by Anne Marsh
He shakes his head. “Never again.”
“And you’ll remember this—” me “—later.”
“Absolutely.”
Heat flushes my face, sweeping down between my legs, part arousal, part nerves. My heart pounds, unsure and excited. Liam is in charge and I both love and hate it.
“What if someone sees?”
“You’ll enjoy it.” His fingertips curl over the edge of my panties, stroking through the cotton.
My breath catches. “Liam.”
“You’ll have to be quiet,” he says. “If you don’t want anyone to hear you.”
God.
Oh.
Maybe?
I glance around, as if somehow cataloging our potential audience will help. It’s noisy enough that I could probably scream his name and no one would notice. The usual cheerful cacophony of the farmers’ market is like a noisy, comforting cocoon that suddenly seems fraught with dirty possibilities. My truck is a fairly safe distance from the main aisle, parked on what’s pretty much the edge of the market. And if I’m really doing sexual math, the truck bed is deep enough that no one will see more than our heads and upper chests. It will just seem like I’m sitting on Liam’s lap and possibly grinding on him. Totally normal dating behavior, right?
And yet I feel my cheeks grow warm. This is why I need to practice my bad-girl vibe.
“Can I do whatever I want?” Big fingers tug on the cotton of my panties and heat sears through me.
I nod because if I actually try to speak words, all that’s going to come out will be babble or maybe a plea for him to fuck me now goddammit.
He eases my panties down, tucking them beneath the curve of my butt. I can’t believe he’s doing this, that powerful, smart, take-charge Liam Masterson is playing a game with me.
And he’s totally rocking it.
“Should I make you come?” He whispers the question against my ear.
It’s not as if I want to say no, not now, but I could. He’d stop right away and put me back together and somehow we’d finish our conversation. But I want him to touch me more than I want dignity or privacy or anything else.
“Do it.”
He grins, as if we’re just two people in the back of the truck having a picnic and not a dirty conversation. Not—
He moves his fingers, stroking lightly up and over me as if he has all the time in the world. As if we haven’t both been waiting a week to do this again. His hands are amazing, his fingers roughened by all the rock-climbing and manly extracurriculars but also strangely gentle.
I can’t believe we’re doing this. We’ve been a possibility in my head for so many years and then after last weekend, I’d thought that maybe that was it. I lean into him, pressing my face against his shoulder. There’s the faint scent of starch and cotton, and beneath it, the woodsy, outdoor scent of his cologne and the warmth of his skin. God, I could breathe just him forever.
His fingers brush over me. Up and then down, as if he’s testing his control or maybe just spinning the moment out because it feels good to him, too. My eyes drift shut, my world this man, his shoulder, those fingers. I squirm with each little shock of pleasure as he slides back and forth, carefully screwing himself deeper into me.
A dog barks and I jump. His other hand—the one not between my legs—presses against my shoulders, tugging me tighter against his chest. I remember this feeling from his ridiculous circus party, the secret thrill of almost, maybe getting caught, of giving in to the pleasure and doing exactly what I wanted because Liam would make everything okay.
“Is that all?” I whisper, surprising myself. “You’ve left me waiting for a long time.”
“Rude,” he agrees quietly. “I should make it up to you.”
“Right now,” I demand.
He sinks one finger knuckle-deep into me, his thumb moving around my clit in small, controlled circles. His other hand is wrapped around my shoulders, a warm, delicious weight. I don’t understand this beautiful, dirty man who is somehow my husband, but my body recognizes his touch.
I turn my face harder into his shoulder, pressing my cheek against his dress shirt. I know he’s watching me, watching me get lost in his touch. He can hear each catch in my breathing, the rough sound I make when he slides a finger down me and presses inside. He makes opening up for him easy, petting my slick skin. I breathe into his shirt, tasting the warmth of him, my fingers curling against his chest, slipping beneath the buttons of his dress shirt only to find more cotton, another barrier. I want him naked but I can’t have that here.
