Domestic Bliss

by Piper Rayne

  The sound of an engine pulling up in front of my house pulls my attention back to the window.

  Damn it, he’s early. Probably hoping to find me coming out of the shower. Pervert.

  Shutting my laptop, I hustle out of my office, grabbing the key from above the door and locking it.

  The doorbell rings and I run down the stairs, my sock-covered feet sliding to the door on the hardwood.

  “Motherfu—” I bounce on one foot, holding the other with my hand, my palm over the doorknob to hold up my weight.

  I place my foot down at the same moment he rings the doorbell again. Impatient.

  Pulling the door open, I fake a smile so he doesn’t know that I hurt myself. He’d probably do something stupid like pick me up and carry me to the couch. The last thing I want is my foot in his lap. Honest.

  “Hey, you’re early.” He looks me up and down, his eyes not returning up to my face. The reality of what I’m wearing hits me and I slide behind the door.

  “I feel overdressed,” he says with a grin.

  I close my eyes. The foot in the lap thing was the least of my worries. “I got distracted and I forgot—”

  He holds up his hands in the air. “Hey, I like the look. I’d prefer you cover a little before I take you out in public though.” He leans close, the smell of his cologne waking up every nerve in my body. “You know I don’t share.” A shiver runs up my body and my nipples pebble under the oversized sweatshirt that hangs off my shoulder. In ninety-degree heat, it’s impressive.

  I shut the door, continuing to try to slouch down so my sweatshirt might possibly cover part of my lower half. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just finish getting ready.”

  “I’d rather follow you upstairs. I can’t take my eyes off the view.”

  I grab the edge of the sweatshirt, pulling it down as best I can, wishing it would cover my bootie shorts. I step backwards to the stairs so he won’t see what’s printed on the back of my underwear.

  “How about a strut?” One side of his lips lift as he looks on from the other side of the couch. Suddenly, my family room is entirely too small.

  “In your dreams.” I move up another step.

  “You owe me. Let’s see if my dick still works,” he says with a sly smirk.

  “So, nothing or no-one has turned you on since the night I stripteased for you?” I cling to my sweatshirt, but his eyes are so focused on me it has my feet staying put.

  “You’ve got the tease part right, and no, nobody else.”

  I bite my lip and his eyes dip down, concentrating.

  “Go get dressed before I do something we’ll both enjoy way too much.” He sits down on the couch, grabs the remote and clicks on the television. He’s already way too comfortable in my house.

  I turn and run up the steps. “There’s beer in the fridge,” I yell down once I’ve reached upstairs.

  Stripping my sweatshirt off, I toss it on my bed, digging through my drawers for a new bra and panties. Seriously, how did I lose such track of time? If Jagger had seen me in my ‘Wanted: Unicorn Cock—Apply Within’ bootie shorts that my college friend Beth got me as a joke, he might have tackled me to the bed, taking it upon himself to end my search. I shiver with the thought. Too bad it’s not a scared shiver.

  Hurrying as fast as I can, I dress in shorts and a tank top, grabbing a sweater just in case. The nights in L.A. can be chilly. I squeeze toothpaste on to my toothbrush and it drops out of my mouth when my eyes hit the mirror.

  Holy shit. I look like garbage. Dark circles rest under my eyes from last night’s make-up. Waterproof mascara my ass. Then again, wearing it to bed and showering the next day might be outside of the product specifications. Picking up my toothbrush again, I remind myself, One thing at a time. This is Jagger, the same guy who saw me puke in a sink not long ago, but still wants to win me back. My heart races. Never did I think there’d be a day again when he’d be chasing me.

  I open my bedroom door. “I’ll be right there,” I call down.

  The sound of the baseball announcer’s voice floating up the stairs tells me that Jagger won’t care how long I take.

