No Contest

by Harper St. George

  “Yes,” he hissed, his hips moving. “Stroke me. Make me come.”

  She turned to face him and wrapped both her hands around his cock, marveling that even with both hands on him, she still had ground to cover. Holding his eyes, she worked her hands up and down his shaft in a fast rhythm, sliding and twisting, adding pressure just under the head with her top thumb. His chest heaved, his lips parted, the blue-green of his eyes almost totally hidden by the black of his pupils. It didn’t take long before he closed his eyes, his head fell back, and he let out a strangled cry, his cock pulsing in her hands as he came.

  He slowly opened his eyes and reached for her. “Puta que pariu,” he mumbled before crushing his mouth to hers, his kiss hungry and claiming. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered against her mouth. Her heart beat fiercely in her chest as she realized that she’d never felt more beautiful than with him. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he made her feel sexy and whole in her skin.

  The water started to cool, and she reached behind him to shut the shower off. She grabbed two towels from the rack, handing one to him and wrapping the other around herself. She’d been about to ask him if he was hungry when her own stomach let out a loud growl.

  Leandro reached for her towel and pulled her against him, tucking her damp hair behind her ears. “My wallet’s in my pants. Take one of the credit cards, whichever one, and order whatever you want for dinner.”

  “Really? I could make something,” she said, not wanting him to feel obligated to her.

  He shook his head, his smile slow and wolfish. “I have other plans for you.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Naked, getting-the-sheets-all-sweaty plans.”

  Her stomach swirled, happiness and excitement coursing through her. “In that case . . . Chinese or pizza?”

  16

  LEANDRO HAD NEVER eaten Chinese food straight out of a take-out carton while sitting at a kitchen table talking to a beautiful woman. But then he’d never spent a whole hour talking to a woman who he was planning to have sex with. Lots of sex.

  He frowned as he realized that he’d somehow divided the women in his life into two groups: those he’d planned to have sex with and those he hadn’t. Aside from flirting and teasing—all things that were supposed to lead to sex—he never talked to those in the first group, reserving all of his conversation for those in the latter group. Guilt and shame tugged a chord deep in his chest.

  “All done?” Ashlynn asked, pointing at the now-empty carton forgotten in his hand.

  He nodded and helped her pile up all the boxes littered across the table. Her hips swayed beneath her pink satin robe as she gathered them up and put them in the trash. Running a palm over the heaviness in his chest, he sat back in his chair, not liking what that realization said about him. That he was a selfish asshole who didn’t care about anyone but himself? Maybe that was some of it, but there were people he cared about. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to end up like his parents, miserable and trapped, so he kept his emotions separate from sex. The skin on the back of his neck tightened uncomfortably, and he knew he was on to something.

  Not wanting to think about that right now, he blew out a breath and let his gaze drift around her home. It was neat and cozy, each item carefully chosen with comfort in mind, instead of style. He compared it to his house outside of town, and while his place was worthy of being featured in a magazine, it lacked the warmth and charm of Ashlynn’s small home. It also lacked the personal details that made Ashlynn’s home feel lived-in. A scarf that she’d thrown over the back of a chair, a pair of heels tossed into a corner probably after getting home from a long day at work, a framed photo of Ashlynn on her graduation day posing with who he now knew to be her mother and sister; all pieces of who she was. He would’ve run from such intimate things before, but he didn’t want to anymore. Being with Ashlynn made him want to be different. Better. She made him want to be open to the possibility of intimacy in a way he never had been before. She was kind and generous and had an ass that wouldn’t fucking quit. No way was he walking away from that any time soon.

  A dozen red roses in a vase sat on a table in her living room. He’d totally missed them before because he’d been too preoccupied with her. “Did someone send you roses?” he asked, trying and failing to sound casual, but a tiny bit of jealousy had crept into his voice. He didn’t even know if she’d been dating anyone before tonight, or, fuck, if she planned to keep dating that someone. Not if he had anything to say about it, and he did.

  Shaking her head, she turned back to him. “Jason sent them while I was gone. I told Kayla to throw them out, but she thought they were too pretty.”

  “Jason.” He rolled the name around on his tongue, not liking how it felt. “The guy from the parking lot.”

  “Yeah, he still wants to get back together, apparently.” She waved a hand like it was no big deal.

  Over his dead body. He made his way over to her, his hands automatically going to her hips as he pulled her close. “I don’t like the way he treated you. Want me to talk to him? He shouldn’t be bothering you like this.”

  She smiled and ran her hands up his chest. “No, but thank you. He’ll get the message. Eventually.”

  He tipped his head, not wanting to stomp all over her independence, but he didn’t like how the guy wouldn’t go away. “Let me know if he bothers you any more, hmm?” He took handfuls of her ass and squeezed, unable to get enough of her.

  “I can handle it.”

  He stopped himself from pointing out how the asshole hadn’t listened to her that night in the parking lot, instead making a mental note to check out who this guy was, just in case. There were many other more interesting things to do with her tonight than talk about Jason. Dropping his head, he nibbled her earlobe and asked, “But can you handle me?”

  She shivered and threaded her fingers through his hair. “So far so good, but I may need practice,” she teased.

