Heat Up the Fall: New Adult Boxed Set (6 Book Bundle)

by Gennifer Albin

  By the smile on his face, her impatience amused him, but she could see the same desperate quality in the way his eyes roved over her. The way he looked at her, as if he couldn’t get enough, as if he didn’t want to miss a single detail, made her feel self-conscious as she hadn’t felt since the first time she’d lost her virginity to a German exchange student. Will made her feel like there had never been anyone else before him.

  He tugged off his shirt until he was left in nothing but dark boxer briefs. She sucked in her bottom lip, basking in the sight of all that smooth, golden skin. Too many times in the last two months, she’d caught him coming out of the shower, damp and gorgeous and begging to have the lingering water droplets licked off his skin. Every time, she had resisted. But not this time.

  She crawled over the mattress until she reached the edge and her fingers found the waist of his boxer briefs. She helped slide them down over lean hips and corded thighs. Once he’d pushed them aside to join the rest of their clothes on the floor, she straightened, kneeling on the very edge of the bed. Her fingers gripped his hips, jerking him forward so that they were pressed skin to skin, her aching breasts against his chest and his hard length pressed tight against her stomach. Her lips skimmed over the curve of his shoulder, the ridge of his collarbone, the muscle in the side of his neck. She bit down gently.

  With a groan, he tipped her face up and kissed her again, his tongue sweeping through her mouth and making her tremble. Unable to wait any longer, she drew back and tugged him with her onto the bed.

  She lay back against the sheets, cool against her flushed skin. Will followed, kneeling over her, his lips never leaving her for more than a breath.

  His hands traced the curve of her waist, frustratingly light, before his fingers trailed down her stomach and lower. She bit her lip and released a quiet moan. Those deft fingers flitted over her and then pressed in. She gasped and spread her legs, drawing up her knees. Her toes curled into the sheets. His mouth lowered to her nipple, pressing a kiss to it before taking it into his mouth. Lifting up onto her elbows, she leaned into him and dragged her teeth down his shoulder.

  She wanted him so badly and she’d been waiting for so long that she didn’t even care for foreplay. She reached down between their bodies and took him in hand, relishing the way his blue eyes darkened with hunger and the way his lashes fluttered shut.

  “I don’t want to wait,” she whispered and hooked one of her legs over his hip. She dug her blunt nails into his chest as he slowly withdrew his fingers.

  She held her breath as he drew away just long enough to slip on a condom. Then he pulled her other leg over his hip as well and positioned himself. When he finally entered her, she whimpered with pleasure and allowed that strange thing that she only felt with this one guy take over.

  Trust.

  Will rested his weight on his elbows as he began to move. Lifting her head, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck as the world spun. Her legs tightened around his waist, needing him deeper, faster, even as she laughed breathlessly at the bliss running up and down her spine. Her hands glided over his shoulder blades, his back, lower until she gripped his ass. His muscles contracted and shifted against her palms as he thrust into her, and she tightened her grip, encouraging him to move harder, closer.

  She had never felt this happy during sex. For the first time, she knew and loved and trusted the guy she was in bed with, and it felt like something Jane Austen might have written about. If she had been prone to writing erotica. (She would bet that would have made a lot of Mr. Darcy fans happy.)

  She held him close as he moved over her, inside her, reveling in the intimacy in a way she never had—never could—before. His fingers dug into her skin as he thrust faster, and she gloried in the delicious dominance of it. She would never admit it to Will, but allowing him full control, at least this time, felt right. Exhilarating even.

  But next time, she got to be on top.

  She cried out as he hit just the right angle. The sound seemed to push him into some wild, uncontrolled place, and he pressed their mouths together, kissing her deeply. His movements became more frenzied as their shallow breaths grew uneven against each other’s lips. The heat grew overwhelming. Her nails slid on skin damp with sweat as her orgasm corkscrewed ever tighter.

  “Will,” she gasped as she came, muscles clenching, shuddering into his embrace.

  “Almost there,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice even now. A moment later, he lowered his head to breathe into her hair, and then the muscles in his back tightened beneath her hands as he thrust deep, once, body trembling. She felt him pulse inside her, and her thoughts unraveled at the knowledge.

  Afterward, as they lay entwined, she stared up at the shadows carved across the ceiling and breathed. It seemed all she was capable of at the moment, the steady inhalation and exhalation of air.

  She found that was perfectly fine with her.

  She didn’t remember much of what happened afterward. She must have fallen asleep because Will woke her up right before dawn for another round, which she happily accepted.

  Another few hours of sleep later, Leah awoke to a warm block of sunlight falling across her face from the window. The space beside her was empty, but she wasn’t worried. She recalled briefly waking when he’d gotten up, along with the feel of his fingers sliding down her cheek and his lips against her temple.

  As she allowed her brain the time to fully wake up, she thought about everything she had to do that day. Bake cookies and watch an episode of their latest anime favorite with Elijah. Tease Helena about her date with Jay. Brave the mall and her first time Christmas shopping for Will, who had refused to pick out a gift for himself. She supposed she’d just have to surprise him then.

