Caught Up In You ( Edgeplay Part 1)

by Jenna McCormick

  Caught Up In You

  Edgeplay: Part 1

  Jenna McCormick

  Published by Captiva Heart

  A Sanibel Moon Imprint

  Copyright 2012 Jenna McCormick

  Cover image purchased from romancenovelcovers.com

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at jenna@authorjennamac.com.

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.sanibelmoon.com

  Caught Up In You

  Jenna McCormick

  Edgeplay: Part 1

  Once in a Blue Moon

  Chapter One

  I really must stop doing this.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I make sure the grounds are completely deserted. Though I expect nothing less on a midsummer midnight on the otherwise unoccupied Rosemont Estate, the feeling of being watched sticks with me. It’s not like I’m stealing the silverware. I just want a soothing dip in the pool.

  So why don’t you ask then? My snarky inner self crosses her arms and taps her foot. Afraid he’ll say no?

  She knows me too well. Of course I’m afraid, not just that I will be forbidden from using the Olympic-sized swimming pool, but that I’ll lose my job for asking.

  Or more accurately, lose my grandfather’s job as head groundskeeper. The one he can’t do anymore and I’m secretly performing to pay for his placement in the assisted living facility.

  If the Andersons were still the owners I might have broached the subject, but six weeks ago the private compound in upstate New York was sold. I haven’t met my new boss yet, don’t even know his name. Which doesn’t stop me from helping myself to his pool.

  My cell phone rings just as I reach for the latch on the wrought iron gate. I scream, disconcert at the interruption, my heart banging around in my chest like a pinball. Sucking in a lungful of oxygen, I glance at the display, wondering who is calling so late. Please don’t be the nursing home saying something happened to Pops. Hmm, not an 845 area code, or a number I recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Sinclair?” The voice is deep, masculine with a jagged edge, and totally unfamiliar.

  “Who’s speaking?”

  A garbled reply, totally incomprehensible through the static. Cell phone service sucks out here sometimes; all the rolling hills of the Hudson Valley make reception spotty if there isn’t a tower nearby. The closest one is about ten miles, on the other side of the village.

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I say, but the line’s gone dead. After checking for the signal on my phone, satisfied that the trouble wasn’t on my end, I dismiss the call from my thoughts. Probably a telemarketer on the west coast who didn’t realize he was calling at midnight my time. He can always call back and leave a voicemail.

  The well-oiled gate swings open silently and I lay my towel, keys, and phone on a chaise lounge before shucking my robe.

  Maybe I wouldn’t be so nervous about these moonlight swims if I wore a bathing suit. But then I’d be denying myself the illicit thrill of skinny dipping. Since my life seriously lacks in illicit thrills these days, I take whatever I can get.

  After executing a clean dive into the water, I start a leisurely backstroke, staring up at the fat orb of the moon. The temperature is perfect, still warm after the sweltering heat of the day. Clouds scud across the moon, casting shadows over my naked body as the light ebbs and flows. It looks to be almost full, for the second time this month. A blue moon. I remember Pops spinning tales about nocturnal creatures that only come out to play in the light of the blue moon. Fairies, werewolves, sylvans, and water sprites wreaked havoc and then disappeared. Looking at the dark, dense lines of evergreens surrounding the property, it’s easy to imagine that all sorts of things inhabit the night when no one’s looking.

  Of course, as acting groundskeeper, I know for a fact that nothing lives in that copse of trees but a few cardinals and gray squirrels. But pretending I belong with them, an enchanted creature cursed to a mortal life, makes things easier somehow. It’s a game I’ve been playing since I was a child and am not ready to give up.

  A splash directly behind me makes me jump, and I right my body as two strong arms pluck me from the water and hold me against a wall.

  “Who are you and how did you get in here?” a deep voice growls in my ear.

  The wall is actually a chest, his still clothed chest. The buttons on his waterlogged shirt dig into my spine. The cool night air on my wet skin and his vise-like hold make me shiver and I tremble “I-I’m Baily. I work for the owner.”

  “Bullshit,” he replies. “The only person employed here is Thomas Sinclair, head groundskeeper.”

  How does he know that? Fear tightens my throat but I force the words out. “I’m his granddaughter.”

  “Really?” My captor doesn’t sound as though he believes me. “Convenient. The granddaughter who roams the estate at night buck naked?” The arm around my midsection shifts until his hand strokes over the sensitive swell of my breast. “More likely you’re here to seduce Mr. Edge.”

  “Who?” I can’t think with his hands touching me this way, so sensuously, creating heat against my cool flesh. I should be afraid of some strange man touching me this intimately, but I’m not. Self-preservation doesn’t seem half as important as the strong arms holding me close. God, I’m pathetic. “I swear to you, I don’t even know who Mr. Edge is. Or who you are. For all I know, you’re the trespasser.”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation. I have every right to be here.”

  “Then we’re in the same boat!” Sounding indignant is almost impossible with his thumb stroking ever closer to my pebbled nipple. The rasp of his calloused fingers makes me bite back a moan. “Let go of me.”

