Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  As soon as his lips touched hers, she lunged into him. A moan vibrated from deep in her throat and her fingers speared into his hair.

  He hauled her inside, kicked the door shut, and then staggered a little as she started to climb him before he had both feet planted. He got them planted fast, and grabbed her ass to hold her in place while she wrapped her legs around his hips. The feel of her squirming against him ratcheted the pressure in his balls up to a dangerous level. Apparently she felt the pressure, too, because she tore her mouth away long enough to say, “Now,” and then dove back into the kiss.

  Hell yes, now. A single step brought him to the handiest surface available—the hall table—and a sweep of his arm sent his phone and keys clattering across the hardwood. Her purse hit the floor next, with a careless thump. He dropped her down on the narrow perch. Her breath whooshed out at the sudden impact. Before he could even think about apologizing, she surged toward him again, reaching for the front of his white, button-down shirt. One frantic tug later, buttons went flying, pinging into walls. Raining along the baseboards.

  “Hurry,” she reiterated, and proceeded to bestow hard little bites along his jaw. Her palms rushed down his chest, along his abs, and over the front of his jeans. Then it was his turn to lose his breath, because her quick fingers tore his fly open, shoved his underwear out of her way, and fisted his throbbing shaft. A hard tug dragged his balls over the teeth of his zipper.

  “Jesus, Jailbait.” He leaned in and pinned her against the wall, his hands on either side of her head. “This is a perfect example of you not understanding the risk inherent in your situation. I’ve missed you. I’ve wanted you constantly for the last week and you’ve denied us both out of sheer stubbornness. I’m in no shape to be toyed with. Keep it up, and this is going to be brutal. You’ll feel it for the next week, no matter how many times I kiss it better.”

  Her chin came up. Temper or excitement—knowing her, a good dose of both—whipped color into her cheeks. “I need brutal. I’ve been in pain for a week and nothing relieves it.”

  Nothing? “What did you try?” The words scraped his throat like razors. If she answered with Jessie, or Scott, or any other name, he was going to have to kill an innocent man. When he’d walked away to let her stew in her own juices, he hadn’t factored in the possibility of her turning elsewhere for relief.

  “What?” she murmured against his throat, sounding both distracted and confused.

  “What’d you try?” He shoved a hand under her dress, and raked the skirt up to her waist. Tunneling under the top, he snagged the front of her bra and dragged it down until her breasts spilled over the cups. Her high, tight nipples poked against the thin dress. A firm tug on one brought her upright like a soldier snapping to attention. “Answer me.”

  “Oh, God.” She shook her head as her words dissolved into another moan.

  She needed to be able to speak to answer his question, for both their sakes. He forced himself to release her nipple. She slouched against the wall, chest heaving, and parted her legs. The drenched triangle of red silk flashing him might as well have been a red flag, and he a bull.

  He shoved the scrap down, grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the table. While she scrambled for handholds along the lip, he hitched her ankles onto his shoulders. When he looked down at her again, round eyes stared back at him.

  “Answer me, Lauralie.” He gripped the base of his cock and slapped it between her thighs, hard enough to make them both groan.

  The long muscles along the backs of her legs tightened, and she bowed away from the wall. “For the love of God, Booker put it in…”

  “What didn’t work?” He slapped the damp juncture again, and blinked away the haze blurring his vision.

  “This didn’t work.” Eyes flashing, she slid her hand down her stomach and between her legs. The backs of her fingers kneaded his cock as she stroked herself. “No amount of this worked—no matter how hard I tried.” She sounded genuinely aggrieved as she stroked faster. “My favorite setting on the massage showerhead didn’t work. My vibrator with my favorite setting on the massage showerhead didn’t work. Every part of me hurts, Booker. Especially here. So give me your goddamn cock, because you’ve ruined me for everything else.”

  Thank Christ. Her confession loosened the claw of jealousy gripping him, but did little to soothe his other painfully primitive instincts. The pain only had one cure. Make sure she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt there were no other avenues of relief for either of them, and there never would be. “You think you’re ruined? Jailbait, the fact you kept me waiting for six fucking days tells me I haven’t even begun to ruin you. But I will now.”

