Then she pulled in a long breath and switched her attention to Mad. “Now, what did you want?”
He shoved his hand through his hair. “I wanted to know…years ago, six years ago…was Harper, well, really into me?”
“What is this, seventh grade?” she asked, proving Sophie still wasn’t feeling warm and fuzzy.
He glanced back, saw his mother sitting alone and had to run his gaze over the crowd to find the green-eyed brunette, in the middle of a gaggle of other women.
Before I left, I felt dangerously close to becoming too much like my mom.
Who had never gotten over Harper’s father.
Yeah, he’d overheard that part too.
Now Sophie gave him an extravagant eye roll. “Yes, Harper was into you. You were into her as well, right?”
“Right.”
“Then she went out to see the world. You moved on. End of story.”
But why did the story end there, exactly? Why did he let it end when he’d missed her the second she’d shouldered into that huge backpack and left town?
Because they’d been young and she’d been so sure of what she wanted to do next…
And he’d never said don’t go or let’s go together or even write me every day or…
I think I might be in love with you.
Not the bubble gum kind, not the first kisses, first sex, first idea of what becoming a couple might be like.
But real love.
And he’d blown it. Smashed it to smithereens. Burned the whole thing down.
Now she was going back to Vegas.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, what to do about that, if there was anything he could do.
I missed Sawyer Beach. Dreadfully at times.
Before I left, I felt dangerously close to becoming too much like my mom.
“Mad?” A woman’s soft voice. A hand on his elbow.
He started, hoped, then turned to see…
Not Harper, but another female with a warm smile on her face and a warm light in her eyes.
Some sixth sense prodded Harper to look up from her second helping of truffle mac ‘n’ cheese. Her gaze wandered the room and quickly lighted upon Mad, who stood close to a pretty woman with ripples of nut-brown hair flowing down her back nearly to her waist. She had her faced turned up to his, her expression…adoring?
“You better go rescue him.” Sophie dropped into the empty chair beside Harper.
“Um, who?” she asked, trying to play it cool, even as she watched the stranger put a slender hand on Mad’s belly. Who put their hand on a man’s belly like that?
“I don’t know her name. But when she approached Mad he sent me one of those save-me looks men reserve for discussions of baby birthings or knitting patterns.”
Harper bit back her laugh. “But you left him anyway?”
Sophie’s normally sunny expression darkened. “I’m not feeling real charitable toward the male species at the moment.” When Harper, concerned, leaned closer, the blonde held up a hand. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
She settled for nudging the platter of pasta toward her friend. “Eat carbs. You’ll feel better.”
Sophie dug in with her fork, not even bothering to scoop some onto her own plate. “Go rescue Mad, please, or else I’ll feel guilty.”
A glance confirmed that the man had put some distance between himself and the woman.
Then the stranger put her hand on him again. This time, an inch closer to his waistband.
She had to be touching his navel!
Albeit over his shirt, but the action got Harper out of her seat. Her eyes on the pair, she made quick work of the distance between her table and the pals-y looking pair. She was still a couple of feet away when Mad’s arm shot out, his hand snagged Harper’s wrist, and he reeled her close.
She stumbled, bumping against his side. “Well, hello to you too,” she said.
“Right. Hi.” In a single glance he sent a message, no, make that a long soliloquy, about freedom, deliverance, hope, and possibly reward.
With a smile, she turned to his companion. “Hello, I’m Harper Hill.”
“I’m Ashlynn Moore.”
They shook hands, while Mad retained possession of her left wrist.
Ashlynn noticed. “You and Maddox are…friends?”
“Very old friends.” She looked inquiringly at the other woman. “And you know him because…”
“He saved my life!” Ashlynn declared.
Well, that was dramatic. Wait until she told Sophie. “I have to say I’m surprised. Mad is such a straight arrow I don’t think he’d even fix his own grandma’s parking ticket.”
