Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set

by Jackie Ashenden

  I’m facing his belt buckle and his hard-on.

  And while I’m here at a sex party by choice, I assumed my choices also extended to who I got up close and personal with.

  Mr. Martin chokes something out—the bastard sounds excited—and then one hand fists my hair while the other goes to his belt buckle. Yuck, yuck, YUCK. I shoot upright, palms smacking his chest. He doesn’t let go, as the pain in my scalp attests.

  “What part of no don’t you understand?”

  Not that he’s listening.

  Nope, he goes in for the kiss again.

  The next handful of seconds are unpleasant. We grapple, my hands slapping his. The good news is that I can sleep in on Monday because there’s no way I’m working for this guy. The bad news is that I just want to go home because all the magic’s been sucked out of what was supposed to be a fantasy night where I attended a glamorous, sexy party and pretended to be someone fun. I’m grossed out and angry, and all the alcoholic flavors of ice cream in the world aren’t going to erase this memory—

  Martin the Asshole flies backward. I make an embarrassingly high-pitched squeaking sound as big, sure hands lift me and set me down to one side. I wish I could say I take advantage of Martin’s removal to punch him, but I just stumble to the side and stare because I’m tired and this night is turning into an unending parade of sucky moments and, while I’m really big on handling my own shit now—

  I have a rescuer.

  Or possibly my own pet caveman-slash-berserker.

  “Excuse me,” he growls, ridiculously polite for a caveman.

  Really, I just expect him to start smashing because the man standing there with Martin in a headlock is a very, very large man. He massively exceeds six feet tall and is built like a hockey player or linebacker, a mountain of pissed-off, cold-eyed, muscles-on-muscles man. He’s dressed for the party in expensive-looking black dress pants, the dress shirt open at his throat. No jacket or circus-themed costume for him. Rolled up sleeves reveal powerful, inked forearms.

  He’s not pretty, not the way Martin is. Martin’s smooth and polished, like a cheap souvenir rock that’s been run through a tumbler and come out with a slick sheen. This guy is something else, someone you can’t help but look at—partly because he’s a big, beautiful animal of a man, but also because he’s an apex predator who’s just marched into a dog park full of poodles and mini schnauzers and the only foreseeable outcome is carnage. Dark hair tumbles around his face, past his stubble-roughened jaw, the mouth pulled into a frown. I should stop staring at him and get the hell out of here, but tonight’s alcohol is catching up with me and I’m tired.

  Tired of starting over, tired of having to do everything for myself, tired of learning—yet again—that there’s no fairy-tale ending to my evening and that Prince Charming has not invited me to his ball, so I’m stuck with Prince Dick, his evil cousin. Whatever magic I’d hoped for tonight, I’m going to have to make do with my vibrator, a bag of Cheetos, and a really good book.

  Caveman Guy slams Martin into the Grecian column I’ve just vacated. It’s more real than I’ve given the billionaire party owner credit for because the stone doesn’t give at all. Martin groans, but Caveman has discovered the power of speech and he has a lot to say.

  “What the actual fuck? Even I heard her say no. You have to listen to that. You have to ask for her yes.” His voice is a rough, low rasp. One arm twists Martin’s shoulders and hands into a painful-looking pretzel, while the other makes itself at home on his throat. When he leans in, Martin turns a puce color. Go, caveman. I can be independent tomorrow—tonight I’m outsourcing.

  Sensing danger, Martin starts babbling the usual predictable crap about how I’m totally okay with his going “a little alpha” and that rough sex and some dominance will get me going. He concludes this bullshit explanation by pointing out that I’d come to this party, after all, so clearly I was “into it.”

  “You’re here.” Caveman steps into Martin, herding him up against the column. He removes his big hand from Martin’s throat and braces his arm beside my boss’s head. They’re thigh to thigh, bodies touching, and Caveman completely, one-hundred-percent outmuscles Martin. It’s the same position Martin put me in a few minutes ago, and Martin’s expression makes it clear he’s not finding it any sexier than I did.