  With a playful growl, he swept her up into his arms and made for the stairs. She shrieked with laughter and held on as he took her back to her bedroom. She was still laughing when he dropped her onto the bed and growled again as he fell on top of her, careful to keep his weight from crushing her. He kissed her neck while his other hand tickled her waist, and he didn’t stop until she begged for mercy.

  Falling to the side, he gathered her into his arms and pulled her back against him. He liked how she relaxed into him as if she somehow just fit. He liked this more laid-back side of her, and that they weren’t at each other’s throats anymore. Fuck. He just loved being himself with her. Never once had he wondered if she had an ulterior motive for being with him. They were simply together and happy and that was all that mattered. He was surprised to realize that even though he was half-hard with wanting her again, he didn’t want the talking to end. There was still so much more to know about her.

  His gaze lit on a framed photo on her bedside table. A studio portrait of her with her mom and sister. He frowned as he realized that her father didn’t seem to be in her life. Pulling her robe down to bare her shoulder, he placed tiny kisses on her soft skin, letting the tip of his tongue taste her. “You’ve talked about you mother, your sister, and your grandparents, but you haven’t mentioned your father. Where is he?”

  She was silent for a minute, but her hand continued to stroke his where it rested on her belly. Finally, she said, “My parents split up soon after Kayla was born. I think I was seven the last time we saw him. My mom was working at the hospital, and it was his weekend to have us, so he took us to this place in the desert to hang out with his friends. It ended up being this old, rusted warehouse surrounded by trailers and motorcycles. He spent the whole day sitting around with his friends, talking and smoking pot.”

  She sucked in a shaky breath at what was obviously not a happy memory. He brushed a gentle kiss on her shoulder and gave her hand a squeeze.

  “It started to get dark and Kayla and I were hungry, but he didn’t wan
t to leave—as I got older, I realized it was because he was too busy doing lines of coke. My mom had forced me to memorize her number at work, so I found a phone in the warehouse and called her. She came and got us, and that was the last time we ever saw him.”

  “I’m so sorry, minha linda.” He ached for the child she had been, neglected and abandoned by her father. She was so careful and disciplined now, and he wondered if it was because of that uncertainty in her childhood. She gave him a smile over her shoulder, but her eyes were wide and vulnerable. Leandro wanted to hold her, protect her, make her forget everything bad that had ever happened. But he also realized how damn lucky he was to have her opening up to him. “He didn’t deserve you or your family.”

  “What about you?” she asked, rolling over in his arms to face him. “I know that your parents are still married and you have an older brother and sister, but what was it like growing up?”

  He’d been the subject of enough interviews, not to mention all the coaching by his vovô, to have a standard answer for that. Every prepared, rehearsed answer he had to that question was meant to further the image of the Oliveiras as a powerful family who lived a charmed life. Unfortunately, the reality didn’t quite live up to that, and he couldn’t give Ashlynn the same lines he gave everyone else. “Honestly?” She nodded, and he took a deep breath, conscious that he was about to enter unchartered territory. “It wasn’t easy. My parents are married, but they’re not happy. My father has had too many affairs to count, and my mother resents them all, but she doesn’t want to give up the Oliveira name and walk away from him. Instead, she’s bitter.”

  Ashlynn stroked his chest. “I’m sorry. It must’ve been tough growing up with that.”

  He stared into her green eyes, amazed at how good it felt to tell her the truth. It was as if a little bit of the burden he carried had been lightened because he’d shared it with her. While a part of him was uncomfortable talking about his family, he found that he wanted to tell her more. To explore this openness between them. “It was, but I managed.”

  “Are you close to your brother and sister?”

  He nodded, again nearly overcome with the automatic response of brushing off her question, but he stopped himself. He wanted to tell her only things that were true and real. “Yes. Closer to my sister than my brother, maybe.”

  She raised an eyebrow and gave him an encouraging smile. It was so goddamn easy to talk to her that he found himself telling her what he’d never admitted to anyone, not even Thiago. “Everyone back home has heard of my brother, Raul. He’s a god of futebol. Why Americans call it soccer, I’ll never understand.” He rolled his eyes and she grinned. “He led the Brazilian Olympic team to a gold medal. I played in school. I was even the captain of my team, but I was never close to being as good as him. It wasn’t my sport, and I knew that I could never live up to the expectation of playing at his level.

  “Isabella, my sister, was always the financial genius out of the three of us. She followed my father into the family business. That too wasn’t for me. I’ve always tried to find my own way. Unfortunately, that means being an athlete in a sport my family doesn’t care about or even try to understand.” He took a deep breath before saying, “I think they’re all waiting for me to stop playing around with fighting and become a real Oliveira.”

  “Oh, Leandro.”

  He shook his head and held her tighter. For the past few years, he’d been afraid that he never would be a real Oliveira, and that scared him. “I’m not who they want me to be.” He hadn’t realized how true that was and how much it bothered him until the words were out of his mouth. His heartbeat accelerated in his chest, both terrified and eager for her reaction. He’d never been this honest with anyone—not even himself—in his life.

  She’d held him the entire time he’d talked, stroking his shoulder and his chest. Listening as she soothed him.

