by Ivy Layne
“I made you a picnic.”
Tate sat up, pulling me with him. “You made me a picnic? You can cook?”
“I can cook,” I affirmed. “I’m not going to get any Michelin stars, but I made lasagna, garlic bread, and a double chocolate cake.”
He looked at the basket on my kitchen table. “You were bringing me a picnic?”
“I want to eat it at your apartment. Tonight.”
Tate understood what I was saying. “You don’t have to go back there, baby. We can wait.”
“No,” I said firmly. I loved that Tate wanted to protect me. I’d probably come to depend on it, to depend on the knowledge that I had someone who would try to keep me safe at all costs. But there were some things I had to do, especially because they were hard. “That’s your home, Tate. Your family is there. I have to be able to go back.”
“You were going to bring me the picnic? What if there had been reporters?” he asked.
“I would have dealt with it. I needed to see you.”
He stood, his hand gripping mine. “I drove over here.”
“It’s okay.” I said, then paused. “Are there still reporters in the garage?” I was going to push myself to face my fears, but I wasn’t ready to dive back into my nightmare.
“No reporters,” Tate promised. “Jacob has security all over the building, including the garage. No one gets in unless they’ve been personally vetted. I’ll have you added to the system so you can drive in the garage and come straight to my place.”
“Then let’s go,” I said. “The sooner we have dinner, the sooner we can get to desert.”
I won’t lie. My stomach flipped over when we drove into the garage. At the sight of the elevator and the spot where the reporters had ambushed us, my heart sped up. I took deep breaths and held Tate’s hand, reminding myself that I was safe until the elevator doors slid shut and we were moving away from the garage.
“You okay?” Tate asked, kissing the top of my head. I smiled, resting my cheek against his chest.
“You don’t have to keep asking,” I said carefully. “I don’t want you to be worried about me all the time. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Humor me. And you’re never going to be a burden. Don’t talk about yourself that way.”
“You say that now—” I started. Tate cut in.
“We both have things in our lives that aren’t easy. It makes me a little crazy that I can’t protect you from the media,” Tate confessed. “I want to promise you that they’ll never bother you again, but I can’t. I can arrange security, protect you with all my resources, but that’s no guarantee.”
“I know that, Tate. I do.” I unpacked the picnic basket, putting the lasagna in the oven on warm. I had other things on my mind than food. First, I had to make things right with Tate. “I overreacted the other day. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t overreact. You had a panic attack.” He leapt to my defense so quickly, it brought tears to my eyes.
“I didn’t mean the panic attack. I meant blaming you. Asking you to leave.” He looked away, and I realized all over again how much I’d hurt him. Crossing the kitchen, I got in his space, demanding his attention. “I was wrong,” I said firmly. “That wasn’t your fault. You can’t promise that mess won’t happen again. And I can’t promise I’ll be able to handle it when it does. But I can promise I won’t bail on you. I won’t blame you. The next time we have a disaster, we’ll stick together.”
“Damn straight,” he said. The raw emotion in his deep blue eyes stole my breath. He stared down at me, his eyes locked on mine as if he were unable to break our connection. I could have stayed there forever, face to face, wrapped in Tate’s embrace, falling into his eyes. It was too soon to call this love. Wasn’t it? I didn’t know. With Tate, I was on completely new ground. I had no idea what we were doing, what labels to put on it. I only knew that all I wanted was Tate.
I rose on my tiptoes and tilted my head back, sliding my lips over his in a soft kiss. “I’m not sore anymore,” I murmured, my lips rubbing his with each word. “And I bought new underwear.”
I shrieked in surprise as Tate’s hands closed over my waist and he lifted me, tossing me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Before I could get my breath, the world turned upside down and I was bouncing on his mattress, looking up into blue eyes heavy with desire.
“Let me see,” he demanded. Always happy to follow Tate’s orders, I stripped off my shirt to reveal an almost sheer black lace bra. “Now the rest.”