  Every muscle in his body tightened to make good on the promise, until his last, functioning brain cell issued a reminder. Condom. All the way upstairs in his nightstand. Fuck.

  He must have cursed aloud, or else she read his mind, because she stopped touching herself, and held onto the edge of the table with both hands. “There’s no risk. Do it.”

  Common decency dictated he offer her an assurance as well, but the thought of being inside her without any barriers took precedence over conversation. She trusted him or she wouldn’t allow him the privilege. He rewarded her trust with a table rattling thrust.

  The intensity wrenched a cry out of her. She arched up to vertical, and clamped her hand over her sex, fingers forming a wide V where his girth strained the limits of her soft, tight center. Her mouth dropped open, and her head lolled back. “Oh, God. Don’t…” She inhaled carefully. “…move.”

  He didn’t so much as twitch a muscle, but even so the first quivering spasms of her orgasm hugged his shaft. He endured them.

  Whimpers of gratitude accompanied her exhale, and then the whimpers drew out into moans as the quick flutters deepened to rhythmic squeezes all along the length of his cock. Not moving ceased to be an option. He grabbed her ass with both hands, and jerked her forward until her shoulders hit the wall. “Hang on to something, Jailbait.” Long days spent craving this moment turned his voice to a growl. “I’m about to ruin you for good.”

  Then he began to move. The next minutes…hell…seconds blurred into a series of quick-fire sensory assaults. Muscles burned as he thrust with abandon. Her heels dug into his shoulders. His hips pounded her ass every time he slammed into her, forcing gusty groans from deep in her throat. The relentless beat of the table hitting the wall hammered his ears, telling him his attempt to ease up was an abject failure. His balls grew slick from the pleasure he pumped out of her with every thrust. Her groan broke into a cry as the climax ravaged her, and pulled him in, too. He sank his fingers in her hair and brought her face close enough he could feel her breath on his lips. Dark pupils went wide in glassy blue eyes, and days worth of suffering shot out of him in a long, annihilating stream.

  “Jesus Christ, you’ve ruined me, too, Jailbait. If you ever put me through a week of waiting again, I warn you now, neither one of us will survive the reunion.”

  …

  Little distractions slowly pierced the cloud of contentment surrounding her—the edge of the table digging into her back, her hamstrings stretching past the point of comfort, and her toes tingling from lack of circulation. Heavy exhales ruffled the hair at her temples. She pried her eyes open and confronted her foot, still propped high on Booker’s shoulder, but now much closer to her face because he was crashed against the wall with his head next to hers.

  Maybe she groaned, or wiggled—she honestly didn’t know—but he murmured, “Give me a second, and I’ll untangle us.”

  He might be the only thing holding her in place. If he moved, chances were good she’d slide to the floor in a boneless heap. “Don’t let go. I’m pretty sure I’ll fall…”

  Or maybe you just don’t want to be shown to the door yet, which is idiotic, because you got what you came for.

  His low laugh tickled her neck. “I’m not going to let you go, Jailbait.”

  The laugh, the nickname—these
things told her his offhand comment meant he could handle her deadweight—but for some sad reason her ear heard a deeper pledge in the statement. True to his word, he eased back with slow control, so neither she nor the table risked toppling. Then he commenced dragging his extremely effective cock out of her, and all she could do was moan at the thought of him leaving her empty again after so much incredible fullness. The prospect compelled her to do something she never did—cling. “No. Not yet.”

  Despite her outburst, he slid free. A hot trickle of moisture—his, hers, a combination of both—washed over parts of her still stinging from the aggressive friction they’d endured. God, her body literally wept for him. A late-breaking call for dignity had her struggling to close her legs, but he wrapped his hands around her thighs and held them open.

