"Me neither," Caulter says, his voice soft. We stand there for a minute before he whispers, "Now let's get out of here."
I stifle a giggle as he takes me by the hand and pulls me out of the nursery, stopping in the hallway to immediately bend down and toss me over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"It's our anniversary," he says, slapping me on the ass. "And I'm taking you into the bedroom so I can defile you."
"I think you've already defiled me," I say, laughing.
"Then I want to debauch you."
"That’s the same thing."
He slaps me hard on the ass, and I laugh, hitting him on the back. "Put me down," I say. "You can't spank me just because your command of the English language sucks."
He slides me down the front of him, and pulls me tight against his hardness. "Oh yeah?" he asks. "What can I spank you for, then?"
"Our anniversary," I say.
"That's what I was hoping you'd say," he says, spinning me around, his hands immediately on the button of my pants, pulling them down in one swift motion.
And I see the bedroom – decked out with candles, rose petals strewn across the bed and trailing along the floor. And in the middle of the bed, sex toys and lingerie. And a gift-wrapped object in the middle, rectangular-shaped, something in a frame.
"Is that a piece of art?" I ask, as Caulter yanks my pants completely down my legs. "First anniversary is supposed to be paper. And I thought we said we were holding all gifts until Christmas Day."
I leave out the anniversary surprise I'm keeping from him.
"It is a piece of art," he says, sliding his hands up my naked ass, then along my back before pulling my shirt over my head. "Paper just seemed too boring."
"Please tell me that's not a painting of your cock or something," I say, spinning around to look at him.
"Says the girl who drew sketches of my dick and put me in an art exhibit titled 'Prick'." He brings his mouth down on mine, and my body comes alive as he touches me, running his fingers up my back until he finds my bra and deftly unhooks it.
"There were no actual pricks in that exhibit," I say, laughing. "Well, until you showed up."
Caulter smacks my bare ass. "So witty."
"Are you going to let me see it?" I ask.
"I'm definitely going to let you see it," he says, unbuckling his pants.
"That too," I say.
"Go open it."
I tear the paper from the package like a kid on Christmas morning, and look at the photo. "Oh my God."
Caulter grins at me, totally naked, his clothes discarded on the floor. "It's the first photo ever taken of us."
It's that photo. The one of Caulter and I that caused all of the problems. Caulter and I, standing in the front yard of my father's house in Washington, D.C.
Facing off and giving each other the finger.
That photo was plastered all over the internet.
"I got a copy of the original from the reporter who shot it," Caulter says. "Told him it was a memento."
"I can't believe you," I say, laughing. It's ridiculous, yet in a very Caulter way, it's so thoughtful. I'd have never remembered that that was the first photograph taken of us.
"I know," he says. "I'm so romantic."
I turn to him, my named body pressed against his. A thrill rushes through me at the feeling of his skin on mine. His lips on mine, his hands traveling across my body, send electricity through me. "You are," I murmur, as he takes me to the bed.
When he runs his palm over my breasts and down my stomach, I arch my back, urging him on. His mouth is between my legs almost immediately, his hands pulling me against his face. His tongue meanders slowly, leisurely, as he eats me like he has all the time in the world, and not like we're parents of a teething baby.
I close my eyes, forgetting everything else, as the sensations overpower me.
Caulter pulls away, just when I'm on the edge. "You're not coming that easily," he says, smirking as he replaces his tongue with a cock-shaped vibrator. He fucks me slowly without turning on the vibration, pressing the tip of the cock against the place inside me that's the most sensitive, and I groan.
I reach for him, my thumb lightly caressing the tip of his cock, massaging the bead of pre-cum before stroking him from base to tip. Caulter's eyes go heavy, and it isn't long before his cock is throbbing in my hand. "Tell me to come," I whisper, brought nearly to the edge already.
"Are you close?" Caulter asks. His voice is gravely, his words punctuated by short breaths as I work him over with my hand. My eyes are fixated on his cock, and I want him in my mouth.
"I want to come with you in my mouth," I beg. "I want you to come in my mouth so I can taste you."
Caulter groans loudly. "You're not getting off that easily, Princess," he says, letting go of the vibrator and taking my hand from his cock. "I want you to come with that vibrator in your pussy and my cock in your tight little asshole."
His words make me wet, and my pussy automatically tightens around the vibrator as I watch him roll a condom onto his length. He gives me a knowing look. "Do you like that?" he asks. "Do you want me to have all of you?"
"I want you to have all of me," I say.
"Don't touch that vibrator," he orders. "Touch your breasts."
I do what he tells me to do, my hands caressing my breasts, fingers pinching my nipples the way he does when he touches me, and a moan escapes my lips.
"Now, I want your legs in the air."
He says it sternly, his voice demanding, and I feel a tingle between my legs at the thought of what he's about to do. Positioning myself for him, I press the vibrator inside me, my palm brushing against my clit. "Hurry," I say, even though I know he'll just torment me by taking his time.