I peeled down my jeans, leaving me in nothing but the bra and its matching thong. Tate’s eyes flared wide. “This too?” I asked, hooking my thumb under the strap of the bra.
“I’ll get that.” He flicked the clasp of the bra, leaning back to watch it slide down, the straps catching on my elbows. I thought he was going to take it off, but he twisted the fabric around my arms, trapping them as he pulled my wrists over my head and lowered me to the mattress. “Stay there,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered. I meant for the words to sound ironic, but they came out breathy. I couldn’t help it. Tate ordering me around when I was mostly naked was hot. Beyond hot. It was nuclear.
He arranged my legs on the bed, spreading them wide. My skin was flushed, my back arching, instinctively trying to draw his attention to my breasts. The room was warm, but my nipples jutted, diamond hard and a dark pink. My body wanted Tate. Every part of me wanted him. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted to lay with him in the tangled sheets afterward. I wanted to watch him eat the dinner I’d cooked. I wanted everything.
He stripped off his clothes in quick, efficient movements, displaying his athletic body to my hungry eyes. A pulse of heat between my legs made me squirm. I was already wet, and we hadn’t done anything yet. At the sight of his hard cock, thick and long, I drew in a breath. I still couldn’t believe it had been inside me.
A second later, he was kneeling between my legs, a condom in hand, looking down at me, his gaze traveling over my mostly naked body, taking in every detail. He reached out a hand and touched my shoulder, his fingertips a brand on my skin, burning. Claiming. They traveled over my body, stroking my collarbone, circling one breast, then the other, rounding my ribcage to dip in my belly button, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. It took everything I had not to move, but I sensed that he needed my compliance. He needed to know I wasn’t going anywhere.
I let out a whimper as his fingers glided over my hipbone and through my dark curls to dip between my legs. The whole time, his thick cock was right there, close enough to touch, so hard it was almost tight to his flat stomach.
“Fuck, you’re wet, Emily.”
I was. So fucking wet. I had no words to answer, so I spread my legs a little wider, tilting my hips to rub my clit over his fingers. A sweet charge of pleasure flashed through me.
“I had plans for you,” he said. “Things I want to do to you. But they’re going to have to wait. For now, I have to fuck you.”
I’d never imagined hearing a man talk about fucking me would make me so hot. With anyone else, it probably wouldn’t have, but there was something about hearing Tate say he had to fuck me that was almost as good as the real thing. Almost.
“Now, Tate. Please.” It was all I could say. He took me over, pinning me down with his long body, sliding his hand around the back of my thigh to pull my knee up, spreading me wide for his cock. At the feel of him pressing into me, I whimpered. He was still too big, and I was too tight, but the pain was an erotic contrast to the thick hum of pleasure as Tate’s body became a part of mine. He took me in shallow thrusts, easing his way in. By the time he filled me to the hilt, I was writhing beneath him.
One of his hands wrapped my wrists, still tangled in my bra, pinning them over my head. His mouth dropped to nip at my breasts. It was too much—the pressure between my legs, the raw flare of pleasure when his cock filled me, the dragging pull of bliss when he withdrew, the sharp little bites and slow sucks on my nipples.
I was drowning in it, drowning in Tate, and all I could do was wrap my legs around him and hold on for the ride.
I heard myself breathing out his name, “Tate, Tate, Tate,” over and over, utterly lost as every part of my body tumbled into orgasm, my pussy pulsing around his cock so hard I saw stars. He followed me, dropping his head to my neck, his mouth hot on my skin as he gasped out his release.
I couldn’t move afterward. Neither could Tate. We lay there, panting for breath, one of his hands still holding my wrists over my head. Eventually, he untangled my bra and tossed it to the floor. He was gone less than a minute to deal with the condom, then slid back into the bed, pulling me into him. I rested my head on his shoulder, relaxing into Tate, trailing my fingers over the light speckle of hair on his chest.
“Was that too weird for you?” Tate asked.
“It was perfect,” I said, not sure what he meant. Nothing he did was weird, especially the way he fucked me. “What part?”
