Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)

by Tessa Bailey

  “Do it that hard. Or that…much.” She drew that last word out until it became a whimper of his name. “Jasper.”

  “Play offense,” he demanded in her ear. “Push down into it. Fuck yourself up against it. I’ll help you get where you need to go, beautiful. You answered the door begging for something bad from me. So that’s what I’m giving you. You and this sweet, neglected pussy. Now fuck your vibrator.”

  For a split second, worry broke through Jasper’s lust craze. Had he gone too far? He’d all but ambushed her since walking into the room. His needs—he’d been capable of holding them off until Rita. Rita, Rita. God, no one had ever felt this good, smelled this good, sounded this good. This right. Living without sex hadn’t even been difficult until he’d seen her stranded on the road. Now there seemed to be no way to stem the flow of want. The goddamn pressure of it was so immense he couldn’t stop putting marks all over the clean slate she’d given him.

  “All for you,” he chanted against the back of her neck. “All for you.”

  When he felt Rita’s hips give a prolonged downward roll, they both expelled muffled curses into the dark room, where the only other sound competing with them was the noisy air conditioner. “Go on, Rita. Move. You have no choice, do you? Not with me holding you down, keeping your clit right up against that buzz.” He slid his knees back, applying a touch more of his weight down onto her ass, and she curled her fists into the comforter with a cry. “Nowhere to go. No way to escape. Not until you rub your pussy on the offering in my hand and come like you’re told.” He breathed into her ear. “Go on, beautiful. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Whether it was modesty that had been holding her back or fear of too much intensity, Jasper felt Rita’s tether snap. And, fuck, did it ever snap. He’d never felt a woman move like Rita, so fluid, like water running over smooth stones. The movements started in her shoulders and rolled down, through her back and over her hips, not even stopping when it reached her thighs. Oh, no. They moved, too, pushing apart and back together with the use of her knees. Jasper’s lower body caged her against the mattress, but she might as well have had him caged, too, because he wasn’t going anywhere. Couldn’t.

  “Jesus, the way you move your ass,” Jasper gritted out. “You might as well be giving me a hand job right now, Rita, with those pretty white cheeks moving up and down on either side of my cock.”

  “Oh—oh my God. I—please.”

  There was no help for him after that because Rita—seeming to be encouraged by his filthy talk—only started to move faster, simulating sex as they bore down on the pleasure device. Up until her hips started to pump in obvious desperation, up until her moans started to crack and shatter, Jasper had managed to remain stationary, merely providing the downward pressure. Now, though, their hips began to move in tandem, their breaths breaking free in violent bursts.

  “We’re fucking it together now, aren’t we, beautiful? Grinding down, making it feel so damn good.” Jasper used his panting mouth to push her hair to one side, giving him access to lick up and down her neck, hips never ceasing their quickening thrusts. “Who’re you going to think about every time you use this thing? Every time you’re alone in your bed, lights off, panties down.”

  “Jasper,” she cried.

  “I’m going to know every time you use it,” he husked against her neck. “I’ll know what you’re doing, I’ll know what speed you have it on. I’ll know you’re thinking of me pumping against your bare ass.”

  God, the hand he held between her legs had grown so slippery. It would be so easy, so fucking easy, to unfasten his pants and finish her off from behind. She was the definition of ready. Begging for his thrusting cock. He might have broken down and followed through, too, if he hadn’t felt Rita holding back. Just a little. Whether she was struggling against him or the pleasure, he didn’t know. But it sure as hell wasn’t working for him. He wanted everything from her. Wanted to overwhelm and satisfy her enough that she would need him again. And wasn’t that root of it all?

  Jasper moved the hand between her legs in a tight, circular pattern, making sure keep the vibrations on her clit. She shuddered beneath him—hard—saying his name like a reproof. Her legs writhed, restless beside his own. Almost have her. Come on, come on. Jasper took a fistful of Rita’s hair, hauling her head back until they locked fevered eyes. There was an electric connection there. Something unexplainable that had Jasper releasing Rita’s hair and sliding his hand around her throat, exulting in the whimper that took shape against his palm.

