Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

It was all the incentive she needed. She yanked, sending buttons flying in all directions. One stroke of his chest, and she sent her busy fingers to his belt.

  “Franchesca if you don’t get out of that dress now, I’m going to destroy it.”

  “You bought it for me,” she reminded him.

  “Right. I’ll get you another dress and me another shirt.”

  He didn’t destroy the entire thing. Just ripped one of the straps and ruined the zipper trying to get his hands on her faster.

  She worked just as quickly, just as impatiently. She had his belt off and his pants unhooked before he got the dress to her waist.

  He’d thought of little else since he’d seen her in that strapless bra and gossamer thin panties before the ceremony. And now she was his for the touching, the taking.

  One more shove and her dress pooled at her ankles. She was curvy like a goddess. So different from the waiflike size zeros he usually took to bed.

  Her body made him salivate. She was made for sin, and he was happy to oblige.

  He wanted to stop, to enjoy the view. Aiden wanted to stroke and kiss his way over every inch of her beautiful body. But his pants were sliding down his thighs, and she was wrestling his throbbing dick out of his briefs.

  “Let’s see what we’re working with here,” she said, dropping to her knees.

  The picture of Franchesca on her knees in front of him, staring at his cock, nearly leveled him. It was so much more than any fantasy. And if he thought about it for one second longer, he was going to come before her red lips even parted over his cock.

  “Fuck.” He needed to reel it in, to take control. He didn’t let anyone dominate him. Ever.

  It was a rule.

  She was looking up at him, a submissive vixen with fingers curled loosely around his erection. “Nice equipment, Aide,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  He nodded, incapable of words. Every ounce of his focus was on not coming on her face, in her hair.

  Jesus.

  “You okay up there?” she asked. “You having a stroke or something?”

  “You and your fucking mouth,” he groaned. And then she was using that fucking mouth on him.

  She knew, had to know, how close to the edge he already was. When she took him to the back of her throat, it was slow and teasing, giving him precious seconds to get used to the drag of her tongue, the glorious wet of her mouth.

  Those eyes. More green than blue now, stared up at him triumphantly as she licked and sucked him. She was a witch, and he was her victim. He fisted his hand in her hair and regulated her strokes. Keeping them slow and controlled. But there was nothing he could do about that tongue. Those incredible noises at the back of her throat. He wanted to do this and nothing but this for the next year, watch her like this, feel her like this.

  She could break him, he realized. With nothing more than that smart mouth, she could break him and make him grovel.

  It was that thought and that thought only that had him hauling her to her feet by her hair. She licked her lips and made his cock twitch against her stomach.

  “I was just getting started.”

  “So am I,” he promised. He stepped out of his pants, kicked off his shoes. “Bed. Now.”

  She didn’t move fast enough for his liking. So he picked her up, draping her long legs over his hips. Her breasts taunted his mouth. “Take off your bra,” he said, crossing the living room.

  By the time he hit the bedroom, he had one of those caramel nipples in his mouth, and she was begging him loudly to fuck her.

  “Aiden!” She swore at him when he dropped her on the mattress. But he followed her, not wanting to be away from the body that tempted him like he was under a spell. He slapped at the lamp on the bedside table and reached into the drawer. Thank fucking God he never traveled without condoms. He wouldn’t have survived the hunt for one. And it would have taken zero convincing for him to drive himself into her bare. Something he’d never done in his entire life.

  Kilbourns didn’t father bastards.

  But Frankie could have batted those long-lashed eyes at him, and he would have happily shot his load inside her, thanking his lucky stars.

  She was fucking beautiful, sprawled across his mattress, her hair spreading out beneath her, her nipples swollen and straining. She still had her sandals and underwear on, and Aiden planned to remedy that.

  “You gonna look all day, or are you gonna make me come, Aide?”

  “Just taking in the view, sweetheart. If I don’t get myself under control, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

  “Challenge accepted.” She rose up and grabbed him by the back of the neck, yanking him down to her. She kissed him like he was the only man in the world, and it was a heady thing. His cock was weeping with the need to bury itself in her. Precum leaked from the tip.

