Confessions of a Bad Boy Read online

  Confessions of a Bad Boy

  J.D. Hawkins

  Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  The Bet

  About the Author

  Also by J.D. Hawkins

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright 2016 © JD Hawkins

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

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

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  Foreword

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  Prologue

  God bless the women of L.A.

  Bless the gym bunnies who run their toned asses past the best cafés, bless the tight-dress crowd on a Friday night making beauty seem so effortless, bless the tanned women in bikinis getting high on the sun.

  But most of all, bless the woman in those tight, ripped jeans and thick-rimmed glasses browsing in the corner right over there.

  I try to peel my eyes away from her ass and remember why I came into this bookstore, but it’s too late. My blood is up, muscles tightening, jaw clenching. Suddenly I’m not browsing in a bookstore on a Thursday evening for the debut novel that an old friend just got published; I’m a man after a woman, and everything else – the bookshelves, the people around us, our clothes – are just unnecessary obstacles.

  My target looks up from the book she’s browsing and scans the shop quickly, but her eyes settle on me for a split second longer than anything else. Her lips part just a little, and she quickly looks back at the page. It’s a small sign, the kind of sign most men wouldn’t notice…right before they start complaining that women are a mystery.

  I drop the book I’m holding and walk towards her, the curve of her back conjuring up enough ideas to fill a porn series.

  “You need some help?” I ask, leaning up against the shelf beside her.

  She glances at me and goes about as red as a stoplight, though the quick smile and the way she pushes her dark hair behind her ear makes me wanna run it.

  “No,” she murmurs, biting her lip. “But thanks.”

  “You sure?” I ask. “I really don’t mind helping you out.”

  This time she laughs a little, radiating nervous excitement that’s so obvious I almost feel guilty at how easy this is. Almost. Her eyes travel slowly down from my stubbled jaw to my white tee, then lower, lingering appreciatively, and then back up, lips parting as her green eyes meet mine again.

  “Do you even work here?” she says, a little mischief in her smile.

  “No. I just really wanna help you.”

  She plays with her hair again, a dead giveaway. “I…I’m okay. I’m just looking.”

  “I’m not talking about choosing a book.”

  This time she giggles so loud she draws looks. She stifles it quickly and clears her throat.

  “Sorry,” she says, turning to face me head on, “it’s just…this is crazy. The whole ‘meeting a nice guy at a bookstore’ thing. It’s the kind of cliché I didn’t think really existed.”

  “Who says I’m a nice guy?”

  She tilts her head a little now, the redness gone, replaced by a sparkle in her eyes.

  “What are you then, a ‘bad boy’? Like the guy in those videos?”

  I laugh a little more than I should. The comparison isn’t new, but I still get a little kick every time I hear it.

  “What’s wrong with being a bad boy?” I say, as she rolls the book she’s holding in her hands tenderly. An unconscious gesture she’d be embarrassed of if she realized she was doing it. “Bad things tend to be the most fun, the most interesting. Food, booze, men.”

  “And nice guys finish last, I suppose?”

  “Nobody’s favorite is vanilla.”

  She laughs a little, nodding, and I gently take the book out of her hands, sliding it on top of some other books on the shelf – I hate to be untidy, but I’ll forgive myself this time.

  I keep my eyes fixed on her, an open invitation. She struggles a while, not sure whether to look back, but unable to turn away. You can say a lot with a look – and my eyes have always been my best feature. I can give a girl a look that’ll mean more than most guys can achieve in a year of presents, poems, and pleas. It’s a tragedy that so many women spend so much time on their appearance, communicating the depths of their being in a visual language that’s right there in front of everyone, striving to express themselves fully, yet these same women will spend most of their lives with the kind of men who never truly see them.

  But I do.

  “Wow,” she says, pushing an invisible strand of hair behind her ear again, “do you do this a lot? Approach women in bookstores?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed how sexually charged bookstores are?”

  She smiles, and I see the challenge in it. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “All that stroking of the covers, the fingering of the pages. The intimacy of reading. The idea that there are infinite possibilities contained inside the books, that anything could happen. People indulging all of their fantasies, secrets, and imaginations in the only way they can. It’s sexy.” I watch her blush and subconsciously move her body even closer toward me.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever thought of books like that before.”

  “Then you must not be reading the right kinds of books.”

  She shifts on her feet, angling her hips a little, her head still tilted in a way that makes her seem incredibly coquettish for a girl who says she doesn’t do this kind of thing.

  “What’s your name?” she asks, with a seriousness that shows she’s made her mind up.

  “No names,” I reply. Her face drops, the first sign of stand-offishness she’s given me since I walked over. I continue, “I’m sure you’re an amazing person. I’m sure you could show and teach me things I’d appreciate for my whole life. I’m sure you’re kind, and generous, and all that good stuff. But that’s not why I started talking to you.”

