Dirty Lies

COMPLICATIONS

I pulled Skylar as close as possible. If my thundering heart and rock-hard dick were any indication, it had been far too long since I'd been with a woman.

She wrapped her smooth legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. I stood against the wall of the pool, and that beautiful body was tight against me. Our tongues collided, the tips circling one another.

"Che bella ragazza."

"What does that mean?"

Her voice tickled my ear, teased my senses. "What a beautiful girl."

And she was. Skylar Shaw was my perfect physical fantasy: curvy, with catlike eyes, and full, pouty lips.

She was safe, and perfect for a one-night stand.

I'd fully researched her after our meeting earlier in the day, and everything checked out. Public records revealed where she was born, where she'd gone to school, every dorm room and every apartment she'd ever lived. Her whole life was online, the scholarships she had won and the articles she had written in the Boston paper during her internship. Her Twitter feed detailed her stories here on Palmira, and her Pinterest page revealed she loved green smoothies, true crime shows, and smoosh-faced dogs.

She smelled like lavender, chlorine, and the sweetest of forbidden fruit. And the most captivating thing of all? She was a journalist—possibly the worst of all types of women I could hook up with.

Her clear blue eyes, her curiosity, her gorgeous tits...the combination was so seductive. My weakness. My kryptonite.

I didn't give a shit. I wanted her. In bed. Soon.

After I'd checked her out online, I spent a couple hours brooding. Considered calling her. Then I'd spotted her on the sand and knew I had to act. A one-night stand couldn't hurt, even if it was with a woman whose job was not to keep secrets.

Although—I dragged my half-open mouth gently up her neck and felt her shiver—I probably shouldn't have told her my real first name, but how would she find out anything more about me? There wasn't anything to discover, not online anyway. I'd made sure of that. And I sure wasn't giving her my last name. Wouldn't. Not when I took her upstairs to my bedroom, and not when I kissed her goodbye later in the night.

My mind rioted while my body—well, my dick—urged me on. What the hell was I doing?

I hated lying to her about being a graduate student. But concealing my true profession was a necessity. I wished I could tell her I was also a journalist and a best-selling author. But since my anonymously-authored book came out, self-preservation trumped ego.

"Tu sei bellissima," I whispered, dragging out each word. I kissed her again, hard, and took a handful of her wet hair and moved her head so her ear was next to my mouth. "You are gorgeous."

Her hands were suddenly in my hair, sliding down my neck, over my biceps. Oh yeah. She wanted this too.

It had been too long since I'd fucked a woman. The last time was three months ago in Argentina at a backpackers' hostel when I was lonely and a little drunk. Skylar seemed different somehow, probably because she could ruin me.