by Maggie Wells
A little bit of sass. Apparently, a dose of sass was all it took to fry his brain cells. The next thing he knew, his jeans and shorts were pooled at the top of his boots, and he was once again atop the woman he loved. The skin at her throat was tender and warm. Her pulse throbbed against his tongue. The feel of her breasts squished against his chest made him crazy, the swells modest but inexplicably soft, her nipples hard as cherry pits and nearly as dark red as the fruit. He drew one into his mouth and sucked.
Hard.
Laney’s back arched and she cried out, her voice hoarse with all the ache of loving him. He wanted to kiss her again. Soothe those rough edges away, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not when he held the beaded tip of her nipple poised between the edges of his teeth and her nails were biting into his back. Urging him to do it. Promising she could take it. Begging for the deliberate kind of pain one only entrusted to someone they loved with everything they had.
He bit and she called his name, bucking and bumping against his erection, desperately seeking the friction she needed.
Her willing servant, he gave her what she needed, pressing the length of his cock against her folds. She rode him shamelessly, coating him with the sweet slickness of her arousal. Leading him down a very slippery path with each writhing thrust. Sweet, soft mewls of hunger and desperation squeaked from her throat. He kissed her long and deep, wanting to taste every little cry. His fingers closed around the nipple he’d neglected. He pinched the puckered flesh hard. Hard enough to make himself wince in sympathy, but Laney only moaned and panted for more.
More kisses. More pain. More loving. More of everything.
She shifted beneath him and the head of his cock slipped down to press against her entrance. She was wet. Even wetter than she’d been when he’d gone down on her the night before. Hot. Hotter than an attic in August and a thousand times more tempting. Bare. He was bare against her. Again, he felt an annoying itch at the back of his neck. Thankfully, Laney pushed her fingers into his hair and pulled his face to hers.
“Now. Hurry. Inside me.”
He thrust without even thinking, burying himself balls-deep in her hot, tight pussy.
Then he froze.
“Oh, shit.” The words popped out of his mouth and all the tumblers fell into place in his mind.
She blinked, then frowned. “What?”
The word was more command than demand. He tried to think of anything but how in-fucking-credible she felt wrapped snug around him. Looking down at her furrowed brow, he couldn’t help but think she looked like an annoyed queen prepared to order her manservant’s head cut off if he didn’t do his duty.
A fierce battle between conscience and selfish desire for unencumbered indulgence raged inside him. At last, he exhaled explosively and started to back off.
Laney clutched at him, wrapping her arms and legs around him and pressing her heels into his ass so he couldn’t pull out. “What? Where? No!”
“Condom,” he managed to grind out from between clenched teeth. “I don’t have a condom.”
She stiffened, her long limbs banded around him. He could see the wheels turning in her mind and knew she was weighing risk and reward. But even if she rewarded him with a big glowing green light, he couldn’t take the risk. Not with their future unsettled.
“Trust,” she whispered, startling him from his own internal debate.
“Huh?”
An affectionate smile curved her lips. Framing his face with her hands, she smoothed his hair back over his ears. “It’s about trust. I trust you, Harley, though I probably shouldn’t.”
“You should.”
“I trusted you before and you left.”
“I didn’t realize...I thought...” He shook his head hard, trying to get one coherent thought to fall into place. Luckily, she cued him on his next line beautifully.
“Don’t leave me again.”
“Never.”
She gave a single nod. “I have an implant, so pregnancy isn’t an issue.” Those bottomless eyes searched his. “I’ve only slept with a few guys. The last one was in New York.”
So, he’d been her only lover in the past couple of years. Good. But now she was looking up at him expectantly. The last thing he wanted to do was give a full recitation of the notches in his bedpost, but she had given him her trust. The least he could do was give her the facts as he saw them. “I haven’t been a monk, but I can tell you, you were my last. I’m healthy.”
“I trust you,” she repeated. “And if you make me regret giving you my trust, I think you should know I do actually have my daddy’s twenty-two in my closet at home. If I go down, I’m taking you out, too.”
“Noted.”
She cocked her head and looked up at him. “Do you trust me, too?”
“With everything I am.”
A breathtaking smile broke across her face. “Then hurry up. This carpet is itchy.”
“Aw, crap.” He closed his eyes as she squeezed him tight, urging him to get a move on. But he couldn’t. Not like this. If one of them had to leave this room with a nasty case of rug burn, it’d be him, not her. “Stretch your legs out and hang on.”
She did as he asked, and he flipped them over so she lay sprawled on top of him. “Don’t put your knees down.” He placed his hands on her hips and thrust up into her. “Stay just like that.”
* * * *
Straddling Harley was no hardship. Laney kissed his throat and shoulder, occasionally sneaking glimpses of his flexing biceps as he used nothing but strength and determination to move her on top of him. Laney let her own muscles go lax and loose. The crisp curls on his chest scraped her nipples with each thrust. The angle of his cock pulsing up into her was perfect. Simply perfect. Slick and hot, every thrust teased her clit. His hands slipped down to her ass. He split her wide and pumped his hips, driving into her with enough force to fuel the climax rushing toward her.
