Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1)

by Elizabeth Miller

  Before I can tell him I’ve thought about him too, the subtle rap of heels tap, tap, tap outside the door. We stare into each other’s eyes for a beat and then he shifts, sidestepping to the counter and busying himself with coffee. Hot and black.

  We both freeze when someone walks in—Mr. Kavanagh with a cup to his mouth, and me watching the soft bow of his lip curl to blow air across the heat of his coffee. He clears his throat and I swing to face the door. Carla.

  “Oh, hey, good morning.” Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I’m cool as a cucumber even though my insides are on fire. Why is she here so early? I mean, this is her place of employment, but work for Carla rarely starts before nine-thirty. Yet, getting up early looks good on her. So does the emerald-green wrap dress clinging to her slim figure. “What brings you in before the crack of dawn?”

  “Otter and his expectations,” she mumbles.

  I gulp stinging hot coffee. But the burn doesn’t stop me from trying to distract Carla from whatever has her eyes shifting between me and the boss with a knowing glare.

  “How was your weekend?” I ask. “Mine was good. Well, kind of good. It was great up until dinner last night. You know, with the family.” I roll my eyes for emphasis. “It was kind of disastrous actually, so I’m ready to get back to it. Work, you know. Nothing is better than work to get your mind off . . . whatever.”

  “Sure,” she murmurs while looking at me, my face, my stomach and thighs, her lips pursing through the perusal. “Interesting choice.”

  Whatever that means.

  I follow the path of her heated glare to find Mr. Kavanagh relaxed and leaning against the counter. His expression tells a long story of animosity that I find intriguing. Is there history here? I can’t tell. But when I get the chance, I aim to find out. Because under the uncomfortable scrutiny, Carla straightens her back and goes about icing a premade protein shake.

  While she finishes her breakfast prep, Mr. Kavanagh’s attention shifts to me. There is nothing soft about him now. “I received notice last night of Marjorie Blume’s intention to file an injunction against Spears. The court will have it this morning. I’ve emailed the information to you, Ms. Walker. The response is due before you leave.”

  Oh, shit. That will take all day. More than all day. I’ll be here well past closing time. “Of course. I’ll start as soon as I get to my desk.”

  Carla gives us both a glance before retreating out the door, drink in hand. The moment her back disappears, Mr. Kavanagh sets his mug down, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “Why was dinner with your family terrible?”

  Huh? My distracted mind scrambles to catch up to his thoughts. “Oh, my mother.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She’s—critical. That’s all.”

  His brow rises and he waits for me to continue. When I don’t, he huffs out, “Explain.”

  I shrug because how do I describe a narrow-minded hellion? “She doesn’t approve of my career or my school of choice, and her life goal is to marry me off to any eligible bachelor she deems worthy. She most definitely would never understand the thing I’ve got for you.” I laugh because that’s a ginormous understatement. “My mother would tell me to quit my job, lose thirty pounds, and then come back and beg you to be my boyfriend. Not my boss, just my boyfriend.”

  Three lines pinch together between his eyes. “There are so many things wrong with that. But tell me why weight is a part of the conversation?”

  “Because I’m fat, Mr. Kavanagh. And no man wants a fat girlfriend.”

  His face turns to stone. “Mai—”

  I shake my head to stop his rebuttal. “You don’t have to deny it on my behalf. I know what I am and I’m not ashamed for a second. My mother is, but I can’t take responsibility for her feelings. I can only own mine. And I like me.” I end with a smile so he knows it’s the truth. Because it is. No matter how many derogatory terms are thrown my way, I will always choose myself over someone else’s opinion.

  His jaw ticks and ticks for so long I bristle under his scrutiny. “I happen to like your ass,” he whispers, searching my face.

  I let that sink in, along with the way his eyes eat me up. If they’re any indication, Mr. Kavanagh really does like my big butt. That broadens my grin. The moment pulses on with unsaid promises and hope. This greedy, decadent feeling that I could be with someone who relishes my curves and maybe might even like my mind.

  Suddenly, Mr. Kavanagh is on me. His hands scrape through my hair to hold me in place. Coffee and cinnamon and leather swirl around my brain as I look up to his intense gaze. “There are a million reasons why we’re a bad idea.”

  We’re not. I know we’re not. He only needs to give us a chance. “Just once. I’ll show you how good we can be. We’ll get rid of this crazy electricity and the temptation will go away. One time,” I plead.

  His lids close and he presses his forehead to mine. “Maisie.” My name is a prayer on his lips. A plea that speaks to my blood and pulses through my body. “One time. Bring the response to my office. Tonight. Don’t make me wait.”

  And then he’s gone and all that’s left is the frantic beat of my heart.

  I HAVE ALWAYS thought of myself as a strong woman. On the two nights a week I do get in a gym, I can squat more than one-hundred and seventy pounds. Easy-peasy. Mentally, I’m tough too. Growing up with an extra thirty pounds and ginormous breasts does that to a girl. The constant taunting toughens even the softest soul. Yet I’m not prepared to focus and complete a major response with Mr. Kavanagh’s words ringing in my ears. Don’t make me wait.

  Sweet baby Jesus. He wants me. The knowledge that Mr. Kavanagh will be my teacher in more ways than one spurs me on. Somehow, with a galloping heart, I pull myself together and complete the assignment just after eight.

  With my coat and purse draped over my elbow and the document in hand, I rush through the file room, the library, past the first- and second-year cubicles, and into the executive suite. Designated as the partners’ hub by dark wood and frosted glass, the space is quiet and the lights low.

