Mr. Big Ego (Dirty South Book 3) Read online

  The corners of her mouth turned up at me as she slipped something scratchy into my hand—a condom. The foil of the wrapper felt like thorns in my shaking palm.

  “Go. Have fun. I’ll take care of everything tonight.” She winked.

  “But I don’t know how—” I started, squeezing the rubber in my fist before realizing that could damage it. I’d better not do that if I wanted to screw.

  Did I want to screw? I didn’t know. But there was only one way to find out—by testing the waters and seeing what was out there. By taking a risk. I shuddered.

  I took a deep breath and slipped the condom in my clutch.

  “You’ll know how when you see him. Trust me. Go! Scoot! Skedaddle!” Lisa shooed me away.

  I headed to the bar, which of course only served cocktails with Fleur-De-Lis rum. No complaints from me. I liked it, and I needed it. It went down smooth and left me warm and relaxed—which was exactly what I needed in a man. A sweet, caring, smooth-talking but could back it up man who also left me feeling warm and relaxed. But who was I kidding? I also needed to get laid. Not that I planned on that right away. I didn’t think. At this point, I would be happy to get someone’s phone number.

  “Me-fucking-ow,” said a clown next to me. And I meant that. He wasn’t just a dumbass. He was actually dressed as a clown—a very tall, hard-pass clown.

  “Thanks. I think. Purr … or something.” I pursed my lips and took a sip of my cocktail. I would have to work on my flirting skills, although with this bozo, I didn’t even care to try.

  “Yowch! A cat with claws. I like that. Want to squeeze my rubber nose?” He leaned down, his drawn-on smile reaching from ear to ear, his breath heavy on rum and what smelled like salami.

  I turned my head to keep from gagging.

  “Careful there, Malcolm. This one bites. I should know,” an unfamiliar voice called from behind me.

  The tall mystery man wore a form-fitting suit—tight in the biceps and tight in the package. My eyes followed his bulge up to his Phantom of the Opera mask, which covered all, except his jawline and pouty lips. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and smiled the most seductive, devilish smile I’d ever seen. I gripped my clutch tighter, remembering my condom—and my mission.

  “Wait, but I thought—” Malcolm started, but the Phantom grabbed my hand and began pulling me far away from him.

  “Come on, kitten.” He grinned down at me.

  I would need a stool to reach that scruffy, chiseled jawline of his. I wanted to nuzzle it, kiss it, lick it, ride it.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa, what’s happening to me? Is this what Lisa meant when she said I would know?

  “Where are we going? Who are you?” I dropped his hand and stopped following him.

  I wasn’t going anywhere with someone I didn’t know. I at least needed some clue as to who he was and what I was doing and why he’d rescued me from that deli-breathed clown.

  “I was taking you away from Malcolm. I’d been watching you from across the room. I saw you scouting, and so did Malcolm apparently. He just got to you first, and well, it’s your choice. You can go back there with him if you’d like. I just thought—”

  I turned behind me to see if Malcolm was still there. He was. He reached up to his red rubber nose and gave it two slow squeezes while he licked his lips and wiggled his brows in my direction.

  “Nope. I’m good.” I turned back to the Phantom. “But what do you mean, you saw me scouting?”

  “Your eyes were glancing around the room, landing on every man who passed by. I saw the way you bit your lip until you noticed most of them were with their wives or mistresses. You can never tell with this crowd.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and shot me another devilish grin.

  My toes curled inside my heels. “I was that noticeable? Crap.”

  I definitely needed to work on my flirting skills.

  “Hey, it’s not a big deal. Maybe it wasn’t noticeable. Maybe I had noticed because I was doing the same thing—to you.” He stepped closer to me. The Phantom didn’t smell like rum or salami. He smelled like a sultry evening in the woods—leather, mahogany, spice. A manly man.

  My blood pulsed through my veins, fluttering for a lingering moment in my panties. What the hell? That’s new—or at least, I forgot that feeling. I think Mr. Phantom might have woken up my pussycat.