But his brute strength and undeniable skill weren't what pushed her headlong over the edge. It was the goofy, utterly blissed out look on his face.
She broke, letting the waves of sensation roll over her like surf. Some hit hard, others more of a gentle push, but every one exquisite. About two-point-three seconds later, Harley came with a loud, deep growl that fit his name to perfection.
A giggle bubbled up inside her, but she tried to hold the laughter back. She didn’t want to spoil this moment. For once, and probably only for a few seconds, they were both on the same page. Right here, right now, no matter what anyone else thought or said, this was perfect. They were perfect. She was right to wait. This was the only boy she wanted to take to her bedroom. And she wanted to keep him there. Forever.
Burying her face in his neck, she gave up the very last of her defenses. If she was going to trust the man the way she claimed to, she was going to do so whole hog. She’d give him the words he needed to hear. Straight out.
“I love you,” she whispered into his ear.
Beneath her, Harley shivered despite the heat rising from his body. “You know I—”
But the moment of reciprocation was cut off by the slams of multiple truck doors. Her head popped up and their gazes met and held. The front door creaked open and the rumble of male voices rose up from the foyer.
“Oh, shit.” Harley’s clear green eyes widened with panic. He lifted her off him and rolled up, planting her on her feet as he went.
She stumbled to her left, stifling the urge to laugh as she watched him crab walk along the floor, his progress hampered by the jeans gathered around his ankles. He scooped up the articles of clothing they’d shed as he made his way to the bedroom door and closed it. Of course, the hinges didn’t just squeak, they sang out an aria. They both froze as the hum of voices below died. Finally, one called out, “Boss? You up there?”
Crouching beside the door, Harley tossed her shirt at her and opened the door a crack. “Yeah. Be right down.” The hinges groaned, but he managed to close the door witho
ut letting the latch click. He whirled. “Get dressed.”
“Sweet talker,” she cooed as she shrugged into her shirt. “You know they all know I’m here. My car is right out front.”
Harley extricated his briefs from the tangled jeans and yanked them up. “Well, they don’t have to know what we were doing.”
“Good thing they can’t see the rug burn on your bottom. They’d think maybe you were part baboon.”
“Ha. Ha.” He pulled a grimace as he tugged the briefs over the afflicted area. “You don’t know how crude these guys can be.”
“Construction workers? Crude?” She blinked at him in wide-eyed wonder as she buttoned and zipped her jeans. “I never would have guessed.”
“Hush, smarty pants.”
She grinned and strolled over to the window to look out as he jerked his own pants into place. Too satisfied to be anything but happy, she pressed her hand to the dusty pane and peered down at the men leaning against their trucks, sipping cups of steaming coffee. “You didn’t say you love me back.”
He didn’t even ask what she meant. “Don’t you think I’ve thrown myself at your feet enough?”
“Never.”
“You’re already spoiled. I may never tell you again.”
“You will.” She scanned the yard, suddenly absurdly pleased to see so many people gathered for the sole purpose of breathing life into her old house. If she let her gaze go soft and unfocused, she could catch glimpses of Harley reflected in the glass. Laney allowed herself a moment of ogling, then forced her gaze to the carriage house and beyond. She didn’t want to go too soft on him all of a sudden.
“Be sweet to me, and I might rub a little aloe on—” Her breath hitched as she spotted a man coming out of the hedges separating their land from the Sullivan’s next door. “What the...” she sputtered, then swung around to face Harley, her heart pounding against her breastbone so hard she was sure there’d be bruises. “Stay here,” she ordered, then started for the door.
Harley caught her arm and pulled her around to face him. “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse. My father.”
Harley’s brows shot up. “Your father?”
“Probably here to start some trouble. Stay here. I’ll go deal with him.”
He laughed and pulled her back when she tried to get away. “You’re going to protect me from him?”
She rolled her eyes. “The man couldn’t hurt a fly, but he can be a giant pain in the ass—”
“So that’s where you get your attitude from?”
Her jaw dropped. She stared up at him, outraged he’d try to play sparring games when she was trying to guard him from the enemy advancing out of the goddamn boxwoods.
“You—” Of course, the thought wasn’t fully formed yet. “He’s—” And neither was that one.
Tired of being stonewalled and stymied by the men in her life, she did the only thing a frustrated woman could do short of bursting into tears—she stomped her foot. On top of his. Unfortunately, his stupid safety boots made it kind of a moot point, but it felt good anyway.
“While I appreciate you being willing to take a bullet for me and all, especially considering you were the one threatening to shoot me a little bit ago, I think maybe he’s here because I offered him a job.”
“You offered him a job?”
“I offered him a chance to do right if he can get himself right,” he said with a shrug.
“You offered my dad, a man who has never held any job other than the one his daddy gave to him, a job? Do I have to remind you he wasn’t great with the one he inherited?”
“I offered him a chance, that’s all. What he does with that chance is his problem.”
Baffled, she looked up into Harley’s eyes, hoping to find the answers to the thousands of questions ping-ponging around in her head. She found only one.
The one he’d never have to say out loud again, and she’d believe him.
