ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1)

by Christie Ridgway

  “God,” they said together, and then he was moving, thrusting, any restraint gone as she met his strokes, their bodies slapping together as she gave him everything, all she had, nothing held back, all of her open.

  “I’m going to come,” he muttered, and she wanted it, knowing that when it was over she’d feel battered but complete. “Touch yourself, baby,” he ordered. “Do it with me.”

  She’d never done such a thing in her life with a man watching. Gemma stared at him, at the stark beauty of his face, his expression etched with lust. No man more beautiful, she thought, nothing more beautiful.

  “Reach down and touch that clit.”

  The explicit, guttural command, galvanized her. She reached down as directed, even as Boone’s strokes quickened, shortened. His breathing was raspy, heated air falling across her lips, and she heard herself moan.

  Then his mouth crushed hers and she knew he’d found it, felt it in the deep thrust of his tongue and the surge of his heated shaft in her body. Sucking on his tongue, she tossed herself into the heated pool after him, her body’s quivering mastered under his subduing weight as his arms gave out and he half collapsed onto her.

  His mouth found the side of her neck and he buried his face there as both their breathing quieted.

  “I went so goddamn deep,” he muttered, pressing soft kisses to her tender skin. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, though she wasn’t.

  He chuckled, then eased out of her, watching her face while she tried to hide her wince. “Be back,” he said, touched his lips to her, then headed for the bathroom down the hall.

  In a few moments he’d returned with two washcloths. Sitting on the side of the bed, he eased one between her legs, using the wet warmth of it to clean her up.

  Embarrassed, she tried shifted her legs. “I’m good. I can—”

  He caught one ankle, held it wide. “I’ll see to that,” he said, then finished his task and dropped the rag. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, looking down at her face with a faint smile on his. “So beautiful that I’m giving myself a pass.”

  She didn’t ask what he meant.

  “Now hold still again,” he said, and pressed the second cloth, this one hotter, almost to the point of too hot, against the tender place. She sucked in a breath, tried scooting away, but he gave a soothing stroke to her thigh and held it firmly between her legs as the sting eased. “Stop. I’m taking care of you.”

  Taking care. It’s what had started this whole thing to begin with, Gemma thought. She’d wanted to take care of him in his moment of anguish. With his free hand, he brushed her hair off her face. “So damn beautiful.”

  I went so goddamn deep, he’d said, but well, she’d gone deep too. Damn.

  It was supposed to be just sex, an orgasm, tab A into slot B until culmination. But now she lay here, exposed to him.

  Gemma closed her eyes. She’d started this to give him peace, and now she could only worry if she’d ever find the same again.

  Chapter 11

  Boone woke, the morning light filtering around the edges of the curtains dim yet bright enough to reveal the spread of brown hair on the pillow beside his. Gemma. She lay belly down, her face turned away from him. Lost in sleep.

  He slid from the bed, unwilling to disturb her rest, though he hadn’t been so considerate the night before. Recalling that, he paused, letting his gaze trace the slope of her bare shoulder. Her skin so fair, her limbs so delicate, and despite that, last night he’d taken his pleasure in her rawly, without reserve, his lust dragging them both into the storm. He’d intended to be gentle, a consummate gentleman, intent on only making it good for her by slaking his hunger with his mouth on her sex. Then, though, she’d insisted on more and he’d…given it to her.

  So damn deep.

  Yanking himself out of the memory, he grabbed his clothes then padded out of the bedroom to the bathroom down the hall. Inside, he noted the stenciled border running midway along the walls, alternating rubber duckies and upturned umbrellas. That damn design made him smile, as did the stylized words painted above the mirror—Wash Brush Floss Flush. In not quite that order, he did as directed, showering, dressing, then finally finding a plastic wrapped toothbrush and toothpaste in one of the vanity drawers. Arm cocked, he met his eyes in the mirror…

  And the events of the night before—each one—came back to him.

  His intention to clarify the situation with Gemma—vowing to himself he’d put an end to things between them. Eli getting the call. That fucking call.