“Well—”
“Of course he did change my tire recently. Though once I asked him to buy me a bottle of champagne so I could give it to a twenty-one-year-old friend, but I was only nineteen at the time and he refused, which was kind of starchy, am I right? So you see I can attest to the fact that he’s nowhere near perfect. I know it’s a disappointment, because on paper and your phone’s camera roll he appears pretty spectacular, but—”
“He literally saved my life.”
Harper’s mouth stopped moving. She glanced at Mad. Who shrugged. “Literally saved your life,” she repeated.
The woman had a flawless olive complexion that glowed like someone who’d undergone a religious conversion. “When he arrived on my doorstep one day with a couple of uniformed officers and told me they’d had me under twenty-four-hour surveillance for my own protection, you can imagine my confusion.”
Harper could only put her hand to her throat, imagining just that.
“And fear! Because Maddox then didn’t look like Maddox now. His hair was mussed and his face whiskered, and his clothing was scruffy. He looked rough.” She tilted her head. “I would have thought a hit man would wear bespoke suits and Prada loafers, wouldn’t you?”
“I would,” Harper said, ignoring Mad’s squeeze of her wrist.
“But that’s not how it was. And he convinced my estranged husband—we’d been separated about a year at that time—that for three thousand dollars he’d put a bullet through my head.”
Horrified, Harper reared back. “That’s terrible.”
“But wonderful that it didn’t happen.” The beautiful stranger turned her beautiful eyes on Mad. “Because of this man, I’m here. I’m fine. And he arrested my husband who, when faced with all the evidence the police had collected, confessed.”
“I hope he’s not getting out anytime soon!”
“He won’t,” Ashlynn said, her hand reaching up to cover her heart. “And I owe everything, everything to Maddox.”
“Wow.” Harper was moved by both her sincerity and her beauty. “Isn’t there a saying that if you save someone’s life you own that life?” Ashlynn Moore seemed like a truly elegant and worthy prize for such heroism. Then she felt Mad’s stare. “What?” she said, glancing at him.
He tilted his head, his jaw hard, an are-you-really-doing-this-to-me? expression on his face.
“But of course, uh, I mean, well…” Harper began, and his stare turned even more intense. “I do have, a, uh, prior claim.”
“He saved your life too?” Ashlynn said, velvet-brown eyes wide.
“Exactly. It was a dark and stormy night and, well, to make a long story short, the life he now owns is mine.”
Ashlynn nodded. “I guess I’m not surprised. He truly is a hero.” She glanced at Mad, then back at Harper. “So you two definitely are…”
Another warning wrist-squeeze. “Yes,” Harper said, suppressing a wince. “We two are.”
“That means I should let you get on with your evening then.” She cast a reluctant look at Mad. “You truly are one of the good ones.”
And then she turned, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume lingering behind her.
They both watched her hips sway as she headed for the exit. More than one head turned to follow her.
“Are you sure you don’t want her?�
�� Harper asked. “Because you could totally have her.”
“Are you kidding?” Mad’s hold switched from her wrist to her hand, tangling their fingers. “Obviously she has terrible taste in men. What would that say about me?”
Harper nodded. “I guess you’re right about that.”
Then he pulled her around to face him. “So. You claimed me, Harp. That means you have to take me.”
Her heart began thumping hard against her ribs. “Is this a version of you break it, you buy it?”
“I dare you to try.” There was challenge in his voice, heat in his eyes.
She swallowed, but it didn’t help her suddenly dry mouth. “Try?”
“To break me, Harp. Tonight, I dare you to try to break me.”
The remark was sexy, flirtatious, nonthreatening except in the sense that she could see he was in a bossy frame of mind, which had always left her body sated and her mind mush.
Who wouldn’t want that again?
“I’ve been drinking, Detective. I’ll need you to drive me to your place.”
Anticipation setting fire to the warm arousal in his belly, Mad snuck a look at Harper in the passenger seat as he drove home. “You’re not going to sleep on me, are you?”
