Have Me

by Anne Marsh

  I blame my state of extreme relaxation for the words that I blurt out next. “God, you’re amazing. Don’t make promises you don’t want to keep.”

  “Never.”

  I peek up at his face. My view is kind of cut off by the steering wheel, but he looks hot from this angle. Which sounds odd, but this is pretty close to my blow job view, so I decide to go with it. Plus, he looks charmingly intense as he promises to fulfill my strange, scalp-related sexual fantasies, so I’m not going to question a good thing. The yawn that escapes from my mouth is completely involuntary. My vagina protests even as my eyes feel like someone’s rubbed them with sandpaper.

  “Sleepy?” His fingers make another delicious pass over my scalp.

  “Someone has an insatiable sex drive,” I nap-slur. Staying awake now might require superhuman strength.

  Liam’s amused “sorry” comes from very far away. I’m pretty sure the distance between his mouth and my ears is doing that magical distance-stretching taffy melt I’ve seen in cartoons. I’m definitely not knocking the ball out of the park in the sexy wife-slash-girlfriend department, but he’s at least partially to blame because his fingers keep working their magic.

  My brain short-circuits at this point and I fall asleep. When I wake up hours later, Liam’s easing me out of the car. I try to quick-check for drool spots and bedhead, as car trips don’t bring out the best in me. Oh well. He’s seen me post-sleep before anyhow, and at least this time we haven’t spent the night at his kinky circus.

  “You should put me down.”

  He grins. “But I like this position.”

  Uh-huh. “We’d get inside faster if you weren’t forced to carry my deadweight.”

  Liam lifts me higher, so he can brush a kiss over my mouth. The advantage of this position is obvious. I can kiss him and feel his biceps bulging beneath his shirt. The only thing better would be naked, bulging Liam. “I’m bigger than you.”

  “And?”

  “That means I get my way.” He moves toward a cute little cottage that’s surrounded by an entire field of lavender. I should probably protest, but I’m still sleepy and Liam’s taxi service is a turn-on. I settle for curling my arms around his neck and doing some kissing of my own.

  He takes the steps two at a time—show-off—and I get a good look at where we are over his shoulder. Fields of purple stretch in every direction. The sun is going down now, but it’s summer and so there’s still plenty of light despite our late start from San Francisco. Having sex surrounded by all that lavender would be like starring in a historical porn. Oooh. Maybe Liam could borrow a white charger from somewhere and gallop up, and then our clothes would magically fall off our bodies, and we’d have amazing, anatomically creative outdoor sex. It’s an ambitious plan, but I think I’ll mention it. My breathing sounds a bit like a freight train now and I’m sucking air and—

  “This place smells amazing!”

  “I thought you’d like it.” He pushes open the front door—it’s not locked—and steps inside. “Welcome to Chez Masterson-Valentine. It’s all ours for the weekend.”

  Not only is the cottage surrounded by downright decadent quantities of lavender—I think I may have a contact high from the scent—but it’s ridiculously luxurious. I won’t lie. There are advantages to dating a billionaire. I catch a brief glimpse of what looks like an open floor plan full of squashy white furniture. A bottle of wine is breathing on the kitchen counter next to a crudités platter and a cheese board. I’ve stumbled into a love nest prepared by Martha Stewart.

  “Can I interest you in a tour, Mrs. Masterson?” Liam’s cocky grin leaves no doubt as to his intentions.

  “Is this a sex tour? Is it interactive or is this more of a museum tour and I’m limited to looking but not touching?” I walk my fingers up his chest. Truly, the man has muscles on his muscles. It would be a shame to pass up an opportunity to properly appreciate them.

  He leans in and nips my bottom lip. “You can touch the artwork, baby. You have the all-access pass.”

  “Tour it is.” I reach around him to pat his mighty fine ass. “Do a good job and I promise to tip well.”

  Liam either has keen navigational instincts or he checked out the floor plan before he booked the place, because he heads straight for a spiral staircase that leads to the bedroom.