  Heading back into the bathroom, I spit out the toothpaste and spend the next half hour reapplying my make-up and failing to get my hair to cooperate. Having no choice, I pull it up into a messy bun that says, ‘I didn’t try that hard to impress you’ when in reality, I spent ten minutes to get it the perfect kind of messy. A splash of body spritz and then I triple-check myself in my full-length mirror behind my bedroom door.

  “As good as I’ll get.”

  I walk down the stairs and someone must have made a good play, because the roar of the crowd overtakes my living room as though we’re sitting in the ballpark. Jagger doesn’t hear me when I reach the bottom of the stairs, and so I stand there for a minute, staring at the back of his head, admiring him existing in my space.

  I’ve put up a pretty good act until now, pretending it doesn’t feel good to have him back in my life. I’ve denied the pull that consumes me when he’s near, the one I’m constantly fighting against. The desire to straddle him, let his hands fall to my ass, his lips to my neck. The need to feel the soft graze of his knuckles sweep over my bare skin. My imagination has been working overtime at night and my vibrator has gotten a workout.

  Shaking the thought from my mind, I remind myself that this is only the second date and he’s yet to really prove that he’s changed all that much.

  “How is Marisol?” I ask, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to slip on my sandals.

  He turns off the television, shifting the weight of his body in my direction. “She’s home, but they’re starting dialysis. They think it’s an autoimmune disease.” The sadness and desperation in his voice shows me how hard this is for him.

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re close.” I walk to the table behind the sofa and start switching out my purse for a cross-body bag so I’ll have my hands free for whatever we’re doing tonight.

  “Thanks. I just want her healthy. I told her I’d do anything I could to help.”

  I glance up. “Even give her one of yours?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. If that’s what it takes.” He stands, and my hands freeze for a moment. I knew he loved her, but he’d give her his kidney? That’s not a side of Jagger that many people see. “We better get going. The place I’m taking you to is only open until dusk.”

  I grab his beer bottle off the table, dump it out in the kitchen sink and place it in the recycling bin. I double-check the back door. By the time I’ve returned, he’s opened the door for me and the warm heat of L.A. hits me, causing me to second-guess the sweater.

  “Pulling out all the stops, huh?” I stand at the passenger side door of his gunmetal-colored Aston Martin.

  It beeps and he reaches across me, opening the door.

  “I only have three more.” He winks and my stomach somersaults until I’m tucked into his car alone.

  His tall body fits snugly next to me and I half wonder why a guy his size wants to sit so low to the ground.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, pulling my seatbelt over my chest.

  “It’s a surprise.” He watches me from the corner of his eye and once he hears the click of my belt, he puts the car into first gear and drives off.

  I’m not sure why it’s so attractive to watch a man drive a stick shift. The flex of his forearm when he switches gears, his feet working in constant harmony. The confident ease with which he handles the powerful vehicle. The more time I spend with him, the clearer it is to me that I’m falling under his spell again and I wonder if it’s too late to stop it from happening.

  A laugh escapes my throat when Jagger turns the car into Exposition Park Rose Garden.

  “You said they’re your favorite.” There’s a teasing note in his voice, as though he realizes I was full of shit when I gave him a hard time on the flower thing.

  “They are.”

  He glances over at me, a smirk on his face, giving
me a short nod before concentrating on finding a parking spot.

  We head up to the museum area, and Jagger’s hand slowly slides into mine as though he’s been doing it for years.

  My heart rate picks up, and though my first instinct is to pull away, instead I allow him to lead me through the rose garden.

  “What color is your favorite?” he asks, slowing our pace so we don’t miss a single rose.

  Families congregate around us and the kids run through the paths of organized rose beds, laughing and carrying on, enjoying the beauty surrounding them.

  “Red.” I shrug.

  He chuckles low to himself, shaking his head. “How…traditional.”

  “I’m a traditional type of girl.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, guiding us to an array of red roses. “I’m not sure I’d call you traditional. Classic maybe.”

  I hide the smile that desperately wants to reveal itself. “They do smell wonderful.” I lean down, breathing in their scent.

