Temptations: A Limited Edition Contemporary Romance Collection

by Blue Saffire

  He beamed. “You do have a profile. What’s your screen name? I’ll have to look you up.”

  My eyes flew up to meet his, which full of plotting and planning. “It’s not live right now.”

  “Are you dating someone?” The question was a casual one, but with—unless I was imagining things—an insistent edge to it. My stomach burned, and it wasn’t the chili.

  “Not…well…no.”

  Shit. A siren would have said, “Not yet,” in a sultry voice and winked or tossed her hair or something.

  Ian’s voice grew smoky. “You should turn it on.”

  I shrugged. “Do you have a profile?”

  “I did when I was single.”

  “You’re not single now?”

  “No. I am.” He punched out each word. “I’ll turn it on again at some point.”

  “I’d think you’d have to, you know, as promotion.”

  “Yeah.” He put down his spoon and ran his hands along the edge of the table. “The site is great. It’s just that when you own the company and it takes off and then the newspaper starts printing your net worth on an annual basis, it gets tricky. A few years ago, my screen name got leaked on Reddit. I got flooded with requests. That’s when we built in the feature where you could choose whether to be contacted directly without being matched. It was stupid not to have built it that way to begin with, honestly.”

  I could imagine. Just being female meant I sometimes had gotten flooded with random, creepy, inexplicably sexual requests on dating sites. The idea of them was great, but sometimes, it seemed like more of an expeditious way to meet your eventual killer rather than a husband. “Do you go on dates with the women you meet through the app?”

  “I have.”

  “Can’t you look into their stats and stuff?”

  “No,” he answered sharply. “The system only aggregates data. We silo the personalized information.”

  I was pretty sure he could look if he wanted to.

  “We take user privacy really seriously. You have to keep that stuff very segregated. We can’t have unauthorized access by anyone. Not even me.” Ian plucked his spoon off the table, then slashed the air with it.

  “Did your SoulM8 dates ever work out?”

  “I ended up dating a few of the women.” His sentence ground to a halt, and he spooned some chili into his mouth, chewing in silence. I redirected the conversation to my own failed dating.

  “I have yet to meet anyone serious on any online dating platform.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, there are the freak shows who send dick pics before I even know their last name.”

  The bottom fell out of my lungs as if my diaphragm had disappeared. Did I just mention dick pics?

  “Dick pics, eh?” Ian smirked. “Some men need to practice their introduction skills. We have tips about that on our blog.”

  “Tips on avoiding tips?” Oh, God. Worst joke ever. Ian’s smile creased the edges of his eyes. He leaned onto his elbows, wringing his hands. He had long, strong fingers like…Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I mentally crossed myself to atone for the blasphemy of thinking about penises—or one penis in particular—and Jesus at the same time.

  I cleared my throat and tried to pretend my face wasn’t on fire. “Even with the normal guys, most of them I talk to end up being different from what they said they were or from what I wanted. It’s like they don’t even read my profile.”

  Ian rapped a fist on the table. “Biggest complaint women have. Men don’t spend as much time on the profiles as women. They spend about sixty percent more time looking at the pictures than women, and women spend about fifty percent more time reading. But, to be fair, men have to make a lot more contacts in order to land one date. They have to initiate most of the contact. They’re busy.”

  “Excuses.” I huffed.

  He laughed. “Maybe, but it’s true. We have data. It does vary some. Rural men pay more attention to the profiles. Women in higher income brackets spend more time reviewing a profile in one sitting but narrow their options faster and move on. I could go on and on.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still so involved with all the technical details,” I said, glad we’d moved on from dick pics and tips.

  “The technical details are where all the magic is. It’s the heart of the business.”

  “The tech stuff is the heart? That’s interesting. I just mean that since it’s gotten so big. It’s like Facebook for dating. And then you have all the other SoulM8 stuff.”