  Ignoring my command, he dips his head down to the curve of my neck, sinking his teeth into the tendon until I gasp. “Let’s just go wake Mr. Sinclair up, get him to verify your story.”

  “He’s not here,” I tell him quickly. Now what? If I reveal my grandfather’s true location, he’ll be fired, and I need this job, the place to stay along with the money to keep Pops in assisted living. If I tell the security guy as much, my grandfather and I could both wind up homeless before dawn. “He’s visiting a sick relative.”

  “How convenient.” The rasp in the man’s voice makes every cell in my body sit up and take notice. “Any other lies you plan on telling?”

  “It’s the truth,” I blurt out, and his hold tightens.

  “Who are you?” His tenor is lower, sounding even more dangerous. “Who do you work for? Tabloids? Local news? Did you pay Sinclair to let you in to seduce Edge?”

  This man is beyond paranoid. He must be part of Mr. Edge’s security detail. “I’m not trying to seduce anyone, I swear. Look at me. I’m not exactly rocking the Mata Hari bod over here.”

  He stills completely, his demeanor changing, his touch turning more exploratory. “You underestimate yourself.”

  “I know what I look like.” Why does he argue? Isn’t being caught in the buff in a strange man’s pool humiliating enough? Does he really need to make me call attention to my cellulite to prove a point?

  Pushing me against the side of the pool, he bends me over unti
l my breasts and belly flatten against the concrete. The abrasive stone scrapes against my breasts, and the cold tightens my nipples, making them ache.

  He pulls my arms behind me, secures them with one hand, and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Lucky for Edge, I’m willing to fall on a grenade for him. And darlin’, you’re the sexiest grenade I’ve ever seen.” A southern drawl slips out.

  His strength, my nakedness and the position I’m in make it impossible for me to misunderstand his intentions. “Please, don’t do this.”

  “Isn’t this what you want, baby? To be fucked good and hard, made to come by a powerful man?”

  His words make me wet. I don’t want them to. Don’t want to be turned on by this borderline violent display. But I can’t deny I am. How many times have I wished for something—anything—to happen to ease my loneliness? This man wasn’t offering me the tender touches or gentle caresses I long for. Whatever is between us is darker, dirtier, and I want to grab it with both hands and cover myself with it.

  I think he’ll let me go if I say no.

  Why don’t I say no?

  Too stupid to live. Snarkarella shakes her head in disgust.

  Through his wet pants, I feel the hard length of his penis. Cock, as my romance novels call it. My face heats thinking the rude word. My sex clenches, not caring what it’s called, just wanting to engulf it and milk it dry.

  The hand not securing my wrists traces the bumps of my spine. “Yeah, you want a good, hard, wet ride. The way you’re rubbing up against me like that tells me everything I need to know.”

  I hadn’t realized I was pushing my backside against him until he said so. My body is on fire, hotter than ever, needing something I couldn’t put a name to. Something my instincts tell me only he can give.

  His hand reaches the waterline and continues its journey south. The slow drag down the crease of my butt makes me shiver. He’s slow, methodical in his touch, exploring carefully, as though mapping my body.

  I hold my breath when he comes to the puckered ring of my anus. I’ve never been touched there, never even imagined it.

  He traces the tiny spot with his fingertips slowly and chuckles low. “That’s more than you bargained for, isn’t it, beauty? Have you ever taken a man here?”

  “I’ve never taken an anything there,” I blurt, then wince at my candor. This conversation is the definition of the word surreal.

  His low groan surprises me. “I like that. The idea of getting you ready to take me in your sweet ass, working you open slowly until you fit around my cock like a snug little sleeve. You would let me.”

  He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but I nod anyway, completely lost to the sensual spell he’s cast over me.

  When he moves his finger away, I shiver with a mixture of regret and relief, at least until it traces the outer lips of my vag with that same maddening slow and steady pressure.

  “Are you all wet here, thinking about fucking a billionaire? What do you think he’ll buy you for the privilege of slamming into your greedy cunt? A car? A new fall wardrobe? Just how much is this pussy worth?”

  No one has ever spoken to me that way before, using such crude words. Instead of shaming me, they add kindling to the fire inside me, making it burn higher, hotter, until it rages out of control. I’m more afraid of this sensation than I am of him. A token protest rises up past my lips. “Let me go. I’m not some whore.”

  “No, you’re not, because you’re going to give it to me for free,” he growls.

  Releasing my hands, he lifts me out of the pool. I scramble to get away, but not fast enough, because he clamps onto my hips and buries his face between my legs. I groan when I feel his tongue tormenting my throbbing clitoris and shiver when he laps through the folds. More wetness spills from my channel, my body preparing for him in ways I’ve only ever read about.

  “Finger your clit while I eat you out,” he orders me between strong licks.

  Trembling all over at the thought, I shake my head back and forth, though whether I’m denying him or myself, I have no idea.

  A firm hand slaps my ass. “Do it,” he growls again in insistent demand.

  Can I really help him with my own seduction? Letting him do the things he’s been doing is one thing, but truly participating is a giant leap off a cliff.

  It’s been so long though since I’ve been compelled to touch myself. The way he pushes me makes me realize what I’ve all but forgotten - that I’m a woman with sexual urges and needs.