  “Back off, man.” Martin shoves, trying to free himself.

  Caveman makes a dismissive sound. Martin’s efforts don’t even seem to register, although that’s likely because Caveman’s built like a mountain and he’s busy making a point. “You’re here,” he repeats.

  “I have an invitation.”

  “So you want this.” Caveman trails his fingers down Martin’s freaking throat and then lowers his head until his mouth is brushing the man’s cheek.

  Holy shit. I’ve never got the whole eye-for-an-eye thing before. I do now. Martin is an asshole and watching him get a taste of his own chauvinistic medicine is delightful.

  Martin sputters an obscenity, but Caveman just talks over him and fondles his cheek. “How does it feel? Being held down? Do you like it as much as she did?”

  Martin lets loose a torrent of profanity, still trying to figure out how to make Caveman move. It’s a losing battle.

  “Did you hear her say yes?” Caveman repeats.

  “No,” Martin mutters. His belligerent gaze slides toward me. I’m so looking for a new job.

  “Apologize,” my rescuer snaps. Then he looks at me. “How do you want your apology?”

  I pause in my Monday prognostications because he sounds so casual, as if he’s asking me if I want fries with that. “What?”

  “On his knees? With words? You want him to itemize what he fucked up or just give you the executive summary? I can tattoo it on his dick, if that works.”

  I clap vigorously. “Is that even possible? Do you think there’s enough real estate? Because I’m tempted.”

  “Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

  My rescuer has a cold air of command about him. It’s less caveman and more medieval king, I decide. I can totally imagine him going all Henry the Eighth on Martin’s ass. Martin just glares. I don’t think he gets the whole apology concept.

  Right. I let go of my making-the-rent fantasy. “This is going to make things really awkward on Monday.”

  “You know him?” Caveman removes his angry stare from Martin and redirects it at me. His eyes are dark, intense, framed by fine lines that might come from laughter or sun and promise he has a happy side. He’s not an iceberg-dwelling Viking. Or, at least, not entirely.

  The anger banks while he examines my face, as if it’s something he can just take on or off like a shirt or a costume.

  Focus. He asked a question.

  “Not in the biblical sense,” I say judiciously. “He’s my boss. Was my boss.” So much for Peony 2.0 and her grand plans for fiscal prudence and financial independence and a little house of her own. I tear my gaze away from Caveman and redirect it to Martin. “I quit.”

  Whatever Martin says is inaudible because Caveman’s reapplied his arm to Martin’s throat.

  “Uh.” Because my brain’s clearly checked out for the night, or has possibly suffered irreversible cell loss from the testosterone filling the air, I take a step toward Caveman rather than away, and tug on his arm. “I really don’t think you should kill him. Momentary satisfaction versus long-term consequences, right?” Caveman regards me silently. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, so I babble on. “It’s like cake. One slice is great, two can be excused by a really shitty week, but the whole cake is going to go straight to my belly and then I’ll be regretting it when it’s swimsuit season, and since this is California, it’s always swimsuit season.”

  There’s a pause broken only by Martin’s muffled sounds. Caveman nods finally. “So don’t kill him.”

  “Sadly, no.” I pat his ar
m and discover a new, shallower side of myself. Holy shit, he feels amazing. The biceps hiding beneath that dress shirt are rock-hard. The man could probably bench press a small car with me sitting in the driver’s seat.

  I whip my hand away as what’s obviously a security team moves toward us. From the looks of the weapons they’re openly carrying, they’re not just for show.

  “Where were the armed guards before?” Because I was lucky, but what if someone else at this party isn’t as lucky? Assholes are everywhere and I doubt Martin’s the only one of his kind here.

  Caveman slants them a cold, pissed-off glare. He’s apparently got an endless supply of them. “I’ll find out.”

  Wow. I think he means it. Maybe he’s the head of security?