  “It’s okay, Rita.” The more pressure he applied, the more she started to shake, moan. “I like my fucking a little rough and a lot dirty, too.” At the exact moment he squeezed Rita’s throat, he bore down without mercy, grinding her lower body against the massager without any chance for escape, closing his eyes when she screamed. “My name is all over this orgasm, now I want it coming out of your mouth, too. Let me hear it.”

  “J-Jasper.”

  Lord, when she climaxed beneath him it was like riding a bucking mare. Her back arched, legs kicking out, arms reaching out for purchase. There was an answering need in Jasper to give Rita that anchor, so as soon as most brutal part of her orgasm passed, he turned her over. Suctioned their mouths together for a kiss that worked to stabilize not only Rita, but Jasper, too. Because, hell, he’d never been more linked to another human being before, reading her, feeling her pleasure. While he hadn’t found his own release—and, yeah, there was a motherfucker of a case of blue balls headed his way—he felt…fulfilled, just having gotten Rita there.

  Her fingers twined in his hair as they kissed, mouths moving in sensual rhythm, tongues easing in and out. Their heartbeats were audible everywhere. Between them, in his ears. The boom boom, boom boom made it impossible for Jasper to ignore the throbbing in his pants. If he didn’t stop kissing her soon, they wouldn’t be leaving the motel room tonight.

  With ten gallons of reluctance, Jasper pulled away—and the absence of her mouth caused the first frisson of doubt to intrude since Rita had opened the door. “You still want to go to dinner with me, right?”

  Rita sat up slowly and he did the same, both of them still breathing heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do, but…”

  His heart dropped straight through the floor, probably even down into the basement. “But what?”

  Her languid gaze slid over the fly of his jeans. “Don’t you need me?”

  As soon as Jasper’s relief was done backhanding him in the face, the compulsion to reassure Rita took its place. When she said Don’t you need me, he knew damn well she meant sexually—and there was no denying he did. Badly. But when he answered? Hell, Jasper didn’t think he meant it the same way. “Yeah, beautiful. I do need you.” When Rita went still, Jasper forced a smile. Too much, asshole. Pull back. “I need you to get dressed, because I’m starving.”

  Jasper climbed off the bed and went to wait at the door, pretending not to notice Rita staring after him, her pretty face flushed, maybe even a touch disappointed that he hadn’t taken the offer. That disappointment twisted a knife in his gut, but it was better than the alternative. Climbing back on the bed and delivering the only thing he’d ever been good for, before finding out if maybe he could be good for more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There weren’t many things that could throw Rita for a loop. Working in restaurants—kitchens, specifically—she’d been subjected to all manner of drama, arguments, human quirks, and that one customer request that she spit in his soup. Culinary school alone, with its sabotaging and opportunism, had been a miniature version of the stainless-steel world she’d lived in. Throw in television cameras—such as there’d been on In the Heat of the Bite—and that behavior was only amplified.

  But Rita understood the mechanics of that world. Be the best or get demoted. Be original or get panned by critics. Be be be. Although she’d ultimately buckled under those pressures, she’d lived inside of them semicomfortably for a long time. They were familiar. As wa
s her self-imposed solitude.

  Unfamiliar was now. Tonight. This drop-dead-gorgeous motherfucker of a man pouring wine for her across the table. Why? What did he want from her? Not sex. That had been made abundantly clear. In fact, her feminine pride felt like a few holes had been poked in it. And she hadn’t even known she possessed any feminine pride. The women available to Jasper probably owned stock in that shit, spritzed it on like perfume. Meanwhile, she’d sat there on the bed with her big mouth hanging open. Just the memory of him burning rubber toward the door made Rita want to face-plant in the bread basket.

