by Julia Kent
And just then, the doors open.
He grabs my hand and directs me to the condo. Until we bought the estate, this was his home. Nicely decorated in a nautical theme, but nothing like the Weston estate. A bachelor pad. A way station.
An in-between point.
From behind, his body presses into me, his hands on both ass cheeks, moving up, savoring the moment and trust me, there’s plenty for him to savor.
“You have the best ass,” he murmurs against my neck, kissing my shoulder, his hot, hard thighs pressing against my hips, his hot, hard something else sliding up against me, making promises I know we’re about to keep. Between his lips, his rock-hard body, and those hands moving around to engulf me, thumbs on nipples, teasing me to a frenzy, all I know is I want him. Naked, hot, in me.
Now.
His hands slide into my waistband, the crossing of that line so titillating, so sensuous. We live lives made of thousands of boundaries, socially appropriate litmus tests that help us to define our edges. Having this man cross those lines because I’ve invited him in is a moment of beauty, of release, of letting go of the lines that define – and bind.
I close my eyes and give in to his touch, taking all he offers, his fingers moving to give me pleasure, my breath suddenly gone, abandoning my lungs to make room for what Andrew does to me.
Breathing is an automatic response, but I have to remind myself to do it, hyperaware as heat floods me, his touch focused. He grins against my neck, the sublime torment making my knees turn numb, then give.
Andrew lifts me into his arms and as clichéd as can be, carries me to bed. Our bed. It used to be his, but now and forever it is ours, in this place that is, like so much of our life, between phases.
We haven’t been here in a while, but my mind orients itself. There is the sliding glass door with the view of the bay. Here is the white and blue striped duvet, the cool cotton welcoming me as Andrew strips off my shirt, his bare chest eye-level to me now as we move faster and faster to unwind, undress, unmoor in order to unleash ourselves from our personal restraints and join together.
My hips rise up as I hurriedly strip off my clothes and soon, but not soon enough, here we are, that first moment of full, naked embrace more delicious than any other. It’s the sense of there you are that comes each time we do this, every night we fall into bed with lust.
Every. Single. Time.
Will it fade over time? I take his face in my hands and find him staring back with the same questions, those deep eyes telling me the questions don’t matter. As his mouth finds my breast and his lips and tongue take the words away, I seek him out, too, palms and fingers dancing over his skin, encouraging him to join me, touch me, be with me, fall into the space we have here, away from the world, because it is ours.
No one else’s.
Moving to my other breast, Andrew flashes me a brief look of dark need, the kind that instantly jolts my sense of propriety. He has this way of making me feel like all of the carnal pleasures of the world are right and good and just, and letting him show me is the path to righteousness. He’s big, powerful, muscles shining in the dark as the moon is the only light we have in here, and when I reach down, enjoying the way he groans, deep in his throat, when I wrap my fingers around his erection, I know I’m powerful, too.
“Every time I think I can’t want you more, I’m surprised,” he says as I move down his body, licking his skin, tasting the essence of this man who has changed my life for the better in so many ways. His abs curl, hardening at my feathery touch, and when I envelop him with my mouth he groans, hands finding my hair, fingers thanking me.
Sooner than I anticipate, he moves me over him, pivoting our bodies so that his mouth can do the same to me, his tongue finding the spot on me that makes me start to shake, our mutual pleasure hard to maintain as receiving and giving become too twinned, too hard to extract from each other. That is a point of making love, isn’t it? To forget where you end and they begin. To make all boundaries to pleasure dissolve.
The sense of pure excitement and deep restfulness Andrew elicits in me is an inner paradise I cannot compare with any external experience. We move without speaking, knowing it’s time for him to come into me, for me to wrap around him, for the joining to be as complete as possible because it is all we have.
Andrew’s mouth finds mine, the taste of me on him, the tangy connection making me smile against his lips. He pauses, looming over me, eyes amused.
“What?”
