Merry Ever After

by Vi Keeland, Penelope Ward, Lucy Score, Marie Force, Tijan, Kennedy Ryan

  “I really don’t think they want to hear—” I start, heart pounding, demanding liberation from my chest.

  “Not realizing,” Merrin continues, pausing for dramatic effect. “That they’re swingers.”

  Murmurs of interest rise from the table, sounds of encouragement and humor.

  I drop my forehead into one hand, shielding my eyes from Sinclaire’s penetrating glower.

  “So he’s in the office, jet lagged,” Merrin says, eyes lit with glee. “And one of the swingers stumbles into the office where he’s asleep on the couch.”

  I lift my head. “Please don’t—”

  “And she sits on him,” Merrin cackles, clapping her hands once, really warming to her rapt audience now. “This girl’s husband has gone off with a couple for a threesome, and she didn’t want to play.”

  “Prude,” one of the authors lobs with a laugh.

  “Oh, no,” Merrin says, delight evident. “She asks him, the little hussy, if he’ll fuck—”

  The scrape of Sinclaire’s chair, shoved back across the hardwood floor, slices into Merrin’s story.

  “Excuse me,” Sinclaire says, the curves of her mouth flattened into a forbidding line. “I feel . . .sick. I’m going to lie down.”

  The mirth on Merrin’s face quickly fades to concern. “Oh, baby. Did you eat the airplane food again? You know it never agrees with you.”

  “No, I didn’t, Mom.” Sinclaire hurls the napkin onto her barely touched meal, her movements jerky. Her words staccato. “It’s just been a long day. I’m exhausted and . . .”

  She takes in a deep breath, presses her hand to her stomach and forces a grin on everyone watching with various degrees of curiosity and concern.

  “I just need to lie down, I think,” she finishes, heading for the dining room door. She pauses to drop a kiss on Merrin’s hair. “I’m fine.”

  Once Sinclaire departs, the conversation falls back into little social pockets, various topics with different groups gathered around the table.

  “Your restroom?” I ask Phil. “Could I . . .?”

  “Oh, of course. Down the hall second door on the left.”

  I stand, pushing my chair back, and swiftly following the hall that curves and puts me out of sight for those in the dining room. I walk past the bathroom, glancing at the photos hung on the wall. If only I had used the bathroom earlier, I would have seen Sinclaire’s face sprinkled liberally throughout the family photos displayed. A few feet further, light slips under a closed door. Glancing furtively over my shoulder, because this could be a real dumb ass move that jeopardizes everything, I knock.

  There’s no answer.

  “Sinclaire,” I hiss to the door. “It’s Harper.”

  Nothing.

  “Look, we need to talk. Just open the door and I can explain.”

  Still nothing.

  “Sin, I—”

  The door swings open, and she glares at me, hands on hips. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Um . . .okay.” I step forward, only to be blocked by the hand pressed into my chest. By the wall of fire Sinclaire has raised between us.

  “Whatever you have to say, you can say from out there.” She leans forward to peer into the hall. “And say it fast and quiet.”

  “I wanted to explain about the book.” I shake my head. “I had no idea Merrin was your mother when I signed with her.”

  “Or maybe you wouldn’t have pitched her a book about fucking her daughter at a swing party?” Sinclaire’s eyes blaze into me with the heat and force of a blow torch. “What was it she called me? A little hussy?”

  “I didn’t think of you that way at all. I didn’t write you . . .the character that way. It’s loosely based on our encounter, but not exactly.”

  “Oh, so did you miss your flight?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “And that really was your brother and sister-in-law, correct?

  “Of course.”

  “And you did fall asleep in the office during the swing party and I did sit on you and we did fuck.” She touches her chin, fake-contemplating. “Let me know when I get to the part where you didn’t put all my damn business in the streets.”

  “I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

  The words just slipped out, or maybe the truth shoves them out, but I don’t want to hold them back from her.

  “That’s why I wrote the story,” I say. “When it turned out better than I thought, I started submitting it.”

  I reach up to rub my knuckle over her cheek, but she pulls back and emits a low growl.

  “Sorry.” I put up both hands, the universal sign of I’m harmless. “I was just—”

  “Don’t touch me.” She drags both hands over her face and tips her head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I cannot believe this is happening. When does this book release?”

  “In three months, but early copies are already out.” I smile, and allow some of my pride to show through. “Reviews have been great.”

  “People already have this?” She turns back into the bedroom, pacing back and forth in front of the bed. “I can’t . . .if anyone ever found out.”

  She turns horrified, worried eyes to me. “If my parents find out. Shit.”

  I step into the room and gently take her by the arm, stopping her pacing and turning her to face me. I should have thought this through. The moment I touch her, the idea of reassuring her flies out the window and all I can focus on is how soft she is under my hands, how that enticing smell is even stronger when we’re this close, how her full lips might taste.

  “We never kissed,” I say.

  Her brows lift and she jerks away from me. “We did quite enough. I guess it happened so fast, we didn’t get around to kissing.”