“The hands. Your bra.” He trailed his fingers over my wrist, lifting one to study the faint red marks—more a flush on my skin than anything that would bruise. I wasn’t worried about it. I smiled into his warm skin at the memory of him holding my wrists down while he’d moved inside me.
“Not weird. I wondered what that would be like.”
“And?”
“It was hot,” I murmured. “Maybe next time, I’ll hold you down.”
“Would you like that?” Tate asked, his arm curling around my back to stroke the side of my breast.
“Mmm. I’ve done a lot of reading,” I admitted. “I have a lot of ideas, but I don’t know what I’m doing yet. I think I need to practice on you.”
“You can practice on me all you want, baby, as long as I’m the only one you practice with.”
“Always,” I said, suddenly serious. I rose onto my elbows so I could meet his eyes. “Always, Tate. Only you.”
His lips curved in a smile, and he lifted one hand to draw me down for a kiss. His lips against mine, he vowed, “Always, Emily. Only you.”
As promises went, it was everything I could have wished for. I knew life wouldn’t always be easy with Tate, but I could handle it. I would make sure of it. Tate Winters was worth the risk, and he always would be.
Do you want to read Jacob & Abigail’s story? Keep reading for a sneak peek of The Billionaire’s Pet
Chapter One
Abigail
I sat on the plush leather sofa and stared at the thick wool carpet, trying not to count the scuffs on my shoes. John would have been so disappointed. The soft leather of my beige sling-backs was marked from walking through the wet grass before sunrise and my hair hung limp against my damp skin. John loved for me to look nice, always bragged that he had the prettiest wife in town. But John was gone and I was doing the best I could. Lately, my best had not included polishing my shoes.
This morning, my best had included a pre-dawn trek through the field behind the house I’d shared with John, a half mile hike through the woods separating the house from my cousin-in-law’s small cabin, then a clandestine ride to the bus station two towns east. I hoped no one found out that Tina had helped me get to Atlanta. If I’d had another way, I’d never have put her at risk. But I’d had to reach Jacob Winters. He was the only one who could help me. I’d called his office from the bus station, arguing and pleading with the receptionist, then his assistant, to tell him I was on the line. After ten humiliating minutes, Jacob had clicked on, verified I was me, and told me he could fit me in at eleven for fifteen minutes. I’d spent the time in between lurking in a bookstore, knowing that the people already be looking for me would never think to look in a bookstore.
Jacob's office wasn't what I'd expected. I don't know where I got the image in my head, but I'd pictured it as slick and modern, filled with sleek black leather and chrome, his assistant as a svelte blond Valkerie. The couch was leather. I'd gotten that part right. But instead of cold black, it was a deep espresso, punctuated with dull brass tacks. The rug was an oriental design, the furniture not sharp and shiny, but antique, polished wood. And the woman at the desk, guarding the door to his office with disapproving eyes, was older than my mother, with a neat, chin length bob of grey hair that was heartbreakingly familiar.
An ugly irony that his assistant reminded me of my mother. The reason I was here. The reason I'd made almost every one of the disastrous mistakes I'd made in the last five years. If Anne Louise Wainright had any idea I was sitting in Jacob Winters’s office, prepared to make him an offer I hoped he wouldn't refuse, she'd have passed out from the shock. Ladies did not consort with men not their husband. I’d been raised to be a lady, first, last, and always. It was why John had married me. But my mother no longer recognized me and my husband was dead. I'd made more than my share of bad decisions since my father had died and my mother had fallen ill. This would likely be one more. I was prepared to live with that. If Jacob could give me what I needed, I could find a way to live with anything.
A tone sounded at the assistant's desk. She pressed a button, then murmured something I couldn't hear. My stomach clenched. I still had time to change my mind. I could stand up, make some flimsy excuse and be out on the city streets in no more than a few minutes. But what then? I couldn't go home. When Big John discovered me gone this morning he would have been furious. I didn't want to imagine what he would do to me if I came crawling back. His first proposal had been so appalling, my imagination recoiled from trying to picture what my father-in-law would consider an appropriate punishment for my defiance. If Jacob turned me away, I would lose everything. Not just my home and my mother, but my life as well.
