Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2)

by Jasinda Wilder

  I actually blushed. “Thank you.” I sighed, waved. “And honestly, parts of the date were kind of nice. He asked some pretty forward and probing questions on the ride to the restaurant, but the actual date itself, he was charming as can be. Sort of presumptuous, like ordering for me without asking what I like or want. But it wasn’t as awful as I’d pictured.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we got to Chateau Marmont and he ordered drinks for us—again without letting me provide my input or preferences. I went to the bathroom, came back, and the drinks were on the table. I had literally half a dozen sips of that one glass, and two glasses total during all of dinner, which lasted nearly an hour and a half. So I wasn’t even buzzed.” I tried to think back. “After that, it’s hard to remember much. I remember sipping, being intentionally careful and slow. Telling him I wanted to go home. Feeling like it was hitting me faster than it should. Being confused.” I shook my head. “I knew something was wrong, but my brain just…wasn’t cooperating.”

  “It’s called drugs.”

  “Could he have done that, like, right there at the table? In front of everyone? Like just that brazen? The place wasn’t empty, you know.”

  He shrugged. “More likely he’s got an arrangement with the bartender or someone. I’m not accusing, okay? Like, you can’t go around making accusations like that willy-nilly, especially a place on the level of Chateau Marmont, but how you were acting wasn’t drunk, it was something else, and if you barely had any alcohol, it’s just…a logical leap to think something ended up in your drink. That’s a reputable place, lots of high-profile clientele, so I don’t like to think it was a staff member, but with a mega-whale like this Barrington fuckhead? Anything goes.”

  “But there wouldn’t be proof.”

  “Nah. Most of those kinds of drugs won’t show on a tox report or drug test unless it’s actively in your system, and they’re out again within hours.”

  I felt him behind me. My throat was tight. “I don’t even want to think about what would have happened, if you hadn’t been there to save me.”

  “But I was. Just focus on that.”

  I felt his heat. “Protecting me from yourself…explain that.”

  Hard, heavy hands rested on my shoulders. Hesitated. Then turned me in place, putting my back to the glass. His big, muscular body framed me against the glass wall, but I felt sheltered rather than restricted.

  His beautiful, expressive brown eyes drilled into mine. His arms slid past my ears, palms braced on the wall behind me, and I could only look up at him, try to breathe steadily. “I got a hell of an appetite, Autumn. And whenever I’m around you, I get real fuckin’ hungry—know what I’m sayin’? You just being you makes me crazy, to the point that, I don’t recognize myself.”

  “But what does that mean, Seven?” I breathed.

  He shuffled a half step closer, his toes framing mine. Chest a cliff-face against mine, face inches from mine. Several days’ worth of beard stubble shadowed his jawline dark, looking prickly and hard as granite and sexier than hell.

  “It means…” he paused, thinking. “It means I’ve turned myself into a decent guy, over the years. I respect people, women especially, in a way I didn’t when I was a punk-ass kid.” He lifted his left hand, closed it into a fist, showed it to me. “I was filled with this.” His right, then: “And this. A whole hell of a lot of this.”

  “Okay?” I whispered, because he wasn’t answering my question.

  “It means that night, in your apartment, there was a big-ass chasm between what I wanted and what you deserved. And for once in my life, I tried to give you what you deserve. Which was the chance to think about things sober, rather than the impulse of alcohol. And I got no judgment there, because I got no room for that shit. I’ve made way too many drunk mistakes to be passing judgment. Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about taking you up on your offer. And I nearly did, anyway, even though I knew what was right.”

  “You don’t know me all that well, though, do you?” I whispered. “What if that’s just the kind of girl I am?”

  “You aren’t.” He shrugged. “I dunno how I know, but I know. And if you were, maybe I was trying to be someone who could show you that you’re worth more.”

  I swallowed. “You mix me up. In my head. In my body.”

  A cocky grin. “Yeah, I’ve been told I have that effect.”

  “I just…I’ve never been rejected like that. Not like that.”

  “It wasn’t rejection. It was…deferment.” A frown. “And then I’m out with my agent, discussing renewal of my contract with ESPN, and I see you, out with some asshole who was taking advantage of you.”