  “Oh, well, I …” I twisted my tail in my hands.

  He was certainly in my personal space, but this time, I didn’t mind.

  “Here, kitty, kitty. I think I have what you’re looking for,” he whispered into my ear, pulling me toward a hallway.

  I’d been down that hallway many times. It led straight to the guest house.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be—how do I know you’re not a serial killer under that mask?” I stopped again right as we reached the guest house kitchen.

  The only light in the room was the moonlight shining through the massive windows, and the flashing views from the party room reflected across the pool. The music from the band vibrated off the walls, in sync with whatever the hell humming my body was doing.

  “Take this.” The Phantom reached into a drawer and pulled out a massive knife. Its blade gleamed in the moonlight.

  “What the hell for?” I backed away from him.

  “You said you think I’m a serial killer. So, here, take this. Would a serial killer give you a knife?”

  He held the knife out toward me, the handle pointing in my direction. At least he was practicing safety, right? I grabbed the knife and lowered it to my side.

  “Yeah, they probably would if they had a gun.” My eyes were glued to his package that I could have sworn had just twitched in his pants.

  “Well, I see what you’re staring at, and I just want you to know, that’s not a gun in my pocket. Frisk me.” He grinned as he put his arms straight out beside him and widened his legs.

  “Are you kidding me? This is getting weird.”

  “Just do it. I don’t want you to be nervous. Here, I’ll help.” He took off his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What are you doing?” My palm curled around the knife.

  “Getting naked! Showing you I don’t have any weapons on me so that you can scout me out some more if you’d like.” He cocked his head to the side and flashed me another devilish grin. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Aren’t you afraid someone will come in and see you? See us?”

  “Being risqué is all part of the fun. Besides, no one will come down that hallway.”

  I didn’t bother to ask how he knew that for sure. I was too mesmerized by his striptease. I nibbled my bottom lip as he tossed his shirt aside, and a six … ten … eighteen-pack smacked me in the face. I let out a little sigh and dropped the knife. It clanged against the stone floor. He continued, undisturbed, unbuckling his belt, loosening his pants, and letting them fall to the floor.

  Fuck! I felt the tingling in my panties again.

  He watched me watching him as he stepped out of his boxers. His “gun” sprang up, cocked and ready to go. He stood in front of me, arms outstretched to his sides and completely stark-naked—except for the mask that hid half of his face.

  “And what about the mask?” I took a step closer to him.

  “Do you want to take all of the mystery out of it?” He put his finger under my chin and tilted my head up, searching my eyes.

  “No,” I breathed out. My hands fumbled in my purse. I would have to remember to thank Lisa. Otherwise, this very epic encounter would not be happening. “Take it.” I handed him the condom and dropped my clutch on the floor as I tried to wiggle out of my boots and leggings.

  “Wait! Leave it on,” he growled.

  I hesitated, not knowing how this worked or what I was supposed to do. All I knew was that I was getting fucked by the sexy, ripped Phantom in Victor Beaumont’s guest house on Halloween night. I let my hands fall to my sides and waited on him to make the first move, which he eagerly did as he pushed me to
ward the counter and bent me over the ledge. His lips nibbled on the back of my neck, my shoulders, my spine, my thighs. He worked his way down until he was on his knees behind me, pulling up my skirt.

  “What a sweet pussycat. Mind if I make you purr?” He bit my hip as he slowly ran his index finger up and down the crotch of my already-wet leggings.

  I usually didn’t wear panties with leggings—or yoga pants or jeans. I hated panty lines. And thongs? Screw that. Anyone who said they liked thongs was a big liar. I was not a fan of a piece of floss rubbing up against my bunghole all day. No, thanks. I would rather go commando, and today, that had been a good idea.

  “Meow,” I answered.

  He gathered my leggings in both of his fists and pulled, ripping a hole through the middle.

  “Oh!” I gasped, reaching down to run my hand along my bare ass and check that he had indeed done what I thought he had.

  “I’ll buy you new ones,” he muttered into me as he pushed my legs apart and slid himself between them.

