Hamptons Heartbreak: A Sizzling Summer Romance (A New York City Romance Book 4)

by Tara Leigh

  “She picked the paint colors, furniture. She’s making it look nice.”

  “Your girlfriend is an interior designer?”

  I think so. “Exactly.”

  “You hit the jackpot, Lance. When can we meet her?”

  “Hey,” Tripp cuts in. “Is she staying with you? We could swing by to pick her up. It’s no problem.”

  “No. She already had plans,” I say quickly. Even if Vivienne is free tonight, it will be obvious I’m stretching the truth (cough, outright lying, cough) before we pull out of my driveway.

  “Oh.” Jolie makes a disappointed sound as we stop at the gated entrance of the Kendrick estate, the engine idling while a security guard in a white polo, khaki pants, and a side holstered Glock checks our IDs. Once we’re waved through, I count half a dozen similarly attired men patrolling the perimeter of the hulking, Nantucket-style behemoth where Ken Kendrick and his wife spend most of their summer weekends. I’m sure there are more guards inside and at the rear of the house as well. Besides the combined wealth of their invited guests, the Kendrick’s art collection is worth billions.

  Two servers stand sentry inside the front door, one holding a tray of champagne flutes, the other copper mugs. Jolie goes for the champagne while Tripp and I each accept a Moscow mule, then continue into the heart of the house where double sets of French doors have been flung open to a vast stone patio and manicured garden. There are plenty of people inside, but most are congregated outside, taking full advantage of the afternoon sun and priceless ocean view.

  Kendrick is holding court on the patio, but he breaks off when the three of us walk up. “Jolie and Tripp, so good to see you.” His eyes, dark and wide-set on his broad face, flick to me. “And is this the wunderkind from the West Coast I’ve heard so much about?”

  I extend my hand. “Wunderkind’s a mouthful. My friends call me Lance.”

  We make small talk for a few minutes before Jolie gets stolen away by one of her friends. Ken says, “Word on the Street is that RiskTaker is getting to be more than just a powerhouse on the cyber scene. I’ve been hearing that you’re doing some pretty incredible things in the city. Ever think about expanding your reach?”

  Tripp and I share a glance. “Actually, that’s exactly what we’re hoping to do.”

  He gestures toward a nearby seating area. “I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Not so fast.” A beautiful blonde squeezes Ken’s shoulder, a diamond the size of a golf ball nearly blinding me. “You promised no business talk today. Remember what the doctor said—less stress, more relaxation.”

  “We’re talking philanthropy, not business.”

  “Even worse. You’ll give yourself another heart attack competing with Gates and Buffet for ‘Most Charitable Billionaire.’”

  He makes a grating chuckle. “I’m not that bad.”

  “You are and you know it.” The blonde turns to me and introduces herself as Ken’s wife—not that I had any doubt. She’s clearly the 2.0 version and is at least half his age. “Did I hear you say you’re new to the Hamptons?”

  I decide not to share that I spent the first sixteen years of my life a few miles and a world away from here. “My very first weekend, actually.”

  Her expression brightens. “Babe, I need to steal him from you. I have to introduce him to all my girlfriends.”

  Ken frowns. “So, you get to play matchmaker, but I can’t talk business?”

  “I thought you were talking philanthropy,” she says with a toss of her head as she slips her arm through the crook of my elbow.

  I let her drag me a few feet before schooling my face into a rueful expression. “Actually, I’m seeing someone.”

  But it doesn’t have the intended effect. Undaunted, Kitty barely blinks. “Is she here?”

  “No. She couldn’t—”

  “Her loss then.” She tugs at me, breasts that could double as flotation devices rubbing my biceps.

  Two hours later, I’m back in the Rover with Tripp and Jolie. “That fucking sucked,” I mutter as he shifts into drive. Kitty Kendrick made me her personal pet project, introducing me to every single female, and several very interested wives, at the party. I barely had the chance to speak with Ken, or any of the other Wall Street legends he’d invited, for longer than a few minutes at a time, and never without a woman hanging off my arm.

  Tripp chuckles. “I probably should have warned you. It’s never a good idea to come alone to these things.”

