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

by Tara Leigh

Pushing her thighs farther apart, I curl my fingers inside the lace of her panties and slowly, so slowly, rip it in two.

  Bare, Vivienne’s pussy is a thing of beauty. A work of art.

  A treasure to be pillaged.

  Sliding my thumbs inside her folds, I part her already glistening lips, my eyes feasting on the swollen nub of her clit peeking out from beneath its hood.

  Each inhale is laced with Vivienne’s heady sweetness, cut by the sharpness of the chlorine. I press my nose into the cleft of her cunt, my tongue eager to explore and taste. With her on the pool deck and me in the water, I don’t have as much freedom as I’d like to spread her out, to bend her to my will, licking and sucking and biting more than just this small slice of heaven spread before me.

  But I make do, throwing her knees over my shoulders, grabbing her ass again and pulling her almost off the edge. Enough so that her narrow crack, with its tightly pleated pucker, winks at me. I run my tongue over the silken seam connecting it to her pussy.

  A growl works its way up from deep in the pit of my stomach, exploding from my throat. I’m hungry for her, so goddamn hungry.

  Burrowing my face between Vivienne’s thighs, I eat her until the proof of her arousal runs down my cheeks and streaks my neck. Until my ears ring with her moans and pleas and desperate, desperate cries.

  The one place I haven’t lavished with attention, her clit, is a deep, glistening pink. Glinting at me like a fat, over-ripe grape. My lips finally close around it, sucking it between my teeth with just enough roughness that the pain intensifies the pleasure. Vivienne screams, her hands plowing into my hair and grabbing tufts of it within her fists, yanking hard.

  Fuck, it feels good.

  As good as her thighs clamped around my face. As good as her ankles locked behind my neck and pulling me close, then closer. Until every sense is filled with Vivienne: taste, touch, sight, and scent. Even sound, her screams muffled but audible.

  My arms are wrapped around her, my hands under her ass, squeezing her cheeks. She’s grinding her pussy against my mouth, arching her back. Lost to everything but me.

  Lost to the arbitrary restrictions she put in place two weeks ago.

  There’s a feeling of victory when she shudders against me. Victory in knowing I’ve broken down the walls she erected between us.

  The thrill of possession curls around my ribs as she finally gives in to my mouth, sinking into the swirling current of her body’s own desires. Claiming her release with a sharp scream and, a moment later, a guttural sigh.

  But it’s when she says my name in a decidedly different way, not even a distant cousin to the soft syllable she breathed when I first pulled her against me, that I know I haven’t actually broken down that wall between us.

  Worse. I may have reinforced it.

  Chapter 32

  Vivienne

  What just happened? I went out to ask Lance if I could borrow his car to meet up with Savannah when—

  Christ. That was . . .

  That was . . .

  I don’t even know what that was. I mean, I know what it was. But my mind hasn’t caught up with my body. Aftershocks are still rolling through me, my bones vibrating inside my skin.

  I should regret it. After all, I was the one to insist we remain platonic if I were on his payroll.

  But the way Lance looked at me—desperation and desire burning inside his gaze—ignited something deep inside my soul. This hulk of a man wanting me, needing me so badly he was willing to beg for a taste.

  I couldn’t resist.

  I’m falling so damn hard for a man who will break my heart into pieces. But at that moment, and even now, knowing how much pain Lance will cause, I don’t regret my decision.

  It would have hurt more to refuse. To be staring straight into Lance’s too beautiful, too expressive face . . . and deny him anything.

  I’m not that strong.

  Instead, I spread my legs and cried his name and reveled in the pleasure he offered.

  So much pleasure.

  And now, I’ll never be able to look at Lance again, at his lips and teeth and tongue, without imagining how damn magical they’d been between my thighs.

  I am such a hypocrite.

  Because I’m not just pretending in public. I’m pretending in private, too.

  Pretending I’m not falling for Lance a little more every day.

  And it’s terrifying.

