Love in Transit

by Jana Aston

  “Touch yourself,” he says as he presses his face into my inner thigh. He drags in a growly breath, then pushes off the bed. He looms above me, big and broad, and he ruthlessly strips off his clothes. “Cara. Touch. Your. Self.”

  I rub my hand against my lower belly, then my inner thighs. I spread my legs for him, and only when he growls at me again, do I slide my fingertips over my folds.

  I gasp at how wet I am, dripping and ready.

  Toby pulls a condom from a drawer before joining me again on the bed. “Make that sound again,” he whispers, kissing me on the neck, right behind my ear. “That little surprised sound.”

  “It’s all a wonderful surprise,” I murmur back. “And shouldn’t you be naked?”

  His erection strains against my hip through the stretchy cotton of his boxer briefs. “I don’t want to rush.”

  “Toby.” I laugh weakly. “Please rush. Please make me come in a screaming fit ten seconds from now. I have complete faith we’ll be able to do it again and again, all afternoon long.”

  “And evening.”

  “The weekend, too.” I reach for his waistband and push it low on his hips, running my fingers over the darker hair at the bottom of his very happy trail. “Can I?”

  He rolls onto his back and throws one arm over his eyes, then drags it away. “Yes. Please. No. Wait—”

  “Too late.” I crawl on top of him and kiss his handsome face. “Two can play at this game, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Take off my shorts now—”

  I kiss him again to shut him up, then cover his mouth with my fingers as I try to kiss my way down his body.

  I don’t get very far before he’s flipped me again.

  My breath catches in my throat as the heat ramps up between us. Together we get him all the way naked, then he rolls a condom over his impressively thick erection. I’m staring and I can’t help it. He’s huge and it’s been three years since the last time I did this—and that fumbling attempt had been with a much smaller penis.

  Tell him to be gentle, my inner scaredy-cat urges.

  But the rest of me, overheated and achy, is more than willing to take every last inch. My hips lift toward him of their own accord, and he fits us together, the heavy crown of his cock dragging over my clit and through my folds a few times before he gives in to my whimpers and notches his erection against my entrance.

  His first pulse stretches my entrance open, and his second push brings with it a welcome pressure that has me babbling a stream of begging gibberish.

  Yes, yes, fill me, more, oh there, ah…

  Each press of his hips is sure. Not gentle, but not rough, either. I rock up, ready for more, and he holds me down. “Steady,” he growls.

  “Don’t hold back,” I whisper, and he groans a strained laugh.

  “You’re so damn tight, Cara. I’m not holding back, I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

  “Lose it.” I arch up against him as he fills me again, deeper still. “I’m so close.”

  I hadn’t known I was empty until he was inside me, and now I want that thing that comes next, that I can see in the near distance. Shimmery and fantastic. I want that while he’s inside me.

  He shifts over me, his arms bulging and his shoulders flexing as he braces one hand beside my head and uses the other to lift my hips.

  Oh. There. “Toby…”

  “Yeah. So close, too. I’m going to fill you up, Cara. Make you mine.”

  “Please, please, please.” I bite my lip and close my eyes as the pleasure swirls tighter, faster inside me. His breath brushes against my mouth and I part for him. He soothes the bite mark on my lower lip, then slides his tongue into my mouth.

  Sweat slicks between our bodies as he surges into me, pinning me against the bed. He kisses and fucks me with growing abandon. Each thrust is harder than the last, each kiss sloppier. I wrap my arms around his neck and weave my fingers into his hair, clinging to him as his cock wakes up every nerve ending deep inside my body.

  When my orgasm comes, it’s tight and hot, an implosion first, followed by an explosion of sensation. There’s a moment of deafening silence as I tumble into it, then as it goes boom, everything is in hyper relief. The look on Toby’s face, the sounds he’s making, the rub of our bodies together and the heavy throb of him coming deep inside me.

  He holds me tight as he twitches, then kisses me quickly before pulling away to get rid of the condom.

  “Who knew sex was actually as amazing as people say?” I flop backward, breathless as I laugh in wonder. He joins me again on the bed and I lace my fingers through his. “Like really, that exceeded all the hype.”

