Good Girls Like it Dirty Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  If you love erotica, one-click these hot Scorched releases… Three-Way Split

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  Improper Proposal

  Wicked Design

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Carmen Falcone. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Alethea Spiridon

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover photography by John Sommer/GettyImages

  ISBN 978-1-64063-635-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2018

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  To Christine Glover and Jodi Linton. May a hacker never find our Facebook PMs! :)

  Chapter One

  Zaine Cavanaugh pulled his Mercedes AMG-GT into the luxurious garage of his Hollywood Hills home. His cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why the hell did Doug think he needed nursing after the separation? With a sigh, he tapped on the green button. “Hello.”

  “Hey, man. Wife asked if you wanted to join us for dinner tonight,” his friend said. “Just a few people,” he added in a low voice.

  Zaine didn’t answer right away. If it was going to be a couples’ night, he didn’t want to go. Doug knew damn well he didn’t have a plus-one, not since his wife left him.

  “Not just couples,” Doug said after clearing his throat.

  What part of not feeling like socializing didn’t people get? Most likely this was a pity invite to get him out of the house. Zaine shut the door of his car with one hand while holding his phone with the other. He glanced around, as he’d done for the past four weeks, mentally counting the three cars in his four-car garage. The one missing belonged to Ashley, who had made it clear she wasn’t coming back, something Doug already knew.

  “Zaine?” Doug called on the other end of the line. “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Zaine said, closing the garage door with a click. “Sure. I’ll be there. Text me the details. Gotta go,” he said, and slid his phone back in his jacket.

  He’d told Doug he wasn’t a neglected child after a tumultuous divorce who needed extra attention or shiny new toys. At least his buddy Nico invited him for drinks and didn’t insist on talking about his failed marriage. She’d left him. It was over.

  Zaine drew in a breath. At thirty-six years old, he’d acquired all the toys he could ever want. The only thing he’d missed had been turning his house into a cozy home, because Ashley had been more career obsessed than he, and after four years of marriage, their differences finally pulled them apart. He’d always wanted to start a family, and after losing his twin brother Zachary a couple of years prior, he’d begun to question his own mortality, and the desire had only increased.

  Ashley didn’t even want to talk about having children, let alone act on it. The last time they’d had sex, days before she’d left him, had been tepid at best.

  Zaine opened the door, tossed his keys on the console table, then undid his tie and loosened his collar. He’d change into sports clothes and go for a hike. Exercise always gave him a new perspective on things.

  Approaching the hallway leading to his bedroom, he heard a couple of moans. He frowned. Had Ashley returned? No way those moans were coming from her. Maybe I left some porn on my home laptop. For the past few weeks, he’d made do by himself. He’d counted on the sinful pleasures of the internet to watch soft porn videos and punish his meat. He’d been too busy with work and perfecting the bid for the Lara Annick account he hoped to nail to go out and meet women.

  The closer his footfalls veered toward the bedroom, the louder the moans echoed in his ears. His cock strained against his pants, and he curled his fists. No, Ashley’s moans weren’t anything like the wild sounds echoing out of his domain. These whimpers were hella sexy, raw.

  He walked into his room, and the first thing he saw was a luscious blonde woman occupying his large bed. Zaine took a step back and swallowed.

  Monique, the French maid Ashley had hired a few months ago, squirmed on his bed with her eyes closed. She lay between the pillows, her plain black trousers curled below her knees. She’d hiked up her shirt, which revealed her large tits and engorged nipples. His fingers tingled to touch the pink peaks, squeeze them.

  He blinked, wondering if this was one of those crazy, realistic dreams. Then he blinked again, but the surroundings didn’t change. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his heart drummed like ancient African music.

  She shoved two fingers into her shaved pussy. God. He licked his lips, wondering how sweet she’d taste. Arousal moved through him, expanding and searing his insides.

  He’d only seen her a couple of times, since she usually cleaned their house while he and Ashley were at work. Of course he’d noticed her beauty, but as a married man—albeit an unhappy one—he’d never dwelled on her looks for too long. After all, she had to be at least a decade younger than him.

  “Monsieur Zaine,” she whispered.

  He expected her to reach for him, but she kept flicking her clit madly, bucking her round hips into her hand. She hadn’t seen him.

  Shit. She’s fucking herself in my bed and calling my name. Zaine’s throat thickened, and his cock grew painfully hard. What would she do if he joined her? He should leave, but like some horny and dirty pervert, he loitered, unable to yank his gaze away.

  Monique murmured things in French, and he mentally slapped himself for not mastering the language in college. He’d been too focused on making money and working his ass off. He’d learned Spanish, for the benefit of dealing with foremen and construction workers when needed. And now she spoke in the sexiest accent ever as she fingered her pussy so hard he heard the sound from her fingers slamming into her wet juicy cunt.