  “Fuck,” he rescued himself from the kiss and slid down her body pausing to worship both breasts with their perky, needy nipples. She hissed in pleasure as he closed his mouth over each one, sucking until she writhed under him.

  This wasn’t a woman faking her way to a picture-perfect sexual experience. This was a goddess chasing an orgasm that would eclipse the sun. And he would give her what she wanted.

  “Finally,” he said, settling between her legs. He let his lips graze her inner thigh and watched her tremble. Aiden dragged those air-thin panties down to her thighs. He left them there. The final barrier prevented him from ramming himself into her wet pussy. He wanted to torture her the way she had him.

  “Aiden if you don’t do something right this second, I’m going to take matters into my own hands,” Frankie threatened. He grinned. He didn’t know what love was, but he sure liked Franchesca Baranski more than any woman he’d ever taken to bed.

  He took two fingers and traced them through the soft wet folds.

  “Oh God. Oh fuck. Aiden!”

  He held out for his name and then thrust his fingers inside her.

  She cried out, and he nearly came on the sheets that touched his cock. He fucked her with his fingers, and when she started to grind her hips up, he leaned in and slid his tongue through her slit.

  Rather than the scream he’d hoped for, she went deathly silent. He peeked and saw her, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent O. “You okay up there? Are you having a stroke?” he quipped.

  “Aiden, talking is not what I want you doing with your mouth right now!”

  He licked his way to her center. His tongue and fingers working her clenching pussy and her sweet, little clit. She rode his hand, his mouth, determined to steer him toward her orgasm. But he could get there without the road map.

  He added a third finger and traced his tongue down to her tight asshole and back to her clit again and again. She was sobbing his name. Everything else was incomprehensible.

  He felt her walls tremble against his fingers and then the first pulse squeezed against him. He licked and fucked her through every contraction of that beautiful release. She clenched his fingers with those slick muscles, pulling him in as deep as he could go, and he wanted more. He wanted her coming on his cock, wanted those hungry squeezes to milk his own orgasm out of him.

  “Aiden!”

  He ground his hips into the mattress, desperate for the friction.

  Her orgasm went on forever, and by the time she went limp beneath him, he was afraid he might black out if his brain lost any more blood. There was a pulse hammering in his head.

  He raised up onto his knees and fisted his hard-on to roll on the condom.

  “Franchesca,” he snapped. “Look at me. Open your eyes.”

  She did, hazily at first. But when she saw him, fisting his dick between her legs, her gaze sharpened.

  “What are you waiting for?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “Tell me you want me. Tell me I can have you.”

  “Take me, Aiden.”

  “Are you mine?” He didn’t know why he was asking. He wasn’t possessive about women. But he wanted her to
say it, say the words. And then he’d know he won.

  “You get me for tonight. Don’t fuck it up.”

  It was enough for him. For now. He spread her thighs and gripped her hips and had the satisfaction of hearing her voice break on his name when he pushed into her. She was so fucking tight, even after the warm up he’d given her. He buried himself to the hilt, pinning her to the bed with his hips.

  Something snapped. Something he didn’t understand triggered, as if he were one man a second ago and now a brand-new one.

  Her eyes, so bright and glassy, stared into him, into his soul. And she could see into his. Into the emptiness there that he was never free of.

  But he wasn’t so empty now. They were connected. They were one. He could feel the aftershocks of her orgasm tremoring around his cock. He could read her thoughts if he tried hard enough.

  He wouldn’t last long. Not with her eyes glazing over like that and those round tits tempting him. “Franchesca,” he whispered her name as he finally began to move in her.

  She brought her hands up and stroked over his shoulders, down his arms. A gentle, soothing touch. It felt like something had broken inside of him and now there was light getting in through the cracks.

  She had bewitched him. Or he had contracted some kind of tropical fever.