  “It’s not normally that good,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically full of gravel. “Give yourself a lot of credit for how off-the-charts hot that was.”

  “Okay.” I grin at him. “But really…I had no idea.” I run my fingers along his square jaw and up onto his beautiful mouth. I flick my gaze up to his eyes, which are locked on my face. “I’m never going to let you put clothes on.”

  “You’re ready do it again, aren’t you?” The fondness in his gaze is sweeter than any dessert in the world. Which reminds me…

  “We should call for room service because you’re going to need fuel in a major way.”

  “Sure.” He tugs me close. “And then we should probably call your family.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Today.”

  “Fine. But later.” I kiss him softly, then mouth my way down his jaw, his neck, and onto his chest. “I really liked your mouth on me. Now I want to repay the pleasure.”

  His eyes hood and he strokes his hand over my hair. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “What wedding night—or afternoon—would be complete without an innocent, show-me-how-to-do-this-right blow job from your favorite troublemaker?”

  His answering groan is everything I didn’t know I was missing, and all I need.

  THANK YOU

  Thank you for reading Cara and Toby’s story!

  This is the second book in my Billionaire Secrets series.

  Jake’s book, Personal Delivery, is available now! Read about the entire series on my website: www.ainsleybooth.com

  If you’d like to hear about my next release (Ben’s book!!!) make sure you are on my VIP reader email list here:

  www.smarturl.it/AinsleyMail

  And if you are on Facebook, join my VIP reader group here: www.facebook.com/groups/ainsleyboothreadergroup/

  ~ Ainsley

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mom by day and filthy romance writer by night, Ainsley is a three-time USA Today bestseller (Hate F*@k, Prime Minister), and super grateful for caffeine and yoga pants. Born and raised near Toronto, Ontario, Canada, she’s traveled the world and come back home to write about book boyfriends with maple leaf tattoos.

  www.ainsleybooth.com

  www.friskybeavers.com

  The Hammersmith & City Line

  Kitty French

  Copyright © 2017 by:

  Kitty French

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  170523.155627

  Chapter 1

  You know those people that have a house full of motivational slogans? Embrace Every Moment, stamped on their coffee mugs. Always Kiss Me Goodnight painted above their perfectly made beds.

  I’m not one of those people.

  This morning I overslept, then slipped on a stray sock and banged my toe on the nightstand. The elevator in my building broke and I had to run down six flights of stairs. And then my local coffee shop was closed. For health violations.

  What’s that? Not the end of the world? You want me to suck it up?

  Did I mention that I’m wearing a wedding dress… on The Tube?

  It’s a Good Day for a Hot Mess. Someone embroider
that on a pillow.

  My mobile is ringing in my bag. I can hear the bloody thing, but I don’t have a prayer of getting to it before it stops because I can barely even bend to get my sodding bag out from underneath the fluff of my wedding dress. Rena’s plan sounded bizarre enough when I was driving to the TV studio, but this is off the scale stupid even by my own standards. Or hers. I’m doing this because she’s been my best friend since we were five years old and I love the bones of her and Bryn, but if she doesn’t win their fantasy Maldives wedding on the ridiculous game show she’s entered us into, I’m going to kill her. And get myself a new best friend. One who doesn’t make me wear an ugly-ass charity shop wedding dress on The Underground, for starters.

  Whoever’s calling me isn’t giving up, so I lower myself in some ridiculous kind of curtsy and try to lunge for the handle of my backpack. Damn this bloody corset thing! Would it kill someone to help me out here? Look, I get it. I’m wearing a wedding dress that even Little-Bo-Peep would turn her nose up at; I look like I’ve escaped from the local secure wing, but someone help a girl out here? Considering I’m on the 7.47 into Hammersmith with a bunch of suits, there’s not a Prince Charming amongst them. I’ve just about managed to contort myself low enough to get a hold of my bag, but not without having my face practically shoved up the ass of the man standing in front of me. I bite down the urge to tell him his musty suit could do with dry cleaning, ferreting in my bag as I haul myself up again.

  Three missed calls from Rena. Of course there are. I sigh and jab at the screen to get her back.

