in, fumbled for the knob to add more hot water, and then glanced at me, steadying herself against the wall. "I'm still wearing my underwear."

  I ground my teeth, spoke through clenched molars, because now she was in my shower, all but naked, water sluicing down her skin, pasting her hair to her scalp and shoulders, and I was fighting every instinct I had, which was to climb in there with her and scrub her clean just so I could get her all dirty again.

  I couldn't help the pissed off glare I gave her. "Well pardon me, but there's no way in fuckin' hell I'm taking that off you. This is taking all my self-control as it is. So you'll just have to shower in that fuckin' thong, because I ain't helping you out of it."

  "Oh." She ducked her head back under the spray, rinsing her hair, then wiped her face and peered around the shower. "Shampoo?"

  I snagged a bottle from under the sink and handed it to her.

  She lathered her hair, occasionally steadying herself against the wall with one hand, or grabbing at me with the other. I was getting soaked by the spray, as was the floor but, fuck it, I didn't care. Not then. Watching her shower? God, I was the luckiest bastard in the whole fucking world, and the most cursed: treated to the sight of her nude body, all that perfect skin, all those goddamn perfect curves, watching droplets of water slide down her breasts and between her thighs...fuck--but I was cursed, because I couldn't touch.

  And then she glanced at me, considering, thinking. She steadied herself with a hand on the wall, hooked her thumb into the lace of her thong, and worked it down around her hips, then slid her thighs together and wiggled her hips to shimmy it down to her knees, and then it was off and at her feet. She bent to grab it, went off balance, and I had to grab her shoulders to keep her upright, which meant I got blasted by the scalding hot water, and I had my hands on her naked wet skin, and now she was inches away from me, water running down her face and her eyes were wide and blue and frightened and aroused and full of sadness.

  But she had her thong in her hand.

  And, in that moment, her eyes on mine, her thoughts and feelings running clear as day across her face and in her eyes, her naked wet body pressed up against mine...

  She set her soaked thong on top of my head, and giggled.

  It dripped hot water into my hair and down my face and onto the back of my neck. I snagged it off my head, wrung it out, and backed away from her. I had to.

  That giggle.

  Motherfucker, that giggle.

  Sweet, innocent, playful, sexy, breathy.

  If I could make her giggle like that in bed, tickle her, tease her with my tongue until those erotic little giggles turned to moans, which would turn to begging, which would turn to screams of orgasm as I swept my tongue against her clit, tasting the sugar of her pussy...

  I started for her, reached for her, fully intending to toss her onto the bed and make her beg for my cock in that musical voice of hers...

  I got so far as to rest my palm on her hip, and then my fingers curled against her skin, and her eyes fixed on mine, and she wavered, fell back against the shower wall, breathing hard, tits rising and falling with each gasping breath, and fuck, fuck, fuck, her thighs were shaking, and I swear to Christ I could smell the desire from her pussy through the steam of the scorching hot water, and she was reaching for me too, but she still had one hand on the wall to keep herself from toppling over, and--


  You're a fucking bastard, Sebastian Badd.

  I spun away from her before I did anything we'd both regret, but I was so pissed at myself, at her, at the asshole who'd broken her fucking pissed. Adrenaline coursed through me as I ripped myself away from her.

  I lashed out, smashed my fist against the door frame as hard as I could, splintering it so thoroughly chunks of molding split off and hit the floor.

  "Jesus, Sebastian! What the fuck!" She was shocked, scared.

  I kept my eyes off her, grabbed a towel from under the sink and set it on the counter. "I can't do this. Sorry. Try not to pass out and break your fuckin' head open."

  I left the bathroom, closed the bedroom door behind me, and then put my back to it, clutching at my hair with both hands. My fist throbbed like a bitch, but I didn't care.

  I listened to the shower going for so long I thought she'd for sure passed out in there, but eventually the water shut off and then I heard the bed springs squeak as she hit the bed.

  "Sebastian?" I heard her voice beyond the door, muzzy, slurred.


  "Need a trashcan. In case I puke."

  "Got it." I fetched a trashcan from one of the other bathrooms, and then knocked on her door. "You covered?"


  I opened the door and moved beside the bed. She was diagonal across the mattress, facing the foot end, and by 'mostly' covered, she meant she had the towel wrapped around her waist to cover most of her ass, and she was lying on her stomach with her head over the side of the bed.

  "The dress is all you got with you, I'm guessing?"

  She nodded. "Yep. And a pair of heels. And my purse, and my broken heart. But no clothes."

  "I'll get you a shirt to sleep in, then."

  I brought one of my old, faded Badd's Bar and Grill shirts, from back when Badd's was a relatively high-draw tourist attraction rather than a run-down one-man operation. It was soft, the logo so faded you could barely read it. I touched her shoulder gently, and then sat down near her head.

  "Can you sit up?"

  She shook her head sloppily. "Nope. No can do, Mister Sebastian sir. I'm all drunked out. All done. Bye-bye."

  "Awesome. Well, work with me, here. I'm gonna get this shirt on you, okay?"


  I held her by the shoulders, helped her roll onto her back, then lifted her to a sitting position, and somehow managed to make sure the to
wel stayed in place over her chest in the process. I tugged it over her head, and tried to help her get her arms through, but she got lost or confused or something, and I couldn't figure out which arm I had and she couldn't figure out where it was going, and she got all tangled up, her head halfway through the opening, one arm in the wrong sleeve, the other fumbling behind her.

  "Waitwaitwait." She whacked at me with both hands. "Stop, you stupid gorgeous orc man. I can do it."

  I let go of her, trying not to laugh and failing badly.

  "Stop laughing at me!"

  "I'm sorry, it's just funny. You're funny, but it's a cute funny."

  She finally got the shirt sorted out and got it down in place, and then gave me a sad, sorrowful look. "I'm not supposed to be cute. I'm supposed to be sexy," she said, her voice plaintive and mournful. "I'm supposed to be married. I'm supposed to be married right now! It was supposed to be Michael taking my dress off. I should have his cock inside me right now, but instead I'm here, drunk out of my mind, heartbroken, and wishing it was you with your cock inside me instead, and I don't even care, because Michael is an ASSHOLE!" She shouted the last word so loudly I flinched.

  I had to force myself to ignore the one phrase out of everything she said that really registered...take a wild guess which. I palmed her cheek gently. "You are sexy, Dru. And I'm sorry your fuckhead ex-fiance broke your heart. He's the worst kind of asshole in the whole world, and you're better off without him."

  She giggled at me again. "Wanna know why Michael is an asshole?"

  "He stood you up?"

  She shook her head side to side in a sloppy, wide, exaggerated gesture. "Noooooope. He was fucking my bridesmaid right before the goddamn wedding. And her name was Tawny! Who the fuck names their kid Tawny? Did her parents want her to be a slut? Because that's how you get a slut. And she's a slut. I mean, I'm sure there are nice, normal, non-slutty girls out there named sorry--I mean...Tawny--shit. What I meant was, sorry to all the non-slut girls named Tawny in the world for assuming they're all sluts. But she's a slut. She fucked my fiance on my wedding day! Who does that? Tawny does that, because she's a slut! Fuck you, Tawny, you fucking slut."

  She stared at me, eyes swimming dizzily, and then grinned as if there was a joke I'd missed. "Did you hear what else I said? I said I wanted your cock inside me, and not Michael's. I bet you have a huuuuuuuuuge cock, the hugest, the biggest, most beautiful cock ever, right? You do, I just know you do. And if I wasn't totally wasted and supposed to be married RIGHT NOW, I'd be fucking you so hard you don't even know. You--don't--even--know!" She jabbed her index finger into my chest. "Did you get all that?"

  I sighed, struggling with myself. "Yes, Dru, I got all that."


  I frowned. "Well what?"

  "Do you?"

  "Do I what?"

  She pointed at my crotch. "Have the hugest cock I've ever seen."

  I wanted so fucking bad to show her what I had, because despite the situation, I was so hard it hurt. "Never had any complaints. But for now, I think you need to go to sleep."


  I nodded. "Yes, alone."

  "Good." She flopped backward onto the pillows, and I tugged the blankets out from beneath her and covered her with them. I was on my way toward the door when her sweet, sleepy voice stopped me. "Know what sucks, Sebastian?"

  "What's that?"

  "You'll remember this whole thing tomorrow, and I won't." She tried to point at me, but missed, and hit the bed beside her instead. "Or, at least, I hope I don't remember this tomorrow. I hope you don't either, 'cause I'm a fucking mess. I hope I wake up with amnesia. Can you give me amnesia?"

  "No. And even if I could, I wouldn't."

  "Why not? I don't wanna remember this. None of it."

  "Because forgetting is a cop-out, angel, and you're stronger than that."

  "How do you know?"

  I flicked off the lights, hearing her fading. "I can just tell. Now sleep. You're safe here."

  "That's cause you're an orc, and nobody fucks with orcs. Except you're a sexy orc. A damn sexy orc."

  Shit was getting seriously interesting.

  I left her snoring, a trashcan on the floor near to hand, and went to my bedroom.

  I locked my door. Locked my bathroom door, stripped naked, turned on the shower, and told myself to stop thinking about her.

  But it was futile.

  I got into the shower and fought it as I washed my hair. I fought it as I scrubbed soap over my skin.

  She was all I could see. All I could smell. All I could feel. I could picture every inch of her naked, wet body, and I could almost feel her pussy tight and wet and warm sliding around my cock as I pushed into her, could almost hear that sexy playful giggle as I teased her--shit, shit...she'd be so wet for me, she'd feel like--god, like nothing I had ever felt before. I just knew fucking her would feel like nothing I'd ever felt before. The way she'd move under me, on top of me, the way she'd whimper and moan and beg for me to fuck her harder...

  My cock throbbed in my fist as I jerked myself thinking about Dru, picturing her wet skin against mine, her slick pussy swallowing every inch of my cock, which I knew for a fact would be the longest, thickest, hardest cock she'd ever had inside her, and I'd fuck her until we both went crazy with it--

  I came so hard I thought I'd go blind, emptying my balls in gush after gush, until I went limp and had to brace against the far wall to stay upright.

  I was a fucking bastard.

  Because I knew I'd jerk off to Dru again, and frequently.

  I just couldn't touch her.

  You don't fuck the heartbroken ones: they cling, and I don't do clingy.

  Not ever, but especially not with my seven brothers about to descend upon me.

  Which raised one very pressing question: Where the hell were all eight of us going to sleep? We hadn't really fit four to a room back when we were kids; we were all big men who took up a lot of space now, and these rooms, while not tiny, were definitely not going to fit eight grown men, even if I did give up having a room to myself, which I wasn't super excited about. Shit, none of us would be.

  What the fuck, Dad? I'd have help at the bar, sure...but still. What the fuck?



  I woke up to a pounding headache and a mouth so parched I thought I'd swallowed sand.

  What the fuck--where was I? What happened?

  I couldn't remember anything, at first. Which was a mercy, of sorts.

  I tried to fall back asleep, but, as a rule, once I was awake I was up for good, no matter how exhausted or still drunk or hung over I was.

  The bed underneath me didn't feel right--it wasn't my bed. It was too firm, and the sheets felt wrong, and the blankets smelled wrong, and the pillow was too thick and it smelled wrong. I wrenched my eyes open, stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, which was a mistake, since it was further evidence I wasn't at home. This ceiling was flat white drywall with no molding to hide the corners. My ceiling at home in Seattle was much higher and was industrial chic, black painted metal rafters meeting exposed brick walls.

  I turned over to the side, and saw two minor miracles: a litre bottle of water, and two aspirin. Also, there was a note.

  Masculine handwriting, sloppily and quickly scrawled, but legible:


  Bet you're feeling like shit about now. Drink the whole bottle of water and take the aspirin, and then come downstairs. I'll make you some breakfast.

  Just so you know, one of my brothers is here, and he's the ugliest motherfucker you've ever seen, so be warned. He's also a major douchetard, so don't expect manners from him, as he's spent the last few years pretending he's a badass. His name is Zane, and if you ignore him long enough, he'll go away. Unlike me.

  Couple other quick things: I have a buddy in town who owns a dry-cleaning business, so he's got your dress to see if he can work some magic on those mud stains. Second, I have another friend who owns a second-hand clothing s
hop, so she brought you some clothes. I got no fucking clue what size you are, so I told her what size your dress is and she guessed from there. Hope they fit.

  Lastly, I seem to have developed an odd case of amnesia regarding last night. Too much Johnny, probably. So don't feel weird, since neither of us remembers shit about shit.


  PS: you're fucking adorable when you sleep. You snore.





  I remembered everything. All at once, like a freight train of heartache and embarrassment.

  The video on Eric's phone of Michael drilling Tawny from behind in the dressing room, minutes before he was supposed to say "I do" to me.

  Getting obliterated with Dad's cop buddies.

  Literally jumping on the first airplane going anywhere, and offering the pilot all my cash to take me wherever he was going.

  Which turned out to be somewhere called Ketchikan, Alaska.

  Stumbling half-drunk, half hung over, and all pissed off into some shitty dive bar on the docks, and getting wasted all over again with the sexiest motherfucker I'd ever laid eyes on.

  Who had poured me scotch.

  Fed me delicious food.

  Carried me out of the mud.

  Undressed me.

  Put me in the shower.

  Put me in bed.

  And hadn't taken advantage of me.

  Even though I had told him, I was pretty sure, that he probably had the hugest cock and that I wanted it inside me.

  And then--and then...he'd left me water and aspirin and a cute note.

  And gotten my dress dry-cleaned.

  And provided real clothing for me.

  And was going to make me breakfast.

  It was probably the hangover, but I could have cried at the thoughtfulness and care he'd shown me.

  I worked on sitting up, which took a few minutes because moving was hard, and being awake was hard, and being alive was hard and everything hurt like hell, but most especially my head and my heart ached in different but equally excruciating ways. I twisted the top off the water, took four huge slugs of the still-cold water, and then chased the aspirin down with more water. Then finally took a good look around me. The room was spare, sparse. The bed I was on was nothing but a mattress and box spring on a frame, no headboard or footboard. Plain white sheets and a thick gray quilt. There really wasn't anything else in the room except a side table on my left, which had the water on it, the note, and my phone, with my charger cord connected to a wall plug. He'd even plugged in my phone.

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