Kiss Talent Agency Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Virna DePaul

  Her eyes are wide, a little glassy. She’s breathing hard enough that it pushes her breasts up in her dress.

  Then she nods. “Okay.”

  Julia

  His last name. The sharp suit and office. His fancy car. All those things should have clued me in. But when Bastian asked me to go back to his place, I hadn’t expected this. Based on that picture in his wallet—the one of him and his sister posing in front of that cute, one-story home—and how down-to-earth he seems despite being drop-dead gorgeous and successful, I’d just assumed Bastian lived someplace nice but not over the top.

  I’d assumed wrong.

  The guy lives in a freaking mansion. In fact, it’s more like a complex than just a mansion.

  We pull in through a gate in the wall surrounding the property and down a long driveway. All around me are the trappings of extreme wealth and sophistication, and when I imagine coming for a visit, driving my old car up to his house, me sitting inside in my grocery store uniform that still has stains from wing sauce on it, I want to cringe.

  As the main part of the driveway curves around in front of the house, a portion of it branches off toward a massive three-car garage with a living space above it. There’s a covered walkway from the garage to the main part of the house, through which I can see a latticework fence blocking off the backyard.

  The house is that peach-color stucco seen in so many Southwestern or Mexican-style homes. The roof of each individual section is done in curved red tiles. The windows are all arched. Above the main entranceway, two glass doors open onto a small balcony with a curved wrought-iron railing running across the front and along the sides.

  There is a large stone fountain in the grass in the middle of the circular driveway. The water shoots straight up from the top and flows down into several stone baths before finally falling into a pool contained behind a stone wall at the bottom. I’m willing to bet there are actual fish living in the bottom of that fountain. Something tells me that anyone who would own a house this expansive would probably want fish in their fountain.

  This is a far cry from the little bitty cracker-box house in that photo.

  The little house in the photograph would have been a decent place to raise the perfect smiling family, but this mansion would be the ideal place for anything.

  And suddenly, I wonder what in the world I’m doing here, at this glorious house. With this glorious man.

  “Everything okay?” Bastian suddenly asks.

  “What? Um . . . yeah. It’s just . . . your house is incredible.”

  “Thanks. A bit big for one person, but I like it.”

  He parks in front of the three-story garage, gets out, opens my door, and helps me out of the car. His hand on the small of my back, he guides me toward the pathway leading from the garage to the side of the house.

  His touch makes me jittery and anxious to be in his arms, but alarms are sounding in my head, telling me I’ve already developed feelings for Bastian, and if I sleep with him again, I know those feelings are just going to get stronger. And really, even though I said I wanted to keep things casual and that I’ll be fine when he’s ready to walk away, I’m convinced more than ever after seeing his house that he’ll be walking away very soon.

  Which is why I suddenly freeze in my tracks.

  “Julia?”

  I want to run. Run from everything I’m feeling for his incredible man. But at the same time, I know that will be a big mistake. Sure, he’s going to leave me eventually, but do I really want to lose out on the opportunity to spend as much time with him as I can before that happens?

  I take a deep breath, trying to gather my courage. I just need a minute. Time to compose myself before we go inside that beautiful house and enter what I’m sure will be an equally beautiful bedroom, all perfectly in keeping with this beautiful life, of which I stick out like a major sore thumb.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I point to his garage. “You have other cars in there?”

  God, why did I ask that? His sleek Audi is incredible enough. What if he’s got a Porsche or a Rolls-Royce in there?

  His eyebrows rise at my question. “Um, yes. A truck. And a couple of bikes. Motorcycles.”

  “Wait, you ride?” I can’t believe it. A health nut, filthy rich, and a rebel?

  “Hell yeah, I ride. I’ve got a Ducati. But I also have an old Harley I’m trying to get running again.”

  Holy shit, I think, my unease forgotten. “I love motorcycles. My dad used to collect old bikes. He was a mechanic, and motorcycles were kind of his specialty.”

  “Were?”

  “He died of a heart attack when I was sixteen. Now it’s just me and my mom.” Unable to help myself, I glance toward the garage and he grins. Sticking his hands in his pocket, he tilts his head in that direction. “Want to see?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you know a little bit about motorcycles?”