  They had a dating game show streaming online and had a TV reality series showing couples who met on SoulM8 and had gotten married. Couples could apply, and SoulM8 paid for their wedding. A friend of mine who wrote screenplays had mentioned they were about to start producing romance shows and movies and streaming those in the app or online. It wasn’t just a dating site anymore.

  Ian waved a hand as if sweeping away his expanding media empire. “Yeah. All of that is just kind of advertising for the ideas of romance and linking the brand with successful relationships. It’s still about matching people up for me. I like knowing that people can find their partners for life.”

  I stood up to start cleaning. “Keep talking. I want to hear about how you ended up as the world’s biggest matchmaker while I do the dishes.”

  He stood up to join me. “You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.”

  “I’m a squatter, and I know it. How’d you start doing online dating?” I picked up his bowl and mine and carried them to the sink. Ian followed me to the kitchen but brushed past me. I struggled to put the hardness of his body scraping across my back out of my head. He opened the last overhead cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

  “Want one?”

  I said yes despite the fact that hard liquor was a panty dropper for me. Or maybe because it was?

  He poured mine and set it on the island while I filled the sink with hot water and started washing.

  “I was working day and night as a programmer at a startup. Originally, I was just trying to get people I knew to put up profiles and recruit their friends and just network and find people with similar interests. I’d gone to school back east. I didn’t know many people in California.”

  “Back east.”

  “Cornell.”

  Ivy League. Great. I made a note to avoid telling him about my public college education in Lubbock.

  “So you’re in Silicon Valley recruiting friends. How did that not just turn into a sausage fest?”

  Ian chuckled. “It didn’t not turn into a sausage fest. It was a sausage fest.” He covered his face with his hands and laughed himself breathless. “Oh, my God. I begged every guy to recruit two women—a sister, an aunt, even their moms if they were single. That was awkward.”

  He broke off his story to pour the leftover chili into a large glass container and put it in the fridge. I took the pot from him and set it next to me on the counter.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “it started catching on a little locally at Stanford and Santa Clara. Slowly more women signed up. We added a new feature set and started charging. Eventually, I quit my job, got funding, and boom. SoulM8 is biggest dating app in the world.”

  “Just like that?”

  He leaned against the counter two feet from me and stroked his bearded jawline. “Like magic. We hardly worked at all.”

  “Well, it has to be easy, right? There’s no greater urge people have than to mate.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. You tap into that, and it’s a gold mine. Inevitable. No work required.” I giggled and hoped he knew I was only teasing.

  “You’ve got me pegged. My secret is out.” Ian poked my bare shoulder, which had escaped my top. His touch didn’t linger, but the sensation did. My nipples hardened. I hunched over the sink, trying to pull them away from the fabric of my T-shirt. This only made the thin cotton slip further down my arm.

  Ian’s eyes darkened, so I turned to my soapy water and tried not to
think about his…everything.

  “Yep,” he said. “I’ve basically just hit the lottery.”

  “Obviously. Up here in the mountains with your big house and fancy stove.”

  “You like?” He glanced around his gourmet kitchen, his lean, solid hips still planted next to me.

  “I do.”

  “Then you can cook tomorrow. I’ll clean.” He tapped my shoulder again—twice. Shockwaves of heat, hotter than his six-burner Viking cooktop, radiated through me.

  “I don’t know. I’m getting pretty efficient at the cleaning thing.” I picked up the empty chili pot, and my breath shuttered.

  “Sometimes it’s good to switch things up.”

  He touched my shoulder again. His thumb feathered over the curve of it and found my collarbone. My arm went weak. It was just a split second, but that’s all it took.

  A flood of water rose up from the sink as the pot fell, splashed, and drenched me from head to belly. Through the thin fabric of my shirt, you could now see a clear outline of black lace and peaked, wet nipples.

  I jumped back. “Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry. Dammit.”

  I grabbed a roll of paper towels. Ian snatched up every dish towel within reach. I dropped down and began soaking up water from his wood floors. Ian wiped down the cabinet, before joining me on his hands and knees.

