by Alice Ward
“Yes, you will be sorry.” My voice was husky with emotion, and the blood that had been throbbing in my head since we’d arrived at The Blackjack Club now flowed into my groin. “If there’s one thing I’m not going to tolerate in this relationship, sweetheart, it’s you taking unnecessary risks.”
She glowered at me. “The risk was perfectly necessary.”
I swooped down and bit her collarbone. She yelped, and I resurfaced again to look her directly in the eye. “Not all of it.”
“Well, I thought it was.”
“Then you were wrong.” I nipped her pouting lower lip. “I refuse for you to get hurt, Tabby, and not necessarily because of some cavalier knightly propriety. I’m selfish. The very idea of you suffering, especially because you took foolhardy actions, is something I can’t stomach.”
Her grin was wicked. “Too bad!” She bucked her hips to try and throw me off her.
I felt my inner beast awaken with a roar. In one motion, I thrust my arm beneath her back, flipped her over onto her front, and yanked her ass into the air. Hiking her skirt up to her waist, I ripped her panties clean off her pelvis and pinched her clit between my fingers. “Damn it, Tabby,” I groaned into her ear from behind. “Don’t you know I’m in love with you yet?”
She moaned. It was a guttural, clawing moan that splintered through her vocal cords and bloomed from her mouth like shrapnel in a dust cloud. The individual notes of the plaintive cry smacked my senses hard, and I rolled her clit between the pads of my thumb and forefinger to deepen the sound.
“You’re mine,” I whispered against her lobe. “You’re mine, and if I have to remind you of that every day, I will.”
A trickle of arousal streamed across my palm as I flattened my hand to cup her entire sex, grinding against the sensitive flesh. Tabby’s hands were curled into my comforter like she was already trying to control herself, but I was barely getting started. I’d promised her I was going to make certain she didn’t stand for a week afterward if she participated in the auction, and I was a man of my word.
I drove two fingers through her folds and pulsed against the place inside her that drove her wild. She grew louder, and her rear rose to meet my movements.
“Ah!” she wailed and rode my hand, making me even harder, and I kissed the smooth skin of her ass, then lower…
Pressure built around my digits and she grew even wetter, the sounds of my fingers moving inside her more erotic. I knew her body. She was close. Her hips sprang backward, her belly constricted, and her walls clenched my fingers in a vice grip. The moans she sang and the helpless twitches rocketing through her made a world-class show.
Jesus Christ, I was in love with this woman.
“Get ready, sweetheart,” I murmured. “You’re going again.”
I spiraled my forefinger around her inner walls, taking care to add slightly more pressure to the spongey bundle of nerves behind her pubic bone. Simultaneously, I lifted all pressure from her clit and merely applied tiny, featherlight strokes to its curved face. Before her cries had even stemmed from her first orgasm, I threw her headlong into a second. Her knees collapsed below her, and she writhed on the mattress with piercing screams.
Over and over again, I stole her control until she looked at me with hazy, glazed eyes. Then, I took her myself, plunging my cock into her and bringing her to meet utopia three more times before joining her with my own finality.
She dropped flat against the pillows, panting yet hardly breathing. I picked her up gently and resituated her onto my chest, covering her forehead with delicate kisses and gentle nuzzles. She was limp, motionless, and I assumed she’d fallen asleep or passed out as was typical for such intense sessions. I leaned my cheek against the top of her head and listened to her breaths.
This was perfect. This was Eden without the snake and the apple. I had fallen for the nymph who’d fallen on me in the casino all that time ago. She was the one.
My Christmas bet.
And then she whispered, “I love you too.”
EPILOGUE
Tabby
Christmas music seemed even louder as I strode toward baggage claim to retrieve my luggage. Santa hats were everywhere, smiles beaming as Christmas Eve swept everyone into joy.
“What are you doing?”
I whirled around at the sound of the familiar but wholly unexpected voice. Owen was striding toward me with purpose, his mouth set firmly, but his eyes were dancing. He grabbed my suitcase by the handle rather than the strap and pecked me quickly on the mouth.
“Come on, let’s go,” he commanded, barely hiding his delight.
“Why? What’s going on?” I demanded suspiciously. Owen never met me inside the airport at baggage claim. I’d grown accustomed to seeing him leaning against his limo with a cocky grin on his face every time I had flown to New Orleans. His swift gait and poorly stowed excitement were definitely grounds for suspicion.
“Just get that sweet little butt moving, or I’ll carry you instead of the luggage.” He wasn’t kidding.
I followed him out to the area clogged with taxis and family vehicles and, of course, the limo I had now seen so frequently I could’ve picked it out of a lineup. Stephan was flanking the car with the trunk already open for my bags, and he cast me a telltale smile. Yes, something was definitely going on, and while I had a great rapport with Stephan, he was more loyal to his role as Owen’s driver than he was to our friendly exchanges, so I knew there wasn’t a chance of getting the truth out of him. Not yet defeated, I handed the kindly middle-aged gentleman my carry-on as Owen turned over my suitcase, then I clambered into the back of the vehicle before Owen had a chance to smack my rear for being pokey.