“Not yet,” she said, looking completely relaxed. “I’m conserving my energy though.”
“Good,” he said, satisfied, as he pulled into his garage.
In the kitchen, he went about making tea.
“What are you doing?” she asked from across the room, her expression puzzled.
He dangled the tea bag, thinking it obvious. “Would you rather have coffee? Wine?”
She shook her head and was silent until he handed her a mug. It was the cinnamon and orange stuff that his sister liked. Over the steam, Harper eyed him as he returned the little box of bags to the pantry. “I’m so mad at you.”
“What?” He frowned. “Why?”
“I’m trying it out. We never had make-up sex, I don’t think. It’s supposed to be great.”
He grinned. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. So I thought I’d add a little spice to the night’s activities.”
“You think we need a little spice, do you?” He went on the prowl, moving toward her with salacious intent. Then he stopped, struck by a serious thought. “Or maybe you are mad at me,” he said quietly.
Her response was instant. “Of course not.”
“Before, Harp. Before I wasn’t…” How to tell her? How to admit to his failing her six years ago without also admitting to things that were long past doing anything about? Was there a point to discussing those strong feelings he’d held so close when they were now water long gone from under the bridge?
“Before was then,” she said, in an echo of what was going through his own mind. “Now is now.” Setting aside the tea, she glanced around the room. “I’ve never had sex in a kitchen either.”
She’d saved him, again. He began approaching once more, relieved, reprieved, and smiled wolfishly. “Do we need to incorporate the countertop? How about a wooden spoon?”
“Wooden spoon? Is that in retaliation for the ‘starchy’ comment?”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he said, and plucked the long-handled, wide-bowled utensil from the crockery jar on the countertop.
As he came closer, she took a step back, and then another. In a quick move, he snaked his arms around her, pressing the spoon to the round of her ass as a device to draw her nearer. Chest to breasts. Her quick inhale pushed them against him and he saw her pupils dilate.
“Mad…” she whispered.
He crushed his mouth to hers.
She gave back as good as she got, the kiss aggressive, her arms twining around his neck in demand. “This, exactly this,” she said against his mouth.
He knew what she meant—what they both wanted. Tonight was about assuaging physical need. Two bodies burning through the chemical combustion that happened when they were together, naked.
Just for that, he might love her.
But of course this wasn’t about those finer feelings at all.
This was about crude, rude, filthy sex.
His fingers dove into the back of her hair, holding her for deep, wet explorations with his tongue, and she was moaning, rubbing herself against the front of him so that his cock ached, hard and pulsing. She shoved up his shirt and he let her push it over his head, the spoon clattering to the floor.
Then her mouth was on his bared skin and he let his head fall back, eyes closing, his hands going to the edge of the countertop to hold on. She traced patterns with her tongue, she flicked his nipples, she took a nip from the skin at his belly, taut with raging desire. Pleasure rocketed through him, each nerve ending tightening into a rabid claw.
Then he felt her fingers at the button of his jeans. The zipper came down. He opened his eyes to see her lowering to her knees, in one hand the squeeze bottle of honey he’d put out for her tea. With a mischievous smile on her mouth, her gaze turned up to his, one brow rising.
If she thought he was going to stop her she was nuts, he thought, as she pushed denim and cotton boxers southward. But no, his wild girl was gauging how well she was slaying him and it was, well, well. His breath caught in his lungs as she lifted the squeeze bottle and let the honey flow, pooling on the head of his cock before slipping down the sides, a cool drizzle compared to the burning heat of his skin.
His fingernails dug into the granite countertop and he cursed under his breath. “Baby.”
She ducked her head to catch the leading drop of liquid and drug her tongue upward, bathing his cock until she reached the crown. Her gaze lifted to his again and he thought he’d die of lust as she took it in the wet heat of her mouth. One hand lifted to cradle his balls.
Then she sucked.
Heat surged through him.
