by Anthology
On instinct, I climb him, wrapping my legs around his waist. I have one hand in his hair, and the other is raking that delectable jaw, feeling every piece of stubble.
His other hand pulls me in until my core is pressed against his intense erection that is as hard as a rock, causing him to growl from deep within his chest.
My back hits the rear of Father’s Bentley Mulsanne. Jameson picks me up, my dress rising with the movement.
“Off,” I command, lifting my arms.
His hands make quick work of undoing my zipper and raising the dress off my body, and then he discards it on the polished concrete.
“Just as beautiful as ever,” he says with hungry eyes.
His lips find my neck as his fingers pinch a yearning nipple from beneath my ivory lace bra. He pulls my straps down my shoulders as I unbutton his shirt and force it off his shoulders, leaving it hanging from his elbows. His mouth moves to my jaw and then to that soft spot under my ear that sends shivers down my spine.
“I’ve dreamed of holding you again,” he croons.
His mouth lowers to a nipple, licking, sucking, and biting. I cry out in pleasure.
His kisses move lower. “I’ve prayed to the heavens, I’d hear your gorgeous voice again, listen to your stories, and drown in your laughter.” His fists are palming my underwear, sliding them down my legs. He spreads my knees. “Mostly, I’ve fantasized about this.”
He takes a swipe over my clit. My back arches, and my head bows back in ecstasy.
“I’m not living if I’m not making love to you.” He lowers his mouth again, and his tongue does a delicious dance that makes me see all the stars in the sky.
My hands are flat against the steel of the car. My knees are draped over Jameson’s shoulders. He nips and swirls, applying pressure to the most sensitive spot on my body, until I come undone, an orgasm like fireworks spreading through my body.
I pull him up to me and taste myself on his tongue. My hands undo his buckle and slide his jeans and boxers down his body, making good of removing the rest of his shirt as well.
Leaning back, I appreciate the fine specimen that is Jameson Brock in the flesh.
You can’t stare at the sun for too long, or your eyes will burn. But the moon? Oh, the moon. The longer you stare, the more beautiful it becomes. Every crater and shadow comes to light, making spectacular imperfections.
A scar on his left side is from when he was stabbed, defending me when I was sixteen years old. A burn mark lies on his shoulder from when he walked into a welding iron as I came in for a surprise visit. And the jagged, raised scar on his chest…
When my fingers touch the tender skin, his breath hitches, causing me to quickly lift my hand and then slowly place it over his heart.
That was the scar he earned when he saved my life.
He weaves his hands through my hair and looks down at me, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I’d fight to the death if it meant protecting you.”
“Then, why did you leave me to fend for myself?”
His forehead rests against mine. His tone turns serious as he says, “You’re right. I wanted you to hate me. I wasn’t good enough.”
I reach forward and grab his face in my hand. “Even if you accomplished nothing in the time we were apart, I’d still want you.”
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers against my mouth.
I lean down and grab his shaft in my other hand “How can you say that? You were meant for me.”
He enters me, and we both tremble. He lifts my leg and pushes so deep inside, I’m practically purring in ecstasy. I bite my lip as he pumps and moves, grinding against me. I reach behind him and grab his incredible ass, and he devours my lips with his own. I cry out the sweetest expletives as Jameson Brock makes love to me on top of my father’s car.
4
THE PROPOSAL
“Where have you been?” Mother is frantic as I step into my bedroom, wearing last night’s gold dress.
“Jules!” I hear my name being called from the grand foyer.
I rush out the door and peer over the balcony of the upstairs hallway, looking down into the main entrance of The Manor.
Jameson is standing in the middle of the room, looking disheveled and absolutely gorgeous. His shirt is on but not buttoned, and his hair is a mess.
He sees me, and his eyes widen. “You left.”
I smile. “I came to change. I thought I’d be back before you woke.”
We spent the night in the backseat of Father’s Bentley. Well, we didn’t do too much sleeping actually. Turns out, backseat sex with Jameson Brock is now my new favorite position.
“What is he doing here?” Mother asks, walking onto the balcony, her brows pinched high into her hairline.
“He’s here for me, Mother,” I say cautiously, gripping the banister. “I was with Jameson last night.”
She takes in my walk-of-shame attire and nearly convulses at the revelation. Voraciously shaking her head, she steps forward and points a finger. “If a last hurrah was what you needed, then fine. Today, you are marrying Kip, and you are late for your hair appointment.”
“She’s not marrying Kip,” Jameson says from below.
Mother and I both turn our heads.
“She’s not?” we say collectively, “I’m not?”
After last night, there is no way I can marry Kip. But I was planning on making the decision myself, not being told what to do.
Jameson reaches a hand out in my direction. “She’s marrying me.”
“She is?” we say in unison, “I am?”
Mother’s hand is gripping her chest. I, in turn, am motionless.
Jameson walks to the bottom of the stairs and starts the walk up. “Jules Bradford, I met you when you were fifteen years old. You came out of the house with your prep school skirt and walked into your best friend’s town car. I thought you were an insolent brat, but I was wrong. You taught me not to judge a book by its cover.