  Pressing one cheek against the concrete, I spread my knees wider. He makes a sound of approval when my index finger slides between the slippery lips of my sex. His tongue thrashes over the pad before he goes back to licking up every drop my body yields for him like it’s liquid gold. I work my nub faster, pressing harder, craving release.

  “Yes, just like that.” His hands are clamped down on my upthrust hips, his view of me massaging my open pussy unimaginably graphic. His mouth is thorough in its exploration of my secrets. Bold swipes cross my folds, dipping into my well and then dragging up over my perineum. He stops short of my anus, though I get the feeling it’s for my comfort more than his own. The way he brushes the pad of his thumb over the spot tells me nothing on my body is truly out of bounds.

  “Do you want to come?” he asks, between dips into my blood-engorged pussy.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  “Beg me,” he demands, landing another stinging slap on my backside.

  “Please, let me come,” the words spill out. I’m poised higher than ever before, my thighs trembling, blood pumping. The fall from this height may kill me, but I want it.

  No sooner have my words left my mouth than he’s working two blunt fingers into my channel. My excitement eases his way, and his lips seal over my busy finger and clit, sucking both into his mouth.

  I fly over the edge, coming in a wet rush and crying out at the sensations bombarding me. His fingers, his lips and tongue, the fact that I haven’t seen his face, don’t know his name, and let him do this to me anyway, all coalesce into an explosion of self from the inside out.

  Slowly, his fingers slide from me and his lips let me go. He’s breathing hard behind me, and I’m too dazed to wonder what he’ll do next. What I’ll let him do next.

  “Now, get out before I have you arrested for trespassing.” The anger is back in his voice. Where a minute before he was hot and lover-like, now there is only a frosty coolness.

  Shame burns through me. What I’d perceived as a naughty thrill morphs into a cheap sexual act. He did this to prove a point, to put me in my place. And I let him. Hell, I helped him.

  Snarkarella rises to the rescue. Leave before you beg him to do it again.

  Though my muscles are weak, I somehow push myself up from the undignified position, walk slowly, so I won’t trip, toward the chaise where my things sit. Not bothering to dry off, I pull my robe over my shoulders and pick up my towel, phone and keys.

  Taking one step toward the door, I pause. Somehow seeing his face, knowing his name, will only shame me more, but skulking into the night like a bad dog who’s been swatted for nosing through the trash isn’t an option either. “My name is Baily Sinclair, and Thomas Sinclair is my grandfather. Please tell Mr. Edge I’m sorry for overstepping my bounds. It won’t happen again.”

  He doesn’t answer, though I hear water sloshing as he exits the pool. Whatever his intentions are, I’m not prepared to stick around and find out.

  With my head held high, I leave the pool area, unwilling to look back.

  Chapter Two

  I rise with the sun, as usual, but feel worse than before I went to bed. Memories from the night before kept me thrashing until dawn. Would my mystery security man tell Mr. Edge who I was and what I’d been doing? Would he convey my remorse for crossing the line?

  My hair still smells of chlorine so I take a hot shower, wincing at the stinging along the abraded parts of my body. My knees and shins are raw from where I’d pressed them into the concre
te, and the palms of my hands and the left side of my face haven’t fared much better.

  Though the weatherman predicts it’ll be in the upper nineties, I pull on jeans and leave my hair down, hiding the marks from last night’s shenanigans as best I can. I rarely wear makeup. Working outside, I’d sweat it off before noon. After toasting a bagel and brewing a pot of coffee, I slather my fair face with sunscreen and pull a Yankees ball cap on, then set off to meet the landscaping crew at the front gate.

  A black convertible sits in the circular drive, along with an extended edition black SUV. My stomach cramps and I regret eating the bagel when a man wearing a tight black T-shirt and black slacks emerges from the passenger’s side of the SUV. Could this be the person who caught me?

  “Ms. Sinclair?” The voice is smoother, lacking the rough edges of my assailant. The fact that he turns my name into a question clinches it.

  “That’s me.” I smile and try not to look nervous. Or guilty.

  “Mr. Edge would like to see you in his office this afternoon.”

  Crap. I started to sweat. “Okay, what time?”

  “Three o’clock, Ma’am.”

  “I’ll be there. Now, I’ve got to go let the landscapers in.”

  He steps back and I pick up the pace, my brain scrambling for purchase. Edge is going to fire me, maybe even have me escorted from the property. Pops is my only family. I have nowhere else to go.

  Serves you right. Snarkarella pipes up. You played fast and loose with his security man and the bastard told him everything.

  Shoving her bile aside, I move to the gate and try to not let my anxiety get the best of me. As Pops use to say, there’s no time to fret, there’s work to be done.

  A new copse of flowering shrubbery has been ordered for the estate gardens and grabbing a shovel, I literally dig right in, working up a decent sweat. Rosasharn is an easy shrub to maintain if put in properly, and it flowers in several different colors. I’ve acquired several hundred saplings from a nearby nursery as part of the landscaping budget and plan to plant two rows of them leading up to and around the dolphin fountain in the back yard.