  Jasper was experienced. Which was an underexaggeration on par with “Gandhi was pretty chill.” When her dates made it into the “might as well sleep together” zone—which was once in a blue moon—there was a lot of awkward bra fumbling and trying to avoid eye contact. Jasper operated with the kind of sexual confidence she’d never personally felt. Ever. She still couldn’t quite get over what they’d done together in the motel room—full-contact masturbation?!—while Jasper’s current easy, good-old-boy demeanor suggested he’d just come from yoga class.

  Seriously? She couldn’t even cross her legs without biting down on her lip to prevent a moan from flying out. Everything was sensitized after being given such forceful treatment. Was she even fit to be in public right now?

  Jasper reached across the table and squeezed her arm, sending a rush of diamond-encrusted tingles all along the limb. “I’m going to order you a drink, Rita. You look like you could use one.”

  “Thanks.” She wasn’t even going to argue or pretend vodka didn’t sound like manna from heaven. “So, um. So…this place looks fun.”

  When Jasper lifted an eyebrow, Rita wanted to dive under the table. Maybe make a tablecloth fort. “Fun.” She could hear the rasp of his stubble as he stroked his chin, looking around the restaurant. “Sure. I guess you could say that.”

  She reached for her menu and flipped it open, seeing nothing, but grateful to have her hands occupied. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to talk about after…that. You’re supposed to go to sleep after something like…that, right?”

  His amusement flourished. “Has that been your experience?”

  “I have different experiences.”

  He tipped her menu down, probably so he could actually see her. “It seemed like you were enjoying yourself. Was I wrong about that?”

  “You can’t even ask me that with a straight face. That’s how much you know you’re not wrong about that.”

  Instead of his seeming satisfied by her answer, a touch of worry crept over his features. “And why is it bothering you now?”

  “Can we change the subject?”

  A few beats passed. “Yes.” He appeared deep in thought a moment, a line forming between his eyes. “But only because I don’t want to hear about how you usually start a date. Or end a date. Or anything even remotely in that neighborhood.”

  Warmth spread in Rita’s belly. “Okay, then.”

  “Okay, then.” With a shoulder roll, Jasper picked up his own menu. “I have to tell you, I’m kind of nervous taking a chef out for a meal. Are you obligated to storm the kitchen if you don’t like the food?”

  “Yes, it’s part of the oath we take,” she answered with a straight face, but she couldn’t quite hold it. “What is the best thing on the menu? I’m not in a storming mood tonight.”

  “Chicken milanese.”

  “Done.”

  Rita had to admit the restaurant had atmosphere. Slow, pumping mood music. Dim lighting, clusters of candles placed strategically around the seating area. The tables were spaced far apart, unlike in San Diego, where diners were usually crammed in due to high rents and limited space. Turnover had always been key at Wayfare. But not here, apparently. The waitstaff appeared just as relaxed as the customers, some of them even sneaking sips of red wine in the waiter station. Miriam would have appreciated the casual setting, although she never allowed alcohol until the final dish was sent out.

  The reminder of her mother and the restaurant she’d loved broke Rita’s smile, but she attempted to shake herself when Jasper reached across the table and ran his thumb down the side of her cheek. “I’d love to know what you’re thinking about.”

  She stared to say Nothing, but saying that about her mother felt eminently wrong, so the truth tumbled out instead. “My mother. She ran a very different restaurant. I ran it, too, for a while.” Her hands were itching for something to do again, so she traced the base of her wineglass. “Wayfare.”

  Jasper said the name silently to himself. “I like that name. Why aren’t you running it now?”

  “It burned down.”

  “Shit.” His double take was comical. “I’m real sorry, Rita. When?”

  Pressure built in her rib cage, memories of flames dancing and roaring up the walls. “Last week.”

  For a few seconds, Jasper showed no reaction to that news. It was clear he was stunned at how recently the incident had occurred, but something chaotic was playing out behind his blue eyes, making the muscle in his cheek tick. Rita wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it was. Or maybe she wanted to know every detail. “Were you working when it happened?” When she nodded slowly, he cursed, falling back in his chair. “I’m feeling ill over that, beautiful.”

  Light pinged between the pulse points of her body. “Don’t be. It’s—I’m—fine.”