  It probably has all the usual bedroom accoutrements, but I barely get a chance to admire the iron canopy bed before we’re magically naked. My yoga pants hit the floor, my tank top and flannel go flying in the other direction, and somehow he’s managed to lose his clothes, too. The man is a paragon of efficiency. He totally deserves a sex memorial or maybe a knighthood. Lord Liam, His Sexship. When I giggle, he takes that as a personal challenge, pulls my legs over his shoulders, and proceeds to suck on my pussy with diabolical cleverness.

  Not until I’m whimpering his name after coming all over him does he slide back up my body and lower himself onto me.

  “Are we paying attention now?” There’s a possessive look in his hazel eyes that sends a corresponding thrill through me.

  “You give good tour.” I wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips.

  He rocks against me, rubbing his amazing dick against the part of me he’s just been loving on. “Yeah?”

  The rest of our conversation involves a lot of moaning and invocation of deities. He whispers that I’m fucking beautiful and I may moan-pant a few compliments of my own. It’s intense and fast and once he’s inside me, Liam doesn’t hold back. He thrusts deeper, harder, finding a fast, familiar rhythm that makes me groan his name. He’s so good at making me lose myself. I wish—

  I could make you feel the same way.

  That you got lost in me, too.

  That I was enough.

  His fingers tighten on my hips as he moves in me. The sensations radiate through me, white-hot pleasure, the brighter pulse when he finds my G-spot—my body locks up, grabbing this moment to come harder than I’ve ever come before. I barely manage to hold in the words.

  I love you.

  I still love you, Liam.

  Liam.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BROTHERLY INTERVENTIONS SUCK

  Hana

  “EXPLAIN TO ME again why my best friend felt the need to perform a public striptease for you.”

  My brother frowns at me from across the table, the corners of his mouth turned down in a man pout. I’ve already been through this once, and Jax has rejected my perfectly normal explanation that Liam didn’t want to get his pretty suit dirty helping me load the truck so he opted to change his clothes in public. With half of a very busy farmers’ market watching.

  “Maybe it was my birthday.” I wink at Jax. “Maybe Liam’s got a side gig as a happy birthday stripper.”

  Jax’s frown deepens. He’s going to have wrinkles before he turns thirty next year. “Your birthday isn’t for another three months.”

  We’re currently squeezed into a booth masquerading as the world’s smallest bure. A thatched “roof” covers our table and we’re separated from the other guests by bamboo walls. The Tiki Bar is several enormous, uphill blocks from my last sales call of the day on San Francisco’s tony Pier One, so I’m still red-faced and breathing more deeply than I care to admit. My inability to get words out gives me a good excuse to come to terms with the decor, which is all horrible, wonderful, super fun South Pacific kitsch. The booths are little bamboo bures with plastic palm thatching that I’d impaled my scalp on when I slid in; the bar itself serves up a full complement of waterfalls, talking parrots and flaming tiki torches. I probably should have worn a sundress or something fun and tropical, but it’s San Francisco. Even midafternoon in July, it’s not particularly warm.

  Schlepping crates of organic honey around all day hasn’t helped my energy levels, although I scored two new restaurant accounts, so that’s something. I’v
e also done tons of driving back and forth between San Francisco and Marin this week in the name of responsible beekeeping. As of yesterday, I officially have my first employee, who will start next week, but my butt is sore from too much driving and my vagina might actually be in need of a vacation. My sex muscles haven’t been this sore since I had a marathon jill-off to a particularly sexy werewolf shifter book. I may have announced to Liam last night that one of us was going to have to either take it in the ass or sleep in one of his billion guest rooms, which led to him offering to kiss everything better, me arguing that he does not (contrary to whatever he might have read on the internet) possess a magic sexual cure in his tongue, and then awesome oral sex. Judging by my extra sore sit muscles, I did a lot of clenching.

  I grin at Jax. “Liam rocked it.”

  Liam’s striptease apparently brought out the phones, and of course those videos made it online. Nothing escapes the gravitational pull of the internet.