“I was a monster then. Inside, I was bitter and angry. I tried to turn you away, but you kept coming back after school every day, talking my damn ear off. You brought joy back into my life.
“When you were sixteen, you taught me how to laugh. When you were seventeen, you taught me how to live. And, when you were eighteen, you taught me how to love.
“And I have been in love with you ever since.”
Jameson climbs up another step, his eyes focused solely on mine. “I let you go once, and it killed me. I didn’t think I was worthy of you, but I was wrong. I live and breathe for you. If you come with me, I promise, I will love you until you take your last breath.”
He walks up and holds out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
I bite my nail and look down into the foyer of The Manor. At busy workers prepping for the wedding. At the woman holding a clipboard, looking up at us over her rimmed glasses. At the man stopped in his tracks with a large vase overflowing with orchids. And at the men rolling instrument cases in.
Canceling on today will not only interrupt everyone’s day, but it will destroy Kip’s. I feel nauseous and absolutely horrible over the idea. But I’d feel worse if I made the worst life decision because I didn’t want to ruin someone’s day.
Because, now that Jameson is back in my life, I can’t imagine being with anyone else.
Last night, he said he stayed away from me to become worthy, to create a life for us. I’d fallen in love with him when he had nothing at all. And I’ll love him even if he has less.
With a huge grin and fast feet, I run down the stairs with open arms. “Yes.”
And, together, Jameson and I run away from The Manor on this day—the day of our wedding.
ABOUT JEANNINE COLETTE
Jeannine Colette is the author of the Abandon Collection—a series of stand-alone novels featuring dynamic heroines who have to abandon their reality in order to discover themselves…and love along the way. Each book features a new couple, an exciting new
city, and a rose of a different color.
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www.jeanninecolette.com
SAY YOU DON’T
Kandi Steiner
1
CHAPTER ONE
I hated my hair.
That was the only thing I could think as I stared at my reflection in the full length mirror with the silver trim. I played with the soft, dark red tendrils, twisting the immaculate curls around my ring finger that sparkled with the diamond I’d been wearing for eight months. It glimmered beneath the soft light of the dressing room, filled with white — white chairs, white couch, white walls. It was the first time I’d been alone all day.
And I hated my hair.
My makeup was perfect, hazel doll eyes bright against the smoky shadow and lips painted a deep red to match my hair. The dress I’d picked on a whim? Stunning. Short, cinched at my small waist with a delicate flow to just above my knees. It fit like the designer had used me to hold the fabric pins in place as he worked. Off-white lace hugged my neck and collarbone, rolling over my shoulders and flowing down to my dainty wrists.
Yet still, I hated my hair.
It was too perfect, the curls too tight, the wave of my long bangs too styled. I focused on my hair in the mirror, as if my eyes could set flames to the curls if I stared long enough, but it helped keep my mind occupied.
Because when I stopped thinking about my hair, I started thinking about him.
I shut my eyes on a stiff inhale, guilt rolling through strong enough to make my hands leave my hair and rest lightly over my stomach, instead. I allowed myself three shaky exhales, low and shallow, then I opened my eyes again, and focused on the hair.
I hated it.
The door opened behind me, a breath of noise from the hustle and bustle outside sneaking in before it shut again. I waited for my mom to speak, or maybe for my sister to run up with the “something blue” she’d been looking for, but instead all I heard was the flick of a lighter before smoke framed my too-perfect hair in the mirror.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
I said the words without turning. I didn’t need to look to know who it was, because I could sense him. The buzz in the air, the scent of him reaching me before the door had even shut behind him, the sound of his lips pulling the smoke into his lungs and letting it go again so effortlessly.
He chuckled, a low, raspy sound that elicited an unwanted reaction from me as chills broke on my skin. And when Graham Kohler took three steps forward to stand just behind me in the mirror, I remembered why I’d been focusing so hard on my shitty hair.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
I wasn’t a smoker. In fact, I’d always been disgusted by it. But the way Graham’s dark eyes narrowed as he took a pull, the way his lips softened as the smoke slipped through the space between them, the way the white clouds billowed around the hard edges of his jaw, his nose — it was if he walked out of a 1940s ad for Marlboro, and I suddenly felt the need for nicotine.
I finally turned, praying I looked as unfazed as I was pretending to feel as my eyes raked over him. He was dark, too dark for the room, the contrast burning my eyes. His tuxedo jacket hung from two of his fingers over his back, bowtie unfastened at the base of his neck and hanging down on his under shirt, the only piece of white clothing he wore. His other hand pulled the cigarette from his lips as they curled into a slanted smile, black eyes crawling over me now that I’d given him permission.
“Addison, you look…”
“Stunning? Beautiful? Absolutely breathtaking?”
“Like a marshmallow,” he finished, and I shoved his shoulder with a scoff.
“Says the guy who just now discovered the invention of a shirt. Surprised you didn’t show up in suspenders and nothing else.”