He does. He takes my legs, pulling them up to his shoulders, one at a time. He takes his time, his hands roaming over my breasts, massaging them, then tormenting me by pushing the vibrator further inside me and flicking it on the lowest setting. Even that low, the stimulation nearly makes me come, and I have to close my eyes and will myself to wait for him.
When he presses his lubricated cock against my asshole, I inhale sharply through my teeth, anticipating the sensation of him inside me. "You're going to hold out for me, Kate," he says, as my breathing becomes shorter.
"I don't know if I can," I say, and he spanks my ass.
"You will."
I groan as he works his way inside, reaching between my legs to fuck myself with the vibrator as he stretches my ass. When he's fully inside me, up to the hilt, I sigh loudly, the experience of being completely filled absolutely exquisite.
I want to turn up the vibrator. As he begins to fuck my ass slowly, his strokes gentle, I want to come more than anything. The waiting is torture, especially when he's caressing my breasts, then pinching my nipples, and telling me how tight I am and how much he loves fucking me.
He torments me with slow movements until I'm gripping handfuls of the bed sheets in agony, barely able to hold off. "I have to come," I beg.
"Are you close, Princess?" He fucks me with less restraint now, his balls pressing up against my ass cheeks, and the thought of him buried balls deep in me is too much.
"So close," I say.
"Not yet," he tells me, but I know he's close too. "Not until I say you come."
I turn up the setting on the vibrator anyway, too far gone, and he slaps my ass for that. "Naughty girl," he says, his voice thick. "I'll make you pay for that. First, I'm going to come in this sweet little ass of yours, and then I'm going to take you to the shower, where I'm going to fuck you up against the shower wall, and then I'm going to drag you back out here, bend you over the bed, and come in that tight little pussy of yours."
He fucks me harder, and between his cock and the vibrator, every part of my body is on edge, arousal coursing through me as I hurtle toward orgasm.
"Would you like that, sweetheart?" he asks, thrusting into me. "Would you like me to fill your tight little pussy up with cum t
onight? Would you like me to knock you up?"
"I'm pregnant," I blurt out, as I crash over the edge. But it sounds more like "I'm preggggggggggggnant!" as I scream my orgasm so loudly I grab a pillow to muffle my own mouth.
My words push Caulter over the edge, and I feel his cock throbbing as he lets go, coming into my ass.
I sigh heavily, exhausted from the intensity of the orgasm, and it's a few minutes before either of us say anything. The room is completely still, the only sounds our breathing and the blood pumping loudly in my ears.
Caulter sweeps my hair off of my neck, his hands running down my shoulders and over my arms until he reaches my hands, lacing his fingers with mine. "Did you say what I thought you said?"
"I'm pregnant," I repeat, breathless. "Happy anniversary."
"Holy shit," he says, jumping up. There is excitement in his voice, but he doesn't say anything else as he disappears into the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with a warm washcloth. When he comes back, he climbs up beside me on the bed, and kisses me long and hard.
"I didn't exactly mean to blurt it out that way," I say softly.
"You're pregnant again," he says.
"Are you happy about that?" I ask.
"Are you kidding? That's the best anniversary present ever," he says. "Other than Anne's birth, of course. It's absolutely perfect, Kate."
I lay my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
Talk about a merry effing Christmas Eve.
THE END
Continue on for Tool & Cannon, which include additional new bonus scenes!
TOOL
Sabrina Paige
I call him “Tool” because he’s a prick.
Gaige O’Neal is nicknamed “Tool” because of what he’s packing. Rumor is that he’s well equipped.
He’s a cocky, entitled, insufferable jerkwho’s as reckless with women as he is with that stupid motorcycle he races.
It's been four years since I've seen him. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my biggest confidant, my first love.
My stepbrother.
It’s just my luck that the first time I see him in four years, he’s buried beneath three scantily clad blondes.
Now I’m stuck here under the same roof with him while he recovers from a racing injury. An injury that clearly hasn’t affected the use of his tool.
The problem is, as much as I despise him, I just can’t help myself. I want to find out what kind of tool he's working with.
TOOL TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Six Bonus Scene
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen Bonus Scene
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
DEDICATION
As always, to my husband who puts up with my antics. And to my daughter, who's inherited his.
To Sara Bartlett, Joanna Blake, Cora Brent, Jordan Marie, and Jess Peterson for all of your support and for reading my crappy first draft.
Thanks to Breathless Book Promotions for putting together a cover reveal and release day party, and to Terra Oenning for spreading word for me about Tool's cover reveal!
Many thanks to Sabrina's Sirens and to all the other fans to tell their friends about my books. I am so grateful for all you do!
And, last but certainly not least, for my readers. I hope you love Tool as much as I do. The innuendo is totally intended. Snicker.
CHAPTER ONE
Delaney
At least this day can't get any worse.