  “It wasn’t fast. I ate your pussy and sucked your nipples. Left marks on your neck and—”

  “Dear God.” She rushes over and closes the bedroom door with a firm click. “Go stand on the dinner table and scream it so my parents will know what a careless whore their daughter actually is.”

  “You weren’t.” I risk taking her hand, gently rubbing the thrumming pulse in her wrist. “I could tell you’d never done anything like that before, and I’d wager you haven’t since.”

  “No, I definitely hadn’t and I definitely haven’t again. I’ve been too busy divorcing Trey’s sorry ass to even think about . . .” She lowers her gaze to our joined hands, swallowing hard. “To even think about what we did.”

  She’s lying. I know she’s lying because whatever burned between us that night, is just as hot and volatile right now. If I slipped my hands in her panties, she might even be wet. My dick, predictably, stiffens at the thought.

  Her expression contorts to disbelief and she jerks her hand away, gesturing at my crotch. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” I take her hand and press it to my erection. “This is what you do to me, and I think I have the same effect on you.”

  Our breaths grow labored at the contact, her hand on me. Our eyes locked. Our chests heaving to draw breath into lungs constricted by desire. If she doesn’t step away, I’ll fuck her in this bedroom, heedless of her parents up the hall. She must sense how desperately I want to because she steps away.

  “I can’t do this.” She shakes her head, walking over to the dresser against the wall, pressing her back into it.

  “You mean now because people are here?” I ask. “Or at all? Because I have asked about you. I’ve dreamt about you. And now, you’re here. What are the chances that I sign with your mom as a client? That I would be here for her annual party? That you would come home early for Christmas?”

  I cross the room in a few strides until I’m standing close again, close enough to palm her waist, spread my fingers over her hip in possession I have no right or reason to feel, but can’t help it. Something about her feels like mine. And I can’t deny I’d like to at least see if I could be hers. And with her divorce final, we could see. We could try.

  “You don
’t squander a chance like this.” I dip until my lips hover over hers, exchanging jagged breaths between our lips. “I want to kiss you, Sin.”

  She doesn’t correct or rebuke me this time for the nickname. Her eyes drift closed and she slumps into me, her breasts soft against my chest. I cup her neck, stretching my thumb to reach beneath her chin and lift. When her eyes meet mine, they are shaded with desire and fear.

  Of course, with fear. She doesn’t even know me. She married a man she thought she did know, who turned out to be an asshole. With the ink barely dry on her divorce, I’m popping into her life and asking if we could have more than the hour we shared before. It was a damn good hour, though, and I would be damn good to her if she’d give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking for.

  “Can I kiss you, Sin?” I breathe over her trembling lips. “It’s just one kiss.”

  She gives me a wry look because we both know the sensation, the emotion roiling between us even now, is not just anything. It’s something. It’s rare, and I for one, do not want to lose it this soon after finding it again.

  Wordlessly, with cautious eyes, she nods. I can’t believe she nods, but I don’t hesitate to take her lips with mine. She is as sweet and lush as I knew she would be. Her lips pillowy, soft, full, tender when I nibble at them, begging for entrance. I slide my tongue into her mouth, and I’m lost. It’s hot silk and smooth satin. She’s a greedy little thing, too, widening her mouth under mine, sucking my tongue hard, twisting into the kiss for more. I can’t help it. I squeeze her ass, and she gasps, breaking from the contact of our lips long enough to kiss my throat, run her lips over my cheek, before returning to my lips with a deep moan. She reaches between us, grabbing my dick. And now I’m the one moaning. I walk us backwards until her knees hit the bed. When she falls back, I kneel on the floor between her thighs, running my cheek across the denim, my mouth watering at what I know is beyond the rough fabric.

  “Get this shit off,” I growl, unbuttoning her pants, pulling down the zipper and tugging until the pants are ruched at her knees. I bury my face in her panties, inhaling her private scent. There’s a wet spot, and I can’t resist. I mouth her through the silk material, my tongue searching until I find the bud of nerves. I clutch the rounded globes of her ass and nibble on her clit.

  “Oh, my God, Harp.” She lifts her knees, digs her heels into the edge of the bed, giving me full access. She fists the comforter in her hands. “Don’t stop.”

  I have no plans of stopping until I’m inside that tight, wet pussy again, but a sharp rap at the door tosses a bucket of ice water over us both. Our startled eyes catch and hold between Sinclaire’s bare thighs.

  “Claire,” Merrin says from the other side of the door. “Are you okay in there?”

  “What the hell?” she hisses, hastily lowering her legs and scrambling to pull her jeans back up. “What are we doing?”

  She’s right. This was reckless, but I finally got to kiss her. Fuck regret. I have to bite back a smile because there’s no way she’ll be able to ignore a connection this perfect.

  “Baby, are you sure you don’t want something to settle your stomach?” Merrin asks. “The party’s breaking up. Daddy can run out and get you some Sprite, some saltines.”

  “Uh, no.” Sinclaire buttons her jeans and walks to the door. She only cracks it open enough to stick her head out. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a little bit.”