  I’m not ready for this. Six weeks ago, I thought I was living the dream. Dream job. Dream boyfriend. Dream apartment. And just like a dream, when I finally woke up, it was all gone.

  Pleasure, too, is temporary. But at least the memory of it will stay with me for a lifetime.

  Unlike Lance himself. Nothing we just did alters the facts of our arrangement. Lance’s intentions haven’t changed. When summer ends, so will we.

  I can live in Lance’s house, drive his Maserati, and wear the clothes he bought me, but this life isn’t mine. Lance isn’t mine.

  I’m just the hired help. Again.

  Brushing away unwanted tears, I pull on a new pair of panties and run downstairs, grabbing Lance’s car keys from the kitchen counter. I can’t hide in my room all day, reliving the echo of his mouth between my thighs, his hands squeezing my ass, his tongue doing the most magical things to my body.

  The man makes me feel like a bundle of ill-fitting bones held together by a short-circuiting network of nerves and synapses. And even though an orgasm slammed into me just minutes ago, there’s still a part of me that feels hollow and unfulfilled. Completely empty.

  I’m just pulling in to the parking lot of Buddaberry, where I plan to satisfy that emptiness by devouring a vat of frozen yogurt, when my phone rings. Shit. “Hey,” I answer shakily. “I’m sorry for taking your car without—”

  “I don’t care about that,” he cuts me off. “Are you okay?”

  My eyes automatically drop to my Fitbit. Almost noon and I’ve walked less than two thousand steps. But my legs are still tingling and already sore. With his head between my thighs, Lance can make me feel like I’ve run a marathon while sitting down. “Define okay.”

  “Do you regret what just happened?”

  I hesitate, not sure how to explain the way I’m feeling. Without opening myself up completely, making myself entirely vulnerable to a man who doesn’t feel the same way I do. Want the same thing I want. “Do you?”

  “Fuck, no. Nothing tastes better than you coming on my tongue.”

  By some miracle I manage to snag a table, and Savannah breezes in a few minutes later. “I swear, I drool all week long, just waiting to get back to this place.”

  I nod in agreement, my mouth already full of coconut and chocolate and fresh raspberries. “Me, too.” But all I can think about is Lance. I want to be kissing him, stroking him, showing him just how—

  Stop. It.

  “You?” Savannah points her spoon at me accusingly. “You’ve been out here the whole summer—don’t tell me you only come here with me.”

  A guilty flush rises to my cheeks. “I might have swung by once or twice. But only when I’m out this way, I promise.”

  “And how often is that? I would think you’d be camped out at the gorgeous house with your new man—who I’m dying to meet, by the way.”

  “He’s not my man.”

  “No?” Savannah flips her spoon upside down, sucking on it. Uh oh. She has that look. I brace myself. “Not even three weeks ago, you couldn’t shut up about Lance. You were deliriously happy and having the best sex of your life. But lately, every time I ask about him, you start talking about the hydrangea bush in his garden or some painting you picked out. Stop giving me the runaround. What’s going on?”

  I busy myself hunting out the dark chocolate cacao nibs that must have worked their way to the bottom of my cup. “Nothing’s going on. I’m just trying to keep things professional. Focus on the work—”

  Savannah slides her hand across the table and wraps her fingers around my forearm.
“Even when you were with Richard, and lying to everyone else, you were honest with me. Don’t lock me out.”

  Savannah is my best friend, my oldest friend. I can’t keep avoiding her questions. And I don’t want to. I take a deep breath and come clean.

  “Lance hired me to be his girlfriend.”

  Savannah withdraws her hand and gives me a confused look. “Rewind. You’re charging him to be his girlfriend?”

  I almost laugh. “No, I would have been happy to do it for free. It was his idea.” Her eyes widen as I recount Lance’s hissy fit when I told him that I needed to work on weekends. They grow even wider when I share the plan he devised: paying me to be his plus-one so getting set up would no longer be a negative variable in his perfectly ordered life.

  “And you agreed to it?”

  “Not at first. But then . . .”