  She cried out, and he saw tears in her eyes. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails carving into his skin. He’d treasure the marks, hoped they’d stay.

  He was done thinking. Done doing anything but feeling because she was getting tighter around him and he was swelling impossibly thicker in anticipation of a release that could wreck him.

  Franchesca’s breath was coming in short bursts, and he felt sweat dot his skin. It was heaven, moving in her, being surrounded in her heat. He leaned down and closed his mouth over one pert nipple.

  She arched against him, and all sweetness, all tenderness, was gone. They were animals in heat, clawing at each other, blindly scrabbling for a pleasure too intense for words. He released her breast and grabbed her hair, burying his face in her neck. She hiked her thighs up around his waist drawing him in deeper, and when he bottomed out in her, when she screamed his name brokenly, he felt it.

  The detonation.

  His own orgasm was on a hair-trigger, and when she closed around him, he exploded inside her. Pump after pump, he couldn’t stop coming, and neither could she. Every thrust, every hot rush of come, she met him, squeezed him, pleaded for just one more.

  He emptied himself into her welcoming center, but he felt anything but empty now. There wasn’t cold, calculation at his center. No. There was something warm and bright and dangerously real.

  He felt wetness against his shoulder, heard Franchesca sniffle.

  His gut tightened. “Franchesca? Frankie? Are you okay?” He was still inside her, and she was fucking crying. It gutted him.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so embarrassed.”

  He wiped a fat tear from her cheek with his thumb. “What is it? Did I hurt you?” What had he done?

  “No. I think it’s because the wedding, and I was stressed, and those were the two most powerful orgasms of my entire life. And now I’m blabbering and embarrassed and holy fuck, Aiden. What was that?”

  He dropped his forehead to hers, relief coursing through him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t cross a line or something?”

  “You didn’t shove your dick up my ass without asking first, so I think we’re fine. Can we pretend this part never happened?”

  “What part?”

  She laughed and another tear escaped. “Oh my God. Maybe you don’t suck so bad after all, Kilbourn.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “I could eat an entire buffet in under ten minutes.”

  He wanted to kiss her on that tear-stained cheek. Kiss her and stay buried inside her where he felt something good. But he didn’t do that sort of thing. And she wouldn’t trust it if he did.

  “Let’s see how many dishes we can order from room service,” he said, reluctantly sliding out of her and reaching for the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There was nothing like a walk of shame to make Frankie feel like she was twenty years old again. Except this time, she was thirty-four, and she was sneaking out of a man’s room wearing his Yale t-shirt because he’d ripped her dress in his desperate haste to fuck her to five mind-altering orgasms.

  She clutched her shoes to her chest and balled up the remains of her gown and slipped out the door.

  They’d dined on champagne and tender steaks in bed and ended up naked and panting again. She had every intention of leaving, of going back to her room to pack and regain whatever shred of sanity she had left, but had instead fallen asleep next to Aiden, a tangle of limbs and sheets.

  She woke with a start, sunlight beaming obnoxiously in her face between the slice of curtain they hadn’t bothered closing. She’d been horrified to find her face snuggled into Aiden’s neck. Her hand resting on the smattering of chest hair above the slow and steady beat of his heart.

  Her leg was thrown over his crotch, and his erection was digging into her thigh. The magnitude of last night, of not just giving in to his chase, but demanding he take her, hit her like a heavyweight champ. And the things she’d let him do to her? The things she’d done to him? Hell.

  Apparently, she was as forgiving as Pru. Or as hormone driven as ol’ one-eyebrowed Margeaux.

  She must have forgotten to pack her dignity.

  “Well, well, well.”

  Frankie jumped a mile in the hallway as she pulled Aiden’s door closed.

  “Jesus, Pru. You scared the ever-living hell out of me.”

  Her best friend was still in her wedding gown, her hair a disaster, her makeup smeared. She smelled like a distillery and was grinning like a kindergartner turned loose in the Hershey Chocolate Factory.

  “You and Aiden?” Pru squealed at dog whistle frequency.

  “Shhh! Jeez. Keep your voice down.”

  Pru listed hard to the side as if she were walking the deck of a boat. “I’m super drunk but not drunk enough to not be really, really excited.”

  “Have you even been to bed yet?” Frankie asked.

  Pru shook her head violently from side and side and walked into a wall. “Nope. ’s my party. Hey! Wanna hold my hair while I throw up? You can tell me why you’re sneaking out of You Know Who’s room with sex hair and teeth marks on your neck.”

  * * *

  Pru could be a professional vomiter, Frankie observed. She tucked her knees under her neatly in front of the toilet and gracefully sighed up the contents of her stomach.

  “You know, when I barf, I sound like I’m trying to bring up a foot of intestine,” Frankie pointed out.

  “Blaaaaaah,” Pru crooned to the toilet. She sat back on her heels looking proud of herself and flushed. “Barf drunking is so much easier than barf sicking. I prolly won’t even remember this tomorrow… or today.”

  “Yeah, but you were like this with the stomach bug of 2005 too.”

  “The trick is not to fight it,” Pru said sagely. “When you fight it, it makes it so much harder.”

  Vomit lessons from a cheerful zombie bride. At least this was keeping her mind off of the satisfied ache in every well-used muscle. Off of the naked man down the hallway who had shown her things in the dark that she couldn’t comprehend in the daylight.

  “Where’s your husband?” Frankie asked, handing Pru a glass of water.

  “My husband is sleeping under the head table on the terrace,” Pru said proudly. “Now, tell me exactly how you got beard burn on your neck.

  Her neck wasn’t the only place she’d gotten it. But she wasn’t about to mention her inner thighs right now.

  “Aiden and I had sex,” Frankie admitted.

  Pru started cackling.

  “Geez, what? You laugh any harder, and you’re gonna spew again.”

  “I was jus’ thinking that I can’t wait to t
ell this story at your wedding!”

  “Why would you tell this story at my wedding?” Frankie asked, horrified.

  “’Cause you’re gonna marry Aiden, and I’m gonna be your matron of honor!”

  “I’m not marrying Aiden! We had a one-time momentary lapse in judgment.”

  “Uhhhh, judging by the orgasmic look on your pretty, pretty face, you had a life-altering one-time momentary lapse.”

  Frankie slumped against Pru’s vanity. “Okay, it was good. Really good.” So fucking good every sexual experience from now on was going to pale in comparison. That was a cheery thought.

  “And?” Pru prodded, fluffing the skirt of her dress around her.

  “And the key phrase is ‘one-time.’ We are not each other’s types no matter how good in bed we are together.”

  “Okay, okay. On a scale of Jimmy Talbot and Tanner Freehorn, where does Aiden fall?”

  This was the problem with having a best friend who knew everything about you. She created sex scales based on your worst and best experiences. Jimmy had been her first and sweetly awkward. Tanner was a random hookup at a New Year’s Eve party ten months ago who had given Frankie her first multiple orgasm.

  “Ugh. Don’t make me do this!” Frankie begged.

  “You have to,” Pru ordered. “It’s in the friendship rules. Jimmy to Tanner. Go!”

  “Tanner plus three,” Frankie mumbled under her breath. She traced the grout line with her finger, refusing to meet Pru’s eyes.

  “Tanner plus wha?” Pru asked. Her post-puke voice echoed off the marble.

  “Three.”

  She watched drunk Pru do the math very slowly on her fingers. “Oh hell. Five. I had five orgasms, okay?”

  “Is that even physically possible?” Pru shrieked. “Wait, hang on.” She leaned over the toilet bowl and blahed again. She bobbed back up, perky as a morning TV show host who hadn’t just thrown up a carafe of champagne. “Five orgasms in one night?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s like a super power or something.”

  Or something all ridiculously rich dudes could do. Could money buy sexual prowess? No wonder women were always chasing them.