  Desire pounded in his temples, blurring his vision. He stood several feet from a hot semi-naked woman, and he’d give anything to taste her, then flip her on her stomach and screw her from behind. He’d take her with powerful thrusts while holding her hips in place. She’d moan and call his name without the mister title—though the formality made it even hotter. She could monsieur him all she wanted.

  She cupped her full breast with one hand,
her finger circling the pink nipple. Blood rushed to his dick so fast that he felt dizzy for a moment. His cock was so engorged, it strained for release. If he didn’t do anything, he’d come in his pants like some desperate teenager.

  Ping. The text message alert managed to burst the hazy bubble. He was about to speak when her eyes flew open and she turned her head in his direction. Gasping, she immediately sat up straight. A lovely shade of red spread across her cheeks.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling down her shirt and swinging one leg over the other as she slid out of the bed.

  His heart raced, and he felt like a sixteen-year-old caught looking at dirty magazines. Still, he kept his cool. “I could ask you the same thing, though it’s obvious,” he said, trying hard not to sound creepy. She’d masturbated in his bedroom, in his bed while on the clock. Why did he owe her any explanations?

  “Incroyable. How rude. You watched me while I pleasured myself,” she said, her green eyes widening.

  A pang of annoyance laced her voice, like he’d somehow intruded on her and had no right to do so. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t come home early because I thought I’d find my maid fucking herself on my bed.”

  She smoothed her hand over her shirt and pants. A dangerous sparkle gleamed in her eyes. “For your information, Monsieur, I had finished cleaning and thought I was alone.”

  “Is this how you reward yourself after completing a job?” he asked, hoping to dispel some of the tension. Images of her playing with herself in his bed flooded his mind, and he willed them away. He’d make good use of them later, but getting rid of his boner was already a tough task.

  Her expression softened, and she sized him up. “Why? Would that make you come home early more often?” she asked in a sweet voice, and he wondered if she meant it as an invitation or if the French beauty mocked him.

  “It’d be a good incentive.” He closed the gap between them, easily towering over her. She worried her bottom lip. Those plump, kissable lips belonged around his cock, with her sinful tongue licking him, lapping at his flesh with abandon. The image shot another arrow of lust through him, and he wrestled his own desire to keep upright. “Don’t you think?” he said, his finger grazing her cheek.

  He felt her tremble under his touch. Oh, yeah. Encouraged, he traced the line of her delicate jaw with the tip of his finger. Zings of awareness shot up his wrist and arm. She kept her gaze locked on his. Specks of gold flickered in the depths of her darkening green eyes. He broke the stare as he glanced down her neck, and to his satisfaction, the main vein in her graceful neck pulsed. “You called my name when you touched yourself. Why? If you didn’t know I was in the room.”

  “I…” She opened her mouth, but hesitated.

  He slid his finger to her neck, feeling the power of her pulse. She wanted him. Why was she holding back? “I can take you to bed and we’ll finish what you started. Just say the word,” he said, adamant on ensuring she knew he wouldn’t push her.

  “I’m flattered, but I can’t,” she said, then repeated it louder, as if she needed to hear it herself. “I can’t.” She pulled away from him, stepping back then circling around him, heading for the door.

  “Why not?”

  She turned around and gave him a mischievous smile. “Please don’t follow my lead and touch yourself in the fresh bedsheets. It’d be a shame to stain the two thousand count threads.”

  A wave of heat moved across his face, a feeling he had never experienced before. Was he…blushing in front of a woman? She marched out of his bedroom, and he followed her. “Wait. Are you just going to leave?”

  She came to a halt and tossed him a glance in the hallway. “Yeah I’m done, Monsieur. When you pay me through direct deposit, make sure you add a fat tip for gawking shamelessly at the help. See you next week,” she said like it was no big deal and sauntered away.

  He stood there, looking as her curvy backside swayed from view, wondering what the hell just happened. His cell phone pinged again. Annoyed, he fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the text message from Doug with the time of the dinner later on.

  Yeah. He’d go out to forget about the naughty naked maid on his bed, but first he’d have to take a cold shower.

  …

  “Monique, how are we doing?” Paula asked, popping her head in the kitchen.

  Monique glanced at the tray of smoked salmon canapés. “I’m just about to bring these out.”

  Paula tossed her long brown hair to the side. “Good. I worried tonight would be a disaster,” she said dramatically, and when she gestured with her hands her Tiffany bangles shook.

  “Not a chance,” Monique said. Hours earlier, her client had called to beg her to come over and wait a dinner. Apparently, the catering company she’d hired bailed on her at the last minute, and Paula had been able to find a chef, but she still needed help to serve the food. Monique inwardly shrugged. No big deal. Hey, she was happy to take their money and do the work for them. The interesting thing about rich people was most of the time they didn’t think they could do trivial things on their own.