  Pretend to be my adoring girlfriend, and I’ll pretend to be your very committed boyfriend. And after Labor Day, you’ll have a fat bank account and your time will be your own again.

  “But then . . .” Savannah prods.

  “Then Lance made it clear he has no intention of seeing me after the season is over.”

  “No. He really said that?”

  “Pretty much.” My voice trembles. “So, if he’s basically going to throw me away in a couple of months, I might as well take the money and run, right?”

  “How on earth did you manage to find a bigger dick than Dick?”

  I half-sob, half-laugh, covering my face with my hands. “So much bigger.”

  Savannah waits until I pull myself together, or maybe until she can wrap her head around the situation I’ve gotten myself into. “Tell me, what’s the going rate for a girlfriend these days?

  “One hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Shut. Up.” She pales beneath her bronze tan. “Holy fuckballs, Viv. That money can be a down payment on an apartment, or a trip around the world, or a lifetime supply of stilettos, or . . .”

  “Or seed money for a new business.”

  “Are you still sl—”

  “No!” Heads turn and I lower my voice. “God, of course not.”

  For a few minutes Savannah eats her frozen yogurt while I concentrate on ripping my napkin into narrow strips, building a tiny fence between the edge of the table and my paper cup. “You know, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

  I carefully layer another gossamer-thin strip of paper on top of the others. “It kinda would.”

  “He’s not paying you for sex, he’s paying you to be available. You said the sex was amazing, right? Why should you have to give it up just because the guy must have seen Pretty Woman a few too many times?”

  I look up, needing to see Savannah’s face to decide whether she’s serious. “Do I have to remind you that Julia Roberts actually was a prostitute in that movie?”

  “That’s beside the point,” she says. And yes, she’s completely serious. “You wanted this summer to be about you, not some guy. Isn’t that exactly what you’re getting? A hell of a paycheck and a Hamptons beach house to add to your portfolio. Why give up the great sex? If you can have your cake and eat it too, I say go for it.”

  “The problem is, I like him. A lot. I mean, I’m furious at how he handled this, how he made me feel. But if I set all that aside . . .” I sigh, thinking about our lobster roll dinner and holding hands as we walked along the beach, about Lance’s grief over his stepsister and his efforts to put me at ease when he knew I was nervous. “He’s really great, Savvy.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “No. He’s made his feelings perfectly clear. My usefulness has an expiration date. If I don’t draw a line in the sand, and stay firmly on my side of it, I’ll be a mess when summer’s over.”

  Her expression is fierce as she studies me. “How would you be if summer ended now, today? If you never saw Lance again?”

  I blink at her, my stomach churning with regret.

  “You might as well put your whole heart on the line. From the look on your face, it’s already his.”

  I clean up the mess I’ve made and we make our way outside. The salty breeze feels good on overheated skin.

  “Hey, can you give me a ride back to Quogue?”

  “Sure.” I shove my sunglasses over my eyes and aim the key fob at Lance’s car.

  “You’re shitting me, right? A Maserati convertible?” She looks at me in shock, her hoop earrings swaying as she shakes her head. “Girl, tell me what you’re doing because, clearly, I am doing something wrong. A Maserati, damn. I’ve never even dated a man who owns a Mercedes.”

  Chapter 33

  Vivienne

  32 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY

  Jolie shifts her son on her hip and studies the inspiration board propped up against the wall, the angle of her head and the furrow between her brows signaling her inner conflict. “I like what she’s come up with but . . .”

  I’m staring at it too, and just as conflicted, but for a very different reason. The board is from Anne Abbott.

  Jolie would have been my client—the project Richard thought was too high-profile for me to lead.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Jolie glance my way. I push my personal feelings aside and try to focus, looking at the board objectively. She invited me over for my opinion. And even if Jolie isn’t my client, she’s still the client. She deserves a home that reflects her own style.

  The inspiration board contains fabric swatches, paint chips, photographs of potential furniture and artwork. It’s elegant and put together. Too elegant and put together. There’s an energy to Jolie, a vibrant happiness I can feel in the home she shares with her family. It shines through, even though it’s obvious she’s exhausted.

