Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) by Kirsty Dallas Page A

forward, his nose feathering across my cheek. “I want to strip you down to those pretty lace panties, pull them aside, and fuck you out of my system.”
    And my throbbing lady bits paused. His frank admission kinda pissed me off. I gave his chest a subtle shove, and he stepped away. I walked towards the door, my head held high, with a sexy swing in my hips.
    “What makes you think it would be so easy to get me out of your system?” I asked, the ire in my tone clear. “You’ve got Davina to help with your itch. If you think just because I work in the adult film industry that I’m going to drop to my knees for you, you’re wrong. I’m not that kind of girl.”
    I left his room before I ruined my cast by smacking it over his head. I couldn’t remember a man ever getting under my skin the way Bradley did. He infuriated me one moment then stole my breath and sanity the next. If he hadn’t opened his mouth to let those asshole words out moments ago, he could have very well ruined me for all other men. Back to lady abstinence for me. As for the itchy, soggy note in my bra . . . well, I’d keep it, because I was sentimental like that.
    *
    “Get dressed, we’re going out.”
    I sat up from the couch and peered over the back. Moments ago, Bradley had stormed in from work and stomped right by me and into his bedroom. It was his usual MO, and it made living out of a suitcase, which was tucked away in the corner of said room, awkward.
    “Pardon?” I asked, putting my cell phone to one side.
    Bradley shifted from one foot to the other. He looked nervous. But that couldn’t be right because he was never nervous. Arrogant, check; confident, check; sarcastic, check. Bradley didn’t do timid and skittish.
    “It’s a casual place. You can wear jeans, but bring a jacket since it’s cool out tonight.”
    I just stared at him and wondered where the Moody Bradley Emerson had gone and who this anxious imposter was. His brow suddenly furrowed, and he scowled. Oh, there he was, just waiting to lure me into a state of confusion before pouncing with his usual, far too sexy grimace.
    “Casey and Lionel are having a date night or something, and I’m taking you out for dinner, so hurry up!” And with that he turned and stalked off to his bedroom, slamming the door in his wake.
    How very romantic . . . NOT . And the closed door to his bedroom was going to make getting dressed difficult. Luckily, I had stashed a few clothes in Lionel and Casey’s room weeks ago, when I realized we had reached an awkward and uncomfortable stalemate.
    I found a clean pair of skinny jeans and a black off the shoulder top with a zombie burlesque dancer on the front. I slipped on a pair of black heels with little skulls down the heel seam, gave my face a puff of powder, my blonde lashes a coat of dark brown mascara, and applied my favorite MAC lipstick shade, Girl About Town. I was able to use the fingers on my right hand that peeked out the end of my cast rather efficiently; otherwise, things would have looked a little more Heath Ledger as the Joker, rather than the clean, bright look I was aiming for. Smacking my bright pink lips together, I stuffed the lipstick and my cell phone into a small shoulder bag and strolled into the kitchen.
    Bradley’s door was still closed, so I poured myself a glass of water and waited . . . and waited and waited. Finally, when the door to his room swung open and a devilishly handsome Bradley stepped out, I decided the waiting was worth it. Wearing a pair of soft denim jeans and a button-down navy shirt rolled to his elbows, he was beyond gorgeous. His dirty blond hair was still wet from the shower, and he had shaved away the stubble, which I had fantasied about leaving beard burn between my thighs more than once.
    I sighed. I was the worst born again virgin in history.
    “Ummm, sorry,” he said rather sheepishly as he finger combed his hair. “I forgot your clothes are in my room. Do you need anything out of there? You