Dirty Like Us

for their one-man audience.
Two blonds were dancing together on the coffee table, the one with the big fake breasts, already topless, undressing the other.
A chick with jet-black hair, in a metallic shrink-wrap dress, was bent over in the kitchen snorting what I could only assume was cocaine off the glossy countertop, showing off her matching metallic thong while she did it.
The other two were pawing each other on one of the big, plush couches. And there was Zane, front row center. Sprawled back on that same couch, legs spread wide. The girls were kneeling over him, and I really could’ve sworn he looked kinda bored as he watched them make out.
I was already bored, but then again, I didn’t have a penis.
One of the girls in his lap was a redhead. The other looked suspiciously Filipina, and even though she didn’t look much like me, it really fucking irritated me. The man had a serious talent for irritating me—and for sniffing out exactly when he was doing it, like some sadistic bloodhound. I was pretty sure he got off on it. It didn’t surprise me at all when his ice-blue eyes met mine, though none of the girls even noticed I was there.
He stared at me, his eyes flaring. He looked pretty blown away to see me, actually. Well, no shit.
Not like I wanted to be stuck in the room adjoining his latest orgy.
I pointed one finger at him and rolled it back, in the universal gesture for Get your ass over here. Which he could’ve ignored. He could’ve told me where to go with a finger gesture of his own.
Technically, the man was my employer.
Instead he dumped the girls off his lap, eyes still locked on mine, and adjusted himself in his low-slung jeans. That’s when I made the mistake of glancing down.
The top button of his jeans was undone, showing a triangle of sun-kissed skin and a hint of his golden treasure trail, not to mention the perfect, tight abs that disappeared under his shirt.
The girls kept going at it, oblivious to his departure, as he rose and stalked toward me.
Tall. Blond. And very rock ’n’ roll.
I just watched him, my features carefully arranged in a look of cool, unruffled displeasure as I forced myself to keep breathing so my heart wouldn’t explode in an epic cataclysm of rage and repressed lust. Luckily, I had a lot of practice with this. Still, my traitorous gaze wandered down the thin black T-shirt stretched over his broad, hard chest and the badass black leather vest, the muscles bunching in his sleek, California-tanned arms… the unbuttoned jeans just barely clinging to his hips… and fuck… did it make me a total weirdo that I had a crazy weakness for the man’s bare feet?
It didn’t exactly escape my notice that his dick looked pretty hard, either. Kinda like it was about to punch through his jeans, but Zane’s package pretty much always looked that way.
It wasn’t exactly an industry secret that Zane Traynor was well-hung.
In fact, I’d seen his naked cock with my own eyes, multiple times. Not that that meant anything. Pretty sure everyone and their dog had seen it. Since the man was Adonis incarnate, you couldn’t even blame him for showing it off, though his habit of walking around naked in mixed company—irritating for a multitude of reasons—was the main reason everyone in the band refused to share a suite with him.
Well that, and all the groupies.
Really, you’d think a decade would be plenty of time for your average man to tire, or bore, of the groupie thing and move on. Zane, though?
Nothing was average about Zane.
He stopped a few inches from me, all up in my space, but I stood my ground. I looked straight up into his beautiful face and met his unholy blue eyes.
His blond hair, shaved short on the sides but long on top, slid over his eye as he looked down at me. He raked it slowly back with one ring-laden hand and I caught a breath of him… that crazy-delicious man scent of his that always made my ovaries skip a beat.
“Maggie May,” he said, and the devil was in his slow, easy smile. Yeah. The son of a bitch smiled, like he was happy to see me. “Just thinking about you.”
Fuck me. He totally said that.
He eyed the oversized T-shirt I was wearing, the diabolical gears turning in his head. “The hell are you doing here?”
I wasn’t gonna touch that. Not the point. Though I was glad to hear that he didn’t know I was in the next room when he decided to throw this little party.
Then the song changed, and Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” started playing… and the bottom completely fell out of my anger. Because seriously.
“Classy, Zane.”
“I’m all class, sweetheart,” he said, and the smile lit up his gorgeous face.
I couldn’t even help smiling back as I rolled my eyes. Shit, though. I was supposed to be mad.
How the hell did he always do this to me?
Oh, right. Because the man was evil.
He was also charming as hell, and while I wanted to hate him, a lot, sometimes I failed at that. Big time.
Sometimes—well, most of the time—I liked Zane Traynor far too much for my own good.

Chapter Two
Zane
Maggie crossed her arms and glared up at me, like she was trying really hard to stay pissed. Which was cool with me. When Maggie got pissed, I got hard. Which meant I was already a helluva lot harder than I was a minute ago watching a couple of random chicks suck face. Especially when her nipples popped out against her shirt.
I did kinda feel like a jackass though. Had no clue she was in there.
My gaze skimmed down the oversized Sex Pistols shirt she was wearing, obviously a dude’s. Not Maggie’s usual look. Her lips were swollen and her compulsively-smooth hair was mussed up like she’d just gotten something on her back besides sleep.
What the hell did I