by Sosie Frost
“Jules…”
“When the frost melts, I’ll transplant some, get the fields ready for others.”
I kissed him. “What are you doing?”
“In a year, we’re getting married.”
A delicious shiver rolled over me.
“In sixteen months, our baby will take his first steps.” He held me tighter, his hips arching up to thrust deeper, harder. “In eighteen months, he’ll say his first words.”
I grinned. “You’ve thought this through.”
Julian’s arms tightened over me. He rolled, pushing me to my back and easing between my legs. His cock buried inside me once again, but, this time, his thrusts didn’t slow. Faster. More deliberate. He took me with a newfound resilience, eager to hear the rasp of my breath and the whimpers which followed.
“In two-and-a-half years, we make another baby,” he growled.
“Another…another baby?”
“In three years we expand the farm. Improve some of the systems. Clear the other fields.”
“Julian…what…”
He leaned over me, buried to the hilt. It wasn’t enough. He held me in his arms until I was certain he’d squeeze the air out of me. I clutched him just as hard.
“You want to plan your life?” His whisper rasped hard, delirious with pleasure and shadowed with challenge. “Then you plan me in it. Us. Together. Our lives. Our farm. Our baby.”
Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t need to see. I blinked them away, burying my head in his shoulder, offering my body, my soul, everything for his fierce strokes.
“Someone once told me you couldn’t plan for those things,” I said as the pleasure knotted inside me. “That life had to be lived.”
“Then live it with me.” His kiss burned me alive. “And plan for only one thing, princess.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.”
A raging, shocking boom thundered over the field. I flinched, but Julian held me tight, his grin the cocky arrogance of a man cock-deep in a woman who was bound to fall for him again and again.
The sky exploded with shimmering, dazzling rivulets of light and sparkles. Reds and blues shocked the horizon. Streamers of white and green shattered the stillness of the night. In the distance, the party cheered each and every firework that erupted over the farm.
“Never got your show…” He whispered. “All you wanted was your fireworks. They’re yours now, princess.”
His pace increased, shattering me with a rage of masculine conquest and a lover’s delicate touch. I arched, amazed, overwhelmed, and blinded by pleasure and the flashes of a sky filled with fireworks.
All I’d wanted was fireworks?
That wasn’t true.
Maybe once. Maybe before I understood what had barged his way into my office and life and heart.
But now?
I clung to Julian and groaned with him as the pleasure crept tighter and tighter, stealing my breath, my thoughts, and the last fears and hesitations that crippled me with indecision.
Tonight was an excellent night to fall in love.
And so I did.
We crested together, locked in a sweaty, desperate, perfect embrace. I kissed him as the shock of desire stole my strength and rendered me soft and vulnerable and so very nearly lost had he not been there to hold me, soothe me, protect me, and promise me everything.
His heat consumed me, and his own pleasure broke through the arrogance and fear. Again and again he jetted within me, my own trembles and pleasure combining with his. We held each other, hearts beating in time, voices hoarse with rasped breaths and the words we had yet to say.
Julian’s promise was made with a smile. “You know I can give you everything you’ve never wanted.”
I smirked, staring at the most amazing man I was never meant to have. For the first time, I didn’t need to plan a single thing. I knew what would be in my life from this moment on and through the end of forever.
“I’m not going anywhere, cowboy.” I leaned upwards, capturing his kiss, his heart, and his future in mine. “I love you, Julian Payne. But…we are going to have to revise that little plan of yours.”
“Why?”
I pulled him back over me, arching to take him yet again as the fireworks shattered over the skies.
“Because I’m not waiting a year to marry you.”
The End
While They Watch
Sosie Frost and Lana Grayson
While They Watch
Copyright © 2017 by Sosie Frost and Lana Grayson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Cover Design: Pink Ink Designs
Created with Vellum
To L.G.
You’re writing this with me!
To S.F.
I know, right?!
Note From Sosie
Juuuusttttt in case you aren’t aware…
While They Watch is a darker romance, and it explores a couple pretty challenging sexual themes such as exhibitionism, humiliation, and BDSM.
I cowrite this book with Lana Grayson—and she definitely has a very defined sense of eroticism, let me tell you. This is not your usual Sosie Frost romance. ;)
Everything in these pages is consensual, it’s just ridiculously dirty. It’s not for everyone, but, if you want to read a different spin on BDSM…
Welcome to Duchess…
1
“You don’t belong here.”
His voice cut against the thrumming cello of the jazz quartet.
The warning pulled me from the music and pinned me to my seat. My heart syncopated into a spikey, unsteady rhythm. The stranger spoke with a resonating authority, unbridled confidence, and sinfully sensual growl.
And for whatever reason, he focused on me.