  “I know enough to ride one and take care of it so it keeps running,” I tease him with a laugh.

  “Well, then, maybe you can get it running.”

  When I see the bright blue Ducati, I swear I almost have an orgasm on the spot. “It’s gorgeous.” I take in all the sleek lines with proper appreciation, and then gasp when Bastian pulls a drop cloth off his other bike.

  “Wow,” I say when I see the classic black motorcycle. “This looks like a 1956 Harley-Davidson FLH Hydra-Glide Super Sport.”

  Bastian grins. “So you know the make and year. What else can you tell me about this bike of mine?” His voice is both teasing and challenging.

  Oh, that’s right; I’m just a girl. I’m not supposed to know these things.

  “Well, let’s see. You’ve got the Panhead engine they introduced in the late forties and the hydraulic front-end suspension that they’d introduced just a few years before this baby was made. I see you’ve added a custom seat that’s a little longer, to allow someone else to ride with you.”

  Ignoring the fact that I’m wearing a black dress, I crouch down next to the engine and take a look at what he’s already done to try to get it running.

  “So, you grew up around these things, huh?” he asks, standing over me.

  Standing again, I look around, then without even asking, I grab a couple of tools, then return to crouch next to the bike, making a few adjustments here and there as I speak.

  “Yep, my dad worked on them a lot when I was little. There are pictures of me sitting on his motorcycles or taking them out for rides with him when they were fixed and running. The thing with these old bikes is you have to keep on them. You can’t let them sit for too long. You can’t not perform regular maintenance, or else they’ll just die on you. At the same time, they’re a lot easier to work on, just like with older cars.”

  “Oh, so you know about cars, too, now,” he says, his voice sounding odd, and when I turn around, I see his gaze plastered not on what I’m doing to his bike, but the way my dress is riding up my thighs. When he catches me looking, he winks.

  “I know a thing or two.” I tinker with the bike for another minute, then stand and wipe my hands with a rag he hands me. “Give her a shot now,” I tell him.

  He looks skeptical, takes out his keys from his pocket, climbs on, and cranks her up.

  The bike comes to life instantly and purrs like she’s brand new.

  “What did you do? That fast?” He looks at me in amazement.

  “There’s nothing wrong with this bike,” I tell him. “And if you have to ask what was wrong with her, you’ll never know. Best to hire a good mechanic.” I can’t deny I sort of feel like a badass for getting his bike running.

  “Or maybe I can just have you over more often and we can work on the bike together.”

  Am I seriously warped that working on this bike with him sounds almost as good as everything else I’ve done with him thus far?

  Almost.

  All of a sudden, seeing him on that rumbling bike, picturing him speeding down the road with me on the back, arms
around him, his powerful hips between my thighs . . . well, let’s just say I’m more than ready to head inside his fancy house now.

  So I reach over, turn the engine off, then kiss him.

  Bastian

  It’s clear as day that Julia’s turned on by the fact I ride motorcycles. She’s turned on by the fact she got my bike running. As for me? Seeing her crouching uninhibited next to my bike, tinkering with it, I’m tempted to rip off her black dress and test out how well the bike withstands the rough ride I want to give her.

  But as much as I’d be up for that another day, right now all I want is her on her back, in a comfortable bed where we can spend hours just savoring one another. So I kiss Julia back, spearing her mouth with my tongue, tangling her hair in my hand, squeezing her breasts and ass, but as I do, I awkwardly maneuver her out of the garage and into the house. When we’re inside, I sweep her into my arms and carry her upstairs to my room, grateful I’d cleaned up all evidence that I’d been ill. Nothing like a thermometer and ginger ale bottles strewn everywhere to kill the mood.

  “I want you, Bastian,” she says in a low voice. She shimmies against me.

  I stroke my hands up her sides, cupping her breasts. I squeeze, and she moans. Leaning down, I kiss between her cleavage, licking along that line. She tastes like flowers and salt; it’s intoxicating.

  My hands rove some more. My fingers climb up her dress, but then she jerks away like I’ve stung her.