"Miss Jordan?” The assistant stood in front of me, waiting with expressionless patience. The tension in my stomach congealed into a frozen ball of fear. I stood, wobbling only a little on my narrow heels. They were the sexiest pair I owned, bought in the early days of my marriage as a gift from John. They pinched my toes, were the worst shoes to wear when I'd spent a good part of my morning walking, but paired with my cream linen shift they made my legs look a mile long. I needed every advantage I could get. I tugged at the hem of my dress, smoothing the fabric as I followed the assistant to Jacob's door. I caught a whiff of her hairspray tangled with a perfume that smelled of roses and baby powder. She seemed too normal to be working for a man as magnetic as Jacob.
The assistant turned the brass handle and the door swung open on silent hinges. With a gesture, she indicated I should enter, then closed the door behind me. The click of the handle sent my heart thudding. No turning back now. All I could do was hope Jacob didn't throw me out when he heard what I had to say.
He walked toward me, his hand extended, a distant, vaguely curious expression in his arresting silver eyes. Not a good sign. The way he looked at me was most of the reason I was here. That and the fact that he was the only man I could think of with the power to untangle my troubles.
The power was the 'how', but the way he'd looked at me was the 'why'. Or I'd hoped it would be. I hadn't met Jacob many times in the five years I'd been married to John. Only a handful of encounters, but each time I'd come away shaken. He was always controlled, gracious, reserved. Except when I caught him watching me on the sly. Then, his cool silver eyes had burned. With desire and intention. Jacob Winters wanted me. Not enough to risk his business with my in-laws, or maybe he'd known I'd never have cheated on John. Our marriage was so far from perfect it had devolved into a nightmare, but I still owed John too much to think about cheating. He hadn't deserved that kind of betrayal.
Steeling myself, I raised my hand to take Jacob's. His fingers were firm around mine, sending a shiver down my spine. I did my best to pretend confidence as I smiled up at him. He smiled back, his eyes warming a shade. A lock of thick, dark hair fell over his forehead, softening his sculpted face. Jacob Winters had the kind of looks that stopped a room. I'd seen it happen, at a cocktail party when John and I had been early and Jacob had been uncharacteristically late. He'd walked in and
conversation had literally stopped, all eyes on Jacob handing off his coat as he brushed raindrops from his black hair.
He was taller than most men, at least a few inches over six feet. Broad shoulders, narrow torso, muscled but lean, and every woman who caught sight of him knew that without his trademark grey suits, he’d look even better. Smug gossip from the women who'd been there affirmed that as hot as he was when dressed, a naked Jacob Winters would ruin you for all other man. Hard to tell how much of that was bragging from women who wanted everyone to know they'd captured his elusive attention, even if it was only for a short time. I'd always thought they were understating his appeal. I never would have cheated on my husband, but if Jacob had asked, I would have been painfully tempted.
"Thank you for seeing me," I said, following Jacob deeper into his office. The space was divided into two sections, a sitting area with a couch, love seat and coffee table in the same style as the front room. Further into the long room was a huge desk of warm, caramel toned wood. A dark leather desk chair sat on the far side, two smaller leather armchairs opposite. To my surprise, Jacob led me to the desk. I'd thought, as the widow of a former business associate, he’d treat this more like a social visit. Wrong. There was no bullshitting Jacob that this was a social call. He'd sent flowers when John died. The niceties had been covered. The last minute call this morning, my insistence that I had to see him today, all told him this was business. So, the desk.
I took a seat in one of the arm chairs, crossed my legs and pasted a polite smile on my face. The training of my marriage. Don't show anything but what they want to see. Hide the panic. Hide the desperation. Slow, even breaths. Hands lightly clasped in my lap. I was the picture of calm elegance. Always.