  “You never called.”

  “I was tapped to fill in for a UFC fight on another network. Somebody got sick, and they needed someone super last minute to fill in. It was in Manhattan, a live pay-per-view fight. And then I had…an unexpected family situation to deal with.” He sighed. “But I’m sorry, I shoulda called, or texted. Let you know I was still thinking about you. I just…shit got chaotic there for a few days. Here to New York, then I had to rent a car and drive to Virginia, spent a few days there sorting that shit out, drive back to New York, fly back here, and then I had back-to-back tapings, long-ass bullshit meetings with my money guy and then my agent… this is the first time I’ve been home except to shower and catch a couple hours of sleep since I saw you.”

  “Okay, okay,” I breathed a laugh. “You have a decent excuse.” I pressed my forehead against his breastbone. “It just felt like…we went out, I messed up, you said no thanks, and ghosted me.”

  “You didn’t mess up.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “I should have told you I stopped drinking. I just didn’t want you to feel obligated to match me.”

  “I would have. And also, I’m a red wine drinker. I can stay in control all night long if I’m drinking red. But liquor? I have fun, sure, but I always, always end up regretting it.”

  He touched my chin with his thumb. “I have an idea.”

  “Okay.”

  “How about a take two? This time, no booze. Or, not much. Whatever you want to do.”

  “A picnic.” I grinned up at him. “I’ve always wanted to be taken on a real picnic date. Like, with the wicker basket and the red-and-white checkered blanket in a pretty little meadow or on a beach or something.”

  His smile was softer and more gentle than I’d have thought him capable of. “That sounds fan-fucking-tastic.”

  And there he is. But it was endearing, somehow.

  “It doesn’t sound stupid?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Is it stupid that I’ve never been on a picnic like that?”

  “Nah. Neither have I.” He straightened, but he was still close, in my personal space. My bra-confined breasts pressed against his chest, flattening slightly. “Pick you up…Saturday morning. Eleven.”

  “I would like that.”

  “I should get you home.”

  “Yeah.” I wanted to kiss him; I wanted him to kiss me. But also…I wanted more distance from last night. I wanted a shower, my toothbrush. “Seven…thank you. Thank you for being there last night. For recognizing that I needed help. Thank you for the coffee, and the best omelet I’ve ever had.”

  He smiled. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m so domestic. Got a rep to maintain, know’m’sayin’?”

  I laughed. “I won’t spoil your tough-guy image, don’t worry.”

  He backed away, chewing on his lower lip, hand passing over his head, through his messy, curly black hair. “Let me grab a shirt and we can go.”

  “I mean, you don’t need a shirt,” I said, smirking at him. “Just my opinion.”

  His answering smile was not amused; it was…the smile of a hungry cat who just spotted a helpless little mouse. “I’m bein’ good, right now, Autumn. You talk like that, you just might unleash a whole different side of me.”

  “What if told you that sounds like fun?
”

  He rumbled a laugh. “Date first.” He let out a breath, his eyes raking over my body, then meeting my gaze. “Good first, then bad.”

  “Maybe it’s not bad.”

  He wasn’t grinning now. “Oh, it’s bad. Real bad.” His voice was low, quiet, but thrummed with power and restrained lust. “You make me think things that are downright sinful. If I was Catholic, I’d be going to confession after I drop you off.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “Nope. I’ll be coming right back here.”

  I swallowed hard. “To do what?”

  “Take a long, cold shower.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Nope.”

  “So why do it? Cold showers just sound…awful.”

  “They are. But…gotta do something about all this pent-up…energy.”

  “I guess I figured you’d be…working it out of your system. In the shower.” I dared a fingertip out, touched his breastbone, trailed down between his hard, broad, flat pecs. “While thinking of me, maybe.” I licked my lips—my mouth was running away from my brain, but hell, he just fried my better sense and restraint. “I mean, I know that’s what I’ll be doing, later, in the shower…thinking of you.”

  He growled, literally. “Fuckin’ hell, woman. I already got that image of you taking off that dress burned into my brain—and what you were, or weren’t, wearing under it.”

  “That wasn’t even my sexiest lingerie.”

  “You wearin’ it now?”