“This. You. Us. We spent the last two weeks on the weirdest honeymoon possible, and we had to escape our own home to make love.”
“We chose this, Amanda. Just like I chose you.” His hands move over me, roaming as he exhales, a long, ragged sound of pent-up craving. “I love you. You know that. And I love this.”
At his last words, he enters me, the feeling slow and filling, wet and all-consuming. As a boat moves in the distance, the bass tones of its horn filling the air, I hear the sounds of the city below, the push of the ocean, the hush of Andrew’s breath in my ear, the steady, sonorous sound of his heartbeat filling my blood.
We crash together, complete and hungry, sated and relieved, yet left with the unrelenting reality that we have limits to how close we can be to each other in these bodies made of mortal skin and bone. Our energy, though, is endless.
And lives on and on in love.
Morning light wakes me up, one arm around Andrew’s naked waist, fingers casually brushing against part of his happy trail, the ticklish feel a delightfully domestic way to start the day. My other arm is curled under my pillow, propping up my head. A piece of hair is stuck to my lip. Which hand do I use?
Splaying my palm against his bare belly, I enjoy the feel of him. Post-sex sleep is the absolute best. Waking up naked and sticky and tasting of him is even better.
Habit makes me sit up and turn to my nightstand, reaching for my purse for my birth control pills. And then I remember last night. Our conversation in the car.
Andrew lets out a long, stretchy sigh, turning over with kinetic force driven by a man who needs to pump blood throughout his limbs. One limb is standing firmly at attention, the male experience of morning wood still amusingly fascinating to me.
“Hello,” he says with a sexy, hazy grin. “What are you doing?”
“Contemplating.”
“It’s too early for that. C’mere.” I do as I’m told and lean down for a kiss. His mouth gives me a morning hello I can’t ignore.
“What are you contemplating?”
“My pill.”
“Your pill?”
“It’s in my purse. In the living room.”
“Is it? What are you – oh.” His voice goes low. Eyes go soft. Then they light up. “Really?”
“Really, what?”
“You’re really considering stopping it?”
“We talked about it last night,” I say quickly, feeling foolish. “I guess I misunderstood. I was just – ”
I’m silenced with an even better kiss.
“We did talk about it last night,” he says, serious and tender, taking my hand in his, looking at it carefully as he entwines our fingers, one by one, as if taking vows. “Have you come to a decision?”
“It’s not my decision. It’s ours.”
“Then let’s decide.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“It feels like an easy choice. And then I feel like it shouldn’t be so easy. That if it’s easy, it’s wrong, and if it’s wrong, it’s – ”
Another kiss silences me.
“Amanda,” he says, those topaz eyes changing color as I lose myself in them, his mouth luscious and tasting like all those possibilities I’ve felt my entire life about love. “What do you want?”
“You.”
“I know that. What else? I already know what I want.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want, Andrew?”
He shows me.
But then again, that’s the man I married: he knows what he wants.
And now, so do I.
;)
Thank you so much for reading about Andrew and Amanda’s honeymoon! To learn more about my future books, release dates, to read excerpts and to get the lowdown on special sales, join my newsletter by visiting my website at jkentauthor.com
Looking for a fun book to sink into? Try Our Options Have Changed, a spinoff series based on the Shopping series! Andrew, Amanda, Shannon, Declan, and more of your favorites from the Shopping series have cameo parts…
Having it all is a fantasy, right?
Chloe Browne knows all about fantasy. Fantasy is her job.
And she’s very, very good at what she does.
As director of design for the O Spa chain, a sophisticated women’s club that is trending its way into being the Next Big Thing, Chloe’s ready to take on the world.
One baby at a time.
Her home study’s done, and she’s about to adopt, a thirty-something single mother by choice. Who needs to put her life on hold for the right guy when the right baby is waiting for her?
Besides, talk about fantasy.
The right guy?
Pfft. Right.