  “Watch the thorns,” he whispers and I purse my lips.

  He’ll never let this go.

  “You probably buy all your roses with the thorns cut off,” I say, taking the lead toward a bed of white.

  “I don’t buy flowers and roses would bring an implication I’m always clear not to give.’’

  I look back at him. “Tell me. How many women have you bedded?”

  “Bedded?” He looks like he wants to laugh at my use of the word.

  “Yes, would you prefer me to be vulgar about it?” I glance around us, finding the majority of visiting families sitting in a white gazebo a little way off.

  “I would, but only if I was bedding you at the time.”

  How does he do this? Make me loathe him one second and hot for him the next?

  “Dodging the question, I see.” I walk ahead, reprimanding myself for asking in the first place. That answer will get us nowhere and it’s an answer I’ve obsessed about enough over the years and would really rather not know anyway.

  He yanks me back and I fall into his chest. His finger slides across my forehead, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and then his gaze is on me. “None of them matter. I could have a list a thousand names long and it wouldn’t matter because none of them were you. The only one who has ever meant anything was you.”

  My knees lose their strength for a moment before I realize he’s still dodging the question. “Too high to remember?” I raise an eyebrow and he rolls his eyes, letting me go.

  “Tell me, Quinn, am I even treading water here?”

  My footsteps stop and I circle back around. His hands are tucked into the pocket of his shorts, but his gaze is on me, serious and wanting an honest answer.

  “No.” I answer truthfully when I should have lied.

  “You seem to be hung up on my past. Is it a problem that I’ve had other women over the past fourteen years?”

  “Um… I expected you to have women, but I’m pretty sure you’ve had more than the average male.”

  “Why is that relevant? Would you rather have had me been married? Or gotten my heart broken?”

  A long stream of breath floats out of me. He’s right. Either way I can’t win.

  “I don’t know what I would rather. Maybe that you hadn’t run away in the first place.”

  He scoffs, his fingers locking behind his neck, and he blows out his own breath of frustration. “That train left fourteen years ago. I’ve apologized. I’ve explained that I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

  We stand in the middle of a flower garden that should make everything romantic, yet I feel like we’re on either side of a huge divide. How will we ever meet in the middle?

  I tip my head down, nibbling on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know. All paths lead back to me feeling inadequate with you.”

  I hear his footsteps and his shoes come into view on the concrete path near mine. He brushes his fingers along my chin. Gradually, I look up until I’m staring into the depths of his dark eyes. “All that shit I said back then was just that, bullshit. I have had other girls, but none of them came close to what you are…to what you meant to me. I’ve always thought I wasn’t meant for a relationship. But that changed when I saw you again. I don’t know what I can do to reassure you, you are the one I want.”

  My gaze casts down and he bends until he fills my vision. “The only girl I need.”

  The power of his words feels like Cupid nailing me with his arrow right in the center of my heart. How many times did I imagine him saying these things to me? Without thinking about the consequences, I throw myself into his arms, my lips locking with his. His hands mold to the back of my head, holding me to him as I stretch on my tiptoes, pressing my body to his.

  I let every insecurity go while we kiss, allowing him to show me how much he means those words. For the first time, I feel like I can put myself out there a little bit and he’ll be there to catch me, instead of pushing me out of the plane without a parachute. For the first time, the thought of Jagger Kale and Quinn Ryan as a couple doesn’t seem impossible.

  12

  Jagger

  My parents are in New York for the weekend, and I’ve sent all the staff home to make sure I have the Malibu house all to myself. Instead of picking Quinn up, I asked her to meet me here for dinner. Tonight is all about starting over, right where we began.

  Digging a hole in the sand and placing the logs inside, I catch sight of a woman running down by the water’s edge. She’s in a sports bra and short shorts that would make a stripper jealous. The woman’s gotten my attention many times since we were young and I can’t help but dread how much of a full-circle moment this is about to become.