  “God no. No way in hell I’d wear my sexiest lingerie for that guy.”

  “Good.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pinned me flush against him, and I felt his desire thickening against my belly. “Wear it for me.”

  “I was planning on it.”

  “Planning on letting me see you in it?” His hands cupped my shoulder blades, slid up to my neck, then flattened and carved down to my lower back.

  “Seven, that night we went out. I was drunk, yes. But I meant every word. I knew I wanted, then, and it hasn’t changed.”

  “Not sure you know what you’re askin’, with me. Just a fair warning.” A slow silence, a beating of my heart, his, each felt against the other’s chest. “I’m not always nice, or gentle.”

  “Nice and gentle is all I’ve ever known. Safe, normal, and boring is all I’ve ever known.”

  “I ain’t any of that.”

  “I know. Part of what intrigues me about you.”

  “The bad boy thing?”

  “Are you? A bad boy?”

  A shrug. “Sure. Always have been, and while I may have…matured, a bit, I always will be. Can’t change the stripes on this tiger.”

  “But that’s not all you are.”

  His fingers dug into my lower back, just above the line of my underwear band. “And that’s part of what intrigues me about you—that you see that.”

  Another silence, then.

  “Fuck it,” he whispered.

  And kissed me. Slowly, at first. As if daring me to pull away. Lips brushed mine, warm, damp, soft, strong. Just a brush. Then, stronger. Firmer. More demanding. Kiss me back, the kiss said.

  So I did.

  God, I did. I kissed him back like it was all that could keep me breathing. It was I who turned it hungry, who made it wild. My tongue was the first to steal out, to thrust against his, to taste his mouth, to test his lips and teeth.

  My hands ran up his chest, my fingers curled into muscle, raked down, hard. His mouth was fused to mine, his tongue taking over, ravaging mine. Oh god, oh god, he kissed me like I was his last meal, and I exulted in every moment of it.

  He groaned into the kiss, as if frustrated. Began to pull away.

  I dug my talon into his back, below his shoulder blades, and into his ass muscle. “Don’t you dare stop now, dammit,” I breathed.

  He groaned again, but this was more of a grunt, an animal noise of abandon. “Don’t say I didn’t fuckin’ warn you, then.”

  “Trust me, I won’t.”

  He delved back in for another kiss, hands momentarily cupping my face with delicacy, fragility, fingertips skating over my cheekbones, thumbs brushing my jawline, my chin; he broke the kiss a moment, ran the pad of one thumb over my upper lip, the lower.

  “These lips…I could fuckin’ kiss ’em forever.”

  “Okay,” I gasped.

  He just laughed. “Maybe next time. I got something else in mind.”

  He squatted, hands carving down my hips, over the backs of my thighs, and then he suddenly shot upward, taking me with him, into his arms—my legs went around his waist and his hands cupped my ass, kneading and gripping. I clung to him, leaning down now to kiss him as his hands busily gathered the material of my dress to bare my legs, bunching it up above my waist. His fingers dimpled my buttocks, then found the seam of the leg holes, followed it around to the gusset, exploring me. Letting me support my own weight via my thighs gripping his waist. Then, he gripped me tightly in his strong hands and walked forward with me, taking me to the glass wall. Pressed me against it, pinning me. Kissed me and kissed me, devouring me, and each slip of his tongue, each slide and exploration of his tongue and lips ratcheted my desire hotter. Nothing mattered, except this. I wanted this. Him. I didn’t care what had come before, what would come after.

  Desire.

  His lust for me was a potent elixir, making me feel like a goddess, and I wanted more.

  He gave me more. God, did he.

  Then, after who knew how long of holding me in place against the glass, he paused. Pulled away to look into my eyes, and the feral grin on his face made my stomach flutter.

  “Loosen your grip,” he told me. “Just let me hold you.”

  I didn’t answer, just did what he told me.

  The grin heated, curling fire in my belly and making my sex tighten and my breasts ache.

  He slowly, easily lifted me higher up his chest, until I was as high as the angle of his grip would allow…and then, in a quick, snapping movement, he bounced me higher, switching his grip so somehow, my thighs went over his shoulders, and I was sitting on his chest, with my sex at face level.