  Whatever he is, the security guys surround us, taking over Martin-restraint duties. I can’t help but notice that their questions are all directed at Caveman. They call him sir a lot and one guy does a head-bob thing that could even be mistaken for a bow.

  Caveman looks at Martin. “Apologize.”

  Martin clearly recognizes the apex predator because he sucks in a deep breath. Pauses. Inhales again. “Sorry.”

  As apologies go, it’s neither satisfying nor detailed, but I’ll take it. In record time, they march Martin away to be unceremoniously booted off the property. I don’t think he’ll be getting another party invitation. I can feel totally inappropriate laughter bubbling up, but it’s laugh or cry, and I hate crying, so it’s Inappropriate Laughter for two hundred dollars, Alex.

  “What?” Caveman makes another one of those growly snappish sounds.

  “Are you the king of Silicon Valley?”

  The corners of his mouth tug up ever so slightly. “What do you think?”

  “I think my brain’s gone offline,” I confide. “This whole night is just surreal. I don’t know if I should have been recording that on my phone, running, or applauding. I should not have come here. I’m supposed to be releasing Peony 2.0, but now she’s going to need a bug-fix release straight away.”

  This strikes me as so ridiculously funny that I give in and laugh until I have to sit down.

  Caveman sinks down into a crouch next to me.

  “Maybe you should think of tonight as a test run and just do whatever you want to do. See how the new Peony holds up.”

  “You’re not going to judge me for being at a sex party?”

  The corners of his mouth curve up even further and he tips his head at me.

  “I’m here, too,” he points out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jax

  OKAY, SO MAYBE I overreacted, but I don’t like bullies and parties like this one attract more assholes than shit does flies. Since punching this particular bully is now impossible thanks to his forcible removal, I make a mental note to talk to Liam Masterson about his guest list. Even if he wasn’t my best friend, he’d make sure the asshole never sets foot on his property again. There’s a moment of silence—or as near silent as you can get at a raging sex party, which is to say not silent at all—while my companion and I stare at each other.

  I’d spotted her earlier because she’s hard to overlook. Not because she’s gorgeous—although she is—but because she has a spark to her that lights up the place. She looked like she was torn between having fun and laughing at the ridiculous, over-the-top sex party where most people were dressed up like a circus act.

  She’s also one-hundred-percent into tonight’s theme, which I fucking love even though the whole circus thing isn’t my kink. Her costume looks vintage and, for a moment, I imagine her picking it out from one of those used clothing stores that line the Haight in San Francisco or maybe Berkeley, where my sister and I grew up across the Bay. The color’s pretty—somewhere between pink and red—although I’m not clear on whether it’s a dress or a sequined bathing suit with a tulle skirt. She looks amazing. The fabric hugs her curves, the perfect frame for her sun-kissed skin. She has freckles and it takes me a little too long to stop staring at them because my small head thinks we should kiss from one to the other, draw a line with our tongue and—

  Yeah. I’m officially an asshole because I’m rescuing her. Not picking her up. Not playing sex games with her. I should be reassuring her because she probably feels either out of her league or out of control after what that bastard tried to pull. Parties should be about having fun, and that goes double for sex.

  Sex should always be fun. My favorite kink is role-playing. Playing games in bed, having the chance to become someone different for a night, is the best. Most nights, it’s easy enough to find someone who’ll be the bad girl to my good cop, the hitchhiker to my biker, the duchess to my gardener. Rescuing damsels in distress is not something I do when it doesn’t come with a side of sex. I never rescue for real. But I’ve gone and done it, and I have no idea how to extract myself now that the scene’s played out.

  Pretend it’s the morning after. Or post-orgasm anyhow. So I’ll check in, maybe walk her to the front door, and then I’ll resume my mission to get laid. This is just a blip in my night.

