Dirty Pretty Things: Short erotica collections

Chapter 1

Alex's POV 

"Blend for 30–60 seconds until completely smooth and creamy. If it's too thick, add a splash more liquid and blend again. If too thin, add more frozen fruit or ice.." I hit pause on the video just as the anchor’s voice faded out.

My eyes drifted to the counter, where the strawberries gleamed under the morning light, their glossy red skins begging to be touched. 

Next to them, two bananas curved lazily in the bowl, thick and golden, the faint sweet scent of them already curling through the air and settling low in my belly.

I pressed my palm to my forehead, feeling the heat there. God, this was already a mess, and I hadn’t even started.

I shouldn't have agreed to this. Ever. I had no freaking idea on how to make a smoothie. Hell, I didn’t even know how to make simple syrup.

My best friend Mia had begged me to house-sit for her family while they went on a two-week vacation to Europe. 

"Please, Alex? Dad's paranoid about leaving the place empty, and you'll have the whole house to yourself. Pool, home theater, the works!" She'd said it so casually, like it was no big deal. But it was a huge deal to me. 

Because 'Dad' was Mr. Harlan. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that salt-and-pepper hair I wanted to fist my fingers in, and those piercing blue eyes that always seemed to see straight through me. 

I’d been half in love — or maybe full in lust —with him since I was sixteen, back when Mia and I became inseparable. 

He was in his mid-forties, divorced, successful, and way too hot for his own good.

I'd agreed to stay, of course. Two weeks in luxury? A private pool to lounge beside in my tiniest red bikini, sun warming my skin while I imagined her father's hands on my breasts? Nights alone in this quiet, sprawling house where I could slip between his sheets and breathe him in?

Yes. A thousand times yes.

But no. She didn't ask to prepare smoothies for her dad. Nobody did actually. The first few days of my stay here have been blissfully boring. 

I'd lounged by the pool in my bikini, binge-watched shows, and helped myself to their wine collection. 

Christ. I'd even slipped into his bedroom one night. Laid naked on his massive king bed, the sheets cool against my back, fingers sliding slow and deliberate between my thighs while I pictured him walking in, pausing in the doorway, eyes darkening as he watched me come apart whispering his name.

But he hadn’t come home. Not once.

Until today. I was starting to think he’d been avoiding me which only made me more determined. 

So here I was, planning to surprise him with his favourite smoothie — Mia had mentioned once that he drinks one every morning after his workout — while standing close enough to smell the clean sweat on his skin, to watch his throat work as he drank something I’d made with my own hands.

"You can do this," I mumbled to myself as I removed the hairband from my pocket and tied my hair into a loose, messy bun. 

I tugged the hem of my thin white tank a little lower, letting it cling to the damp curve beneath my breasts, then hit play on the video again while reaching for the strawberries.

The cheerful anchor picked up right where she’d left off: “Now add your liquid base — milk, almond milk, yogurt, whatever you like — and blend!”

Okay. I could do this.

I dumped the strawberries into the blender first, watching them tumble in a glossy red heap. Then I picked the bananas, peeling them slowly, before breaking them into thick chunks and dropping them in. 

I poured the almond milk slowly, watching the white liquid swirl over the fruit, then added a spoonful of yogurt because the video said it made things 'extra creamy.'

I pressed the lid down, took a breath, and hit blend.

The machine roared to life, loud enough to drown out everything else. Pink froth climbed the sides of the pitcher as the ingredients surrendered, turning thick and velvety. 

I leaned one hip against the counter, arms crossed under my breasts, feeling the vibration travel through the granite and up into my body. My pulse matched the rhythm of the blades.

“Perfect,” I whispered to myself, biting my lower lip. Just a little more—

The doorbell rang, cutting straight through the noise of the blender.

My heart slammed against my ribs, but I didn’t move. Couldn't. I knew who it was. Of course I did. He was finally home, probably fresh from whatever gym he disappeared to every morning. 

I wasn’t about to run to the door like an eager puppy. Let him wait. Let him wonder who was making his favorite drink in his kitchen while wearing next to nothing.

I let the machine run a few seconds longer than necessary, just to feel that vibration hum through my body. Then I killed the power, lifted the pitcher, and gave it a slow shake, watching the smoothie coat the sides in lush, velvety streaks.