I’ve fantasized about him for so long, and now suddenly, he’s here with me. I ease my head to the side so I can watch his face. He looks gorgeous, his forehead furrowed as he concentrates, watching me. He said he’d make me come and I don’t think Liam has ever lied to me. This was just sex—not even sex, just a game—but it was the most intimate thing I’d ever done. I needed to come, but he made me wait for it, his wicked, dirty fingers teasing me. My muscles tightened, my breath catching, all of me freezing and lifting and it was right—
there—
yes.
I’m afraid to blink, afraid if I look away, I’ll wake up and this will be just an amazing sex dream and I’ll be alone. I have to close my eyes, just for a heartbeat, just while the delicious, hard pulse between my legs goes supernova and Liam makes a quiet grunt, a rough sound that says maybe he’s imagining making space for himself there and sliding inside me. I want to pull him in deeper, take him all the way, melt beneath him as I whisper to him that I’m coming.
And he tells me that he knows I am.
That he needs me to come right now.
Here.
So hard.
I know this is a game, and I know we’re playing by Liam’s rules—Mr. In-Charge, who has sex parties and wild sex in positions I’ve never dreamed of—but he’s here with me, his beautiful mouth whispering words into my hair. Words like yes and please and you’re so fucking gorgeous, and so I let go.
Liam’s got me.
CHAPTER NINE
DANCING BILLIONAIRES
ARE THE BEST
Hana
IF I ACT like a tween spotting a pop star, Liam will run.
I know this from firsthand experience—of the Liam variety rather than the rock-star variety.
When I was thirteen, Liam was the kind of hot that made me blurt out random thoughts and hang around my front yard for hours, hoping he’d drive up in his beat-to-pieces Jeep, big hands on the wheel with easy confidence. He’d been built along football player lines, rawer and less polished, and because he’d just started his conquest of the business world, sometimes he’d skip the suit. That his blond hair had been surfer-long, perpetually tousled from driving too fast with the doors off had factored in mightily in my adolescent fantasies. Sometimes he’d spot me and raise a hand in greeting, and I’d wave back furiously, alternating between smiling like a loon and blushing. My adoration had not been subtle.
Liam either figured out the cause behind the effect or Jax had clued him in because around my fifteenth birthday, he stopped casually dropping in at our house, and that absence lasted three years. Whenever he had stepped foot inside, he’d glued himself to Jax’s side. Flirting in front of your older brother is almost impossible, so I’d gotten over big, Boy Scout–worthy, take-charge Liam, or so I’d thought. Last Friday I’d learned an important lesson.
Liam is still my sexual kryptonite.
I also thought I’d learned that I was his, but Saturday morning he’d been right back to treating me like little-sister material. Or trying to. He won’t admit that I have boobs and a perfectly lovely vagina. The handful of hours I spent riding him like a sexy cowgirl and then tucked up against him as we slept were an aberration as far as he was concerned, something to beat himself up over and fix. Sure, he’d been amazing in bed. Not only was Liam
generous in the giving department, but his Boy Scout tendencies made him insist on doing things “right.” I came first, I came often, and he was all about my pleasure. That part got an A-plus.
In the long-term aftercare department, however, he sucked. He’d booted me out of his bed with mortifying speed.
He hadn’t apologized.
And yet the man has definitely made his case today.
On the Richter scale of orgasms, I’d rate his most recent effort an earthshaking 8.9. He’d destroyed my defenses and left me sprawled on his lap trying to find some vestige of the good sense I used to possess. It’s hard to kick a man to the curb when you’re still feeling the aftershocks between your legs. Despite our very public situation, I’m seconds away from unzipping his dress pants and refreshing my memory about his awesome penis.
