Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  “Okay.”

  As soon as the door closed, Rory was in a potent combination of heaven and hell. He was near enough to Olive in the back seat that their thighs brushed, but he wasn’t sure if she wanted to be touched yet. So he just waited. Waited, breathed and stayed as still as possible so he wouldn’t lunge for the girl staring up at him with the most incredible eyes on the planet. The girl he loved so much, he was half-delirious just sharing the same oxygen with her.

  Olive’s inhale was stuttered. “The morning I asked you to leave, I woke up to a text from my mother. They’d turned my old bedroom into a toy unboxing space. For the channel.” Her audible swallow mingled with the rain pelting the rear window. “It was like being abandoned all over again and then I c-couldn’t think of anything but the time you left. And how bad it would hurt if you did it again. And I just got so scared.” Her fingers twisted in the damp hemline of her dress. “I invented reasons you probably like me, because I was so positive you would stop a-and leave again. Maybe you liked me because you needed to rescue someone, because of the time you couldn’t.” She gave him a meaningful look. “I just needed a reason—any reason—to push you away so I could avoid being…dropped. So maybe I am a naïve girl, Rory. Maybe I am. Because being without you is terrible no matter how it happens and I’ve sped it along.” A sob pushed out of her mouth, her body beginning to shake. “And I’m in love with you and you won’t even hold me now. I’ve ruined everything. I’ve—”

  Rory’s arms were around her in a split second, gathering her tightly against his chest and dragging her back across the seat into his lap. She straddled him as natural as could be, their bodies locking together like two halves of a whole. His heart lurched repeatedly, shocked over going from broken to complete so fast, and he pressed a hoarse sound into her hair, running his hands over every inch of her he could reach. Her head, her back, her hips, her face. “Did you just say you’re in love with me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, nodding. “Yes. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean what I said. About needing only people from school in my life. I was lying. D-did I ruin this—”

  “Olive.” Every ounce of feeling inside of him—disbelief, honor, relief—went into that single use of her name. His mind raced between every word she’d said, no idea where to land first, returning over and over again to the last part. This girl loved him. She loved him back. Was he dreaming? No. No, the weight of her in his lap was real. She was there. Craving eye contact, he clasped her face in his hands, bringing their heads together. “I love you. I fucking love you. I always will. Always. Let’s get that straight first.”

  A shudder passed through her and she sagged against his chest.

  “Don’t you dare be relieved by that. You think I could stop loving you?”

  Looking into his eyes, she shook her head. “No.”

  “I didn’t hold you at first because I would have broken if you were just here to keep a promise. And not because you needed me.”

  “I’m here because I need you,” she said against his mouth, scooting closer on his lap. “I’m here because I need you so bad.”

  Olive’s pussy pressed down, so hot and sweet on his cock and the flesh filled with pressure. That horrible, wonderful weight only she could satisfy. While they breathed against each other’s mouths, faster and faster, her hips starting to roll, the rain began coming down hard, turning the back seat into its own private world where they were the only two people who existed. “Look at me.” Never taking his attention off of her, Rory dug his wallet out of his pocket and tossed it on the seat, his fingers searching for the square foil packet he kept tucked in the billfold. “Olive, baby. Do you honestly think I rescued you? I’m the one who was drowning before you pulled me to shore. Look at me, sitting outside my mother’s birthday party, someplace I wasn’t sure I’d ever find myself. All because you believed in me.”

  Her eyes were soft and damp, running over his face. “I’m sorry I doubted how you feel.”

  “No. Don’t apologize,” he said gruffly, peeling the wet hem of her dress up, up her thighs, bunching the sodden material around her hips. “I just wish you’d told me about the text message, baby. About what they’d done. I’m so sorry. It’s hard for me to understand how someone could know you…and not want to keep you close as possible. It makes me feel so fucking helpless because I can’t fix it.”

  “I don’t need you to fix anything for me,” she said, brushing their lips together, side to side. “Just…”

  “Just what?”