  ‘Where the hell are you? I’m already outside Splash TV and I’m freezing my fucking tits off in this dress!’

  Her voice screeches out of my mobile and bounces off the carriage windows, making several Prince Uncharming’s slant their eyes shiftily towards me. They’re getting right on my bloody nerves, which is the only explanation I can offer for what I say next.

  ‘Calm down, darling,’ I coo, more than loud enough to be heard. ‘I’ll be there soon. By this afternoon you’ll be my wife, and I’ll warm your freezing tits up with my hands, I promise. Then I’m gonna crawl underneath the skirt of your wedding dress and lick your…’

  We rattle into a tunnel, cutting her off, which is lucky because I was just about to say something utterly filthy designed to make the guy across the aisle choke on the bacon bap he’s shoving down his throat.

  I look down at my mobile regretfully and murmur ‘cut off,’ for the benefit of my audience.

  ‘Call her back,’ someone behind me urges. ‘I want to know what you were going to do next.’

  I twist around, aware that my boobs are frothing over the top of the bodice of my dress as if I’m a serving wench in a period drama. I’m quite in character by now.

  ‘Piss off, you lot shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on my private conversation,’ I wail at the carriage in general, fake-anguished. I offer up a silent thank you to my old drama teacher because I even manage to summon up a few tears. ‘It’s my wedding day, for God’s sake, and my car was stolen, and now I’m on The Tube looking like this.’ I pause to gulp and gesticulate at the acres of ivory dress I’m tangled up in, ‘and my beautiful, gorgeous girlfriend thinks I’ve stood her up on the most important day of our tender young lives!’

  Pretty much everyone in the carriage is looking at me now, and that’s when it happens. We stop, the doors slide open, and the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on inches into the already jammed carriage. When I say hot, we’re talking Chris Pratt’s better looking brother. He clocks me straight away, probably because I look like the fairy who fell off the Christmas tree shoehorned into a box full of dour ravens.

  Whoa. Well, I’m glad he missed my lezza declaration.

  He looks me over in all my tear-stained glory, and then he smirks. Smirks, people. He might be hot, but that was still rude.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I snark.

  He shrugs. ’You’re wearing a really shit wedding dress on The Tube.’

  I sense the suits around me collectively suck down a breath, as if they feel for the new guy, but are still kind of glad they’ve bagged ringside seats.

  ‘Says you, dressed like a twat in a …’ I sweep my gaze over his outfit in search of something to insult, and fuck, that’s when I spot the hint of a dog collar underneath his jacket. No shitting way. How can the hottest man in the world be a vicar?

  ‘I forgive you, my child,’ he murmurs, looking at my tits.

  ‘Don’t bother, mate, she’s a lesbian,’ the guy behind me says. He clearly hasn’t clocked the dog collar, or indeed onto the fact that this isn’t the nineteen seventies and I can be a lesbian if I bloody well like without him feeling it’s in any way acceptable to have a dig.

  ‘This just gets better and better,’ hot-rev laughs, hooking his hand into the grab strap over his head as the train zips through the tunnels.

  ‘She’s late for her own wedding,’ musty suit pipes up.

  ‘Someone’s had a lucky escape.’

  Now, I know that I didn’t exactly look for sympathy by loudly telling my fake lesbian wife-to-be I wanted to crawl under her wedding dress and lick her lady garden, but I’m feeling ever so slightly unsupported in my crisis right now. What if I really was a damsel in distress? Would any of these guys step up as my knight in shining armour? I get the distinct impression not. They’re lucky this is my stop. And joy of joys, I can’t decide if I’m lucky or not because it seems like Reverend HotPratt is getting off at Hammersmith too.

  He strides along beside me as I wrestle my backpack onto my stupidly bare shoulders.

  ‘Are you really late for your own wedding?’

  I huff as we step out onto the busy pavement, shivering because it’s sodding freezing. Who wears a strapless wedding dress on The Tube in London in March? No one sane.

  I glance at him, and for a second I forget why he’s pissed me off and remember that he’s hotness itself. ‘Are you really a vicar?’

  ‘Why, do you have something you need to confess?’