Figured. I’d finally worked up enough courage to order a drink in this thoroughly unconscionable bar. His words rekindled my panic. He was right, but he didn’t have to know.
I smirked. “I don’t belong in a lot of places.”
Duchess, an exclusive fetish night-club, lingered at the top of the list, followed closely by locations like Syria and my mother’s house in Ironwood.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
In him? Very possibly. “Believe me, I’ve located all the emergency exits. The one over by the couple wearing half a cow’s worth of leather seems to be the quickest way out.”
And yet, my gaze traveled upstairs—to the white LEDs leading to a guarded door of the notorious second floor. A threaded curtain separated the VIPs from the public. Either a mercy or the only way Duchess—the hottest, most exclusive S&M club in Cherrywood Valley—could operate without earning half a dozen indecent exposure violations.
My peachtini was too light on the -tini to consider the shenanigans happening on that second floor. Even the curtain’s material looked too ritzy for my wallet. I was as out of place in Duchess as I was in Pottery Barn.
The stranger didn’t leave. Instead, he claimed the barstool to my right.
I should have bolted, but he smelled of spice, and I was a glutton for punishment. Not a good trait to have in a club like this.
His shoulder grazed against mine, and I reached for my dri
nk, teeth clamping down on the straw before I said something idiotic. Did people say hello in places like this, or did they introduce themselves with hard limits?
Hi, I’m a light-spanking, no ball-gag, Aquarius. I’m allergic to soy and don’t like people touching my tushy.
Maybe they had a shorthand for this?
Or maybe the stranger was right, I didn’t belong here, and the two friends who might have helped me survive the indignity of this evening were forty-five-freaking-minutes late.
No calls. No texts. Leave it to Rose and Martini to trap me in the one bar that served leather conditioner alongside thirty dollar mixed drinks.
The stranger stretched his long legs under the bar—black shoes, black slacks tailor fitted to his build. He was much taller than me, but that was no surprise. I got carded at the door. Three times. A place like this needed a you must this tall to ride sign at the entrance.
Thoughts like that wouldn’t help me survive the night.
Neither would warming the instant my eyes drifted over his legs to the crest of his pants.
He noticed, and I contemplating drowning in what remained of my cocktail. The last thing I needed was to look like some sort of hungry crotch-wench in this sort of club.
I drew my gaze up. His shirt was a safer place to stare, except the crimson material stretched neatly over a chest harder than the rock sitting in my stomach.
I thought the guys in these places were supposed to be decrepit? An early retiree in the midst of a mid-life crisis, brandishing a clearance-rack leash from PetSmart.
Wow—were my sources wrong.
The handsome stranger hummed in amusement. “Are you having fun?”
My heel slipped off the stool. I caught myself before my chin collided with the bar. He steadied me, grasping my elbow within his strong hand. A million goose bumps followed.
“I…”
He expected an answer. And a voice like that—a melody more appealing than anything the jazz ensemble played—deserved an answer.
Unfortunately, my throat closed over a chunk of sticky peach lodged somewhere between my tongue and the last shred of my dignity. A sexy half-cough, half-chortle might have sounded great, but I decided silence was the best recourse for the only girl wearing a cotton sundress in the ocean of second-skin leather skirts.
A demure nod. A quick clearing of my throat. A guzzle of the peachtini.
And there was the -tini. Great. My bones melted and puddled on the imported floor tile.
“Are you meeting someone here, or were you brave enough to come on your own?”
“Um…” Awkwardness didn’t steal my words. That was all him.
He’d be a god if I wasn’t so sure only the devil hid in places like these.
My stranger was older than I’d thought. Late thirties, but no gray in his dark hair. He wore it long, almost chin length, pulled back into a half ponytail framing his stubble-dusted jaw. Strong. His chin angled hard, like every other part of him. Chiseled, though good job on the sculptor for managing to flake any stone away from his diamond hard muscles.
His complexion looked dark. Mediterranean? I always wanted to take a trip to Europe, and he was my instant-vacation without even a cursory glance or grope from the TSA.
My glass tinked back onto the bar. I swallowed the frilly vibrato in my voice. His eyes fixed over me.
Wasn’t it rude to stare? Wasn’t it equally rude to linger in silence like a tongue-twisted invalid who enjoyed the umbrella in her drink more than the liquor?
“This isn’t your normal night out.” He was a good guesser.
“No.”
He mocked me in dire amusement. “No, you don’t belong here. No, you aren’t meeting anyone. Or no, this isn’t your normal night out?”
“Yes.”
Oh, Christ. This was just embarrassing. I chugged the last golden drops of my peachtini. Might as well stumble out of the bar too. If I could find some spinach to stuff between my front teeth, my every nightmare would play out in the middle of a fetish club.
And yet, my mysterious stranger smiled.
Just a hint, but infinitely more controlled than my humble freak out.