  I turned around so that I could look down to watch him. His hands gripped my hips as his tongue flicked straight up my middle. That was one way to make me purr.

  I tried to stifle my moans as I slid myself back and forth across Phantom Man’s lips. With each roll of my hips, I pushed his mask up and up, little by little. I wondered what he looked like under there. The lower half of his face was banging, but what if the top half wasn’t? Oh well. I would never know. I would happily get my jollies off with mystery man and be on my merry way. That was what everyone did these days, right? One-night stands? No strings attached?

  He slipped a finger inside me and then another. I braced myself and ran my palms along the counter, looking for something to hold on to as he pushed into me deep. I began to drip. I felt his lips part in a smile against my inner thigh as he kissed it and crawled back up to me.

  “Such a delicious kitty,” he said, tugging at my tail. “I want to see that gorgeous face of yours.” He turned me around and lifted me up and onto the ledge. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, lightly tracing his thumb over my cheek.

  I cupped that sharp jawline of his in my hands and pulled his lips on mine. I couldn’t hold out any longer. I needed his cock inside me. The taste of myself on his lips had me ravenous. I wasn’t a kitty anymore. I was a tigress on the prowl.

  “Fuck me, Phantom Man!” I hissed as he stepped into me.

  His thickness spread me wide and made me wince. It was a good kind of pain. So. Damn. Good.

  “Hold on tight.” He circled me into his arms. His biceps flexed as he gripped me into a tight embrace.

  I wrapped my arms around him, too, digging my fingertips into his shoulder blades. I had no idea what he had in store, but when a man with a big dick told you to hold on tight, you held on tight.

  He lifted me off of the counter and carried me over to a recliner while he still kept himself inside of me.

  Impressive, I mused, still clutching him.

  He hovered above me, lowering to kiss my lips as he slammed into me slowly … so very slowly. My hands slid down the ridges of his muscular back until I gripped his firm ass cheeks and shoved him deeper inside me. My hips lifted to meet him as he rubbed against me. The familiar tremble bubbled up from my toes and worked its way up and between my legs.

  I was getting close to unloading two years of built-up sexual tension. That didn’t include the times I’d had to rub one out because I’d read too many romance novels. I mean, I wasn’t exactly a nun, for goodness’ sake.

  His breath became heavy. Grunting, he began to move faster. My legs wrapped around him, and just like he’d commanded, I hung on for dear life. My legs began to shake, sliding down the slick of his heated back.

  “I’m—I’m—I’m—” I couldn’t get any more words out. It hit me all at once. The only sound that escaped my lips was a high note I’d never hit before—like in an opera—Phantom of the Opera.

  I must have sounded sexy enough because the second I opened my mouth to sing, Mr. Phantom Man sang back. Except his song was much more macho—and more of an animal sound, but not like a roaring lion or a growling cheetah, unfortunately. No, he sounded like a baboon that had sat on a fire ant hill. I guessed one flaw in this perfect statue of a man was okay. He could monkey around with me any day.

  “That was surreal,” he said, collapsing in a sweaty heap beside me.

  My makeup had smeared all over his white mask.

  “You’re going to need to clean that. My makeup is all over it.” I tapped his mask.

  “I guess I can’t go back to the party with you on my face, now can I?” He pushed himself back up.

  My eyes followed him to the kitchen. The moment of truth arrived.

  Did I bunk an uggo?

  He took a deep breath and looked over at me, catching my gaze.

  “I guess I should have told you the rules beforehand,” he sighed.

  “What rules? Did I break one?”

  “No, no. You were—are perfect. There is only one rule here. What happens in the guest house stays in the guest house.” He stood, waiting on me to confirm.

  “Okay …”

  What the hell does that mean? Did I bang someone famous? A movie star? A model? A politician? I cringed at that last thought.

  The Phantom Man slipped off his mask, and even in the dim moonlight, I could see that I’d just banged Victor Beaumont.