  “I didn’t. I came with you two.” Like a third wheel.

  Jolie yawns. “And next time you’ll bring Vivienne.”

  I’m swallowing my frustration with a beer when I hear the front door open, the slap of flip-flops on tile. Vivienne rounds the corner, coming into the kitchen wearing a tiny tank top and white shorts, the hair escaping from one of her messy buns held back by a pair of sunglasses perched on her head.

  “Welcome home,” I say, realizing it’s the truth. She’s made this house feel like a home to me already.

  But Vivienne clearly isn’t expecting me. She jumps half a foot, dropping one of the grocery bags she’s carrying as her hand flies to her chest. “Jesus, you scared me.”

  Tomatoes scatter across the kitchen floor like balls across a pool table.

  “Sorry,” I offer, collecting the fruit back into the bag, though I know the grin on my face doesn’t match the apology. Vivienne looks damn good, scared or not. Definitely better than any of the women I met today. All fake tans and fake smiles.

  She sets the other bag on the countertop and eyes my distinctly Hamptons attire. “Did you just get back?”

  “A few hours ago. I was at a barbecue.” There hadn’t been a burger or bowl of potato salad in sight, although a Michelin-rated chef had grilled racks of lamp and Kobe beef sliders.

  “Look at you, diving right into the Hampton’s social scene.” Vivienne turns her back on me and begins unloading groceries.

  “And you? Any more pop-up shops?”

  She laughs. “No. Just a couple of staging jobs.”

  “Staging?” I try to imagine Vivienne as some kind of roadie.

  She stacks a few plastic containers and puts them in the refrigerator. “You know, making a house look pretty.”

  “Oh. Like you’ve done here.”

  “Kind of. Staging is mostly moving around furniture, decluttering, and accessorizing. But don’t worry,” she shakes a baguette at me, “I’ve been working on this house, too.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She stows the bread on the counter and starts rinsing peaches, arranging them inside a bowl she slides in front of me. “Have one. I picked them up from my favorite farmer’s market. They’re amazing.”

  I fight a smile as I take one and bite into it. It’s nice to be looked after. Completely foreign, but nice. Vivienne hands me a napkin with a smile on her face.

  “What?”

  “Just . . .” She takes the napkin back and dabs at the nectar dribbling down my chin. “You’re making a mess.”

  I plant my feet wide and pull her closer, holding the peach to her mouth. “Bite.”

  The fire within her bright-green eyes kindles to life. “Sweet.”

  Her kiss is sweeter. “Miss me?” I whisper against Vivienne’s lips.

  “You were only gone for two nights. I managed.” She takes a breath, pushing lightly against my chest. I let her go, watching her putter around the kitchen from beneath heavy lids as I finish the rest of the peach.

  “I met up with a friend yesterday. Savannah, the one who got me this job, actually.” She opens the refrigerator door and puts away the last of the groceries. “Apparently, Seth found everyone who had been staying here a new place. Savannah said the house is a shack in comparison, and there’s no pool. And it’s in Quogue.”

  Quogue. I cough. What an asshole. “They got their money back though, right?”

  “Yes. But they’re all furious anyway. I almost feel bad for Seth.”

  I scoff
, looking away from Vivienne to wipe at the ring of condensation my beer left on the countertop. “Don’t.”

  I feel her gaze on me for another moment, then she folds up the paper bags and stows them in a cabinet. “I also went to an outdoor furniture showroom. We haven’t talked much about the exterior space, but I have a few ideas if you’d like—”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, to what?”

  “Yes, I’d like to make use of the exterior space. And yes, I’d like to hear your ideas.”

  A smile curves her lips. “Really?”

  “Of course.” I gesture at the rooms behind me. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  Vivienne digs into her purse and pulls out several brochures and a notebook, but before she shows them to me, she hugs them to her chest. “Do you want to check with your friend first, see if it’s okay?”

  Confusion pulls at my brows. “What friend?”

  “The owner. I hope he wasn’t too upset by how much everything’s cost him already.”