  ‘Such as?’ I mutter, distracted as I glance both ways, uncertain which way the studio is. I know it’s not far, thank God, I just need a quiet second to get my bearings.

  ‘Such as it’s not really your wedding day, and you pretended to be lesbian to wind up that bunch of suits on the train?’

  ‘What makes you so sure about that?’

  He laughs, cocksure. ‘You were checking me out.’

  If I had a bouquet in my hands, I’d hit him with it. ‘In your dreams. I was thrown for a minute by the dog collar, that’s all.’

  ‘Can’t a vicar be good looking?’

  ‘Who said you’re good looking?’

  ‘You did.’

  He’s saved from the scathing insult about to trip off my tongue by Rena, who’s shouting my name and waving both arms like a mad thing a little way down on the opposite side of the road.

  ‘Your fiancée, I presume?’ he guesses. It wasn’t much of a stretch, given that she’s the only other woman on the street wearing a wedding dress.

  I wave back, relieved, hitching up my skirts as I make a dash towards the crossing because it’s flashing green.

  ‘Good luck, my child,’ Rev HotPratt shouts after me, laughing. ‘I think you’re going to need it!’

  ‘I very much doubt it!” I fling back, although he’s probably right. We’re going to need all the luck we can get this weekend if Rena’s going to win the wedding of her dreams.

  ‘Jesus, Connie. I didn’t believe you when you said the dress was hideous. What were you thinking of?’

  Rena is laughing at me so hard she’s made her mascara run. It doesn’t help that she looks sensational in her own thrift store sheath, all Italian curves and flowing black waves caught back from her face by a huge, glittering butterfly.

  ‘I thought you said we were playing it for laughs,’ I grumble. My dress is straight out of the eighties, a meringue so huge and froufrou that it stands up on its own. I’m an a
ccessory to this dress, it doesn’t actually need me. What the hell kind of designer manages to shoehorn balloon sleeves onto an off-the-shoulder number? I look like Little-Bo-Fucking-Peep.

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember.’

  She knows full well she did, the bitch. I’ll get her back for this. She forgets that she’s already asked me to be her Maid Of Honour. When all this is over, I’m going to be the most dishonourable maid on the block. Best friend or not, she’s getting it both barrels.

  ‘Try not to damage it during the game-show,’ she snorts, stroking my skirt. ‘I might need to borrow it for my actual wedding if we don’t win.’

  ‘Well, we won’t win if I don’t try my best,’ I smile, sweet as sugar before I let the smile slide right off my face in favour of scowling. ‘And I won’t try my best if you keep taking the piss out of me. I’ve just caught The Tube with a bunch of wanker-bankers looking like this for you, my humour cup does not runneth over right now, Rena. I need coffee, and I wish I smoked so I could have a fag.’ That’s not strictly true. I hate smoking but stressed out people always look relieved in the movies when they spark up and take a drag, and right now I seriously need relieving.

  Rena pulls the snowy white fur stole from around her shoulders and wraps it around mine instead as she kisses me on the forehead.

  ’Thank you,’ she murmurs. ‘You’re the best friend ever. I’m sorry I laughed at you.’

  Her body heat has turned the stole into something like an electric blanket, and it does wonders for my mood.

  ‘Good,’ I mutter. ‘That’s better. If you can supply me with a cappuccino, I’ll think about forgiving you.’

  She grins as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a mini bottle of brandy. ‘Done. I can even lace it with something to lift your spirits.’

  It’s not a cigarette, but it’s a close second. I take the bottle and unscrew the cap.

  ‘On second thoughts, forget the coffee.’ I take a good swig and look behind us at Splash TV. ‘Let’s go and win you a wedding.’

  Chapter 2

  You’ve seen The Hunger Games, right? Because the dude hosting this show certainly has, and he’s been heavily influenced by Stanley Tucci’s stylist. The basic premise of the game is several rounds of extreme challenges between us and an opposing duo, and by the end, one team will be victorious and the other, I think, might be dead. I don’t think that’s precisely what Rena signed us up for, but I swear this guy’s got a cannon out back ready to fire when one of the challenges goes wrong and we, or hopefully they, meet their untimely end. I might even set fire to my own dress and let out a mockingjay whistle.