  “Um,” she says, blushing, “sorry. I’m ticklish.”

  I laugh, reaching for her. “I’ll be careful.”

  Now that we’re inside, she seems distracted, though, like she did when we’d first pulled up to the house. I tip her chin up. “What’s wrong, Julia?”

  She bites her lip. She fidgets. She makes an annoyed sound before blurting, “My underwear. I don’t want you to see it. It’s not . . . sexy.”

  That’s all? I laugh, but seeing her expression, I sober. “Julia,” I say as I kiss the side of her neck, “you’re bloody gorgeous and you just got my bike running, looking smoking hot while doing it. I don’t care if you’re wearing a metal chastity belt. I want you. I’ll always want you.”

  I keep kissing her, licking and nibbling. She sighs, her hands clenched in my shirt.

  “Can we turn off the lights?” she asks, her voice soft.

  Hell no, I think. I want to see all of her. But looking at her face, seeing how uncomfortable she is, I control my baser instincts. “Anything you want,” I say.

  16

  Julia

  So much for feeling like a badass.

  Now I feel stupid, being self-conscious about wearing Spanx. But I can’t stand the thought of Bastian seeing me like that, so, lights off it is. Anyway, it’s kind of sexy, not seeing the other person but going by touch, sound, and taste.

  He switches off the overhead light, plunging us into darkness. His curtains block out the streetlamps outside, so I can only just make him out in the dark. He helps me unzip my dress, laughing a little when the zipper gets stuck, and I help him unbutton his shirt. It’s awkward and there’s a lot of fumbling, but he can’t stop kissing me at the same time. When I’m in my underwear, I shuck off my Spanx before he notices I’m wearing them, tossing them to parts unknown.

  Clad only in my bra, I help him strip out of his pants and down to his boxers. He takes me by the wrist. We tumble onto his bed. His sheets are silky and probably expensive, and I inhale deeply. They smell just like him. That turns me on almost as much as Bastian kissing me.

  I perch on top of him, his cock rubbing against me. We both groan. His mouth travels downward, kissing me between my breasts. He shoves my bra straps down and pulls the cups away, not bothering to unhook the bra. I don’t mind. His mouth is too hot, too devastating, and he licks my nipples until I’m moving against him.

  His hands wander, too, and when he realizes I’m bare from the waist down, he swears. His fingers delve between my legs, feeling my wetness and stroking through my folds. I shudder. I’m so ready, and he’s barely touched me. I rock against him, trying to find friction.

  “Keep that up and we’ll be over before we’ve started,” he mutters in my ear.

  I rock against him harder. His hands grip my hips, trying to still me.

  “I need you inside me.” I’ve never said those words before, but the darkness makes me brave. And it’s true: I need him filling me, stretching me to the brim.

  I help him out of his boxers and he rifles around in his drawer, looking for a condom. He swears when he can’t find one. I can’t help it—I giggle.

  “What are you laughing about?” he growls. I can just make out the sheen of the foil packet in the light peeking through the edges of the curtains.

  “I’m laughing at you. Now are you going to keep growling, or are you going to fuck me?”

  Who is this person, I think, and what did she do with awkward Julia?

  “Oh, I’m going to fuck you. Until you come all over my cock.” His words stroke against my skin; I shiver and tremble, heat blossoming through me.

  He rolls the condom onto his cock, and I scoot up a little. I can feel him against my entrance, hard and hot. Taking him in my hand, I slowly guide him inside me, feeling a slight pinch. He’s so big, it’s almost unbearable—but in the best possible way. His hands are on my hips, letting me set the pace. Inch by inch, he fills me, until he’s completely inside.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. His fingers dig into my hips.

  He’s leaned back into the pillows, and I place my hands on his shoulders for balance. Then I gingerly rock up, and then back again. Back and forth, his cock filling me. It feels almost like he’s growing harder and longer inside of me, and it sends a thrill down to my toes.

  I’m going slowly, and I know it’s driving Bastian crazy. His hands are gripping me tighter and tighter, like he’s trying to remain still. I close my eyes. Cupping my breasts, I tweak my nipples, and it sends a burst of warmth straight to my sex.