Better to have him think I was playing coy than deliver the actual truth. I had no idea how to talk to a man like this.
We—well, wherever Rose and Martini happened to be—planned to come to Duchess for a laugh. He was here legitimately. He belonged here.
And he chose to sit next to me.
My stranger leaned over the bar, his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. His shoulders formed a barrier between me and the safety of the exit. The bartender set a drink before him. Gin and tonic? He hadn’t ordered it but he still had his drink delivered a hell of a lot faster than I was given mine.
“What’s your name?” His dark stare blended with the effortless baritone of his voice.
We’d planned to be Polly, Dolly, and Molly, but I’d suffered enough. “Morgan.”
His eyes dipped over me again. I knew I was tiny, just a chocolate chip on the cookie called life, but I looked even smaller next to a monster like him.
Did he like that?
Why did he smile?
“Good evening, Morgan.”
His evening washed over me. I had nothing in my arsenal as smooth. Not even a did you know that’s not really a trumpet in the band? It’s a cornet, and I think it sounds snazzy.
As if on cue, the sadistic quartet switched to a different song. Something tragically mellow that fostered the silence.
Meeting guys seemed easier in college. I couldn’t walk through a party without some fraternity pledge offering to buy me Natty Lights on his parents’ semester allowance. But my stranger was no overeager kid looking for an easy score. He toyed with me—waiting for me to run away or drown in my drink. Two could play that game.
“So.” I leaned back to get a better look at my companion. He welcomed the intrusion. Proud and vain. That could be trouble. “Come here often, stranger?”
He chuckled. The pressure in my chest eased. I tugged the edges of my dress down, hiding the smooth darkness of my knee. He watched every movement, and my fingers dug into the material. I didn’t want him thinking I meant for the hem to creep up, exposing too much mocha. Or that I panicked if I revealed a little more than what was proper. Or that I did or didn’t want him checking out my legs.
This would be one bundle of humiliated anxiety to unravel in bed tonight.
“My name’s Anthony.”
“Evening, Anthony.”
He cracked and smirked. Maybe I was better at the game than I thought. My cell chirped. I checked the text and groaned. Rose was my own personal town-crier, but she only ever gave bad news.
Sorry, we’re having a bit of a crisis. Life or death. Can’t make it. Another time?
Another time? This was our other time, making up for two almost-nights out.
Then again, Rose and Martini’s life or death situations were usually literal. They were the lucky few who’d managed a job outside the usual office nine-to-five. Unfortunately, they’d exchanged a desk job for the high-stakes life of a motorcycle club. It wasn’t legal or safe, but at least they were happy.
My mother’s voice echoed in my head. Do something with your life. Go back to school. Meet a man. If I was still talking to her, I’d have loved to bring home one of Rose’s bikers, just to watch the fireworks. But I never had the balance to ride a petal bike, let alone risk my neck on a hog. I didn’t even like bacon. Not exactly my scene.
I didn’t answer her text. The less I knew, the safer it was.
Anthony watched while I twirled the straw in my empty glass into a crumpled mess.
“Would you like another?” Anthony asked.
I looked up. The bartender awaited my order. I jiggled the phone. My hair escaped the bun, and the spiraling black curls bounced as I shook my head.
“No thanks. Something came up.”
Anthony motioned, and, before I could argue, he paid my
tab.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Friends chickened out?”
I set the phone on the bar. Traitorous thing. “No. They’ve seen worse than this place, believe me. But I knew they weren’t going to make it. They’re usually…busy.”
“But you came anyway.”
My shrug was half-hearted. “This beats half-priced soggy wings at our usual hangout.”
“No wings here.”
“Nothing’s half-priced either.”
Another smile. His lips curled over a flash of white teeth. The pale light of the bar shadowed his strong nose and hardened jaw. But his eyes layered in darkness, like a splash of ink across a canvas. For a second, I was glad my friends flaked out on me. They had responsibilities to their club. I had a ridiculously attractive guy offering to buy me a drink.
Maybe the night wouldn’t be so bad.
Then again...
I looked again to the stairs leading to the secret second floor.
What was happening up there?
At the bar, the scene seemed normal. Expensive drinks and jazz music. A pair of gothic couples giggled in the corner and a few women danced in slinky dresses and avoided the men trying too hard to buy them a drink. I spotted the occasional collar around a neck, but this place wasn’t any worse than a college Halloween party.
Except for Anthony.
He had me cornered. I crossed my legs and hoped the straightened posture would give me more confidence.
It didn’t.
He had me pinned without touching me. Examined without seeing all of me. I couldn’t think, not even to make my jumbled small-talk about the differences between the band’s cool and smooth jazz.
And yet, I didn’t feel threatened. I might have walked away without a word, and he’d have let me go.
What should I have said to keep him around?