  We got the water explosion under control and sat back on our heels. I was a mess. He was dry and amused.

  “That was a lot of cursing for a lady.”

  “Now you’ve found me out. I’m not a lady.” I rolled my head to the side, unintentionally sending water drops in every direction from my saturated hair, and squeezed the curly mop into the last bundle of paper towels. “Apparently, I’m now a shaggy, wet dog.”

  His tongue ran along the edge of his bottom lip and back again. A rush of energy shot me to me feet and had me grabbing for more paper towels or anything to cover my sopping T-shirt. But there weren’t any.

  Ian stood and stepped closer, peering down at me. “It’s a good look on you.”

  I opened my mouth to deliver a snappy siren’s retort, but whatever I’d been about to say would never see the light of day. And later, I didn’t remember—even without the panty-dropping whiskey. Because Ian gripped the sides of my face and kissed me.

  5

  With Ian’s fingers tangled in my hair and his mouth slowly unraveling my insides, I would have been hard-pressed to remember my own name. I had already forgotten to breathe, and so had he.

  I pushed on his chest, and he lifted his head. Both of us gasped for air. He wound a long, curly strand of my soaking wet hair around his fingers and then tucked it behind my ear.

  “I should go up and change. Again.” A fluttering laugh tumbled up from my nervous stomach.

  Ian dropped a line of kisses across my forehead. His beard tickled and tantalized. How had I not realized the wonder of it?

  This close to him, I could see his chest rising and falling, not any slower than when he’d stopped kissing me.

  “I’m in favor of getting you out of this wet top right here.” He brushed his lips along my jawline to my ear and nipped at it.

  “Of course, you are. You’re a boob man.”

  His breathy chuckle warmed my neck. “How would you know?”

  “You’ve been sneak-peeking my tits since I got here.”

  Ian slid his hands to my ass. His appreciation of me pressed against my belly. “I’m not only a boob man.”

  “I feel very objectified right now,” I said and spanked him.

  “Tell me. Should I apologize?” He bit my neck, licking away the brief pain.

  “No.” My hands slipped underneath his sweater and up his back. His skin was softer than I imagined, but the flesh was hard under my fingertips as I’d known it would be.

  “I wouldn’t want one of my guests to feel uncomfortable. Do I make you uncomfortable?” He pulled away to ask the question—his face a few inches from mine. His dark lashes hovered over his half-closed eyes. Surprising flecks of green sparked in their brown depths.

  The warmth extending from my belly practically melted my tongue. “No,” I whispered. “Maybe. A little. Yes.”

  His touch feathered down the sides of my face, sending a tingle through my scalp.

  “Good.”

  His lips parted and descended to mine.

  Kissing him again was no less knee-weakening than the first time. His hot, hard chest erased the chill of my wet shirt.

  The sensations pulled me apart.

  I grabbed at his ass like a life preserver and clung to him as he switched from playing with my lips to plundering my mouth with his tongue. I answered with my own until we were nothing but a tangle of tongues, arms, and breath.

  Ian pulled me toward the rolling heat pouring out the great room fireplace. He found the hem of my T-shirt, yanking it over my head.

  “I don’t want you catching cold.”

  “Then you better warm me up.” I reached behind my back and unhooked my bra. The straps slacked, and I tossed it aside. He gasped. I counted on the look in his eyes to help me feel bold and drew his face to mine for another kiss.

  Ian weighed my left breast in his hand. Callouses from his palm to his fingers scraped my nipple. Gentle squeezing increased in pressure to a pinch. Lightning bolts of sharp pain-pleasure shot through me to my core as if there were a tether between my nipple and my clit. Each pinch, pluck, and pull sparked a twinge between my legs.

  I jerked my head back and sighed, eyes closed.

  He moaned. “Too hard?”

  “No.”

  “Turn around.”

  I obeyed.