  Naturally, I’ve downloaded the video to my phone and the only reason I haven’t achieved ten thousand views is that I had to drive to Hey Honey Farm at the crack of dawn, load my truck and then get back into the city. I deliver honey once a month to a handful of restaurants and bakeries I sell direct to. Thanks to our sex marathon last night, I’m both sleepy and unable to concentrate, plucking my phone out of the pocket of my jeans every chance I get so that I can watch him over and over.

  Just to torture Jax, I press the play button on the screen, making Liam dance for the dozenth time. Our late lunch has turned into drinks and a pupu platter. I’m done working and I have no further plans to drive today. My truck is currently parked in Liam’s obscenely expensive off-street parking and I’ve declined a “car service” in favor of an Uber and my independence. Liam wasn’t happy about that, but since he was stuck in a business meeting, he couldn’t do anything about it. I’d also slipped out of his Lombard Street McMansion at the crack of dawn before he’d properly woken up—thank you, farm hours—so he’s doubly unhappy with me right now.

  In the video, sun blazes around Liam, lighting him up like an angel. Not for the first time, I edit that thought. Fallen angel. There’s no point in attributing angelic qualities to the man. I’ve always thought of him as a Boy Scout, but he’s actually 100 percent devil once you get him naked. Although the video has no sound, I fill it in from memory. The chatter of people, dogs barking, cars on a street somewhere nearby. And the whisper as his clothes came off.

  Video Liam loses his tie and unbuttons his shirt one button at a time, revealing the white cotton T-shirt. It was probably something perfectly normal like Hanes but on him it was godlike.

  And then gone.

  Thank God because his bare, suntanned chest was a masterpiece. He’s a surprisingly good dancer for someone built like a lumberjack. I like that I’m the only one who knows he’s humming just under his breath. His hips circle, lazy, certain. I need to get him in a club. Or my kitchen. I wonder if he’ll turn out to be the kind of guy who swears he never dances but then busts a move to a phone playlist when he thinks no one is looking. Or is that too domesticated for a billionaire bad boy?

  Jax groans. “Stop eye-fucking him. We need to talk about your marriage.”

  I drag the platter to my side of the table. “We absolutely do not.”

  “Do, too.” He grabs a wing.

  “Do we discuss your sex life?”

  He gives me an evil smile. “We could.”

  The best defense is a good offense.

  I steal the last egg roll from the platter. “He’s really good in bed.”

  Jax groans. “I don’t need to know that.”

  “Discussing my sex life was your suggestion. Liam’s awesomeness should come as no surprise to you.” I consider miming a little something-something with the egg roll, but Jax will probably stroke out. Plus, I’m hungry and it’s a waste of a good egg roll. “You get invited to sex parties. Have you never seen Liam in action?”

  “People go to those things to talk business.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe the oldest profession in the world, but honest-to-God legitimate business? Really?”

  “Yes. They do. Sometimes, although not always. People are relaxed at those things. They’re open to meeting new people or talking about stuff informally.”

  “See, the problem I have,” I tell him, “is that there’s a whole lot of sex at these things.”

  “Okay, so no, it’s not all business.” Jax scrubs a hand over his face. “But you shouldn’t assume everyone’s there just to get off, okay? And sue me if I want to make sure that Liam doesn’t hurt you.”

  Usually, this is where I’d point out that Liam’s packaging is gorgeous and he’s a better ride than my favorite dildo. I have no idea why everyone in my life seems to be under the mistaken impression that I’m Miss Sweet Thing. Just because I haven’t tried out the kinkier pages of my Cosmo doesn’t mean I can’t. I just hadn’t met anyone I wanted to have wild, adventuresome sex with before.

  “We’re spending weeknights at Liam’s place,” I blurt out. “The fancy one on Lombard Street, not Château Sin. He wants me to be his temporary wifey, go around with him to a few high-profile social functions or something.”

  Jax rolls his eyes and snags a wing from our pupu platter. “Because the man can’t get a date on his own?”