And then in walks Nick Grafton, with those commanding sapphire eyes and wavy blonde hair and a sophisticated mouth that only smiles for her.
He’s perfect.
But the last thing Nick wants is to start fresh with a new baby as his college-age kids fly the coop. A single father for more than fifteen years after his wife walked out on her family, Nick finally tastes freedom.
But he likes the taste of Chloe more.
Read an excerpt now:
NICK
It takes everything in me not to smile at her.
Everything.
She’s a pro. Sophisticated and smooth, gracious and composed, well-versed and well-informed. Chloe Browne moves with a confidence that gives the air in this stuffy conference room an erotic charge. Her dark hair, so smooth it must be soft. A body that doesn’t quit. Those brown eyes—tilted slightly, yet paradoxically round. Alert and intelligent, they take in the room.
I’m watching her. It’s my job to watch her.
And she’s watching me.
Days like this make me love my job.
Her mouth stretches with a delighted precision, as if she were waiting for someone to ask my question. Electricity shoots through me. She’s four steps ahead of the rest of us, a chess player who thinks in dimensions, not boards.
One corner of my mouth rebels and rises.
“A great question, Nick.” Her lips part slightly. The tip of her tongue slowly touches the edge of her top teeth. Then she gives me a sultry half-grin and says, “Integrating new positions into our body has been so exciting.”
I did not imagine that.
Chloe’s flushes. “I mean, integrating new locations into our body of work has been exciting.” She clears her throat, squares her shoulders, and continues. “New Orleans is the prototype. O’s brand ties in to Anterdec’s brand as a luxury option for insiders. People in the know.”
“Your maiden voyage.” Not smiling is impossible.
Her lip curls up, a mirror image of my own. “This is virgin territory, yes.”
Andrew McCormick’s eyebrow shoots up as Amanda Warrick’s face goes deceptively blank.
“Love the innuendo. Fits nicely with the sensual branding that O cultivates,” Andrew says, his words snapping like the sound of buttons on a tailored woman’s shirt popping off, as I tear it open in the throes of passion.
Or something like that.
“The Big Easy.” Chloe lets that hang in the air, her eyes opening just slightly, then narrowing.
We’re playing a game. I don’t know the rules, but I sure do like handling the pieces.
“How easy?”
Andrew happens to be drinking from his coffee cup as Amanda asks that question, his throat spasming with the kind of hacking that provokes a sympathetic wince from the rest of us.
He glares in response.
At me.
There is a moment when you look at a woman for the first time. It’s an up or down moment. Thumbs up: yes, I’ll sleep with her. Thumbs down: she never enters my consciousness again sexually.
Chloe gets considerably more than a thumb’s-worth of up from me.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair and try to wrest control back from the strange tension that has infused the room.
This is a business meeting. Branding. My specialty is branding, and on paper, Chloe’s spa line has some serious weaknesses. Significant investment in an unproven market means that high risk needs to pay off.
You can’t put that kind of trust in just anyone.
“Very easy,” Chloe replies, reaching for a clicker and pulling up a PowerPoint spreadsheet. “Take a look at O Boston. Here’s the initial investment. Here’s the profit and loss statement.”
“Seventy-three percent growth in Year Two?” Andrew lets out a low whistle. My shoulders relax. I had no idea they were tight.
My pants are tighter.
Why am I invested in whether the CEO of Anterdec buys into the O Spa expansion? Until three minutes ago, this was just another pitch.
“Hold on,” Amanda interrupts. “That line for marketing and advertising. That figure is impossibly small. Did you forget a digit?”
Andrew gives Amanda a satisfied smirk. “A typo would explain that crazy profitability.” He leans back and reaches for his phone. When Andrew McCormick reaches for his phone in a meeting, it’s over.
“No.”
Chloe’s single word rings out like a gunshot.
Andrew’s hand freezes.
“That is not a mistake. Word of mouth is our primary form of advertisement.”
