Free Dirty by Megan Hart Page A

connected to his bedroom, where I used the toilet and the sink. His washcloths were thick, plush and blue, to match the paint and shower curtain. I used his mouthwash, sniffed his cologne, admired the surprising cleanliness of his floor and counter. He had a rubber duck in his bathtub, and I marveled over it for a minute. The hint of whimsy.
    Still naked, I came out of the bathroom to find his eyes open.
    “You’re the first woman I’ve ever been with who practically counted the seconds until she could leave.”
    “Really?” I asked from the doorway. “I’ve been with plenty of men who’ve done it.”
    I went to the living room to pick up my discarded clothes and put them on. I’d slipped on my panties and was hooking my bra when he came after me.
    “Why don’t you date?” He asked from the doorway. He’d slipped on boxers printed with a pattern of marching jellybeans, and I was vividly reminded of meeting him at Sweet Heaven.
    “Dating complicates things.” I slid my arms into my sleeves and did up the buttons. I put on my skirt, zipped and buttoned it, tucked in my shirt. I smoothed the wrinkles.
    “How do you figure that?”
    “Dating,” I said, “implies a level of emotional connection for both parties to either create or work toward creating.”
    Dan crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”
    I sighed. “I don’t have time for that.”
    He made a low noise of disbelief. “You mean you don’t want to have time for it.”
    “Semantics.”
    He watched me look around for my purse but made no move to help me find it. “You said you did go on dates, sometimes.”
    I shot him a smile. “Sometimes. Not for a long time. And a date is not dating. Dating implies more than once.”
    “Ah.” He looked bemused. “Which leads to the emotional corruption.”
    “Connection—” I looked up. He was teasing me. “That, too.”
    “How long has it been since you went on a date?”
    “Not counting our appointment?”
    He held up a finger. “That was an appointment, not a date.”
    “Right.” I didn’t have to think hard. “Four years, eight months, three days.”
    I found my purse in the moment of silence my answer had created. I rifled through it, checking for car keys and cab fare. When I looked up, Dan was staring at me.
    “How long since you’d had sex?”
    “Three years. Give or take.”
    “Are you counting from tonight or the time in the bathroom?”
    “I’m counting from the time on the dance floor.” I zipped my bag closed and slung it over my shoulder. “Because…that was sex.”
    He watched me get ready to leave. His expression didn’t tell me if he was shocked, angry or admiring. At last he ran a hand through his sandy hair, spiking it, then passed the same hand across his mouth.
    “Good night, Dan.”
    His words caught me with my hand on the knob to his front door. “You want to see me again. I know you do.”
    I turned to look at him. “More than once, you mean?”
    “You’ve already seen me more than once,” he pointed out.
    “So then I should say no.”
    I didn’t want to say no. The sex had been fantastic. More than that, his company had been comfortable. Dangerously so.
    “I don’t date.”
    “I’ll make another appointment.”
    “Why?” I asked, point-blank. “You’ve seen me come with you inside me. What’s left?”
    I think I really shocked him then. I meant to, anyway. I wanted to chase him away from me.
    He stood up straight and glanced to the bedroom before striding over to me. He was tall enough so we didn’t stand eye to eye, but not so tall I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. His face had gone hard, and though I shouldn’t admit it, the sudden sense of danger, of wondering if maybe I’d pushed him a little too far, sparked a thrill through me.
    “You’re smiling.” He wasn’t. “Do you like to play games, Elle? Is that it?”
    Some men like to use their size or their fists to intimidate women. Dan looked angry, but he didn’t touch me. I