  “It’s beautiful,” I finally admit, ignoring a pang of disloyalty for criticizing my mentor, “but it feels a little safe. There’s nothing here that exemplifies the boldness and creativity I see in your jewelry line.”

  “Safe,” she repeats, running her free hand through her hair and sighing again as she frowns at the array of fabric swatches and photographs. “That’s exactly it. I wish could spend a day walking through showrooms with her, give her a feel for what I’m looking for, but we’re launching a new collection soon and I just don’t have the time.”

  “This new collection—did you design it?”

  Jolie’s beams. “I did. It’s based on a chain of islands I used to visit frequently back in my modeling days. The water was the most perfect shade of aquamarine. Not blue, not green, but a stunning blend of the two. And the sunsets—you would think a crayon box had melted in the sky. Orange and raspberry and gold.” Her voice softens to a husky whisper, her eyes turning wistful.

  “Have you considered showing Anne your collection? Because I don’t see a single color you just mentioned on that board.”

  “That’s a great idea. I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “Anytime.” I tickle the bottom of Joey’s bare feet and he kicks his little legs, releasing a high-pitched cackle.

  I should be working with Jolie on this project. And I would be, if I hadn’t let my emotions get in the way.

  I lost out on a great opportunity because I made decisions with my broken heart rather than my brain.

  And for that, I have no one to blame but myself.

  “I should probably get out of your hair, let you get back to work.” Just because Tripp and Lance are friends doesn’t mean that Jolie has to go out of her way to build a rapport with me. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.

  “I’m actually waiting on proofs from a photographer, so I’m in a bit of a lull. But I do need to feed this guy. I can put on some coffee . . . unless you need to rush back to Lance.”

  Nervous laughter builds inside my throat, escaping as I follow Jolie into her kitchen. “Ah, no. No need to rush. He probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.”

  Despite sharing the same house, I’ve become an expert at avoiding Lance. It’s not even hard—during the wee
k, he’s mostly glued to his laptop or pacing his office while talking on his phone. I borrow his car to scope out art galleries and estate sales, often taking photographs to document my progress on the house and adding them to my online portfolio and Instagram account.

  Once Joey is settled into his high chair, Jolie glances at me from below lifted brows. “I find that hard to believe. The other night, he could barely take his eyes off of you.” She snaps a bib around her son’s neck and takes a jar of baby food from the refrigerator.

  I shift uncomfortably, picking up a ceramic bowl from the counter and inspecting it as I swallow the truth that sits in a gnarled knot at the back of my tongue. That Lance is only putting on a show. Pretending to care for me. Finally, I manage only a deprecating, “I doubt that.”

  Jolie spoons a bright green bite into Joey’s mouth, which he promptly spits out. For a moment, she merely closes her eyes and releases a heavy exhale. “Anyway, I know it’s none of my business. But believe me, that man is seriously smitten.”

  She’s wrong. Lance isn’t smitten. He just hasn’t gotten laid in three weeks.

  Jolie tries another spoonful. Joey spits it out again. This time accompanied by a shriek.

  “Sometimes, Romy can get him to eat his greens, but I swear, he knows I’m a pushover. And lately, she’s been over at her friend’s house all the time. I’m starting to think we need to get a puppy just to compete with her friend’s bearded dragon.”

  “What exactly is a bearded dragon?”

  “A big lizard, I think.” She puts the jar and spoon on the countertop. “A puppy has to be better than a lizard, right?”

  There’s a vulnerability to Jolie’s question that gnaws at me. I only know the tabloid version of Jolie and Romy’s relationship, but the tangled web of love and insecurity their past has woven is obvious. “Want me to try feeding Joey?” I offer, sidestepping the puppy vs. lizard question.

  “Please.” She slides his food toward me with a sigh and walks to the other side of the kitchen, gesturing at a complicated looking appliance set into the wall. “I need some caffeine. Cappuccino, espresso, coffee—what can I get for you?”