  “But are you who you want to be?” she asked, her fingers tracing circles over his heart.

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “I’m getting there. I think.” Especially since she’d come into his life. He liked who he was with her.

  “For what it’s worth, I really like the real you.” Something in her eyes heated and darkened. “Every single inch.”

  Her expression changed from thoughtful to coy as her hand drifted down his chest and across his stomach as if she knew exactly what he needed. His breath hitched as he realized her intent.

  Her eyes were open and soft as she pulled his towel away. Her small hand wrapped around his cock and she stroked him, making him jerk and lengthen against her palm. “You’re exactly who I want you to be.”

  Goddamn, she really was perfect. He crushed her mouth with his and yanked her robe down off both shoulders, exposing her breasts to his hands. She moaned against his mouth when he pinched and teased her nipples. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait anymore to have her, to possess her, to make her feel as good as she made him feel. Tugging the robe open, he touched her between her thighs, finding her slick and swollen. He pushed a finger inside her and nearly groaned at how easily she accepted him and clenched around him. “Fuck, Ashlynn, I need you. Are you too sore?” Please, God, don’t be too sore.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m good,” she said, her voice breathless.

  He pulled at the robe and she rolled to help, pulling her arms out of the sleeves. Tossing it off the bed he moved behind her, kissing her shoulders and back as he pushed her knees apart. His hand trailed down to pinch and torture her clit until she was bucking back against him. Only when she begged did he push her down and ease into her from behind. Their mingled groans of satisfaction filled the room as he slid home.

  Home. Being with her gave that word a whole new meaning.

  ASHLYNN SLOWLY OPENED her eyes and stretched, arching her back. Her entire body felt as though it was glowing. Her muscles were sore, the flesh between her legs a little tender, but in an immensely satisfying way. She blinked, bringing her bedroom into focus. Early morning sunshine streamed in—she’d been too distracted the night before to close the curtains.

  After sleeping in late on Saturday morning, she’d cooked them breakfast, which had started with coffee, bacon, and eggs, and ended with her riding Leandro on a chair in her kitchen. After they’d cleaned up—both the breakfast dishes and themselves—they’d spent the rest of the day lounging around the house, talking, watching movies, eating, and having sex in just about every room of her town house.

  Toward dinnertime, there’d been a knock on her front door. An airport courier had dropped off their rescued bags. Thankfully, both her laptop and phone were undamaged, although her tablet’s screen had been cracked, and the coating was peeling off the casing. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for her clothes, all of which stank of smoke and oil.

  After dinner, Leandro had led her upstairs to her bedroom, where they’d given each other massages with coconut oil and had sex until they’d fallen asleep. Her entire neighborhood probably knew his name by now, given how many times she’d screamed it over the weekend.

  Everything was so intense with him. Her attraction to him, the sexual chemistry sparking between them. The way he made her feel beautiful, cherished, special. The speed at which she was falling in love with him. It felt weird to associate the word love with someone she’d wanted to strangle just a week ago, but it also felt right. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this about a man, and it hit her that she’d never been in love before. And if she had, it paled in comparison to her connection with Leandro. She’d been so worried about making a mistake with him, but she had to admit that what was happening between them didn’t feel like a mistake at all. It felt good, and right, and real.

  Leandro stirred and slipped a hand around her waist. He mumbled something in sleepy-sounding Portuguese and kissed the back of her head. She smiled to herself, settling against him and letting her eyes drift closed again. She didn’t want to start the day just yet; she didn’t want to acknowledge t
hat it was already Sunday, and that the weekend was coming to an end. Some of the thoughts she’d tried to brush away yesterday came back. What would tomorrow bring? For them, their jobs? Who were they to each other? The weekend had changed everything as far as Ashlynn was concerned, but they hadn’t really talked about specifics. In fact, it felt as though they’d talked about everything but.

  Leandro’s lips brushed against her shoulder, his mouth soft and warm on her skin. “Bom dia, minha linda,” he murmured, his voice rusty with sleep.

  She wiggled against him, sighing when he gently bit at the juncture where her neck met her shoulder. “Morning,” she whispered.

  “You still smell like coconuts,” he said, nipping at her ear. Her entire core warmed, and she wanted to just close her eyes and let the lust churning through her take over. But the niggling uncertainty in the back of her brain wouldn’t let her, and she turned in his arms to face him.

  He smiled at her, pushing her hair away from her face, his gorgeous eyes soft and hazy with sleep and wanting her. He studied her for several seconds, and his brows knit together. “What is it? You look worried.” He skimmed his fingers over her cheekbone and down to her jaw.

  God, he’d always been able to read her, ever since he’d met her. Like he’d been given some secret Ashlynn handbook. It was both comforting and slightly unnerving.

  She kissed his fingertips as he traced her lips and then took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “I guess I am, a little.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow, gazing down at her. “About what?”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip, unsure how to say everything she wanted to say, ask everything she wanted to ask. “Are we . . . I mean . . . we’re not supposed to . . .” He gave her hand a comforting squeeze, still gazing down at her.

  “You’re wondering what happens tomorrow,” he said, his thumb tracing circles over the back of her hand.