  He let me fall backward against the glass, the ceiling still a few feet over my head. I fumbled at his head, fighting my need to control my balance, but then I simply relaxed, trusted his hold on me, and waited.

  His fingers tickled over my inner thighs, found the gusset of my underwear. Tugged it aside. His nose ran up my seam, and he inhaled, a lascivious grin on his lips. And then his tongue teased me, tracing up my seam, his eyes ever on mine. Daring me to protest.

  I did not.

  I leaned back against the glass, raised my hands over my head and flattened them against the wall over my head, pressing for leverage, scrabbling as his tongue slithered and licked, teased and tortured.

  Then he stopped. His face turned up, eyes seeking mine. “You like these panties?”

  “Do I like them?”

  “Yeah. Are you attached to them?”

  “I mean, no. They’re not…expensive, or special.”

  “Good.”

  “Why—”

  The underwear in question featured a light, delicate, lacy waistband while the rest was some other silky, stretchy material; Seven curled his fingers into the waistband at either hip and yanked his hands away, hard. The lace parted instantly, snapping easily. He tugged the torn material away, leaving me bare, my core exposed.

  “Damn, girl. You got a pretty pussy.”

  I snickered, a snorting cackle. “Do I?”

  He kissed my lips, making out with my damp seam. “Yeah. Beautiful, baby.”

  I groaned, tilting my hips toward him. “If you say so.”

  He licked me again, a slow upward swipe, ending with his nimble, eager tongue stiffening and probing my clit, making me writhe, making me gasp.

  His hands spanned my thighs, up high near the crease of my hips, and now he backed his mouth away and his thumbs caressed me. His hot, hungry eyes pierced
me. “You warmed up, now, sweet thing?”

  “Warmed…warmed up?” I was baffled. “I don’t…I don’t know what that even means.”

  He laughed, an arrogant, sultry rasp. “You ready to come?”

  “Yes? God, yes. I have been.”

  “Good. Then I can really get started.”

  “Get started? What have you been doing, in that case?”

  He used his thumbs to pry my lips apart. “Told you. Warming you up. Priming the pump, you might say.”

  “I don’t…” I trailed off as he flicked his tongue against me, a light circling that quickened in intensity until I was boiling with a nascent climax. “Oh shit—Seven!”

  He assaulted me, then. Took my aching need and made it his. Owned my climax. Used it, played it like a virtuoso violinist, and I was his Stradivarius.

  He brought me to the edge in a few quick movements of his tongue, and then drew me down, fingers spearing inside me, gathering my wetness and smearing it over me. Then he pushed me back to the brink again, closer to the edge.

  I forgot I was suspended six feet in the air, sitting on his chest, only his core strength holding me aloft. I could have been sitting on a table, he was so sturdy and unmoved by my weight.

  When he had me on the cusp of coming, teetering on the edge, he slowed, made me ache for the other side, only to lick and taunt and tease me to the edge yet again.

  I was writhing and mad within minutes, clawing at the wall and the ceiling, hips flexing. “Please, Seven, please…stop playing.”

  “But you’re so fun to play with,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “You’re crazy for it, aren’t you?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “You need to come?”

  “So fucking bad.”

  “Look at me.” My eyes, screwed shut with ecstatic madness, wrenched open and met his; he held my gaze without blinking, without looking away—lowered his mouth onto me, suckled my clit into between his lips and tongued me, wild and fierce and fast, hunger burning in his eyes. “Come,” he snarled. “Come for me. Now, Autumn.”

  I had no choice but to obey—I wanted to, and I couldn’t help it. I had to come. His desire for it was as much the catalyst as my physical state. I soared to climax, floated at the cusp for a brief crazed moment, and then he pushed me past it and I fell and fell and fell into glory, a tumult of explosive heat smashing out of me, through me, sending me like a rocket into screaming bliss, shaking on him, against him, helpless and thrashing against his mouth which did not relent as I came but drove me onward and upward, swirling and circling and stabbing until my breathless gasps became hoarse cries, until I reached a hitherto unknown threshold, where I stopped merely coming and began to come apart, to dissolve into a liquefied puddle of nerve endings and need.