  “He’s still in hot water over his ex.” I’d never seen her in person, but my mad internet searching skills had turned up a ton of photos. She’s extremely photogenic even if she seems to wear black exclusively. In more recent photos, she does a lot of hanging on Liam’s arm and staring coolly at the cameras. She looks put together and confident, whereas I’m wearing duck sauce on my shirt.

  “What does that have to do with you pretending to be his wife?” Jax points a chicken wing at me. “Which you are, no pretending necessary. I’m going to get you a lawyer.”

  “He won’t hurt me.”

  Jax gives me a look that says he’s quite certain that Liam totally would.

  “You’ve had a crush on Liam since you were this high.” Jax holds his hand a few feet off the ground.

  “Yes, I wanted to marry him when I was fifteen. Yes, I got over that.” Mostly. “I also kind of hoped my crush wasn’t obvious, but clearly I embarrassed the shit out of both of you. And FYI? I know that version of Liam was all in my head, okay?”

  Jax pounces. “So you married a stranger. Or did you? How long has this been going on? Do I need to kick his ass?”

  “Liam had nothing to do with my fifteen-year-old self—and I asked him to marry me. Since then, he’s pointed out repeatedly that I’m his best friend’s little sister, so he’s done just fine kicking his own ass. I’m pretty sure having sex with me has scarred him for life. Plus, we’re not about to fly off to Bora Bora for a romantic honeymoon.”

  Not that I’d be totally averse. The Tiki Bar is hardly authentic South Pacific, but the pictures on the wall look amazing. Sitting on the deck of my overwater bungalow with my special someone while dolphins and manta rays gambol in the water around us would not require hardship pay, although I imagine I’d have to save for at least fifty years to afford it. Liam’s money is a problem because I will never be able to do for him the way he does for me.

  “I really can’t explain it.”

  “Why were you even at his party in the first place?” Jax’s face darkens. “Did he invite you?”

  “No, he didn’t invite me. Are you nuts? Until he woke up next to me, married, he was convinced I was eternally sixteen years old. He’s even worse than you. I stopped there because I’d been visiting wineries, trying to place my honey. I was hungry, I was hot, and I had to pee. I was just going to make a pit stop. And then one thing led to another and I stayed for his party. It had been a shitty day and I needed free alcohol.”

  This is a partial truth. I had been on a winery tour, but I’d also snagged Jax’s in
vitation to Liam’s party and I’d packed a costume in the trunk of my car. Fortunately, either Jax hadn’t shown up or our paths hadn’t crossed, so he’s unaware of this detail.

  Jax frowns. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you need money.”

  “How did you get that from what I just said?” I may throw up my hands because, dammit, he’s right.

  “You just told me,” he growls. “You were driving all over Napa Valley trying to sell your shit. If you had sold it, you’d have shared that. The last time you tried the cold-calling thing, you informed me you’d do it again only if hell froze over or the bank sent goons to collect. Let me help you this time.”

  “No.”

  “Let Liam help then. He owes you a favor.”

  “Are you crazy? Again—no.”

  While I appreciate Jax’s desire to be supportive, I also want to do this on my own. This being my life. Hey Honey Farm is not just a paycheck. That I love what I do and I’d happily continue to do it without earning zillions of dollars is a plus, since my cash flow has been lower than my lender would like. I’m working on it, though, so I don’t need Jax to come riding to the rescue.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FARM BOYS ARE THE BEST

  Hana

  “I’D LIKE TO RENEGOTIATE.”

  Since Liam says this while he’s inside me, I’m both distracted and immediately suspicious. This also has something to do with the man’s uncanny talent to hit my G-spot.

  This ability really means that our conversation mostly consists of me moaning like a porn star in between electric-white bursts of pleasure.

  “If you want sentences with actual subjects and verbs, you have to pull out. I’d rather you just—” I moan-squeal this because of course he doesn’t stop. “Do that again.”

  His mouth nips mine. “As you wish.”

  I bribed him into watching Princess Bride last night—yes, blow jobs were involved—and he hasn’t stopped stealing Westley’s line ever since.