  “Are you okay?” My voice sounds gruff, even to my own ears. Circus Girl flinches but she doesn’t look away. We’re locked in a death stare, her gray eyes holding mine. They’re rapidly acquiring a suspiciously wet sheen, as if when she blinks, she’s going to cry, which means I really need to roll on out of here. I’m no good with crying girls, so someone else is going to have to pick up her pieces. My sister claims this is a character flaw I should work on, but I don’t come with emotional radar and it’s not something my money can buy. I defend, I protect, and I boss the fuck out of people for their own good. This works in the bedroom as well as the boardroom, so I see no point in changing.

  Circus Girl makes a face that twists her pretty mouth up. “Other than being unemployed yet again? Yeah.”

  I could fix that, but handing out jobs tends to make people think there are strings attached. Worse, sometimes they want the strings, and bosses in bedrooms get messy. So I hesitate, not sure what to say.

  Circus Girl barrels on, undeterred by my silence. “I’m Peony.”

  She shoves her hand at me and I take it automatically. My fingers dwarf hers and I actually wonder for a second if I could accidentally break her just by holding her hand. That moment of stupidity has to be why I raise the back of her hand to my lips like a prince or a royal fool. I don’t miss the way her breath catches when my lips brush her fingers.

  “Jax Valentine.” I stroke my thumb over the back of her fingers and force myself to let go. I’m not the same kind of asshole as her ex-boss.

  I wait for her to realize who I am. It’ll change things between us, and I’m almost irritated anticipating it. As one of Silicon Valley’s hottest billionaire bachelors, these parties are full of guests who’d like to get a piece of me. It’s strangely impersonal, as if my dick or my head is merely an accessory to my money.

  “Well, Mr. Valentine, what brings you here tonight?”

  I lean in, closing the distance between us. “Sex, of course.”

  She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, as if my statement requires great thought. But there’s not all that much to think about, is there? The whole point of a sex party is to have casual sex with strangers. It’s like picking a movie: seen that one, am I in the mood for dark angst, something rough, something hot and sweet and fun? I run my thumb over her bottom lip, trying to convince myself it doesn’t matter if she turns me down. As if this is totally casual and completely impersonal.

  All I can think about is touching her.

  The corner of her mouth curves up beneath my thumb, and I need to know what she’s thinking. Peony makes me curious. I’d been close to her when I removed her from Martin’s hold, but this feels different. We’re two people—two consenting adults—at a sex party together. My shoulder brushes hers and she relaxes against me.

  “Giving, receiving
or policing?” Gray eyes laugh at me. No, with me, inviting me to play.

  I tug gently on her hair. “Policing?”

  She nods, ponytails bouncing on her shoulders. “When you came over here, I thought you looked like security and maybe I was in trouble.”

  She had been in trouble, all right, but I don’t think that’s what she means.

  “Your ex-boss needs to understand that no means no. You okay?”

  I’m good at punching assholes and I’m even better at running them out of Silicon Valley, but I really hope she’s fine. I suck at the emotional comfort and moral support shit.

  “I don’t want to think about Martin right now,” she says, as if she can read my mind. “Let’s pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “We could absolutely pretend something else,” I hear myself offer.

  She hesitates, and I want to pull her into me, wrap my arms around her and make promises. We’ll do whatever you want.

  She bites her lower lip again. “Are you...the good cop?”

  I rub my thumb over the soft skin. “I’d love to be.”

  She peeps up at me through ridiculously long lashes. “Well, Officer, I may have been a very bad girl.”

  Thank fuck.

  I flow to my feet, tugging her with me. Exhibitionism’s not really my thing, although I’d be willing to give it a go if it’s hers. There’s a pool cabana tucked away nearby and, conveniently, I know Liam’s passcode. She lets me steer her away from the party, into the shadows and down a gravel path made from some expensive stone Liam’s imported from France in the name of authenticity.

  Fortunately, Peony’s red sneakers are more sensible than most of the footwear I’ve spotted here. Gravel and hooker heels are a poor combination. Her fingers curl trustingly into mine, stroking my palm. She doesn’t say anything—she just holds on.