  “Okay. Well if you’re feeling up to it, we have your favorite tiramisu.”

  “Alright.”

  “You didn’t see Harper, did you, by chance? Like in the hall?”

  Sinclaire’s shoulders stiffen beneath the soft yellow fabric of her seater. “Um, no. Why would you ask?”

  “He went to the bathroom and never came back to the table. Guess he had to leave, but I thought he’d have stayed for dessert or said good-bye.” She chuckles. “But you know these writers. Craziest souls on earth. I should be used to them by now. I’ll check on him tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Sinclaire says, her voice giving away nothing.

  “He’s handsome, right?”

  “Um . . sure.”

  “Brilliant and such a great guy.”

  “Are you . . .” Sinclaire releases a breathy laugh. “Are you trying to set me up with your client?”

  “Well I don’t want to push, but ya never know. I just think he’s a nice young man. Maybe you two could—”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Sinclaire gives me the finger behind her back, and I have to cover my mouth not to laugh. “I’ll be out in a second.”

  I hear Merrin’s footsteps retreating back up the hall. Sinclaire rests her forehead against the closed door for a second, releasing a gust of air in a sigh. I walk up behind her and kiss the back of her neck, tongue the satiny slope, grip her hips and press into the curve of her ass.

  “What are you doing?” She slips away, turning outraged eyes up to me. “We can’t.”

  “Your mom seems to think we should,” I laugh, reaching for her again. “You heard her. I’m handsome and brilliant.”

  “Yeah, that’s because she doesn’t know you fucked me up against a wall ten minutes after meeting me.”

  “Ahh. Memories.”

  “You have to go,” she whisper-shouts. “Let me see if the coast is clear and you can slip out.”

  “I don’t want to slip out. I want to kiss you again.” I grin. “I want that tiramisu.”

  “Well you don’t get it.” She pokes her head into the hall and then grabs my hand, dragging me out behind her. Tip toeing, she pauses at the sound of her parents talking in the dining room. The apartment is otherwise still, seems empty. She hurries past the living room and to the front door, opening it quietly and shoving me into the hall. Before I can tell her I need my coat, the door closes firmly in my face.

  “Well, shit.”

  I look around the deserted hall and think about the cold walk to the subway that’s ahead of me. I try not to feel rejected looking back at the closed door as I board the elevator. I took a chance and it backfired, but I’m not giving up.

  I found her.

  Against all odds, I found the girl who so effortlessly embedded herself in my mind. I haven’t been able to get her out of my thoughts for the last year and a half, and after one kiss, I know I won’t be forgetting her any time soon. Her mother is my agent. I wave to the security guard who let me up a few hours ago and draw in a deep breath, hesitating at the revolving glass door. A light snow is falling, and every instinct urges me to go back up and get my coat.

  Every instinct but one.

  I really pushed tonight. Was very clear that I want to see where this goes, but seeing me again so unexpectedly, discovering I’m her mother’s client, and that I wrote a book based on our one-hour stand—it’s a lot. I don’t want to push too hard in case I blow this for good. And this is too good, she’s too good, to mess up. So I’ll let her come to me.

  In the meantime, a brisk walk in the snow won’t kill me.

  Will it?

  Visions of all the starving artists who must have died of consumption flash through my mind. I’m stepping out into the street, shivering in the cold as feathery flakes drift to the ground, when a sound behind me grabs my attention. I turn to find Sinclaire standing just outside the glass doors on the sidewalk with my coat folded over one arm.

  “You forgot this.”

  A laugh, so insistent I can’t even try to hold it back, bubbles up and forces its way past my lips. She grins at me and rolls her eyes, proffering the pea coat to me. “Mom spotted it and I knew you’d be cold.”

  “Yeah.” I step forward to take it from her, gratefully slipping my arms in. “I was already thinking about losing a toe to frost bite.”

  She tips her head back, meeting my eyes, and her smile softens, melts out here in the cold. Snowflakes fall like sprinkled sugar, stark against her smooth skin and dark hair. I press one frosty knuckle to the curve of her cheek.

  “I know you think
it’s crazy,” I say, my voice hoarse in the frigid air and with earnest feeling. “But I want to see you again. I don’t believe we found each other like this just to let go.”

  She bites her bottom lip, shivers and wraps her arms around herself. After a moment, she nods, seeming to reach a decision. Whether it’ll be to kick me to the subway or give me another shot, I don’t know. But then she takes my hand, her fingers icy and twined with mine. She nods toward the apartment building.

  “You didn’t get your tiramisu.” Her eyes lower to the snow-flecked sidewalk and there’s almost something shy in the way she can’t bring herself to look at me. “Why don’t you come up for dessert?”

  Pleasure buzzes through me. This is more than I would have hoped or asked for.

  “And your parents?” I ask, letting her lead me back inside through the revolving doors. “What do you want to tell them?”

  Her laugh is roguish and bold, and the girl on an adventure, on a mission, the one I met that first night is back, smiling at me over her shoulder as we enter the elevator. “Oh, we’ll think of something.”

  By Kennedy Ryan

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