  Ian wrapped his arms completely around me, took both breasts into his hands, and squeezed. His erection bore into the small of my back before he released me and began tugging at my waistband. In one movement, he pulled down my pants and my underwear, knelt behind me, and I stepped out of them.

  Heat from the fire and his touch burnished my skin from head to toe. He placed a light kiss on my tailbone and dragged his tongue up my spine as he stood. His hands stayed planted on my hips.

  I leaned forward to push my ass back toward his still-denimed crotch. I wanted Ian as naked as I was, but I couldn’t focus because he moved his hands back to my breasts. He rubbed circles around my nipples, then stopped and pinched again. Hard. My throat constricted and my eyes watered, but so did my pussy.

  “Fuck,” I growled — half exclamation, half command.

  Ian directed me toward the couch and bent me over. I braced my hands on the back of the sofa. My nipples lost their playmate as he fumbled with his jeans. I turned back to watch him—unbuttoning his waistband, reaching for his wallet, removing a condom, and yanking down his jeans and boxers.

  His hard cock sprang free, long and straight and aimed between my legs like it had its own guidance system. I stepped wider and kept watching while he sheathed himself.

  Ian caught me staring. His gaze locked with mine. He nudged my legs wider, gripped my hip, and slipped the tip of his dick up and down against me. Then, he eased into me.

  My eyes might have still been open, but I couldn’t see.

  He thrust again, a little harder, more sure. And again. The friction speeding up. The heat building. The heavy weight of his cock made it easy to grip and squeeze and hold. I wanted him right there forever.

  He fucked me harder, moaning with each thrust. My face dropped to my forearms, and my back arched. His right hand slipped around my hip and between my legs, rubbing my clit with hard, frantic motion. It was too much and perfect. Nothing about him was gentle or controlled anymore.

  I rocked back to him. A climbing tornado of sensation twisted inside me, wrenching new waves of pleasure. He tweaked my clit, and I gripped him harder as he plunged over and over.

  “Oh, fuck,” he growled.

  The sound of our bodies colliding on the couch echoed in the cavernous room. He fell on my back. It was delicious, and yet, I was still hungry
.

  He rolled off me and knelt down in front of the sofa. I pulled my knees wider apart. He swept dark, damp hair off his forehead and licked his lips.

  “Scoot.”

  I moved to the edge of the cushion, and his face lowered. He pressed against my crotch with his tongue in tight, psyche-exploding circles. Two fingers thrust where his cock had been, insufficient except for their targeted stroking in the perfect spot.

  Everything inside me twisted tighter and tighter, then snapped. The air rushed from my body so fast, it must have escaped from my pores. My skin burned, and I shivered.

  Ian’s hand stilled inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut. His cheek prickled my thigh.

  I waited.

  He was going to have to lift his head. I was going to have to look at him. The wildness of the sex we’d just had would be between us, and I fought back embarrassment and uncertainty.

  What now?

  “Come to bed with me.”

  Hearing him speak brought me too close to reality. I wasn’t ready and kept my eyes closed. Ian dragged his thumbs down the insides of my legs, stopping to massage my calves.

  “Savannah. Open your eyes.”

  I did. The fuck-drunk look on his face made my stomach somersault.

  “You’re coming to bed with me.” For all its softness, the command had no less authority.

  “Okay.” My voice pipped.

  I was in no condition to make my own decisions, and staying in this place where he looked at me like the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted in his life sounded like Heaven. Tomorrow would take care of itself.

  He grabbed my hands and stood, pulling me to my feet after him and turning me around. Neither one of us spoke as we shuffled down the hallway that lead to his bedroom. His arms hugged my midsection as he practically carried me with one hand slipping with lazy pleasure between my legs.

  6

  Ian

  It had been weeks since I had a woman in my bed, and even longer since I had one spend the night. Of course, on a certain level, I had no choice about Savannah’s spending the night. Kicking her out just to have her sleep upstairs seemed more awkward than letting her wrap her voluminous curls and curves around me all night.