  Hart’s Kim is gone.

  It had blown up Boone’s best intentions and he’d ended the night between Gemma’s sheets…in deep.

  Closing his eyes, he sucked in a breath, trying to clear his head of memories and pain. What now? What the hell was he going to do to close down this new togetherness they’d forged?

  In the immediate aftermath of losing himself in that tempting, lovely body of hers, he’d excused himself, holding her beauty responsible for his lack of resolve. But in the light of morning…shit.

  Nixing the cowardly instinct to immediately slink home, he finished brushing then ran his fingers through his damp hair. As he left the bathroom, he checked on Sleeping Beauty, his mood improving a little as he noted she hadn’t stirred. At least he’d left her as satisfied as he’d been himself.

  Still barefoot, he headed for her kitchen, prepared to linger until she awakened so they could put a period on their one-off. It had to be done. Then they’d go back to being neutral and mostly unseen neighbors. What would his wait time be…twenty minutes?

  Not that he needed to be anywhere right away. While still at Eli’s, he’d texted his crew and current clients with a terse explanation that there wouldn’t be any on-site work the following day. He’d wanted to leave his schedule open for whatever might come up.

  Sighing, he glanced around the spacious room, with its whitewashed cabinets and marble countertops. A stenciled inscription over the window above the sink had him almost smiling once more. The dishes are looking at me dirty again.

  But it was the line on an adjacent wall that gave him his next directive. First we drink coffee, then we do things.

  The night before, he and Gemma had never gotten around to the pot she’d made, so he dumped the cold stuff and started over. The scent of cinnamon wafted from the used grounds and he scooped up the bottle on the countertop to shake some atop the fresh coffee, mimicking Gemma’s actions. Then he hit the brew button and once the liquid began flowing, tested his reflexes by switching out carafe for mug and back again.

  Following a short salute to the stuffed pig on the nearby table, he took his first sip of the dark brew. Nearby, a clock, shaped like a hen and with hands that ended in speckled eggs, clicked off the hours and minutes. Maybe fifteen more before she’d stir? But Boone had no patience for watching time tick by, and he wandered to the living room, giving a wide berth to the flock of miniature stuffed geese wearing bandanas gathered on the fireplace hearth and the faceless lady dolls in prairie gear who gathered in a gossipy circle on the plaid couch.

  The homey touches were completely alien to him…or at least he felt like an alien around them.

  Just another reason to steer clear of Gemma. This might not be her place, but she was…not like him. He was pork rinds, hot Cheetos, and work-stained hands, just like he’d told—

  His eyes narrowed as he spied an approaching male figure through the front window. The man strode up Gemma’s walkway, a bouquet of flowers in hand. Without thinking, Boone marched to the front door and threw it open.

  The newcomer drew back, almost falling on his ass.

  Good, Boone thought. “Can I help you?” he asked, not bothering with a smile.

  “Ethan Howard,” the man said. “I’m…Gemma’s…”

  Oh, no, he was not Gemma’s anything, Boone knew. Not anymore. “I’m Boone.” But recalling it was early morning and unwilling to betray anything of what had happened in her room the nigh
t before, he gestured with his chin in the direction of his own house. “I’m her neighbor.”

  “Oh,” Ethan said, looking relieved. Then his glance caught on Boone’s bare feet and his brow furrowed.

  “I don’t like shoes.”

  “Oh.”

  He bought that? Geez. “Like I said, can I help you?” Boone crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I just wondered…” Ethan’s mouth pursed. “If you don’t mind, why exactly are you here?”

  “I fix things that are broken,” Boone answered, looking the guy directly in the eyes. “For example, that plant stand by your right foot recently lost a leg. I put it back together for Gemma.”

  The other man flushed. Yeah, he’d known exactly what mayhem he’d wrought that night, but as petty as the transgression was, Boone didn’t feel the least bit forgiving.

  Instead of addressing the subject, Ethan peered over Boone’s shoulder. “I’m here to talk to Gemma. Is she around?”