“Okay, will you tell me now?” I pressed hopefully once the limo was moving.
He shook his head stubbornly and tugged me onto his lap, handing me a flute of freshly poured champagne. “Curiosity killed the kitten,” he quipped, scribbling my ribs momentarily. I barely stopped myself from spilling my drink all over us.
“I’ve never even broken a bone. I’m pretty sure I still have all nine lives. Sacrificing one for the sake of finding out why you’re acting like a weirdo might be worth it.”
“For the love of God, woman, we’re fifteen minutes from the house,” he laughed. “Shut up and kiss me.”
I did, deeply. Our lips blended together, and our tongues met and our breath intermingled. He tasted delectable, as always, and I was hit with a powerful sensation of gratitude for being with him again. It had only been a couple days since we’d last seen each other, but it was too long.
For every second we were apart, I missed him more and more.
For some stupid reason, I’d assumed seeing him so much would’ve eased my constant desire to be in his presence and see him eyeing me hungrily and have the ability to grab his hand whenever I wanted, but it didn’t. Every single time we parted ways, I had an increasingly painful ache in my stomach, and every time we reunited, I felt giddier. It sounded cliché, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d never truly known love before Owen.
We didn’t break apart until the limo came to a stop in the driveway, and I barely had a second to collect my breath before Owen was grabbing my hand and yanking me out of the car.
“Oh my god, relax!” I ordered.
“You know what?” He bent down, grabbed me by the waist, and scooped me over his shoulder. “You’re going too slow. This’ll be faster.”
“Owen!” I yelped through a giggle. I beat on his back lightly and kicked my feet. “Put me down!”
He chuckled and pressed his thumbs into the creases of where my legs met my hips, wriggling them around. My yelp turned to a shriek and a series of repetitious laughter-laden pleas for him to stop and drop me, but my cries fell on deaf ears. I could feel his shoulders shaking with chortles in response to my flailing as he strode toward the enormous plantation house’s entrance. Once we’d crossed over the threshold, I was sure he was going to set me down and stop tickling me, but he persis
ted up the stairs and down the hallway in the opposite direction of his bedroom.
Finally, relief came when he opened a door and took me into a room I’d never been inside before. I gasped for breath, tear tracks running up my temples into my hairline, and had to take a long minute to recuperate before looking around. Unlike his impatience from the airport to the room, he now stood quietly and waited.
I started taking in the vision around me, and it was breathtaking.
What the room had once been, I had no idea, but it had been transformed into the most exquisite shrine to photography I’d ever seen. Display cases featuring vintage cameras and various lenses and films were strategically placed against the walls, and beside each one was a print of my own work. A bookshelf was packed from shelf to shelf with identical black portfolios, all empty and ready to be filled. In the center of the room was a comfortable furniture set with books about famous photographers, the history of the camera, and other relative topics arranged neatly on the coffee table.
“Look in there,” Owen advised, pointing toward a door. I’d hardly noticed it because of the Christmas tree that stood in the corner. A tree decorated with little cameras and picture frames. It was adorable.
I gaped at him as I turned the knob and peered inside.
A darkroom.
The man had built me a darkroom.
Words failed me. I was stunned, practically shell-shocked, but I was also extraordinarily flattered that he was willing to sacrifice one of the rooms in his idyllic home for me. And I was more than a little grateful because I’d had to haul my photography supplies to and from Chicago more often than I would’ve liked, and it was a pain in the ass.
“I need you to know why I did this,” he said. He came to where I stood and curled his arms around me, looking down into my eyes with a very serious expression. “I can’t do the long-distance anymore. I need you with me, Tabby. All the time, because apparently I’m a needy jerk who can’t stand being away from you for more than twenty minutes.”
I laughed softly, completely relating to his plight.
“This room is yours to do with what you wish, to use it when you wish, but I was hoping you would use it often,” he continued.
I thought I knew what he was asking, but I didn’t want to assume. “You mean, like staying longer?”
He tilted his head, and his hand moved up to cup my cheek. “I mean, staying forever.”
I inhaled sharply. If the photography surprise had been a bomb, hearing him say he wanted me to move in was a friggin’ nuke.
“Really?” I questioned breathlessly.
“Have I ever been less than serious with you?” he teased.
I snorted. “Only on the days ending in Y.”
“I’ll pay for you to go back and forth to Chicago whenever you want, to see your family or Heather or whatever, but I need you.” He jerked his chin. “This room is my bribe.”
“Bribe?” I teased, my heart pounding my chest. “And here I thought you were a betting man.”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”
I licked my lips, my stomach churning as I watched him watch the gesture. “Got a quarter?”