  “Uh-uh. We’re not done. I know it wasn’t easy for you to swallow your pride and come here, but you needed me.” He parted her thighs wider to expose the source of the need. “Now it’s my responsibility to see to your needs—each and every one of them—and I take my responsibility very seriously. But my dick requires a few minutes of recovery time before it’s of any further use. Luckily, I have other ways to take care of you.”

  Let him take care of you? Uh-uh. You take care of yourself.

  Except she couldn’t, when it came to this. Not anymore. She’d spent a long, uncomfortable week learning that lesson. Damn him.

  And worse, he knew it. The corner of his mouth cocked up. “You’re awfully quiet, Lauralie.”

  “I’m not quiet, I just…” Have to find a way to retreat without looking like I’m retreating. “I don’t want to get in the way of any plans you had for tonight.”

  Without taking his eyes off her face, he swept his thumb down her crease, drawing another gush of moisture from her and then using the residual traces of their release to lubricate her. “I don’t give a shit about plans.” Before she could find her tongue to speak, he slowly massaged her pleasure-swollen flesh. Her neck muscles gave out and she rested her head against the wall.

  “I give a shit about you,” he went on, all the while circling and stroking, moving ever nearer to the knot of nerves already quickening at the prospect of his touch. “And because I do, I also give a shit about you answering my question. I’ll make it as painless as possible, but you know that’s part of the deal.”

  The pace of his movements never changed, but even so, a slippery rope of panic tightened around her throat. She needed to get the hell out of there, because when she’d driven over here tonight, she hadn’t thought past trying to have her way with him. Instead, he was doing it again. Saying things that knocked her off balance, and made her want to hold him closer and run away at the same time. “Booker—”

  “Right after you scream my name as I give you your third orgasm of the night.”

  The oxygen-starved feeling subsided. His reprieve, coupled with the cocky tone in his voice restored her equilibrium. “Third? I don’t know how you’re counting, Sheriff.”

  He nudged her clit with the pad of his thumb, and sent warning flares shooting through her abdomen. “That’s a load of crap. This is your third. Three more and you owe me breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re counting chickens before they hatch.” The tension was back, building between her legs, making her edgy.

  “Am I?” He swept his thumb over her clit, again and again. She arched up as he increased the speed. His touch electrified her.

  “Oh, God. Maybe not. Booker…don’t stop.” She started to tremble. “I’m going to come.”

  “You owe me a week’s worth and I intend to collect every one of them.”

  Then he dropped a long, slow kiss on her lips, and it felt like a pledge, or a vow, or something else she shouldn’t be so ready to hold onto. She wasn’t looking for promises, dammit. But another slick slide of his thumb, and he delivered on one anyway. She went flying, body spiraling out of control, yet somehow the storm of sensations calmed her chaotic thoughts—like the moment of clarity in the eye of a hurricane.

  He’s promised you sex. Amazing sex. But still, just sex. Nothing you can’t handle.

  Chapter Ten

  Scents of aftershave and Tide pods filled her nose, and told Laurie the sheets she lay face down across didn’t belong to her. The pillow under her cheek? Also not hers. Likewise the blanket crumpled around her ankles. She cracked her eyes open and confirmed her worst suspicions. Despite her firm plan not to, she’d spent the night in Booker’s bed. How had it happened? Or, more to the point, why had she allowed it to happen?

  He’d carted her to his bedroom after “taking care of her” in the hall, and she’d been too limp and satisfied to do anything except go along for the ride. Later, after he’d given her a thorough tour of his big, sturdy bed and a convincing demonstration of his ten minute rebound time, she’d feigned sleep, thinking she’d make her way home after he drifted off.

  Only it had been she who drifted off, and woken up in the wee hours of the morning to find her wrists handcuffed together, and Booker sleeping beside her with a smile on his face. The cuffs made it impossible for her to dress, much less drive, but as those realizations were sinking in Booker woke up just enough to show her the shackles didn’t impair her ability to have a screaming orgasm. Not in the least. Afterward, as she’d floated on the fringes of sleep, he’d murmured, “You owe me breakfast.”

  Her hands weren’t cuffed together anymore, but—she raised her head an inch off the pillow—sure enough, last night’s accessory still encircled one wrist.