  Oh, right. My friend, the fake owner of my house. “He has more money than he knows what to do with,” I say. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Vivienne’s concern evaporates as she pushes the barstool out of her way and stands by my side, fanning the brochures across the stone surface and flipping her notebook open. On a piece of graph paper, she’s drawn a scaled plan of the patio and yard. “So, I was thinking five angled lounges here,” she unfolds one of the pamphlets and taps on a chair circled in red pen. “And then over there . . .”

  For the next ten minutes, she takes me through her plans for the pool deck, plus a dining area, gazebo, and firepit surrounded by chairs. I’m paying attention, but I’m mostly breathing in Vivienne’s scent, savoring her husky voice, and sneaking glances at her mouth. Color has risen on her cheeks, and she’s speaking with both passion and authority.

  “So,” she finishes, “what do you think? It’s a lot, I know, and I don’t expect you to agree to everything. I can definitely scale it down, take out the—”

  “Don’t take out a thing,” I say, covering her hand with mine. “It’s perfect. Well, almost perfect.”

  She looks from my face to the graph paper, scrutinizing her plan with a frown for several minutes before looking back up at me.

  “There’s no hammock.”

  Confusion gives way to amusement. “I didn’t think you’d want a hammock after nearly breaking your back.”

  I pluck the sunglasses from Vivienne’s head and slide my hands around her waist, interlocking my fingers at the base of her spine. “Oh, I want a hammock. But this time, I’ll install the damn thing myself.”

  She stiffens, uncertainty dimming the brightness of her expression as hesitation flickers in her eyes. But her internal struggle is resolved before I can ask about it, and Vivienne relaxes into my arms. “Please tell me you have a tool belt around somewhere. And that you’re not opposed to working shirtless.”

  “I will, if you tell me you’ve reconsidered that rule about not sleeping with anyone in the house.”

  “I have.” She grins. “It was a stupid rule.”

  A growl crawls up my throat, and I capture Vivienne’s lips in a fierce kiss. Looks like a trip to Home Depot is in my future.

  Chapter 20

  Vivienne

  The desire thrumming through my veins is greedy and impatient as Lance climbs the stairs, taking them two at a time with me in his arms. Pressed up against his torso, every pulse of his heart taps against my breast like a primal drumbeat.

  Savannah was spot-on. I was still making choices based on my relationship with Richard, still giving him power over me that he never earned and certainly doesn’t deserve. This is the summer of me, and if I want to see where things with Lance lead, then that’s what I’ll do.

  Lance is like a gift that shows up out of the blue.

  Completely unexpected and utterly irresistible.

  I want this. I want him.

  My instinct in the hammock was right—I should just go for it.

  When we get to the master bedroom, he kicks the door behind him and leans back against it, capturing my mouth in a heated kiss. He tastes like the peach he ate in the kitchen. Sweet and tart and delicious. Everything about him is strong and hard and solid. But this kiss . . . there’s a ferocity to the way Lance’s mouth explores mine, the way he nips at my lips and sucks on my tongue.

  My hands slip into his hair, gripping and pulling at the strands I gather inside my fists. And there’s a low growl that vibrates inside his chest as it climbs up his throat. I swallow every husky, hungry decibel like a glutton, pulling Lance’s audible lust deep into my lungs. It fills me, soothing and stimulating, in equal measure.

  Slowly, his hands lower to palm my ass, kneading the flesh as he allows me to slide down the hard plane of his body. Once the soles of my feet touch the ground, Lance pulls my shirt over my head, then his own, walking me backward until my calves hit the mattress.

  He drags in a deep breath, his hands settling on my shoulders as his eyes scan my face like searchlights. “Are we good?”

  Good doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling right now. I want Lance. I need his mouth and hands and, dear God, finally, finally—his cock. “Yeah,” I manage to rasp, “we’re good.”

  The scrutiny of his gaze fades, replaced by a swirling mix of desire and tenderness. I dissolve in the face of it, my body turning liquid. I fall onto the bed, pulled downward by the gravity of my desire, and brace myself with my palms as I stare up at the hulk of a man before me. The lines of Lance’s body are boldly drawn, every ridge and muscle brought to life on a grand scale by an artisan with swagger in every stroke.