Pressing her hand to his heart, as always, she found comfort in its steady thud. “You love me,” she whispered.
He shrugged again. “Maybe a little.”
His flippant response hit the nail right on the head. The tension coiled inside her unfurled. All there was and all that mattered was the man standing in front of her and the life they would build together.
Covering her hand, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I have to go to work now. I hear the chick who owns this place is a real slave driver.”
Laney swallowed the lump of emotion lodged in her throat, then rose up onto her tiptoes to peck a chaste kiss to his lips. “Bye, dear. Have a good day.”
His laugh bounced off the walls of the empty room as he hauled her up tight against him. “To hell with a good day.” He hoisted her up and flipped her over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. “It’s gonna be a great day,” Harley Cade proclaimed as he strode out of the room.
The End
Meet the Author
Maggie Wells is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. Fueled by supertankers of Diet Coke, Maggie juggles fictional romance and the real deal by keeping her slow-talking Southern gentleman constantly amused and their two children mildly embarrassed. They are the food purveyors to a demanding dog and an impertinent house rabbit she claims is the love of her life. Shh. Don’t tell her husband. For more, please visit www.maggie-wells.com, find her on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter @maggiewells1.
Don’t miss the first book in Maggie Well’s Coastal Heat series!
Going Deep
MAKING HEADLINES
Brooke Hastings almost won a Pulitzer Prize for her hard-hitting reportage. Now she’s sitting on the story of a lifetime and wants to prove she’s not a one-hit-wonder. But in order to get the world to take notice, she’ll need the help of the one person she loves to hate—Brian Dalton.
Brian Dalton stumbled into celebrity when he landed a show on the Earth Channel. But the hunky marine biologist never forgot the serious, studious boy who left Mobile a decade before. Now back in Alabama, he’s looking for the quiet life he always wanted and hoping for a chance with the girl he always loved. When Brooke asks him to help expose some of the lingering effects of the Gulf oil disaster, Brian jumps at the chance to help preserve the place both call home…
Visit Maggie Wells at
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/31636
Chapter 1
“If I didn’t have Harley Cade and his ten million ways of making a girl happy on the hook, I’d cling to that man’s hull like a barnacle.”
Brooke Hastings drowned a smirk in her martini glass. Twenty years of friendship did little to lessen the shock value of Laney’s declarations. Brooke took a cautious sip. The cocktail was pinker than a My Little Pony, but the triple sec and vodka packed a punch that more than made up for the girly color.
Dragging her gaze from the former classmate-turned-television-hunk she was here to stalk, Brooke turned to face her best friend. “That man told Mrs. Wise you had your Spanish conjugation written on your thigh.”
Laney refused to be put off by something as fickle as fact. “If I’d known he’d grow up to be rich, famous, and hot as Hades, I would have let him conjugate whatever he wanted on my thigh.”
“You told your mother you’d drown yourself in the ocean if she made you invite him to your birthday party in third grade.”
The feisty redhead at her side pursed her lips and made a great show of scanning the room. “She invited him anyway.”
Revisionist history or no, Laney wasn’t one who took being thwarted lightly. Nearly twenty years had passed since that birthday party, but the sour expression on her face said the sting of her mother’s betrayal hadn’t yet faded.
“Do you have Harley Cade on the hook?”
“I could,”
her friend said, eying the crowded room. “I’d only have to give that line a little old tug.”
Brooke smiled. She admired Laney’s confidence, but she wished they could be having this conversation anywhere but in the middle of one of Mobile’s most popular social gatherings.
Glittering jewels and porcelain veneers shone in the light of the ancient chandeliers, adding sparkle to the mansion’s faded glory. The first floor of Putnam House, one of the ruthlessly preserved mansions that graced Mobile’s historic district, was crowded—every square inch packed with potential donors. Saints Preserve Us was the premier fundraising event for their alma mater, St. Patrick’s Academy, and one of Brooke’s mother’s pet projects. Her mother and her merry band of fundraising fiends plied their victims with Guinness, Jameson’s, and heaping helpings of flattery in hopes of getting them to write big, fat checks.
Thursday night television programming may not be what it used to be, but Brooke had a reason for being here. She wasn’t in a position to donate the scraps of cash left over after she stretched her paycheck to the max. Frankly, she wasn’t interested in whether the football team could afford new jock straps or if the Drama Club had to—insert shudder here—rent costumes for their spring production. She wasn’t here because her mother insisted she come. No, she was trussed up in her Spanx for a reason. A motive she shared with 99.9 percent of the women in that room. She was there for Brian Dalton.
“Any Tucker sightings yet?”
The question jerked Brooke from her mini-sulk. The possibility of running into Jack Tucker was exactly what kept her miles away from the Gulf Shore’s social whirl in the last few weeks. News of Jack’s return to Mobile after his divorce had lit a spark of hope inside her. The possibility of rekindling their romance seemed to lighten the miasma of loneliness that covered her like a heavy blanket. Alone in her bed, she allowed herself to spin a fantasy of marriage and family that was not only attractive but convenient, as well. Then she ran into him at her parents’ club and her thinking shifted from possibly-maybe to never-gonna-happen.