Andrew makes a grunt I know too well. It’s the sound I make when one of my college-age kids asks to borrow the car for a week. In Mexico.
“Isn’t that a little too 1990s?”
“Every customer who walks through our doors converts.”
“One hundred percent?” Andrew’s eyes telescope. “You’re certain?”
Click. A new graph appears.
“And each of those customers brings in an average of 3.8 new clients?” Amanda says, reading the slide.
“And that’s without paid advertising?” Andrew says skeptically.
Chloe remains unflappable as they read and analyze, talking about O as if she weren’t the expert. “Yes. In fact, our business model is counter-intuitive. The more we advertise, the less we sell.”
I frown. “That’s impossible.”
“No, Nick,” she says, her voice like velvet and chocolate. “That’s O.”
“You’re saying there’s some disconnect between paid ads and foot traffic?” Amanda asks.
“It’s lifestyle,” I murmur. “The advertising taints the allure. The appeal is in the secrecy. In being told by someone in the know. Women want to be part of the exclusivity, and it’s not special if everyone knows about it.”
Chloe studies me.
“Like an affair?” Andrew asks. Amanda glares at him.
Chloe pales. It’s the first hint of insecurity in her, and it intrigues me. This is a complicated woman.
She recovers quickly. “No. This is nothing like an affair. An affair is a secret because of shame. O is a secret because of pride.” She squares her shoulders and blinks exactly once, mouth slack and flat, devoid of emotion.
Andrew’s voice goes tight. “This is also nothing like any profit and loss statement I’ve ever read. It’s either brilliant or a giant waste of money.”
“Brilliant.” The word’s out of my mouth before I even decide to say it. Our business meeting has lost all pretense of being a corporate affair. Chloe’s chest rises and falls rapidly, yet her breath makes no sound.
“You’re telling me that Anterdec should make a significant investment in a subsector of the spa industry by trying
an unproven and sweeping lifestyle niche—the fourth space—based on a blip in a spreadsheet and promises that word-of-mouth marketing is superior to data analytics we can track on paid ads?” Andrew makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.
“No,” Chloe says, before I can blurt out the opposite. “We have data analytics as well.”
Click.
“Does that column actually say ‘sex toys’?” Andrew asks, giving Amanda an arched eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me that they—”
“The average client owns 3.2 devices.”
“Only 3.2?” Amanda mumbles.
Did Andrew just kick her under the table?
I don’t care who is screwing whom at the company, but knowing who is screwing whom is strategically important. Catalogue that.
“Before they begin patronizing O, that was the figure. After two months of membership, that average increases to 7.9,” Chloe explains.
Amanda interrupts her. “Do we sell batteries and chargers on-site at the O spas? If not, we need to.”
Andrew raises an eyebrow and tents his hands, index fingers pressed against his lips. “Good point.”
What’s next? An O Spa porn channel? I almost open my mouth, but stop.
Because they might take me seriously.
“I will add batteries and chargers to our inventory. Great suggestion. All devices purchased on-site,” Chloe says to Amanda. “All via careful customer relations management that allows staff to learn their preferences and anticipate their...”
“Kinks?” I ask helpfully.
“Preferences is the term I would use,” Chloe says, her voice smooth as silk. “We optimize our device sales. Private label, all made in the USA, no BPA—”
It occurs to me that this is the first professional meeting I’ve ever attended where the casual discussion of sex toys as a profit-making venture has been a primary topic. Staying cool is key. The CEO acts like we’re discussing cars or magazines or lamps.
I wonder what Chloe’s preferences are.
All 7.9 of them.
Then again, she’s hardly average. Bet her number is higher. That mesh corset, after all.
Down, boy.
I raise my hand to a spot above my ear and run a tense hand through my hair. Across the table from me, Andrew McCormick does the same. With great concentration, I return my attention to the screen, where it should be, and not on Chloe Browne’s cleavage.