  And where the hell was the sheriff of O-town this morning? She usually didn’t out-sleep anyone—running a bakery made for early mornings—but today it seemed Booker had gotten the jump on her. The whole house was silent. She rolled over and pulled the sheet up to her chest. A folded, white piece of paper sat like a tiny tent on his nightstand, and a sick little twinge tugged her stomach. Was he giving her a dose of her own medicine? Teaching her what it felt like to wake up alone in someone else’s bed with a note saying See you around?

  Early indications hinted it sucked. But she was a big girl, and she had it coming. With a sigh, she lifted the note and flipped it open.

  Went to the store. Behave yourself while I’m gone and I’ll give you a chance to earn your clothes back by making me breakfast.

  Yeah, right. Where was she supposed to go with a handcuff dangling from her wrist, and—she glanced at the empty spot on the dark blue rug where she last remembered seeing her dress—no clothes. Despite the sarcastic thoughts, a smile tugged at her lips.

  She bounced off the bed and shrugged into the large, white terrycloth bathrobe he’d slung across the back of one of the two leather chairs in the sitting area of his spacious bedroom. Of course he hadn’t. Escape was her MO. It’s not like he had a crazy mother prone to show up at the worst possible moments and make his life hell.

  Stop. Don’t let Denise spoil the best morning you’ve had in over a week.

  Absolutely not. Her mother was two hundred miles away, and not likely to come around anytime soon, considering Laurie didn’t have anything left to leech away.

  The thought offered bitter comfort. She cruised downstairs in search of something more inspiring—like coffee. As she passed the entryway, a thump on the other side of the front door slowed her down. Either Booker was back or he’d forgotten something.

  She twisted the knob and swung the door open. “Kidnapping my clothes is…”

  The rest of her sentence died on her tongue. Rebecca Booker stood on the threshold, tall and toned with her dark hair smoothed into her signature chin-length bob. She wore a coordinated yoga outfit and held a bag of produce from the farmer’s market. Her smile faded as she blinked at the stranger answering her son’s door. Then one dark, arched brow rose in a feminine version of an expression Laurie associated with Booker.

  “Mrs. Booker…”

  “Sorry.” The cool, slightly amused word conveyed many things, but sorrow wasn’t among them. “You
have the advantage. I was looking for my son.” She took a step back and gestured to the doorway. “This is definitely his house, and that”—she indicated the robe Laurie wore—“is definitely the present I got him for Christmas, but you I don’t recognize.”

  “I’m Laurie. I’m just…” The maid? The plumber? Nope. There was no plausible way to end the sentence. “…a friend. Um, he’s not home right now, but he’ll be back shortly. Would you like to come in and wait? Here, let me take that.” She reached out for the bag of groceries. The movement sent the handcuffs sliding down her wrist, until the empty loop dangled from the sleeve of the robe. It swung there, hypnotically, while sunlight glinted on the metal.

  Shit.

  Now both of his mother’s eyebrows disappeared behind meticulously maintained bangs. Her lips twitched before she firmed them into a neutral line. “I’d better take a rain check. Here…sustenance.” She handed over the bag of groceries. “If I know my son, he doesn’t have a thing in his fridge except day old pizza and domestic beer.”

  Laurie nodded and accepted the bag, though in truth she couldn’t confirm his mother’s comment, as she’d never set foot in the kitchen, much less looked in the fridge. Admitting her realm of knowledge extended only from the entryway table to Booker’s bedroom wouldn’t improve the situation.

  Not that Rebecca needed rescuing. She simply smiled again, and said, “Lovely to meet you, Laura.” A bouncy pivot sent her gliding down the walkway toward the silver Tesla parked at the curb. “Please tell Booker to call me when he has a moment.”

  She bit back the automatic impulse to correct her name, and closed the door. Rebecca Booker did not need to know the correct name of her son’s current fuck-buddy—and that’s all this would end up amounting to, because this morning’s encounter landed her squarely in the category of girl-you-don’t-take-home-to-mother.