  “I should go.” I hopped up, checking to make sure my skirt covered the gaping hole in my crotch. No, not my literal crotch that had been rammed by Victor Beaumont’s impressive—and I hated to admit it—big-ass cock. I meant, the hole that he’d ripped open in the seat of my leggings.

  “Wait. Why? Let me walk you out as soon as I put this mask back on. Hold on a sec!”

  “I thought you were a vampire.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your costume, Victor Beaumont! I saw you crawl out of that casket as a vampire!”

  “I was only a vampire for show. This”—he motioned at the mask—“is the real me. I couldn’t have a good time at my party if I had to play host. I just wanted to do my thing and go have fun.”

  “So, you just ghosted everyone, literally like a phantom.”

  “Pretty much. Too many business people here tonight. I wouldn’t have been able to party with clients droning on and on about spreadsheets and due dates.”

  “Typical.” I snorted.

  “Wait, what’s that supposed to mean? Have we met?” He dropped his mask on the counter and came toward me, cocking his head to the side.

  “Are you saying you wouldn’t remember me if we had?”

  “Oh no, I think I’d definitely remember you. I can’t forget that tail of yours and that sound you made when I pushed my dick deep inside you.” He whistled.

  My eyes had rolled in the back of my head twice now—once from the way he’d fucked me senseless and twice from this bullshit charm game he was trying to pull over on me.

  “Hey! You could have had Malcolm,” he said, reaching out to playfully give my left breast two honks.

  “Did you seriously just do that?” I put my hands on my hips and straightened my back.

  “Yeah, sorry. Was that not appropriate? I thought it was okay if I touched you there, seeing that we just … ya know.” He thrust his hips back and forth, making his impressively still-erect cock bounce around. “My bad, my bad!” He held his hands in the air and backed away.

  “It’s not that. I don’t care that you just honked my tit after you just had your dick in me. I’ll let that slide … this time.”

  “Rawr.” He shot me another devilish grin, stepping back toward me.

  “It’s that—I’m just—” I tried to tell him, but his lips were back on mine before I could get a word out.

  His arms wrapped around me, and his tongue slipped inside my mouth as I lost my train of thought.

  “What is it then?” he whispered into my cheek.

  For someone who was a complete ass
hole, he sure made me breathless. But that was how that type of man worked, right? Alpha males and their big egos could charm the pants off of anyone—except me.

  I pulled back, shaking the bad decisions out of my head and getting ahold of myself.

  “Victor Beaumont,” I huffed as I stuck out my hand, “I’m Samantha Masson, the woman who jumped through hoops to get you the bats and everything else.”

  “Oh. Well … fuck.” Victor sucked in his breath and took a step back again.

  Two

  Victor

  I’d boned one of the most uptight—and tight—women in the whole city of New Orleans. Not only had I fucked Little Miss Hard-Ass, but I’d also fucked my employee. That couldn’t be good. I kept a strict boundary between my business and my personal life. Who would have guessed that Samantha Masson was a supermodel and not some crotchety old lady?

  Sara had always told me that Samantha needed this and Samantha needed that, making her out to be the world’s biggest nag. Sara had also said that Samantha thought some of my requests were impossible, ridiculous, and stupid. Yes, Sara had even told me that—stupid. Could you believe it? I, Victor Beaumont, the most successful bachelor in Crescent City, stupid. I had let it slide because Samantha did come through for me—always. Her events had drawn more attention to my business than the last event planner ever had, and that planner really was a crotchety old granny. But Samantha … wow. She was something else.

  “Thank you for the bats,” I said, hurrying off to find my pants.

  I remembered I’d stripped them off and stood stark-naked in front of her—Samantha Masson. Fuck! Although that was a pretty sweet move I’d pulled. How could anyone resist that? She’d watched me slowly undress, and I could practically see that her mouth began to water.

  “You’re welcome. That sent me into a tizzy, you know. Running around, trying to get bats at the last minute—which real bats would have been impossible, so I hope that you are happy with what you got. Me and the guys in sound and lighting got it done. They worked super hard on it—rushing it. For you. Just another day of working for Victor Beaumont.” Her voice trailed off.