  She looked down. “I don’t like knowing that you were waiting for me to break up with you. That you had some plan to leave me alone, let me live my life, at the first sign of trouble.”

  Rory understood Olive more in that moment. She didn’t want casual. She needed to be secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t budging. That his presence in her life was as solid and indestructible. If it took from now until the end of time, he would make sure she never questioned that he’d be standing beside her forever.

  Unable to wait another second, Rory teased her mouth into a reunion kiss that escalated quickly, tongues finding each other and mating, heads slanting. Her thighs turned restless around his hips almost immediately, her fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt to bring him closer. And fuck, he’d missed those little whimper sounds.

  Rory reached down between their bodies and unzipped his jeans, wincing as he pulled out the source of his ache. He covered himself quickly with the condom, pushing aside Olive’s thong with the head of his dick, leaving himself positioned at her entrance. But not quite inside. Just pressing, pressing, letting her wetness coat the latex.

  “It’s yours whenever you want to start riding it,” he gritted out, leaning back so he could watch the lips of her pussy part, hugging his cock and sliding down a few inches, Olive working her hips to take him inside, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. “When I’m deep as you can handle me, we’re going to have a little talk.”

  “Okay,” she gasped, turning glassy-eyed. “Talk. S-sure.”

  Rory’s heart swelled with love, but lust surged up and demanded attention as Olive’s tight pussy rippled and squeezed around the entire throbbing length of him. “Good girl,” he managed, finding her taut ass cheeks in his hands, easing her into a rhythm that made her mouth form an O. “That’s right, baby. It’s a perfect fit.” He slapped her bottom lightly, the smack sound echoing in the back seat. “Fuck your man.”

  “Rory,” she moaned, seeking out his mouth for a kiss. He gave it to her and then some, growling deep in his throat as she rolled into a faster pace, learning on the fly exactly how to angle her hips so that sweet clit rubbed on his cock every time she moved. “I’m going to come so fast. I can’t help it. Missed you. Need you.”

  “Time for our talk, Olive.” The love inside him expanded to include a little darkness. A lot of possessiveness. Those things had always been there, ready to bleed into the intense feelings she’d stirred, but Rory’s instinct rose up and set them free now. To plunder. Because his soul told him Olive needed them. “I’m done being noble. If you ever ask me to leave again,” he rasped against her mouth. “I won’t. Fucking. Go. Is that what you want to hear?”

  Olive’s nod was jerky, excitement lighting her gray eyes. “Yes.”

  He brought his mouth over to her ear, breathing against it. “You’ll have to call the cops, Olive. Tell them to bring an army. That’s what it’ll taken to drag me out. Away from my girl.”

  “It won’t happen. It’ll never happen.”

  “If it does, I’ll still come back.” He kissed her hard, swallowing her sobs with a greedy mouth. “This is how obsession works. Is. This. What you need?”

  “Yes,” she cried out, riding him hard. Fast. “That’s what I need, Rory.”

  “Done.” Rory began lifting his hips in sharp thrusts, meeting every twist and grind of her hips, and Olive gasped, increasing her pace, gaining more and more momentum. “Christ, baby. Baby. You’re getting me off
so good.” Knowing if she didn’t come in the next thirty seconds, he was in danger of peaking first, Rory undid the top three buttons of her dress, pushing aside the wet material to suck her nipples through the thin silk of her bra—and her pussy seized up around him, broken versions of his name filling the car as she shook through an orgasm.

  Rory surged up into her tightness one final time and roared, the climax pounding through him with such force, his lungs wouldn’t fill for long moments, his vision blurring. There was nothing but Olive and the love overflowing their hearts into the back seat of the car. They clung to each other for several minutes as the rain slowed into a pitter patter, their mouths meeting in slow, meandering kisses, their hearts pounding closely together, as if attempting to merge into one.