  “Are you touching yourself?” he growls.

  I nod, moving faster now. I need more—more of everything. More of him inside me, more friction, more movement.

  He covers my hands with his, playing with my breasts. He rolls each nipple between his fingers before pinching them. The bite of pain makes me moan out loud. Now I’m riding him, clutching at his shoulders.

  “I’m so close, Bastian, so close.”

  At that, his control snaps. He takes hold of me and starts fucking me so relentlessly that it’s as if I lose myself completely. All I know is Bastian: his hands, his mouth, his cock. He thrusts inside of me, and the noise of flesh against flesh only adds to how erotic this moment is.

  Sweat drips down my body. I reach down and stroke my clit. Pleasure screams along every nerve as I touch myself. I can feel his cock brush against my fingers.

  It’s too much. I can’t last a second longer.

  “Come for me, Julia,” he says.

  I do. My orgasm explodes within me, and I arch backward. I scream. I’m shaking and trembling and he’s still fucking me, milking every contraction. His cock still sheathed inside of me, it prolongs the pleasure until I’m drunk with it. I then feel him swear and he’s coming, too, and I don’t know how long I’m coming. It feels like eternity.

  Remaining inside of me, Bastian pulls me down for a furious kiss. It’s messy and there’s teeth and tongue, but I kiss him just as hard. His hands cup my ass, still thrusting slowly inside of me, like he can’t stop himself. It sends little thrills of pleasure up my spine, extending what was already an explosive orgasm.

  Eventually, I collapse against him. I’m exhausted, sore, and so well-pleasured I can’t even think straight. Bastian gently lifts me off of him, leaving to dispose of the condom before returning. He kisses me again, his fingers dancing through my throbbing sex.

  “I wonder,” he says thoughtfully, “how many times can I make you come tonight?” His fingers slide through my wetness, brushing my oversensitive clit just
barely. “Three times? Four? More than that?”

  I want to tell him I’m too tired, but as he dips one finger inside of me, I realize that my body is his. I can’t say no; I don’t want to say no. So I kiss him and he fucks me with his fingers until I’m coming a second time, then a third, and then it all melts together into a dream of pure ecstasy.

  I don’t know how much time passes. I can see a tiny bit of light peeking through the curtains, so I assume that dawn is near, but otherwise a week, a month, an eternity could have passed and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  Curled next to Bastian with my head on his shoulder, I dance my fingers lightly across his chest as he strokes my arm. We’re quiet, just listening to each other breathe. After I came more times than I thought was possible, we both dozed off. Now we’re awake, but it’s a soft kind of awake, where we don’t have to be doing anything but lie next to each other.

  It’s a lovely feeling, I have to admit.

  Bastian curls a strand of my hair around his index finger. “Can I ask you something?” His voice rumbles, and I can feel the vibration in my hand that still lies on his chest.

  “Go for it.” I’m not particularly awake for some in-depth conversation, but he can try if he wants.

  “You’re so freaking talented. Forget that you obviously have skill with motorcycles; I can tell from how you talked about music that it’s your passion. Why would you drop out of college and get a job handing out samples at a grocery store? I can’t figure it out.”

  I stiffen. Out of all of the questions I expected, this one was not on the list. I realize that on the surface it doesn’t make sense. I had everything, didn’t I? A scholarship to attend college to earn my degree in musical composition, focusing specifically on guitar and singing. A part-time job waitressing to pay for living expenses not covered by the scholarship. I’d been so busy, but I’d loved college—the classes, my peers, even the dorm rooms—until I’d had to deal with him.

  Professor Elliot Macintosh.

  Professor and chair of the composition department. Award-winning musician whose works have been described as “brilliant” and “ravishing” and “potent.” The same professor who, after I refused to sleep with him, used the terms “pedestrian,” “unoriginal,” and “tepid” to describe my own musical talent. It had stung. I’d taken those words in, until I’d been suffocating with self-doubt. Yet I hadn’t given in to his bullying. At least, not until I’d heard the rumors that I’d attempted to exchange sex for a passing grade in his class . . .