A smile curled his lips as he stuck a hand in his pocket. “Yes. What’s our Christmas bet?”
Taking in a deep breath, I stared at the quarter in his hand, begging it to be on my side. “Tails and I move in with you.”
It was his turn to lick his lips. “And if it lands on heads?”
I laughed. “Then I guess we’ll go two out of three.”
He laughed too, his eyes shining as he flipped the quarter into the air.
I held my breath as he caught it in his fist and slammed it down on his arm. Slowly, he removed his hand.
Tails.
I didn’t even have time to cheer because Owen was dragging me to the floor, his mouth on mine as he stripped away my clothes.
We made love, our hands entwined, our eyes locked together as surely as our bodies were. And after we were through, I laid in his arms, my head on his chest listening to his heart slow back to normal.
“I love you, Owen.”
He kissed my hair and gripped my chin, turning my face up until I was looking at him. “I love you too.” His lips brushed against my forehead. “And I’ll always, always bet on you.”
THE END
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Alice Ward
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THE MASK
Alice Ward
CHAPTER ONE
Adara
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock on the wall wasn’t able to keep up with my racing heart as I checked the time… again. I blew out a breath. It was almost time to go out on stage, and my hands were sweaty, my stomach threatening to expel the carb-free low-cal dinner I’d barely eaten.
Behind me, the door to my dressing room opened, but I ignored it and took a quick look in the mirror to assure myself I looked the part I was about to play.
Dark hair reflected red highlights in an elaborate twist on top of my head, check.
Sparkly purple eyeliner brought out the violet in my dark hazel eyes that could never decide if they were blue or green, check.
Hideous scar, check.
“What are you doing, Adara? You’re on in fifteen minutes and you’re not even dressed.” Brandy’s words were laced with a hint of panic, and I turned to find her surveying my dressing room like she owned the place… which she practically did as the manager of Jewel.
She’d always been like that — bossy as hell — even when we’d shared a room in high school. I met her the first day I was moved into foster care. And while she had a tendency to plow over people, she’d always had my back.
“Ady, I’m wearing your mint-green sweater to the concert,” she’d say, stretching my favorite article of clothing over her boobs, which were two sizes too large for her small frame. And much bigger than my average ones.
It didn’t matter that I’d complain as she put the finishing touches on her perfect makeup application. She’d be out the door before I could convince her to leave my wardrobe alone.
Later, she’d bring my sweater home smelling of smoke and men’s cologne. I’d be pissed, but she was usually too drunk to care, and she’d just pass out on her bed, my sweater beyond hope by morning.
Brandy took what she wanted, but only because she never had anything unless she did. That was why I let her get away with so much. After all, she’d always been there for me when it mattered.
Like when Nate…
I sighed and turned away from the thought, then took a deep breath.
Today, Brandy wore an expensive black suit, the skirt cut too short for decency, the neckline plunging deep into those enormous breasts. Her perfect sa
lon-styled platinum blonde hair swept upward in dramatic waves, highlighting her expertly made-up face.
She was a walking doll, twenty-four years old, just a year older than me. The expression on her face was a strange mix of anxiety and Xanax-level calm.
“Sorry, Bran, I’m just…” Not sure I can go out on that stage.
“Act lively, Ady. You’re at the most exclusive men’s only club in the world and it’s Friday. Money night.”
“Shush, Brandy, don’t call me that. What if someone hears?” I didn’t care if it was the most popular night, the evening most of the men let loose from work and spent more money than other nights. I didn’t care about most things. I didn’t recognize myself anymore or the life I was left with.
“God, okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes and threw up her hands, nearly exposing her panties. “Sorry, Mona. It’s not like this place isn’t full of secrets.”
The men’s club clients were a who’s who of the most powerful men in business, entertainment, and government. Everything that happened within these gilded walls was held in the strictest of confidence. With the Jewels it was different. More cutthroat.
I’d only been here for two months, but already, I wanted to scratch my way out. Too bad I didn’t have anything to go back to now. Brandy had snatched me up out of my darkest days, rescued me from destitution. I’d had a long way to fall from the top, and while I appreciated her for all she’d done, sometimes I felt like gravity had crushed me on the way down.
I met her gaze. “I know what you’re thinking. Why would it matter if my secret got out? After all, I’ve already lost everything.”
Well, not absolutely everything. I’d somehow managed to hold on to a miniscule piece of my pride.
I wasn’t a prostitute, but most of the other women inside Jewel were. Not surprising. Prostitution was one of the oldest professions in the world. Even Jesus chilled with prostitutes. The Jewels, as the working women of the club were called, sometimes made as much as thirty thousand dollars a night. The lowest bid for an evening was ten grand, and the girls received a small percentage of their price, which was still a hunk of money.