  She also had to finish settling Elijah into her apartment. After nearly two months of flimsy protests from her mom, Leah had finally lost her patience and moved Elijah and his things to her place without their parents’ permission. Aside from an angry voicemail demanding Leah call her back, her mom hadn’t done much in retaliation. Leah should have expected as much, but she had still stupidly thought the woman might care about Elijah enough to actually fight to keep him.

  Anyway, she had told herself that she wouldn’t think about that anymore. Elijah needed her, and that was all that mattered.

  What else was on her list today? Oh, yes. Finish decorating the Christmas tree. It was their first, and she’d only gotten it because Elijah had asked. Helena was having a blast color coordinating the decorations. She also wanted to finish the last essay of the semester before final exams and winter break.

  And all that in addition to dinner with Will. And more sex.

  It sounded like a headache in the making, but she looked forward to it.

  She smiled as the sound of bacon sizzling in a frying pan reached her ears. She drew a deep, contented breath and gave a languid stretch. No guy had ever made her breakfast before. The fact Will had been her first in this made her smile stupidly into her pillow.

  Just as she was pretending to suffocate herself in the bedding for being so sentimental, Will walked in with a tray and set it near the edge of the bed with a flourish.

  “Ready for breakfast?” he asked, smirking at the sight of her.

  She grabbed some toast and put on her best glare. “Don’t bother gloating. You look just as debauched as I do.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said, leaning in for a soft kiss, which made her smile and her heart flutter happily before she remembered she was supposed to be pretending to be annoyed with his self-satisfaction. “Because you love me.”

  She blushed and bit into the toast. “Will—”

  “And because you adore me.”

  “That’s debatable. But seriously, Will—”

  “Possibly also because I intrigue and infuriate you, and I should warn you that I am never letting you go.”

  “That’s sweet. Will!”

  “What?”

  “The toast is burnt
.”

  “Guess you’ll just have to settle for me instead.” He plucked the toast from her hand and climbed into the bed with her.

  With a breathless laugh, she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him down to meet her kiss. Breakfast could wait.

  ONLY BETWEEN US

  By

  Mila Ferrera

  Copyright © 2013 by Mila Ferrera

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the e-mail address below.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Mila Ferrera Books

  milaferrerabooks@gmail.com

  http://milaferrerabooks.blogspot.com/

  Chapter One

  Romy

  Last year, I was broken. Dismantled bit by bit, day by day, until all that was left was a brittle shell. I wasn’t even aware it was happening until it was almost too late. I thought I was in love. I thought I could change—be prettier, more attentive—and that would make it better. It took a black eye and a fat lip to wake me up.

  This semester, I’m reclaiming myself piece by piece.

  Jude slips his arm through mine. The early fall breeze ruffles his wavy black hair, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. He’s wearing a worn flannel over a ratty t-shirt, so different from his usual impeccable style. I link my fingers with his and squeeze. “You’re the best friend ever,” I whisper as we head up the sidewalk toward our destination. My toolbox feels unwieldy and foreign in my grasp, and my palm is sweaty around the handle.

  “I know,” he says with gentle humor. “I’m glad you decided to do this. I think it’s exactly what you need.”

  I might have stayed home if it wasn’t for him. When I got back into town a few days ago after two months spent rattling around my parents’ huge summer “cottage,” I called Jude to give him the address to my new apartment. He and Eric were at my place within an hour, helping me get settled. Like two mother hens, they clucked about how I’ve lost weight and squawked about my drastically short haircut (then told me I looked fabulous). But their cheery enthusiasm couldn’t fool me—they kept exchanging worried glances as they unpacked my water glasses and plates, more like parents than my actual parents, who had simply hired me a moving service, put a few thousand dollars into my bank account, and told me they’d see me at Christmas. Jude was the one who noticed my laptop screen, where I’d been researching painting classes at the local artists’ co-op. I’d done it on a whim, not sure if I would follow through, but as soon as Jude saw it, he made up my mind for me—by signing both of us up for a class that fit with the course schedule for our graduate program.

  As we approach the entrance to the co-op, this multi-story old building three blocks off quaint Main Street with its heated sidewalks and funky boutiques, I push away Alex’s mocking voice as it whispers You’re wasting your time … that looks like something a five-year-old would draw …

  I escaped from him at the end of January, but he’s still in my head sometimes.

  Jude holds the door and leads me into the building, taking in the cracked linoleum flooring and the line of coat hooks and cubbies along the wall. On either side of this hallway are numbered classrooms, and ahead of us is a staircase. A sign tells us the artists’ studios are upstairs. The smell of mineral spirits is in the air, and I inhale it greedily while Jude wrinkles his nose. “I can feel my brain cells dying,” he mutters, then glances nervously into the classroom, where several people have already claimed easels and are waiting for the teacher to arrive. “I haven’t painted since my art class in middle school.”

  I smile at his sudden uncertainty. “This is a beginner’s class, so I think you’ll be in good company.”

  The stairs creak and we look up to see a guy coming down the steps. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, maybe a few years older than I am, and he moves with the careless grace of an athlete.