He fought the urge to clamp a hand on her head and to shove his hips forward. Setting his jaw, he let her work at him with her mouth, the suction exquisite, the play of her fingers over his sac a gentle countermove. Watching her cheeks hollow and her lashes flutter down again almost did him in. The sound of his raspy breathing and the wet noises that came from her ministrations only made every sensation sharper. Better.
He might have started begging, but then she slowly let up on him, the pull easing, her tongue going back to caressing, then lapping. With avid eyes, he watched her every move and swallowed a groan as she gracefully got to her feet. With a casual move, she picked up her mug of tea in one hand and then the damn squeeze bottle in the other, turning it upside down to let a lazy line of thick sweetness fall into the mug. Switching her gaze to him, she licked her lips. “Yum,” she said.
A flash of heat burned through him. Out of patience, he toed off his shoes and dispensed with the rest of his clothing. Naked, he took in her wide-eyed expression and felt no remorse for his lack of finesse. Yum, indeed.
“You get undressed now, honey,” he said, leaning down to pick up the spoon.
She eyed it suspiciously. “What are you going to do with that?”
He smacked it against his palm, the splat satisfying. “Incentive,” he said. “I’m in a hurry.”
Mug and honey hit the countertop, but one hand went to her hip instead of her zipper or the hem of her shirt.
He spanked his palm again. “Babe.”
She jumped.
“Hurry.”
“That caveman routine isn’t the turn-on you seem to think,” she began, then he took a step forward and her breath caught with a little gasp. Her shirt flew off, leaving behind the sweetest of light pink lace bras.
Mad felt no compunction about pointing at it with the business end of the wooden spoon. “That too. Now.”
Her breasts bounced as they were released from their confines.
He smiled as reward, but didn’t back off. “Get rid of the rest.”
“You’re bossy,” she said, even as she obeyed.
“You love it,” he countered, then tried not to sing hallelujahs a
s the rest of her was revealed, smooth skin, flushed and feminine. He was close enough to smell her arousal, mixed with a light perfume that dizzied him.
Curling his fingers, he beckoned her. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Her lashes swept down and he prepared for defiance, but then she walked to him, cuddled close. One of his arms curled around her waist and he rubbed the spoon against her rump, letting the cool wooden surface caress her skin. She shivered and he lowered his head to kiss the side of her neck, sucking to leave a mark.
The sight of it made him want to possess her wholly. Need to possess her.
“You still like the idea of the kitchen?” he asked against her ear.
She shivered again, and her voice trembled too. “Anything. Anywhere.”
This time it was he who grabbed the honey and he pulled back just far enough to squeeze a dollop on each of her nipples. They budded more tightly, their color a deep pink. God.
Tossing sweetener and spoon aside, he swept her into his arms only to set her down again, on the two-person kitchen table. Then he bent to her body, intent to make her crazy by doing his own sucking, licking, laving. Her hands were in his hair, nails biting into his scalp in demand as he took each breast into the cups of his hands, plumping them for better access.
His need for her was voracious and he took her with greedy hunger, until she was shaking, her breath coming in quick pulls. “Mad,” she pleaded. “Please, Mad.”
The desire in her voice shredded his control. Without thinking, he quickly turned her onto the table, setting her on hands and knees. Wide-eyed, she looked at him over her shoulder and he almost lost it at the sight of her, that body, ass-up, her gorgeous face, expression saying she was willing to let him do anything.
Jeans. Wallet. Foil-wrapped condom. In record time he took care of that particular chore and then he was behind her, looking down at that ass, then up to her face again. “Okay?” His hand stroked along her spine.
Her eyes shut and this time it was a full-body shudder. “Mad. Mad.”
He cupped his latex-covered cock, pumping it, then played his fingers along her soft, pleated flesh, feeling the wetness there, the readiness. He fit himself to her slick channel, then gripped her hip as he pushed, penetrating by degrees, slow, slow, until he was all the way in and held there.
SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club Book 4) Page 15