This is mortifying because there are obvious reasons the two of us would never work, starting with his plan for our marriage to be a temporary, sexless sham where I play the good girl to prop up his business image. I add to the list in my head because I need a distraction. Liam is also too rich, too domineering and too big. He sucks the air out of a room when he saunters in and most people rush to give him what he wants without waiting for him to actually take charge and start issuing commands. I’m sure part of it is the money. Jax hates the way people look at him and see an opportunity to cash in.
I believe in gratitude, though, and being happy for the good things the universe sends my way. Happy, but realistic. Mentally, I add today’s orgasm and my memories of Liam’s full frontal nudity to my gratitude list, and then I promise myself I’ll hide that list away because some things are a onetime thing and shouldn’t happen again. I’ll just have to jill off to my Masterson memories and never see him again.
Shifting off his lap is trickier than I expected, thanks both to the monster erection that wants to come out to play and to the twisted rope my underwear has become. The man got my panties down effortlessly, but getting them back up myself proves to be a challenge. When I tug, my skirt gets caught in the cotton twisted around my thighs. I get up on my knees, trying to measure the distance between the top of the truck bed and my waist so I can hike things up and get on with my day, but then I spot ancient Mrs. Abernathy peering at me from behind a mountain of crab-apple jelly jars. I can’t traumatize an old person with my panties, so I sink back down onto Liam’s legs, trying to pretend I was just doing some kind of really athletic yoga pose.
The third time I try to wiggle everything discreetly back into place, Liam makes a rough sound and takes over with his usual efficiency. “On or off?”
I consider protesting but I can’t go back to work panty-less and if I try to hop out of the truck in my current state, there will be an accident. “On. Tell me you can fix this.”
He nods. “Hold still.”
His fingers stroke over my thighs, straightening out the twisted fabric with a minimum of tugging. Liam Masterson, panty whisperer. At least they’re on and not off. I’ll add that to my gratitude journal.
As soon as he’s put me back together, I get out of the truck bed. Clearly I can’t be trusted on horizontal surfaces around Liam, plus I need to get back to work. There’s still a few minutes before the farmers’ market officially closes, and I have a million things to do, some of which involve honey sales and other responsible, nonorgasmic adult tasks.
Now that I’m standing on solid ground again, embarrassment sets in. Okay, not really. But I feel like I should at least pretend that I’m semi-mortified he fingered me while we were in the back of my truck. And since the man’s wearing my bite mark on his shoulder and has a baseball bat in his pants, I’m probably supposed to apologize or offer him a BJ. I try to figure out where that fits in our good guy/bad girl lesson plans and give up. I’ll have to stick to the social niceties.
“Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” Liam does some discreet adjusting of his own that makes a mockery of my gymnastics. He’s clearly going to be the coordinated half of our couple.
And... I guess that means I’m doing this?
“Sorry it wasn’t reciprocal.” I may stare at the giant trouser anaconda he’s packing.
I also announce this far too loud.
Mrs. Abernathy starts fanning herself with extreme vigor. I think she may be craning her neck for a better view. I don’t blame her.
Liam does that thing where he smiles with his eyes while the rest of his face impersonates a sexy, frozen glacier. “Hana. It’s okay.”
It’s only been seconds since I came, I’ve apparently already made a life decision, and he’s acting all normal. I grin at him and wrap my arms around him. “Ten out of ten, Mr. Masterson. That was most definitely memorable.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “So then we have a deal.”
There’s a moment of silence while I try to decide if negotiating post-orgasm is even possible. Probably not. The man literally has me in the palm of his hand.
“Right now what I really want is a margarita and a nap.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine. “Say yes and I’ll throw those in.”
“Tempting.” Both the man and the booze. “But I have a business to run here, so we have to say goodbye.”
He pauses, perhaps running through what’s probably an amazing, well-thought argument. “Say yes instead.”
I lean back in his arms until I can see the blue sky overhead. It’s a picture-perfect afternoon and this is the best position to watch it from. “That’s all you’ve got? At least describe a day in our new, couple-y life for me. Help me see how it would go.”