  “Holy hotness,” breathes Jude, mimicking my thoughts perfectly. It’s not that I’m on the prowl, but in this life, there are a few objective truths, and this guy’s attractiveness is one of them. His jeans hang from his lean hips and are stained with paint. A similarly decorated t-shirt clings to his frame, and there’s a smear of blue on his tanned, muscular forearm. He has chin-length, chocolate brown hair, but he’s pulled some of it away from his face in a partial ponytail high on the back of his head. And that gives us a perfect view of his wolf-gray eyes, which skate over us with mild interest as he descends the stairs and walks toward us.

  “You guys here for my class?” he asks, nodding toward the classroom. Oh my God. He’s the teacher.

  “Absolutely,” Jude says quickly, newly enthusiastic, and I can’t hold in my laugh.

  “Head on in and grab an easel. We’ll start in a few minutes. I’m Caleb,” he says, holding his hand out to Jude, who shakes it and introduces himself.

  Caleb turns his gaze to me and offers his hand. “Romy,” I say as I take it, my heart beating a little faster as my skin touches his.

  He lets go first. “Have you painted before?” he asks softly, giving my toolbox a questioning glance.

  “A little.” That’s a lie. I minored in art in college, and painting was my passion. Until last year. I was passionate about a lot of things until last year, actually.

  He smiles, and it’s as warm as his skin and steals my breath. “You look nervous, Romy. You don’t have to be. This is supposed to be fun.”

  Jude throws his arm over my shoulder. “Come on, girl. Let’s go have fun.” He pulls me toward the classroom, and I am acutely aware of Caleb behind me as I walk in. Jude drags me over to two easels in the corner of the back row; every easel in the front two rows is taken. I set my box down and look around, realizing for the first time that we’re the youngest students in the room—and that Jude is the only guy. Most of the rest of the spots are occupied by middle-aged women, rings glittering on their fingers, hair sprayed into place, wearing spotless aprons over their tailored slacks and blouses. They look like women my mom would be friends with.

  Jude leans over and whispers, “What do you bet these cougars are hot for teacher? I know I am.”

  “Shut up.” I bow my head as Caleb reaches the front of the room, knowing Jude is right but refusing to acknowledge that I’m feeling the same way. This was the last thing I expected or wanted out of this evening. I came here to reclaim myself, not to focus on someone else … but I’m having trouble keeping my eyes off Caleb.

  “Hey, everyone, welcome,” he says. “This is the first meeting of our twelve-class session, and I’m glad to see you guys.” He nods at a few of the women, and I wonder if they’ve taken the class before. “We’ll be focusing on basic technique with acrylics, including color-blending, basic washes and watercolor effects, layering, and texturing. We’re going to start with paper for the next several weeks, and then we’ll do some work on canvas. For those of you who have your own supplies—” His eyes rest on me for a moment, and his eyebrow arches. “—you might want to pick up some glazing medium and flow improver, or feel free to use what we have here. And for those of you who don’t have supplies, you can find brushes and sample paints over there, along with paper. My only request is that you wash the brushes thoroughly at the end of class so that I don’t get in trouble.” His grin is easy and mischievous, and I find myself smiling with him even though I’m not sure why.

  After Caleb tells us that we’ll spend today discussing and experimenting with composition, the other students get supplies out of their art boxes while a few, including Jude, head over to gr
ab brushes and paints from the shelves. I sit on the cold cement floor and skim my fingers over my dented toolbox. I’ve had it since high school. My dad let me have his old one to put all my supplies in … and I haven’t opened it in what feels like a lifetime. It used to hold my entire imagination. It used to be the way I could free whatever was inside me. But all of that got twisted up somehow, and it became another symbol of how trapped I was. With a deep breath, I flick the latch and open the lid. My eyes sting as I look down at my brushes and half-used tubes of paint, acrylics and oils, gesso, pencils, varnish, frozen and waiting for me to return.

  A hand closes over my shoulder and my head jerks up. “You okay?” Jude asks, and in his worried expression I see his memories, of me showing up at his door that horrible night, of all the months after when I was too miserable to get up off the couch.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say with a rasp in my voice. To my horror, I notice Caleb watching me. But as soon as our eyes meet, he looks away and starts to address the class, drawing attention to the front of the room. I slowly climb onto my stool as he instructs everyone how much paint to put on the palette and talks about the qualities of acrylic paints. I’d rather be using my oils, but I’m just getting back into this, so I sit and listen and drift a little, enjoying the sound of Caleb’s deep voice.

  The class time flies by, and an hour later, we’re packing up, washing our brushes and tossing our papers in the recycling bins. There’s a cluster of women around Caleb, touching his arm and laughing with trilling voices at almost everything he says. He doesn’t look like he minds the attention. I take Jude’s hand and tug him into the hallway, toward the staircase. “I want to take a peek at the studios,” I tell him.

  “Are we allowed to go up there?”

  I shrug. “Why wouldn’t we be? It’s not private space, and art is meant to be looked at.” When I first moved here last year to start a graduate program in counseling, I fantasized about renting one of the spaces here, and came to look at it a time or two, but then I got wrapped up in my relationship with Alex and the plan went by the wayside along with everything else.