Graham grinned at that, and I fought against the urge to roll my eyes. Out of the many times I’d spent with Graham, hardly any of them had been with his shirt on. No, he much rather preferred to flaunt his marble slab of an abdomen, and being that he roomed with my soon-to-be husband, I saw him in that state more often than I cared to.
Oh no, Graham Kohler wasn’t the man I was marrying.
He was his brother.
And I loved him first.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked, arms moving to cover my middle once more. The lace of my dress was suddenly hot, scorching, and I pulled at its grip around my ribs.
He shrugged, offering his cigarette to me. I grimaced and he pulled it to his lips again, speaking on the breath he held. “Just checking on the bride.”
“Well I’m fine.”
“Are you?” He cocked a brow, pushing the smoke through his lips. He dropped his jacket on the back of a white leather chair and ran a hand through his thick, dark locks.
“Yes,” I reiterated, not letting my eyes follow where he’d tucked his now-free hand into his pocket. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I hated the way he was looking at me, eyes suspicious, not believing my claim to calmness. Graham could see right through me, he always could, and he was the only one bold enough to actually call me on my lies.
“Oh you know, just that you’re about to get married. Commit yourself to one guy. Forever.”
“Not just to any guy, Graham. To your brother, remember?”
That knocked the cocky grin off his lips.
His bottom jaw jutted forward a bit before he lifted the cigarette once more, pulling a long drag and dousing the remaining butt in my leftover mimosa from the morning.
“Classy,” I said, giving in to the urge to roll my eyes as I turned to face the mirror again. “Speaking of Richard, shouldn’t you be in his dressing room?”
“He asked me to check on you,” Graham replied as my fingers raked through my stupid hair again. His voice was a little lower than before, a little less sure. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t getting cold feet.”
I paused, eyes connecting with Graham’s in the mirror. “He was worried about me?”
Tucking both hands in his pockets, Graham squared his shoulders with a small shrug. “Guess so. Can’t say that I blame him. Look at you, Addison,” he said simply, as if I should already know. “He’s lucky, and he knows it.”
My cheeks heated, heart picking up pace. I felt the prickle of excitement I used to feel when we first met, when he was just the boy in my capstone course at Virginia Tech who stared a little too long. I’d fallen so fast for him, too fast, spiraling down at dangerous speeds before he stopped the fall with a brick wall. We’d started off as study partners, but those long days in the library eventually turned to long nights in my dorm room. Long talks over coffee, delirious all nighters over empty boxes of pizzas. I’d never met someone who got me the way Graham did, who cared about journalism — true journalism — the way I did. As if he wasn’t gorgeous enough to look at, his writing brought him to a whole other level of attractive, and his personality? Well, that made him downright lethal to me.
Except, Graham had a girlfriend.
It didn’t really seem to matter to him much until the night we kissed. Blame it on the late night, the energy drinks, the soft music or the nearly-empty campus — but we kissed. And when I expected him to confess his feelings for me, he reminded me instead of his relationship with Bridgett.
About a week later, he introduced me to his brother, thinking he was doing me a favor. His brother was his twin, after all. Same hard jaw, same stunning smile, similar charm. And his brother was looking for a girlfriend, which meant he was what I wanted, right?
So I dropped the idea of Graham and settled for Richard, eventually finding a comfortable happiness. He really was sweet, caring, and he doted on me. He read every piece I wrote, encouraged me when no one else would, and we enjoyed each other. We worked. That is, until eight months ago, when he proposed to me on the same night Graham became single.
After that, my comfort level had b
een obliterated by a brother I wasn’t supposed to see anymore but could never take my eyes off.
Graham was finally available, and I was firmly not. And maybe it was that sickening blow of fate that let the next words roll off my tongue when they should have stayed behind my teeth.
“It could have been you,” I murmured, smoothing my slick palms over the skirt of my dress. They froze in place when I realized what I’d said, and I closed my eyes tight, hoping Graham didn’t hear me.
“What did you just say?”
Shit.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, pulling my fingers through my hair again and again, each time more frustrated with the ridiculous curls. “Thanks for checking on me. Tell Richard my feet are nice and toasty.”
“Addison, what did you just say?”
“That my feet are nice and toasty.”
“Before that.”
I sighed, giving up on my hair and letting my eyes find Graham’s again. Words caught in my throat when I saw him, felt the heat from his gaze. His brows were dropped, jaw firm, mouth in a thin line.
Clearing my throat, I chanced my voice on a whisper. “It was nothing, just forget I said it.”
“How,” he croaked out after me. “How do I forget that?”
I dropped my eyes to my hands playing with the lace around my waist again. “I shouldn’t have… I’m just emotional.”
Graham took a step closer, and every nerve in my body jolted to life. Breathing was no longer a thoughtless task. I had to will it in through my nose, force it out through the part in my lips.
“You should probably go,” I whispered.
“Probably,” he agreed, stepping closer until his chest pressed into my back. His breath was hot on the back of my neck and I closed my eyes, screaming at myself to push him away while my fingers reached blindly behind me until they made contact with the belt loop of his dress pants. I slipped my index finger in, pulled him closer, pushed him away.