His arm dips me lower as if we’re tangoing. “We’re having sex?”
“That’s it? Is that a question or a statement? Do you see sex as a daily thing?”
He pulls me back up effortlessly, spinning me around in a lazy circle. “Let’s explore that. How often do you like to have sex?”
Honestly, I tend to prefer a side of commitment with my sex and it’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship. Liam may not take that the right way, so I fudge. “A couple times a week?”
He stops the almost-dance-number and looks at me. “That’s it?”
Is there some kind of standard deviation normal number thingy here? “I can do less. Or more. When I asked for lessons, Professor Masterson, I wasn’t imagining a seven-period school day.”
“Pity.” His slow grin just about melts my panties right back off.
“Pervert. I have sex when I feel like it. It’s not like cardio where I’m trying to hit so many miles per week. How often do you like to do it?”
His grin grows. “As often as you’ll let me.”
“But when we’re not having crazy monkey sex, how do you see this happening between us?”
He thinks for a moment. “I’d like for us to live in the same house. Go places together. I have work events, and I’d appreciate it if you came with me.”
“I could do that, but we’ll have to stay at my place. Bees, you know. It’s hard to telecommute.”
He nods. “Counterproposal. We hire someone to take care of the farm—it’ll be like a vacation, okay?”
“Seriously?” I’m tempted to introduce him to my hive personally. “You think you can swap someone in for me, but you’ll keep going to the office because there’s only one Liam Masterson?”
He has the grace to flinch. “Right. That came out wrong. I would like to make this as easy as possible for you. For the record, I know you’re good at what you do. I’m sure your bees would miss you. Why don’t we spend weeknights at my place and weekends at yours?”
“That’s hardly even,” I protest. “But okay.”
He opens his mouth, but I don’t want to think any more about how he’s made all this money and practically runs the world. His being good at his job doesn’t mean I suck at mine or that I’m
worth any less. I mean, financially, of course I’m worth less, but that’s just bank accounts and stock options.
I flash him a half-assed thumbs-up and turn toward my stand. While farmers’ markets are loads of fun and have the best free snack options ever, it’s also sadly true that they’re not raging business opportunities. I mentally count up the unsold jars, balancing them against their departed companions. It’s not a sophisticated form of accounting, but it works for me. I pretend I can’t feel Liam cringing behind me. I’m sure he runs his business with some kind of super sophisticated, double-column-whatever, Mensa-rated accounting system. He can adjust.
Jars first, I decide. My neighbor, the one who volunteered to fill in for me on my “lunch break,” shoots me a grin as I approach and I pretend that I’m sweaty and flustered from the California sunshine and not because of any truck-bed shenanigans or bad-girl lesson previews. I almost think he believes it, too, when I send him off with three jars of honey and my thanks.
I risk a backward glance and am just in time to see Liam vault lightly over the side of my truck like he’s some kind of world-class athlete. It never occurred to me that all the rock climbing he and my brother do on the weekends might come in handy in real life. Wow. I’m considering whether I should give the sport a shot when Liam strides up beside me.
He gives my poor stand a very Judgy-McJudgment-pants look. He’s probably thinking that by now he’d have moved all of his product and probably franchised sales to Europe, Africa and the outermost reaches of Siberia. I’m just thinking that I have to get all this stuff back into my truck—and out of it again when I get back to the farm.
I think I might groan—and not the good sex kind of sound—because Liam nods at the mountain of glass jars and honeycomb.
“Tell me how I can help.” He pulls his suit jacket off, hanging it on the back of my folding chair.
“You don’t have to ride off into the sunset and do whatever it is billionaires do with their Friday afternoons?”
“You’re my business.” He levels one of those indecipherable Liam looks at me, calm and steady. He feels like a really complicated sudoku puzzle, all empty squares waiting for me to figure out what goes where. Unfortunately, math and I are not on speaking terms. His hand tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear.