Dirty Laundry (The Q Collection Book 4) Read online

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  DIRTY LAUNDRY

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennie Kew

  Published by Wooden Key Press

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover design by Addendum Designs

  What readers are saying about Jennie's Q Collection

  "A dark hero and sexy heroine, fan-yourself sex, humour and good pacing make this short story a ripper of a read."

  ~ Kylie Griffin (author of Allegiance Sworn) on Goodreads for Pushing Rope

  "Hot, fast and with an emotional punch, this is one of my favourites from erotic author, Jennie Kew."

  ~ Bec McMaster (author of The Mech Who Loved Me) on Goodreads for Dirty Laundry

  "It was a super fast, funny, and panty melting hot read!!"

  ~ Rosy on Goodreads for I Saw, I Conquered, I Came

  "Her imagination is only matched by her ability to write hot sex scenes..."

  ~ Narelle on Goodreads for No Rest For The Wicked

  For Danielle, for all the coffees shared and all the coffees yet to come.

  Dirty Laundry

  Keeping it clean is so overrated…

  Okay. I'll admit it. I'm a good girl. Always have been, always will be. But even good girls need to break loose once in a while, or even once a week. For me it's my weekly 2am trip to the Laundromat. Sounds exciting, right? Well, you'd be surprised what you can get away with when the rest of the city is sleeping, like strapping on a pair of skates and pretending I'm in a roller derby, or that one time I turned on all the dryers and did hot Bikram yoga… naked. The Laundromat is my refuge, a place I can let my freak flag fly, so I was none too impressed the night I arrived to find some random guy had taken up residence in my happy place, at least not until he gave fluff and fold a whole new meaning.

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  Dirty Laundry

  Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Who the fuck is this guy and what the fuck is he doing in my happy place?

  "My name is Adam. I'm doing my washing, and yes, you said that out loud."

  Shit. "Sorry," I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, which admittedly at two in the morning isn't a great deal. He quirks an eyebrow at me, shakes his head and goes back to reading his book.

  Double shit.

  Head down, cheeks blazing and lips zipped, I drag my laundry duffel to the rear of the laundromat and fill two washing machines with a week's worth of dirty clothes and not-so-dirty sheets. I think I wash the sheets more out of habit than anything. I mean, it's not like I'm doing anything to make them unclean. I have no love life to speak of. There's no baby gravy to wash off or sex sweat to soak out. Nope. Nary an orgasm to be had in my bed.

  Unless you count foodgasms. And meat sweats. And food babies.

  God, I love food.

  Almost as much as I love my local laundromat.

  I love that it stays open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I love that it has a coffee vending machine and, more to the point, the coffee doesn't taste like dirty mop water filtered through a sweaty jockstrap. I love the enormous pink neon sign that stretches across the window and fills the shop with its ethereal glow. And I love that I can rock up at some ungodly hour of the morning and know without a doubt that I'll have the whole place to myself until sunrise, when the rest of the world suddenly awakens and fills up with people far more interesting than me.

  At least that's how it usually goes.

  Usually. But not tonight, apparently. Tonight I have to share the place with Adam.

  Heaving a sigh, I set the machines to wash, then glance over at my interloper and his book. He's completely engrossed in whatever he's reading, not paying a lick of attention to me—not that anyone ever does—so I take a moment to soak up the sights.

  Hey, if I have to share my happy place with the man, I may as well check him out.

  Neatly trimmed brown hair and a clean-shaven face give him a well-groomed look, but a strong jaw, firm lips and a nose that looks like it's been broken more than once make him appear more rugged than pretty. His plain blue T-shirt hides his body, but the nicely sculptured biceps revealed by the short sleeves hint at a lean yet strong physique. His long legs are stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, his jeans stretched taut by thighs thick with muscle.

  He's yummy. He's dreamy. He's… the total opposite of every guy I've ever dated.

  Let's face it, statistically speaking plain Janes like me don't end up with men like, well, him. I mean, this guy looks like he exists on a diet of protein shakes and power bars and probably spends every available minute in the gym.

  He's every jock in high school who made fun of my shapeless figure, every colleague who passed me over at the office Christmas party because my reputation for being a frigid bitch was apparently set in concrete.

  In other words, he looks like a total dick.

  Still, as dicks go, he is handsome, and it's not likely he'll talk to me, absorbed in his book as he is.

  Maybe this won't be such a chore after all.

  With his face still buried in his book, I chance another look at those rock-hard thighs, sink my teeth into my bottom lip and imagine straddling—

  "Are you going to stare at me all night?"

  Shooting my gaze back to his face, I say, "What makes you think I'm staring at you?"

  Watching me over the top of his book, he replies, "Baby, you ain't exactly subtle."

  I cock a brow at the infantile nickname. "Baby? Do I look like a baby to you?"

  Setting his book down on one solid thigh, his finger wedged between the pages to hold his place, he slowly peruses my body. I anchor my hands on my narrow hips and lift my chin, trying to ignore the sensual way his dark eyes roam over me.

  And failing miserably.

  My stomach flutters and my cheeks heat. The way he's watching me, I can almost feel his hands sliding under my clothes, over my skin, between my legs…. And I find myself trying not to remember the last time someone looked at me for so long without speaking. Gritting my teeth, I wait for the inevitable criticism.

  Too tall, too thin, too boyish.

  The usual complaints.

  But after another lengthy moment of silently staring at each other, his lips lift at the corners in the slightest of grins. "No, ma'am. You look all grown up to me."

  Wait. What?

  No jokes about the itty-bitty titty committee? No backhanded compliments about my weight? No inappropriate eating disorder comments?

  Huh.

  Relieved and a little confused, I pull my shoulders back, narrow my gaze. "Then can you quit it with the 'baby' thing?"

  He nods in deference and goes back to reading his book. "Sure thing."

  "Thank you."

  "Kitten."

  I clench my jaw and glare at him, watch his grin broaden. I mutter under my breath, "Ass."

  "Or you could just tell me your name," he says, then flicks over the page.

  Obviously. I could do that. Or I could lie. "My name is Eve."

  Adam puts his book down again and quirks an eyebrow. "Is this the part where I make a joke about you playing with my snake?"

  A burst of laughter escapes me. "Very funny."

  "I thought so."

  I put my duffel on a chair and walk over to the coffee machine. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee? An apology for swearing at you earlier."
<
br />   His deep voice is mired in wariness. "Vending machine coffee?"

  "Hey, don't knock it ’til you try it."

  His lips twist, and for a moment I think he'll refuse, but then he says, "Black. One sugar."

  Two minutes later, I hand him his coffee and take a sip of my own. "You know, research suggests that people who take their coffee black are psychopaths."

  He watches me over the rim of his cup, the harsh glow of the fluorescent light above us reflecting off his dark green eyes. "The same could be said about people who do their laundry in the middle of the night."

  "And here you're doing both," I say as I fold myself into the chair beside his. "And my real name is Georgia, by the way." I wrinkle my nose. "But everyone calls me George."

  "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why do they call you George?"

  "You're kidding, right?" I shift in my chair and press my hand to my cheek to hide the prickling heat staining my face with colour, then take another sip of my flat white, as if that will magically make the situation less embarrassing. He can't be that clueless. Or maybe he thinks it's funny to make me admit my shortcomings out loud. He wouldn't be the first. I clear my throat and force myself not to swear at him again. "Some people think I look like a boy."

  He tilts his head to stare at my chest. "Are these people blind? Because those are clearly breasts."

  What started as a flush on my face and neck is now flooding my whole body with warmth. My nipples tighten into hard little peaks under my T-shirt, abrade against the cotton. A shiver of excitement skitters over my flesh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Is he flirting with me? I play it cool. "And you clearly haven't seen me naked."

  He gulps down his coffee and crushes the empty cup in his hand. "Actually, I have," he says, as though it's the most natural thing in the world to admit to a complete stranger that you've seen them in their birthday suit. "Twice." He shoots the scrunched-up cup like a basketball, wincing as it hits the rim of the rubbish bin and bounces to the floor. "So close."

  He retrieves the cup and drops it in the bin, then leans against the bank of dryers on the wall opposite me, his eyes meeting mine, his gaze languid.

  Adam has seen me naked?

  Twice?

  My breathing stutters and my mouth runs dry. Hoping a jolt of caffeine will snap my brain out of whatever fugue state it's in, I finish my coffee in record time. Maybe I misheard him? Maybe he's lying?

  And maybe the grin he's wearing means no such luck. Shit. I misheard nothing.

  Adam has seen me naked.

  Twice.

  Shoulders back and chin raised high, I ask, "How long have you been watching me?"

  He folds his arms across his strong chest. "Long enough."

  I do the math. I've been coming to this laundromat for six months. I got up the nerve to get my freak flag on about four months ago. The first time I dared to get naked was during my impromptu Bikram yoga session roughly five weeks ago, and the second time was last week when I….

  Oh no.

  I swallow hard and watch Adam with a wary eye, his smug grin telling me without a doubt what he saw.

  Me. Here. Naked.

  Masturbating.

  Like, a lot.

  "You're an exhibitionist."

  His accusation leaves me breathless. He may as well have called me a slut. "I am not!"

  Then why are my panties so very wet?

  His smug grin has morphed into a simmering smile, and his dark eyes are fixed on mine, his focus unwavering, unnerving. "Okay, then what's with the Georgia Show every week? Why get naked if you don't want people to look at you?"

  Arms crossed over my meagre chest and eyes narrowed, I stare him down. At least I try to. His dark, indolent gaze is unsettling. Like a predator tracking his prey, waiting for the right time to pounce. And devour.

  The world between us narrows, my awareness of Adam intensifies, focuses all my energy on not flinching under his intense scrutiny. I feel hot—everywhere. Pressing my thighs together, I try to ignore the slick heat pooling between my legs and hope I sound more confident than I feel as I shift in my chair.

  "I don't get naked every week."

  "No, you don't." He pushes away from the bank of dryers. "Week before last was your Jane Fonda workout, leg warmers and all." Another step closer. "Week before that, you had a roller disco. I could hear ‘Dancing Queen’ from across the street," he says, jerking his head toward the shop front and the empty street beyond the wall of neon lights and glass.

  I push myself harder into the chair, pull my legs up in front of me like a protective shield as he provides proof that my weekly escapades have not gone as unnoticed as I'd believed.

  My question is barely audible over the noise of the machines, and I hardly recognise the breathy sound of my own voice. "You could?"

  "Mmhmm, and I'm not sure if it was the shorty-shorts, the Charlie's Angels T-shirt or the knee-high rainbow socks, but you looked. So. Fucking. Sexy." He takes another step. "I'm not ashamed to admit it, Georgia. I jerked off while watching you."

  Swallowing hard, I realise his admission should repulse me. It should be making me angry or scared, or at the very least grossed out. But I'm not. Instead, my skin prickles with heat and my pussy throbs. My gaze slides down his body from his rugged face to his strong arms, over his slim hips, and zeroes in on his crotch, on the—

  Oh. Wow!

  Enormous erection outlined in his jeans.

  Holy shit. Eyes wide and breathing hard, I stare at his cock like I'm eyeing off a fresh Danish, trying to imagine what it feels like in my mouth, what it tastes like…. The barrier of my legs relaxes and my feet hit the floor. I sit forward and lick my lips.

  "I like the way you think, kitten." Adam's voice rumbles through me and I watch, enthralled—horrified—as his hand reaches for his zipper.

  My nerves catch fire and my muscles lock down, sweat beads at my temples.

  What the fuck is happening here? For four months I've happily played dress-ups by myself and without interference. This is my safe space. The laundromat is my personal playground where I can be and do all the things I'm too chickenshit to be and do out there. In the real world.

  Adam's not supposed to be here.

  And I can't do this.

  "Stop."

  He does. He pauses for a split second before his hands detour to his pockets. The liquid heat of his dark eyes dims, takes on a cautious edge, and his face slips into an unreadable mask. He takes a step back, gives me space.

  I fumble to explain. "I'm not who—what—you think I am."

  "Oh?"

  Shaking my head, my thoughts all jumble together. I'm confused, needy, wet, and the way his T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and muscular biceps is making me really, really horny. But….

  "I never meant for anyone to see me. I'm not like that. Not really. I mean"—my voice drops to whisper—"why do you think I'm here at two in the morning? I'm a good girl. A boring girl, if you really want to know. I became an accountant, for fuck's sake, because I love maths. Maths! My nickname at work is Fifty Shades of Beige. I'm dull. I am wallpaper. And then you show up, and you're standing there looking all gorgeous and hot and telling me I'm sexy and staring at me like I'm the dirty girl of your wet dreams and I'm not." I hang my head. "I'm just… not."

  Hot tears of frustration fill my eyes and I quickly dash them away. Adam steps closer, crouches down in front of me. His grin is gone, his smile smoothed out, his eyes focused on mine, staring at me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve.

  "So let me see if I understand what you're trying to say. There are two Georgias? The boring girl you actually are, and the dirty girl you pretend to be?"

  Air explodes out of my lungs and I nod. He gets it. "Yes. Thank you, yes."

  But—uh-oh—that grin is back. "And it never occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, the dirty girl is who you really are and the boring girl is who you pretend to be?"

  Wait.
"What?"

  "Do you know what you were doing the first time I saw you?"

  Wondering what depraved thing he'll announce he saw me doing this time, I rub my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans. "No."

  "You were reading a book. That's all. You were sitting right here, just like you are now, and you were reading a book."

  Brows pulling together, I stare at him, suspicious of where this conversation is going. "You realise you're proving my point, right?"

  "I don't think so. I think perhaps what you think is boring you is actually just quiet you. Because I refuse to believe the girl who plays air guitar on a tabletop while belting out 'We Are the Champions' is boring."

  Annnd just when I thought I couldn't blush any more tonight…. "You saw that too?" Groaning in embarrassment, I bury my face in my hands, my cheeks burning. But I peek through my fingers when I hear his rumbling chuckle of laughter. I see that sexy grin of his and my insides clench.

  He answers with an unapologetic smirk. "Yep."

  "Oh, God. Is there anything you didn't see?"

  His gaze drops to my breasts, his dark eyes intense once more. "I know there are a few things I'd like to see again."

  "And what, you think I'm just going to whip them out for you to play with?"

  Adam stands and grins down at me. "Yes, I do. Because whether you want to admit it or not, Georgia, you are an exhibitionist. Maybe only when you think other people aren't watching, but that doesn't mean you don't want to be seen." He holds out his hand and waits patiently until I reach out and take it. Pulling me to my feet, he cups my chin and stares into my eyes, making sure I can't look away. Voice soft and low, he says, "I see you, kitten."

  Barely containing a whimper of arousal, I bite my lip. He tilts his head, leans down to kiss me, but I step back and out of his grasp. "What if…?" I swallow hard and try again. "What if…?"

  Warm hands settle on my shoulders, gently massage the tightness and the tension I always seem to carry. I can't help but lean into him, feel his heat, his strength. His massive erection. "What's wrong?"