  “I love you, Olive. My God, I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too, Rory.” She kissed his chin, his cheek, his mouth, resting her cheek on his shoulder with a contented sigh he planned to hear every day for the rest of his life. “Are you ready to go inside?”

  “I’m ready for anything, as long as you’re mine.” He wrapped her in a bear hug. “And we’re not just going to see my family. We’re going to see yours, Olive.”

  She lifted her head and gifted him with a beautiful smile. And a few minutes later when they knocked on the door and Rory’s mother answered, bursting into tears and pulling him into her arms, he wondered how a man could do anything but succeed with so much love coming at him from two directions. The remaining cracks in his foundation were filled with hope. Knowledge that the future would be nothing but bright, especially when his mother hugged Olive, too, already halfway to loving his girlfriend. As if anyone could help it. Rory vowed to himself that Olive would have a special place with his family. It would be hers, as much as his.

  Everything he was capable of giving would be hers.

  For as long as he was breathing.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading MOUTH TO MOUTH! You can read the rest of the books in the Beach Kingdom Bundle today!

  Gypsy King

  Devney Perry

  Chapter One

  Bryce

  “Morning, Art.” I saluted him with my coffee as I walked through the glass front door.

  He returned the gesture with his own mug. “Hiya, girlie. How are you today?”

  At the Clifton Forge Tribune, I was girlie, dear and the occasional sweetheart, because at thirty-five, I was the youngest employee by thirteen years. Even as part owner, I was still seen as the boss’s kid.

  “Fantastic.” I shimmied my shoulders, still feeling the dance party I’d had in my car on my way in to work. “The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming. It’s going to be a great day. I can feel it.”

  “I hope you’re right. All I can feel at the moment is heartburn.” Art chuckled and his protruding belly jiggled. Even in a pair of cargo pants and a light blue button-up, he reminded me of Santa Claus.

  “Is Dad here?”

  He nodded. “Been here since before I showed up at six. I think he’s trying to fix one of the presses.”

  “Damn. I’d better go make sure he hasn’t gotten pissed and dismantled the whole thing. See ya, Art.”

  “See ya, Bryce.”

  I cruised past Art at the reception desk and pushed through the interior door that opened to the office’s bullpen. The smell of fresh coffee and newspaper filled my nose. Paradise. I’d fallen in love with this smell as a five-year-old girl when I’d gone to work with Dad on a bring-your-daughter-to-work day, and nothing had topped it since.

  I walked the length of the empty bullpen, past the desks on each side of the center aisle to the door at the back that opened to the pressroom.

  “Dad?” My voice echoed in the open room, bouncing off the cinder-block walls.

  “Under the Goss!”

  The ceilings extended high above me, the ductwork and pipes exposed. The unique, musky smell of newspaper was stronger in here, where we kept the giant paper rolls and drums of black ink. I savored the walk across the room, inhaling the mix of paper and solvents and machinery oil as my wedge heels clicked on the cement floor.

  My childhood crush hadn’t been on a boy, it had been on the feel of a freshly printed newspaper in my hands. It was a mystery to my parents why I’d gone into TV and not newspaper after college. There’d been a lot of reasons, none of which mattered now.

  Because here I was, working at my dad’s newspaper, returning to my roots.

  The Goss printer was our largest and main press. Positioned along the far wall, it extended from one side of the building to the other. Dad’s jean-clad legs and brown boots were sticking out from beneath the first of four towers.

  “What’s wrong today?” I asked.

  He scooted himself free and stood, swatting at his jeans and leaving black streaks of grease and ink on his thighs. “Damn thing. There’s something wrong with the paper feed. It hitches about every tenth rotation and screws up whatever page it’s on. But it all looks fine under there so I don’t know what the hell I’m trying to fix.”

  “Sorry. Anything I can do?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. We’ll have to call in a specialist to get it fixed. God knows how long that will take and how much it’ll cost. For right now, all we can do is print extra to make up for it.”

  “At least it still works and we’re not using the manual press.” I shot a glare at the ancient machine in the far corner. I’d only used it once, just to learn how it worked, and my arm had hurt for a week afterward from all the cranking.

  “You’d better budget for a new press, or a serious mechanical overhaul on this one, in the near future.”

  I tapped my temple. “Got it.”

  Dad had been talking about future budgets and future plans since I’d moved to Clifton Forge six months ago. At the moment, we shared ownership equally—I’d bought half the business when I’d moved to town. Eventually I’d buy the rest of the Tribune from my parents, but we had no firm transition date in mind, which was fine by me. I wasn’t ready to take over and Dad wasn’t ready to let it go.

  I was perfectly happy having Bryce Ryan, Journalist stamped after my stories. Dad could keep the editor in chief title for a few more years.

  “What are you up to today?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing much.” Besides investigating the former motorcycle gang in town.

  Dad’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.” I’d forgotten how easily he could spot a lie. I held up a hand and snuck another behind my back, crossing my fingers. “I swear.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can fool most people, but not me. I know that smirk. You’re about to cause some trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Trouble sounds so juvenile and malicious. I’m just going to pop down to the police station and say hello to Chief Wagner. I haven’t talked to him in a couple weeks. Then I’m going to get the oil changed in my car.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “First of all, Marcus is no idiot. He isn’t going to buy your innocent act either. The paper can’t afford to be at odds with the chief, so be nice. He’ll never throw us a bone if he’s pissed. And second, I know exactly why you’re getting your ‘oil changed.’ Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been digging up old articles about the Tin Gypsies.”

  “I, uh . . .” Shit. I’d asked Art to pull some from the archives, and I guess he’d told Dad, even though I’d brought him Tums and homemade cinnamon rolls to keep quiet. Traitor.

  “Stay away from them, Bryce.”

  “But there’s a story there. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. This could be huge for us.”

  “Huge?” He shook his head. “If you want huge, you’d better go back to Seattle. I thought you came here to slow down. To enjoy life. Weren’t those your words?”

  “Yes, they were. And I am slowing down.” I wasn’t waking up at three a.m. to make it to the TV station for the morning show. I wasn’t cutting my hair to appease my pro
ducer or constantly watching my diet. I wasn’t reporting someone else’s stories on camera. Instead, I was writing my own.

  It was wonderful, but after two months of small-town Montana life, I was going a bit stir-crazy. Calling the hospital for birth announcements and the funeral home for obituaries wasn’t enough of a mental challenge. I needed some excitement. I needed a decent story.

  And the Clifton Forge Garage had story written all over it.

  About a year ago, the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club had disbanded. They’d been one of the more prominent and lucrative gangs in Montana and had closed down without an explanation.

  The former members claimed they were focusing on running the garage here in town. Their shop had become renowned in certain wealthy and celebrity circles for classic car restorations and custom motorcycle builds.

  But men like them—men like Kingston “Dash” Slater with his striking good looks, cocky swagger and devilish grin—thrived on power. They craved danger and a life on the edge, without limits. As a gang, the Gypsies had power and money in spades.

  So why had they given it up?

  No one knew. And if they did, they weren’t talking.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that in the past year, there hasn’t been any news about them? And no explanation as to why they shut down their ‘club’? They went from notorious gang members to upstanding citizens overnight. I don’t buy it. It’s too quiet. Too clean.”

  “That’s because they are clean,” Dad said.

  “Sure. Squeaky,” I deadpanned.

  “You make it sound like we’re all covering things up for them.” He frowned. “Come on. Don’t you think if there were a story there, I’d tell it? Or do you think so little of me as a reporter?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Of course you’d tell the story.”

  But would he dig for it? I didn’t doubt Dad’s ability to investigate. He’d been a star reporter in his prime. But since he and Mom had moved to Clifton Forge and bought the Tribune years ago, he’d slowed down. He wasn’t as eager as he’d once been. He wasn’t as hungry.