I dipped a finger in, brought it to my lips, and tasted. Sweet, cold, with that bright strawberry tang and the deeper, almost sinful richness of banana. I licked my finger clean slowly, eyes half-closed, imagining his mouth instead.

The doorbell rang again, longer this time.

I still didn’t turn around right away. Instead, I smiled to myself, untied the hairband from my wrist, and tightened my messy bun. A few more strands fell loose, framing my face. 

I reached for a tall glass, letting my body stretch just enough that my tank rode up another inch, exposing the soft dip of my lower back and the frayed edge of my cutoff shorts. The cool air kissed my skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature.

I poured the smoothie into a tall glass so it coated the sides in creamy ribbons- then licked a stray drop from my thumb without thinking.

Only then did I glance toward the arched entryway that led to the front door.

And holy fuck.

Two gods stood there.

Not one.

Mr. Harlan — and another man I’d never seen before, but God, I wished I had sooner.

They must have let themselves in with his key. Or maybe the door had been unlocked. I hadn’t checked.

Both of them were still in workout clothes, and God, the sight of them hit me like a physical blow.

Mr. Harlan wore a fitted black tee that clung to every ridge of his chest and abs, the fabric darkened and molded to his broad pecs, nipples faintly visible beneath. A bead of sweat traced down his temple, slipped along the sharp edge of his stubbled jaw, and disappeared into the hollow of his throat. 

His hair was damp and tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead. Those piercing blue eyes were locked on me, dark and unreadable, his lips parted just enough to show he was breathing harder than a finished workout should explain.

The man beside him wasn't any better. His black tank top was soaked through, molding to cut shoulders and a chest that rose and fell with still-heavy breaths. 

Sweat traced the defined lines of his arms, dripping from the corded veins in his forearms down to long, capable fingers. His shorts rode low on narrow hips, and the unmistakable bulge at the front shifted as he adjusted his stance. He was thick, half-hard already, like the sight of me had pulled an immediate response from his body.

Neither of them spoke.

The air felt suddenly too thick, too warm. I could smell them—clean sweat, faint cedar and spice from whatever cologne they’d put on hours ago, now sharpened by exertion. It hit me low in the belly, made my thighs press together without thinking.

Mr. Harlan’s gaze dropped to the glass in my hand, then dragged slowly back up to my face.

His voice, when it came, was rougher than I remembered, like gravel dipped in honey.

“Morning, Alex.”

His friend leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, a slow smile pulling at his mouth. “Smells sweet in here,” he said, voice low. “And looks even sweeter.”

My nipples tightened instantly against the thin fabric of my tank. I didn’t bother hiding it.

I lifted the glass just slightly, letting a drop of pink smoothie cling to the rim.

“I made your favorite,” I said, looking straight at Mr. Harlan. Then, softer, “Both of you can share.”

I held Mr. Harlan's gaze as I lifted the glass to my lips, the cool rim pressing against my lower lip. 

The smoothie was thick, sliding over my tongue in a burst of strawberry sweetness mixed with the creamy banana undertone. I took a slow sip, letting a little dribble escape the corner of my mouth, trailing pink down my chin. 

My gaze flicked between them, challenging, as I swallowed with an exaggerated sigh, my throat working visibly.

Mr. Harlan's blue eyes darkened further, his chest rising faster. Cole's grin widened, predatory now, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.

God, what am I doing? This is insane. But look at him – look at them. They're staring like they want to devour me whole. And fuck, I want them to.

"Thirsty?" I asked, voice low and husky, holding the glass out toward Mr. Harlan.

Mr. Harlan pushed off the doorframe, his movements deliberate, closing the distance between us in two long strides. He was so close now, the heat from his body radiating through his damp tank top, that musky post-workout scent wrapping around me like a promise. 

Without a word, he reached out and took the glass from my hand, his warm fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt straight to my core.

He turned slightly and handed it to his friend – Cole, as he introduced himself – who accepted it with a smirk, his dark eyes flicking between us like he was already picturing how this played out.

"I'll drink it from her mouth instead," Mr. Harlan said, his voice low and gravelly, like he'd ben holding back for too long. He cupped my chin with one hand, tilting my head up, his thumb swiping away the stray drop of smoothie.