  Boone hesitated, sure as shit not down with waking her up to deal with this slick dude, even with that too-big, obviously-a-suck-up bouquet he carried like an Olympic torch.

  “Look, I know her. We’re…well…” Ethan’s tone turned impatient. “I asked her to marry me, you know.”

  Marry? Boone stiffened at this new piece of information. He stared at the other man, looking beyond the flowers to note his polished loafers, his pressed pants, his pristine shirt. Not a golden strand on his head out of place. Boone’s arms dropped and he glanced down at his own flannel shirt, wrinkled from its night on Gemma’s floor, and his jeans, worn at the seams. He didn’t give a shit about his clothes, though, or that his hair was a disordered mess.

  But he did care about… His palm scraped along the sandpaper texture of his jaw, trying to distract himself from the idea, but damn, he had to admit he didn’t like thinking of Gemma marrying Mr. Perfect.

  Except, fuck, they fit.

  He could see them now, painting the walls of their home in tasteful shades, working together in the kitchen to roll sushi for a cocktail party. They’d have a bicycle built for two and she’d pedal behind that snobby fucker instead of riding on the back of Boone’s motorcycle where she belonged—

  But she didn’t belong to him. She didn’t belong with him.

  Snobby Fucker would put a ring on her finger and give her some kids and promise he had all the right moves to make her happy until the end of time.

  “What is it you do?” Boone asked, needing to flesh out the image of Gemma’s future life—the one that didn’t have him in it.

  Ethan blinked. “I work for Central Coast Strategies, it’s a brokerage firm. I’m an investment advisor.”

  Which sounded a lot like gambling with other people’s money. But yeah, it was that white collar, paper-pushing, retirement-fully-funded kind of occupation that would set Gemma up for sixty-plus years of financial security. More important, by her side would be the kind of man who knew how to give her sixty-plus years of connubial bliss.

  Fuck. Boone should make tracks right now and leave her to start that future immediately. If he disappeared before any morning-after awkwardness, surely she’d get the picture that he wasn’t interested in repeats.

  “Ethan?” Gemma’s voice sounded from over Boone’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  Well, then. Too late to escape.

  He turned to look at her, and he almost lost his footing. It wasn’t what she wore—sheepskin boots, a simple pair of jeans, and a vee-neck T-shirt in a pale blue gray that was the color of early morning sky—and her eyes. It wasn’t her hair, the waves swirling around her shoulders, glossy and just messy enough for him to remember it spread on the pillow as he’d watched her sleep.

  It was the slight pink cast on her cheeks, around her mouth, and just one patch on her neck below her jaw. You’d have to know, like Boone did, her late-night activities to guess its source. He automatically rubbed at his whiskers again. Beard burn.

  His beard burn.

  Heat kindled in his belly. He’d left his mark on her and there was no denying the primitive thrill that gave him. Caveman, he lectured himself, trying to dredge up some shame.

  It eluded him.

  “Ethan?” Gemma prompted again. She drew up right beside Boone, then her hand casually brushed the small of his back, a fleeting contact. His spine snapped straight and his head turned, his focus lasering on her face. More color infused her cheeks and he saw her glance his way, lick her lips, then glance back at the other man.

  “I know you usually go in late on Friday mornings…” Ethan said, the personal moment between the other two having apparently gone over his head.

  Boone, however, felt the brief touch like a brand. He breathed her in, smelling the same soap he’d used in her shower and he didn’t regret they shared the subtle, clean scent on their skins. Engrossed by the thought, he continued staring at her, imagined gathering the taste of her on his tongue, chasing it to all the intimate spaces until the flavor spilling into his mouth was hers and hers alone.

  Gemma, her desire sliding down his throat like heated sugar.

  “…I thought I could take you to breakfast. Have a conversation.”

  Boone’s head snapped around, his narrowed gaze aimed at Mr. Perfect. “She’s going to be eating with me,” he declared, in the instant already sold on the idea. He wanted to feed her, had a need to do so, actually, because he’d kept her up late in the night and so it was his job to replenish her energy stores. Lowering his voice, he looked down into her early-morning eyes, that seemed to hold the promise of a new day—and maybe also the power to ward off any threatening melancholy. “I’m not working today.”