  She waves her hand and starts up my way. Lifting my wrist, I check my watch. Plenty of time.

  “Hey,” she says, running up and standing way too close for comfort.

  “Hi.” I tuck my hands in the pockets of my shorts.

  “I haven’t seen you at the clubs in a while.” Her platinum-blonde ponytail sits high on her head, beads of sweat dripping down the crease of her breasts.

  Of course, I notice. I’m male, aren’t I? That doesn’t mean I have any interest.

  There’s no arguing the fact that Penelope Broadway could’ve been a model if she hadn’t gotten pregnant at nineteen. Gossip circles say the father is some French photographer, but she’s never really said. Like my own childhood, her own daughter is with nannies more than her mother. Case in point—she still clubs.

  “How is Violet?” I say, asking after her daughter.

  There’s a lot that’s bothered me about Penny through the years. One is that when you ask about her daughter, there’s no smile, she never brags about all the amazing things she’s doing. Instead a look of disdain blankets her features as though vomit just raced up her throat.

  I swear, if I’m ever a father I’m going to be one hundred percent present in my kid’s life. I love Marisol like a mother, but fuck having some stranger raise your kid for you.

  “She’s in Europe,” Penny says.

  “With your parents?”

  “No, camp. It’s like a boarding school thing.” She shrugs. She steps forward and runs her finger across my shoulders. “Tell me, where have you been hiding out?”

  “Just busy. Work.” I shrug.

  Her gaze shifts to the bonfire. “Having a party?”

  Penny’s parents live two miles up the beach and the last thing I want is her thinking she’s welcome here. We aren’t friends.

  “Just a friend.”

  Her eyes widen. “A friend? Or a friend?” She draws out the second ‘friend’ like I wouldn’t catch her meaning.

  Fuck it.

  “Remember Quinn Ryan?”

  Her shoulders sag a bit. “Quinn?” she asks, like she doesn’t remember her. She remembers her.

  “Phil’s daughter who used to live next door.”

  She nods. “Oh, the girl you tricked?”

  “Yeah.”


  “Where’s she been?” she asks, stepping a few inches closer.

  “She’s back in L.A. now.”

  A fake tight smile crosses her mouth. “How great that the two of you get to catch up.”

  “Yeah. Well, I better get going. Have a lot to do to prepare. Have a good night, Penny.” I walk off before she can stop me, raising my hand in a wave.

  She doesn’t say anything, or if she does it gets lost in the sound of the waves. Hopefully, I scared her enough to stay far, far away. If Quinn sees her, we might as well go back ten steps.

  “Your parents’ house has always seemed like a museum to me.” Quinn sits poised on a chair in the kitchen, her jeans-clad legs crossed, her wine glass spinning in her hands.

  “They want it to appear like they’re exotic. Go on trips and bring shit back. They’ll pay thousands just so they can brag about how rare something is at a dinner party. It’s all bullshit.” I place the crab appetizer down on the counter and catch sight of her hot pink toenails. My dick twitches with the thought of those toes curling in my childhood bed like they once did.

  Her lipstick stains her wineglass as she pulls it away from her lips, setting it back down. “You cook?” she asks.

  “I thought we’ve been over this?” I lean over the counter, putting the crab dip on a cracker.

  She places her weight on her forearms and I try with the strength of the Hulk not to allow my gaze to fall to where her breasts are pressed together. Obviously, I’m no Hulk.

  “Next time hide the takeout.” She shifts her head to peer around me.

  I smile, nodding, pressing my lips to hers, needing to taste her.

  She doesn’t fight or push me away. Instead she stays in that position, letting me kiss her as long as I like. I’m tentatively taking this as a good sign.

  Breaking the kiss, I lift the cracker to her lips. “Sorry, I did want to cook, but I was too busy at the office today.”

  Her perfectly white teeth bite down on my offering, pulling it into her mouth. I pop the other half into my own mouth and watch for her reaction.