Famous last words, I know. Except I can't help but think it, even as I'm limping down the walkway, headed toward the guesthouse and dragging my suitcase behind me.
The suitcase makes a sound that's only slightly less grating than nails on a chalkboard as I drag it over the concrete. It's held together with twine, clothes poking out of the sides every which way, and a giant sticker peeling at the edges that reads, "Notice of Inspection." I'm holding one of the wheels in my hand, because of course as soon as I picked it up at baggage claim, a wheel went rolling off.
The suitcase looks better than I do, actually. You know those romantic comedies where the heroine falls in a fountain or gets caught in a downpour and is supposed to appear bedraggled but instead is breathtakingly gorgeous in spite of her dripping hair and clothes? Yeah, that's pretty much exactly the opposite of what I look like.
I look like I walked off the set of a horror movie. Outside of the airport, I caught my heel in a grate while I was walking and ripped it clean off my brand new designer shoe, crashing onto the sidewalk and skinning my knee. While I was hailing a cab, my umbrella had some kind of seizure, so my hair is plastered to my head; my clothes are soaked; and my black bra is completely visible through my white t-shirt. I know my shirt is transparent, because the cab driver was helpful enough to point it out for me.
I'm hoping I can make it to the guesthouse without any further catastrophe. I didn't even stop at the main house – I want to clean up before seeing anyone I know, and as soon as I glimpsed the cars in the driveway, I knew I had to avoid that place.
I've just flown back to Dallas to start my new job, working in my father's company, Marlowe Oil -- my first professional job out of college. The last thing I need is to show up at the door looking like a hot mess in front of whatever business associates my family is likely entertaining.
Sneaking around to the guesthouse is a much smarter choice in my condition.
Besides, I don't think I even have the mental capacity to make coherent conversation with anyone. All I want is a shower. Actually, make that a bath. I want a bath and a stiff drink.
At least it's not raining anymore. That has to count for something, right?
I push open the door to the guesthouse with my shoulder, trying to wrangle my suitcase through the doorway. I'm making such a commotion that it's only when I turn around, I realize I'm not alone.
In fact, not alone is the understatement of the year.
There are probably twenty people staring at me. I scan the room, taking in their faces, trying to process the scene in my brain. It's some kind of photo shoot, models and makeup artists and clothing hung on racks in the corner of the room. Strategically placed lighting illuminates the set, and a photographer is turned toward the door, paused with his camera in hand, staring at me.
I'm standing here, barefoot and looking like a drowned rat, my gaze coming to rest on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room, where three tall, thin, beautiful blondes with perfectly coiffed hair and flawless makeup and expensive lace lingerie pose around him. The boy I used to know. The boy I last saw four years ago, when we were eighteen.
He's sure as hell not a boy anymore.
He looks right in my eyes, and I swear he can see through me. Then he gives me that cocky, shit-sure of himself, nothing-ever-surprises-me grin, and I'm not certain whether the heat that rushes through me is anger or lust.
Gaige O'Neal.
Motorcycle racer, womanizer, asshole extra
ordinaire. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my confidant, my first love.
My stepbrother.
Crap. This day just got a hell of a lot worse.
CHAPTER TWO
Delaney
"Well, now, as I live and breathe." Gaige's voice reverberates through the room. I've spent four years trying to get that sound out of my head. His voice is low and gravely, with a hint of a drawl, the product of spending his formative years at a boarding school in South Carolina -- the boarding school was prestigious and pretentious, but Gaige is anything but.
"Gaige O'Neal." The words leave my mouth in one breath, heavy like an exhale. For a split second, seeing him there is almost enough to make everything else in here fade to black, as if I'm looking at him with tunnel vision. It's the same Gaige I used to know, with that arrogant smile that made me so angry and a body made for sin. Even back when we were teenagers.
Now, though…hell, I don't know that I've ever seen anyone that looks as holy-shit-hot as Gaige does with his shirt off. When I last saw him, he had one tattoo on his shoulder, but now they snake around his forearms and biceps and cover his chest.
His very broad, very defined chest.
Gaige used to be hot, but he's transformed into something else entirely. I've made a concerted effort to forget Gaige O'Neal over the past four years, which is honestly pretty difficult when your stepbrother is a media darling, a sports figure the tabloids love. It involves going to extreme lengths: no looking at photo spreads in the sports magazines, shutting off the television interviews, ignoring the tabloid articles about Gaige and whoever his girl-of-the-moment is, shrugging and changing the subject when friends want to know what Gaige is like.
What Gaige is like…The memory of my last night alone with him sticks in my head. It never leaves me. I've revisited it God knows how many times over the last few years, replaying it like some kind of movie.
Gaige's lips are so close to mine that if I move even a millimeter, we'll be touching. And there's nothing more that I want on this green earth than to feel Gaige's lips against mine. I want him more than anything…and that is exactly why I can't have him.
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