  She laughs a little, the nervous one again, as she wrestles with an entire society’s worth of convention and guilt. “So you just wanted to say hello? You don’t want to get to know me a little better?”

  “My idea of getting to know someone is probably a little different than yours.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I shrug. “You know everything you need to know about me already. You knew it the second I spoke to you. And I definitely know what I need to about you: that you’re hot enough to make a busy guy like me forget everything he’s supposed to be doing for the next hour. Am I wrong?”

  She inhales deeply, brushes her hair back three
times in succession, and struggles to pull her eyes away from me again.

  “And here I thought today was going to be boring.”

  I smile. “It still can be. Just say the word and I’ll walk away right now. You can go back to browsing the shelves and take this whole conversation as a flattering compliment.”

  She swings her hips girlishly from side to side for a second, then raises an eyebrow.

  “Or…”

  We don’t even make it a third of the way to my apartment before she’s all over me in the car, so senseless with lust I can barely keep my eyes forward with the way she’s pulling at the button of my jeans and sucking on my neck. I veer off the road and take the BMW up to the top of an empty parking lot – I could tell myself I’m doing it ’cause I’m a safe driver, but the truth is that I love fucking in the open air.

  I stop the car with the L.A. skyline framed perfectly in the windshield, and we both step out, eyeing each other over the hood like bullfighters. There’s a wildness in her eyes that can only come from this situation being rare, new, the complete opposite of her normal life. She’s got the zeal of the new convert, the enthusiasm of a first-timer. We stalk around the car, meeting at the space between the hood and the rail separating us from the open vista beyond.

  Our bodies come together in the dimming light of a sunset with the intensity of a car crash. Lips locking tightly, tongues grappling thirstily for the taste of each other. Her body fits perfectly against mine, athletic and tall, but made soft by the swirl of emotions pumping through her.

  She’s going fast, her hands tearing at my clothes, her body trembling with need. I let my hands explore the curve of her back that drove me crazy when I first saw her, and push her away from me gently, watching her mouth fall open with a gasp, reluctant to break from mine. I spin her around and pull her back up against me, one hand delving into the line of her cleavage, my other hand sliding down the front of her jeans.

  “Relax,” I say, calm and low into the softness under her ear, “no need to rush it.”

  Her breath comes in fast pants, her fingers at her lips like she’s embarrassed to feel this good. I work her fly open with my hand, my cock stiffening quickly against her ass as I see those hips wind back onto me. Her body’s got the sleekness of an animal, the tender beauty of a blossoming flower. I’ve fucked a lot of women, and I’ve got high standards, but right here, right now, I can’t think of a girl turning me on more than she does. I bury my nose in her hair, run my tongue up the side of her neck and take the lobe of her ear in my mouth. The hiss of pleasure she releases is like music for me to dance to.

  I push my hand down into her panties, stroking at the slick cleft, and she sucks in air like she’s coming up from water.

  “You’re wet,” I whisper into her ear.

  She gasps a few times as I roll her clit between my fingers. “So fuck me already.”

  “Say please,” I command, just to hear her beg.

  “Please,” she moans.

  I don’t need to hear it twice. I slide her jeans down past her hips and she wriggles them down the rest of the way, baring her toned ass to me. I pull out a condom as I spin her around and guide her back onto the hood of the car, making sure she’ll have a nice view of the city while I’m pumping inside her. As I hoist her up, she winces a little at the coolness of the metal on her ass, then smiles with delight. She takes the condom from me and tears it out of the package as I do the same with my cock. Her tongue flicks between her teeth as she slowly rolls the latex over my dick with the restrained anticipation of a carefully unwrapped birthday present. Once it’s on I lean over her and she hooks herself onto me, arms around my back, legs pulling my center towards hers.

  Her moan is sweet, warm, inviting, just like I know her pussy’s gonna be. Her body’s slender, especially under my wide shoulders and tensed torso, but as I push inside of her I feel engulfed by her. Trapped between her fine legs, pulled by her clawing nails, squeezed by her hot, wet pussy.

  I unbutton her shirt and push her bra up over her chest, her soft breasts slipping out of it and bouncing mesmerizingly, the brown nipples hard and beckoning. When I take one between my lips and suck, she freezes for a second with the burst of new pleasure before succumbing once again to the pounding rhythm of my cock inside her.

  I’m just getting into it when her gasps start to stutter, and her hands start to slip against my back. Her head thuds against the metal of the car, and I take the hint. However much I want this moment to last, I’m not going to get left behind. I let myself gorge on the sight of her ripened lips, run my hands once again along the delicate lines of her open thighs, suck and bite at the shuddering perfection of her breast.