  “She’s going to be eating with you?” Ethan repeated, lines digging deep between his brows as his attention moved from Boone to Gemma. “Is that right?”

  She swallowed and he thought she deliberately avoided both men’s gazes by inspecting the toes of her boots. “Ethan, we don’t have anything to talk about.”

  “We should make plans for your move. That’s coming up, right? I’d be happy to help.”

  “Move?” Boone couldn’t suppress his surprise. But then he recalled she was housesitting—he just hadn’t considered her gig might be ending so soon.

  “She’s moving into the apartment above her shop.” Ethan shot him a triumphant look, as if it was some big fucking deal to one-up Boone with this piece of intel. “Just as soon as the renovations are complete.”

  “If they’re ever complete,” Gemma muttered. “Anyway, no need to concern yourself about that.”

  Ethan didn’t seem inclined to let it go. “Maybe later…lunch, or…”

  Boone thought of “later,” when he’d have to fully confront last night’s news, when the stark, damn sad truth of it would bring about a host of consequences he couldn’t duck in the dark and in the pleasure found in someone’s bed. Shit.

  Maybe his disquiet showed on his face, because Gemma’s hand slipped into his. The warmth of her touch crept up his arm and kept at bay the dank gloom trying to invade his chest. “You okay?” she whispered.

  Looking down into her concerned face, he nodded and squeezed her hand. Right now, yeah. Okay.

  “Gemma?” Apparently Ethan couldn’t catch a clue even when one was practically shoved up his nose. Or maybe he merely didn’t want to lose her, which Boone was beginning to have a great sympathy for.

  Still…

  “I have plans all day,” Boone said, looking deep into her eyes, taking her up on the offer he read there. “She’ll be with me.”

  So what that he never extended a morning-after beyond a medium-size cup of coffee around a kitchen counter. And fuck Gemma’s perfect future with or without Mr. Golden Hair Surprise. That could start another time.

  Today she belonged to Boone.

  * * *

  The journey to the breakfast place where Boone suggested they eat was nearly silent, the interior of his truck filled only with songs from a classic rock stat
ion playing at a low volume. The relative quiet left Gemma plenty of opportunity to replay her decision to spend more time with the man. It would have been easy then and even now to claim work responsibilities—she had them, buckets of them—but she hadn’t forgotten the news that had brought him so low the night before and she knew that it couldn’t be any easier to cope with now that morning had arrived.

  When he’d claimed to Ethan they’d be sharing breakfast, refusal hadn’t occurred to her—that would have been rude and unfeeling—things she couldn’t be to the man who’d shared her bed the night before.

  Anyway, a little more togetherness would dispense with the intimacy lingering between them. When she’d come upon him at her front door, it had been in the warm expression in his eyes as he’d looked at her. It had been in her undeniable need to touch Boone as he’d been talking to Ethan. But that was only natural, right?

  Those hours, those acts, had created a private—but temporary—bond that didn’t immediately burn away beneath the sun’s rays.

  Today’s companionship would get rid of it though, maybe even before the bill arrived for their breakfast specials.

  What she hadn’t considered during that ride was the curiosity their togetherness prompted in other people. While Ethan had seemed puzzled and stymied by her connection with Boone, he’d not expressed a real challenge.

  The same couldn’t be said about the clerk who worked at the shop across from Gifts for Girlfriends. They met that woman as they entered the diner on the edge of downtown. Her eyes flared comically wide and fixed on Gemma’s face while she pointed at the handsome man beside her, the one whose fingertips brushed the curve of her hip as he guided her inside.

  “Friend,” Gemma said, with a pinned-on smile.

  The waitress who bustled up to their booth with coffee wore the same do-you-know-what-you’ve-landed expression. Like Gemma had been fishing and hooked herself a prize-winning catch. “Hi, Nan,” she said, turning over her mug and then Boone’s. “We’re neighbors.”