  “What are you doing later tonight?” Glen, the chef, asked her.

  Not you, that’s for sure. The five-foot-six cook with a pretentious curly mustache had some nerve to ask her out. He’d been eyeing her ever since she’d arrived to prep the canapés an hour earlier, even though they’d barely exchanged more than a few words. “I’ll be busy,” she said.

  “All right. You’re a hard-to-get girl. I can appreciate that.” He lifted his hands in surrender, but his eyes didn’t leave her face.

  She decided to ignore him and glanced at the tray of food she was carrying.

  Hard to get? Glen wouldn’t have thought so if he had seen her sprawled on her architect boss’s bed earlier. Her afternoon had been far from ordinary. She’d cleaned the Cavanaugh house as usual, then for the first—or, okay, maybe the second—time, she’d touched herself on his bed. She wished she didn’t fantasize about him, but his strong physique and sexy lips intruded in her mind whenever she least expected it. It didn’t matter that he had shared the bed with his wife in the past. Monsieur Zaine was now a free man, even if not legally—his wife had left weeks ago, and in Monique’s fantasies he was finally available.

  God. He had been available too when she’d first seen him gawking at her in his room with specks of fire gleaming in his gorgeous brown eyes. The fire of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to screw her.

  Thrills of excitement moved through her, her nipples hardening against the pale pink uniform Paula had given her to wear. A small white apron was wrapped around her waist, and she’d chosen to complete the look with nude-colored pumps she’d bought on sale.

  Monsieur Zaine… Fantasizing about him had been wrong and sinful. Her mom had raised her better than that.

  A man fresh out of marriage.

  A man who was older, more experienced, and…sexy as hell.

  Her pussy clenched. No wonder she’d masturbated in his bed. It made her feel mischievous, and it addressed the tension stirring in her every time she stared at the family pictures in his house. One in particular: when he’d been jet skiing—she’d shamelessly stolen that one—with his chest fully exposed. The ridges and planes of his muscly pecs would make a bodybuilder jealous, and would make any woman with a vagina super wet.

  What would he ever see in a twenty-five-year-old foreigner who was a far cry from his age-appropriate, classy, soon-to-be ex-wife? Even though Miss Ashley was a mega-bitch, guys like him mostly saw her good side.

  She stepped into the ginormous living area and plastered on a smile as she held the plate with quiet dignity. She’d enrolled in an intensive English course, and she still had two months left in her American adventure before she had to ace a proficiency test in English. She wanted to fulfill her longtime dream of teaching children with a renowned organization in Africa, but to qualify she needed high marks on said exam. She’d worked in France as a kindergarten teacher and also moonlighte
d as a barista for two years to save enough money to come to Los Angeles and support herself for six months. Besides, a friend of hers had lined up a job as a live-in nanny. Unfortunately, the deal had fallen through the week she left France, but she decided to go anyway. So, yeah, living in Los Angeles cost a lot more than she’d anticipated. To make ends meet, she’d taken any illegal gig she could land, spared every penny she managed, and lived frugally.

  “Monique.” Paula gestured from feet away, shaking those annoying bangles. “Here.”

  Monique headed to the small group of impeccably dressed people gathered around the owner of the house. Doug, Paula’s husband, was telling a story and most of them paid attention to him, while a couple of guests grabbed canapés and mouthed “thank you.”

  “This is Monique, our cleaning gal. The one I told you about. She’s phenomenal,” Paula said, and just then Monique realized she’d been talking to a slinky Asian woman. “You have to try her, Lee.”

  Frustration beat at the base of her throat. Sure, Paula’s heart was in the right place, but why not introduce her like a human being instead of talking about her like she was an appetizer? Like I’m not as good as them. The bitter thought cloaked her like black smoke, but she willed it away. No one treated her that way anymore.

  “Do you have a card?” Lee asked, and her eyes seemed to carry a touch of apology.

  “I’ll text you her info,” Paula said before Monique could reply.

  Monique’s eyes started to roll, but she caught herself in time. I better get good tips for this. “It’s been a pleasure, madam.” Monique offered her a diplomatic nod.

  “Thanks, I’ll be in touch. Love your accent by the way,” Lee said.

  “Isn’t she a doll?” Paula said, butting in. “Feel free to walk around, Monique.” Paula gestured, reminding Monique of her place. Monique again fought the need to roll her eyes. Snotty people reminded her of the father she’d lost to a new family—who’d used her modest upbringing as a weapon.

  Sighing, she skimmed the living area. Some guests sat on either side of the L-shaped sofas while others stood. Soothing bossa nova music played in the background, and Monique wished she’d feel more serene.