  I come seconds after her body goes limp and soft, its last dregs of energy used up in the effort it took her to scream into the sky. I raise my head from between her breasts and smile at how wonderful the sight of a woman satisfied looks.

  After I pull myself away, she stares up at me, still stretched out on the hood of the car. She’s smiling at me with a new kind of disbelieving admiration. Little does she know I’m already planning a future vlog – on the pleasures of outdoor fucking, with some tips and tricks to help out the novice.

  Laughing softly, she says, “I guess this is why women like bad boys.”

  If she only knew…

  1

  Nate

  I start taking off my clothes as soon as I’m through the door of my apartment. Shirt on the floor, kicking my shoes off, down to my underwear. I go into the bathroom and splash some water on my face, glaring at myself in the mirror.

  There’s a rush that happens when I’m about to make a video. Not the cock-stiffening hotness of seducing a woman, not quite the intellectual satisfaction of closing a six-figure deal for work that I had no right to – it’s something else. Something I still can’t figure out. It’s a catharsis and a comfort, a deep feeling of fulfillment I’ve never quite gotten from anything else.

  I boot up my laptop and sit on the edge of the bed while I wait, taking out the candles my female fans love and lighting them so they cast an incandescent hue over my body, the lines of my chest coming alive in the flickering black shadows.

  I’ve asked myself a million times why I carry on making these videos. I don’t need the money, and all it would take is for a girl to recognize me, or for a slip to happen, and I’d be discovered. If that ever happened I’d probably enter a world of problems. Work would suck – if I could even keep my job – and I’m still not sure if it would help or ruin my sex life.

  But something brings me back, something deep inside of me. It’s not quite the ego-boost – I’m self-aware enough to admit that - and it’s not even the idea of helping people – I’m not that altruistic. Again and again though, whatever it is still compels me to sit here, stare into that lens, and talk. And it’s not the kind of bullshit I roll with at work- it’s the truth. Maybe that’s the part I’m addicted to. The part where there are no boundaries, no rules. Where I can tap into the deepest, darkest part of what it means to be a man, to lust and to hunt and to conquer. All amid the liberating joy of anonymity.

  I set the angle right with focused precision, just below my mouth, nothing visible in the frame but my chiseled torso, the waistband of my Calvin Kleins, and the blank wall behind me, and then I press record.

  Confessions of a Bad Boy #234: The best one-night stand I’ve ever had

  It’s the Bad Boy here. Bringing you more illicit confessions from the steamy shadows, tales of torn panties and roving tongues. I’ve got to say, some of the messages I’m getting from you guys are out there – especially the women. I’m sure I’ve met a few of you out in the wild before. Just keep ‘em coming, as I like to say.

  A bunch of you keep asking me to tell you about the best one-night stand I’ve ever had, since I’ve got my method down to a science. It’s a tough question. One-night stands are always good if you know what you’re doing. Each one is unique, different, its own little adventure. Tha
t’s why I keep coming back, why I keep doing it. That’s why I’ve made so many videos on the topic. But that’s no answer, and you know I hate to leave you hanging…

  So I’m gonna tell you about a one-night stand that might just be the best – it was definitely the most unexpected, the most unplanned, and the most dangerous. The one that I still think about sometimes, however much I try not to…

  There’s something about a rooftop party that brings out the wilder side in women. Maybe it’s the stars overhead making them feel that nothing really matters. Maybe it’s the warm LA breeze against their bared skin reminding them of what it feels like to be touched. Shit, maybe it’s just the dizzying altitude. Either way, I never turn a rooftop party down. I like my women wild.

  I lean back against the railing, take a long sip of beer, and let myself drink in the scene. It’s a big rooftop, big enough for a dance floor, a drinks bar, and a small glassed-in area. Beyond the railing around its edges, the city reaches out in all directions, outlined in places by the dusty orange glow of a sunset. There are colored lights set around the rooftop, shimmering off the giant pool at its center and the toned thighs and glossy hair of the women around it. It’s a typical Hollywood crowd. Everyone looks young, but only around half of them actually are – the rest artificially so. Producers, actors, even a few directors and talent agents like me. All here to network, schmooze, and make empty promises.

  The DJ in the corner puts on the latest hit and turns up the volume. Like a war cry it compels some of the girls around the pool to stand up and start moving. I take another sip of beer and watch the parade of beautiful bodies, feeling like a lion thrown in the deer sanctuary. One of the girls catches my eye and I smile as she turns around to show me her best side. I watch her for a while before a tall blonde in a shiny dress struts past me, and puts a little swing into her hips as she does it – just enough for a guy like me to get the message.