  A moan escapes my throat as Lance pushes a knee between my thighs into the mattress. Because the bed frame is low to the ground and Lance is definitely not, the bulge inside his trousers is directly at eye level. I reach for his waistband, working the button and zipper with clumsy, frantic fingers. They fall to the floor, followed by his boxer briefs.

  I’ve seen Lance’s dick before. Several times. And I’ve felt the hard bulge of it against me. Also, several times. But right now, I am desperate for a taste of it, of him. Reverently, I cup his balls in my hands, my mouth already open as I bend down to him. There’s already a drop of pre-cum at the center of his thick, swollen crown. I lick that first, a salty, viscous pearl that tastes like three decades of distilled testosterone. The essence of Lance himself.

  And then I lick every inch of his shaft, from root to tip, my lips stretched over him, my tongue swirling over all that smooth, hot, sensitive skin.

  A low groan rumbles from deep inside Lance’s chest, his fingers pushing through my hair, loosening the rubber band holding it captive and grasping mounds of it within his fists. Just as I begin to take him deep inside my mouth, Lance jerks away from my touch and pulls me up. In no time at all, he’s stretched out on the bed, flat on his back, and I am lifted, turned, and positioned over him. Literally.

  My thighs are spread wide on either side of Lance’s head, my pussy directly over his mouth. His cock is pointed at my lips, an arrow of lust I’m only too happy to devour.

  I swear my eyes roll back in their sockets, overcome by the double whammy of Lance’s tongue parting my folds, exploring the part of me that’s been weeping for him, and his thick crown hitting the back of my throat, then delving deeper.

  I’ve never done this. Never had a man go down on me while I’m doing the same to him. Pure, sensual pleasure spikes through my nerve endings, acting as a shut-off switch inside my brain. There is no thinking in this position. Everything I’m doing is pure instinct.

  Stroking his cock while pulling his balls into my mouth. Sucking each one individually until I manage to accommodate both. Releasing them to feast on Lance’s cock again. Taking it so deep that I can’t breathe, I can’t see. I’m drowning in pleasure, my pussy convulsing, my throat muscles spasming.

  My hips grind into Lance’s face. His tongue, his teet
h. His fingers searching out the most sensitive parts of my body.

  As his dick begins to jerk inside my mouth, sending streams of liquid heat sliding down the back of my tongue and into my throat, I feel something pressing against my ass. Firmly, insistently. I cleave open for him, my ass clutching at Lance’s thick finger. First one, then two.

  I explode. It’s too much. There is no orifice in my body that Lance hasn’t breached. No inch of skin he hasn’t licked or sucked or bitten.

  Just when I think I want to curl beside him and sleep for the next decade, he lifts me up, as easily and securely as he did before. Like I am a small pet to be played with. To be picked up and stroked and adored.

  I taste myself on Lance’s mouth as he kisses me. A muskiness that’s not at all unpleasant, mixed with the lingering sweetness of peach.

  His mouth is surprisingly tender. Almost as if he noticed my brief hesitation in the kitchen and is searching out any lingering resistance, any hidden reluctance. But there is none. My body is exhausted, but not sated. Not even close.

  I still want more. So much more.

  There is a pulsing between my thighs, at my very core, that will not be satisfied until Lance is buried deep inside me. I want to be stretched wide by his thickness. I want his crown to kiss my womb. I want to watch his face as he succumbs to the grip of my pussy, the heat of the fire blazing inside of me.

  I want to melt into him, and him into me.

  Chapter 21

  Lance

  I made a volcano for a school project once. A hard cone with a latent, liquid center. It remained dormant until I added the very last ingredient, the reactant. Then, everything inside surged to the top, pouring over the sides in a smoky, bubbling mess.

  Vivienne Radcliffe is my reactant. The additive that makes everything inside me expand until the hard shell of my body can no longer contain it all.

  Literally and figuratively.

  My dick is already hard again. For her. Because of her. The press of her breasts against my chest, the scrape of her fingernails over the back of my neck, and that low moan of hers that pools inside my ears like liquid honey.