  Jasper looked her over as if deciding whether to believe her, his expression serious. “Is that why you don’t want to cook anymore?”

  “Who said I—” Then she remembered the flashback in Rosemary’s kitchen. The way she’d frozen up, unable to perform even the simplest of tasks. Until now, she hadn’t recalled saying those words to Jasper—that she didn’t want to cook anymore. But she knew she’d meant them. Knew she didn’t want to be less than extraordinary anymore. Less than Miriam.

  “Hey.” Jasper raked an impatient hand through his hair, appearing irritated with himself. “I didn’t mean to pry like that. I’d just been wondering why someone talented enough to graduate culinary school and run a restaurant…wouldn’t want to do what they love anymore.”

  Her throat beginning to feel singed, Rita sipped from her water glass. She wanted to let it all pour out. Talent, ha! Questionable at best. I don’t even know if I ever loved it. But she held back, afraid if she let those secrets go, somehow, somewhere, her mother would hear them and weep. The way she must have been inwardly weeping all those years when Rita couldn’t rise to the occasion. “What about you, Jasper? What do you love?”

  The debate between letting her change the subject and pressing for more took place on his handsome face, interspersed with flickering candlelight. But then her question seemed to sink in—and it sank low. “I love people. Family.” He reached for his beer. “But I’m not sure I love any one thing. Nothing lasting like you had.” A beat passed as he scrutinized Rita. “You love Wayfare even though it’s gone. It’s in the way you say it.”

  Had she really tried to write this man off as some no-account, revamped McConaughey? She would consider the possibility that he might be reading her thoughts—if her thoughts were clear enough to be legible. “You have to love something. What about the bar?”

  His laughter was short. “Maybe at one time. Or maybe it was just a place for my friends to hang out. It’s hard to remember what was going through my mind at twenty-one.” He scrubbed a hand along his jaw. “I sure as hell didn’t realize what a mockery I was making out of my grandfather’s life’s work. He probably thought I would do something meaningful with the money he’d set aside. Turns out he was wrong.”

  Rita gathered that he was referring to an inheritance of some kind. An inheritance he’d used to purchase the Liquor Hole. “Yeah, but you’re doing something about it now, aren’t you? Opening the eatery?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded once, shifting in his chair. “Yeah. I’m hoping it’s not too late.”

  “It’s not,” Rita said, surprised by her own vehemence. Sh
e actually had to restrain herself from reaching across the table and—what? Grabbing his face or hair or something? It wasn’t clear, but it felt imperative that she convince him he would succeed. The eatery would be a success, if he just focused all his energy on it.

  But wouldn’t that make her the ultimate hypocrite? Even before her catastrophic dinner service her first night back from the reality show, she’d been on a path to bludgeoning the restaurant’s success to death. Success her mother had all but ensured. What business did she have trying to convince Jasper his outcome would be any different?

  “If you’re doing it out of guilt or…maybe you want to sleep better at night knowing your grandfather approves…it won’t work.” Despite her attempt to drown them with wine, the words climbed up her throat and dove out. “Open the eatery because you want to, not because you think it will make someone else happy.”

  Jasper rotated his beer bottle, those discerning blue eyes fastened on Rita. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  “I am.” Why was she telling him this? God, he would think her twice as pitiful, knowing how many advantages she’d gotten but still failed. “My mother was Miriam Clarkson.”

  And, yup, even honky-tonk owners from New Mexico recognized the name. “From the Food Channel all those years back? What was the program”—he snapped his fingers—“Miriam’s Main Dish.”

  “Got it in one,” Rita said, her lips lifting involuntarily. “She opened Wayfare when it went off the air. We were still mostly teenagers.”

  “Rosemary loved that show.” His gaze strayed to the side as if trying to recall something. “She recorded the Christmas dinner special over my VHS of The Goonies. One of my youth’s greatest tragedies.”

  “That is truly awful. I feel indirectly responsible.”

  “You should feel that way. You owe me a new copy on behalf of your mother.”