  I stand outside his office, heart fluttering. With my fist bent back to knock, I think about what to say. How should this go? I should definitely say something sexy. I’ve not proven myself to be anything other than straightforward, but what led to this moment feels like it demands something erotic, adult, and not the bumbling truth that normally tumbles from my mouth.

  Before I can formulate the perfect words, the door swings open. Mr. Kavanagh takes me in, searching first my face and then my neck and chest, stopping at the brief I have clutched to my stomach.

  “Mr. Kavanagh, sir. I brought me. For you.” What? God, this man liquefies my brain. I shake my head. “No, I mean my body.” Fuck. “Yes—no—the response.” I sigh and smile. “I finished it. I brought it for you.” Relief widens my grin, and I hold out the document while pondering his eyes.

  God blessed him with the color of honey, but the devil added a ring of fire right around the center that seems to flare just as his nostrils do. His gaze is intense, and the contact long. Too long. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t take the brief. Did he change his mind?

  Then he rubs his chest. Just like this morning in the break room, he presses his hand there for only a second and I wish it were my fingers. I wish it was my hand traveling over the straining, ripped muscles below his shirt. I want it so badly, I groan.

  The sound seems to prompt Mr. Kavanagh to step aside, pointing at the credenza in the corner. It’s a simple invitation. One that spikes my pulse. This is it. Be brave, Maisie.

  With that thought crowding my already full brain, I focus on the room before me and walk in on shaking legs. The office is lit only by city lights streaming through the window, illuminating his desk and an empty tumbler siting alone on top of it.

  It’s hard not to get lost in opulence. Burnt umber, cognac, whiskey—the colors of wealth are in the large globe resting United States-side up. The leather couch and two wingback
chairs, his desk—everything screams luxury. I glance at the painting spanning most of the thirteen-foot wall while dropping my jacket and purse on a nearby bench. The Fisherman and the Syren. I studied it in college, intrigued by seductive female sexuality. If Mr. Kavanagh’s choice of art is any indication, so is he.

  “You’re a fan of Leighton?”

  He grunts. “More like I’m fascinated by the deadly powers of a beautiful woman.” He’s so close his breath fans over my ear.

  I glance at the fisherman, hoping I appear as confident as he. His relaxed stance, closed eyes, and peaceful countenance belie what’s happening to him with the mermaid’s tangled tail between his legs. Her intention is to tempt the man and lure him to his death. “But he went willingly. He wanted her,” I whisper.

  “He was lured in, seduced. There was no choice for him but to succumb to her beauty.”

  I clutch the response, wringing it between my hands. “His soul as payment for the mermaids he captured before?”

  “He is her retribution, yes,” he murmurs into my hair.

  Am I Mr. Kavanagh’s revenge? Did a woman use him so badly that he seeks his own kind of justice? One where he’d exploit me to get back at her? But then, what have I done but give him my truth and come willingly to his office for just this one night?

  Holy shit. His hand grazes my hip. Sparks light up my body. Tingling zaps of energy sizzle over my skin. I glance at his fingers hovering over the curve below my waist. They flex, and I want nothing more than to feel the scrape of his nails on my skin. I shift a millimeter. The smallest distance has my back touching his chest and something lower. Something hard.

  “Ms. Walker.”

  “Mr. Kavanagh?”

  “I need you to be sure,” he says so simply. As if my heart isn’t about to explode. As if his touch isn’t scorching my skin.

  He draws impossibly closer. Every rigid angle of his body presses into me and need bursts through me. I manage to nod. “I’m sure.”

  “No one can ever know. Do you agree?”

  “That we’ll have a secret?” That I’ll be a secret. My heart clenches against this reality. It’s so close to my mother’s statement that no man would be proud to be seen with me, it hurts. Yet, that’s what this night is—Maisie Walker’s secret introduction to sex, and I want it so bad my toes curl in anticipation. “Agreed. I’ll never tell.”

  “Promise me,” he demands.

  “My truth is all I really have and I’m giving it to you.”

  “And you have mine.”

  “Then take what you want.”

  Weeks of pent-up hunger unravels with a shaky exhale and a newfound thirst for his hands on my skin. I want him to touch me.

  Seconds pass into a moment where time seems to stand still. As do I, waiting. I hold my breath when he shifts, reaching toward the bottom of my skirt. He trails his fingers up, up, up the outside of my bared leg.

  “And if this is what I want?”

  Good Lord. My pussy clenches in the neediest way. “Then we’re on exactly the same page.”

  I bite my bottom lip to hold in a whimper as his thumb toys with the lace edge of my panties. Back and forth he strokes over the sensitive line between leg and the thank-God-I-shaved-this-morning zone.

  Enjoy it, Maisie.

  I do, relaxing into the hard planes of his body.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks as his teeth and lips graze against my jaw.

  I toss the wrung-out document to the credenza in front of me and then lift my arms to wrap them around his head, threading the silky strands of his hair through my fingers. Grinding my ass, I press against his mammoth erection. And it is—long, thick, straining, just like I imagined. “That I’m where I’m meant to be.”

  He grabs my chin forcing me to look at him. The early autumn evening has given way to a dark sky and Mr. Kavanagh’s skin shimmers under the unnatural glow of the city. Suddenly I’m fully aware of his arm wrapped around me, his thumb holding my jaw in place while his other rests against the seam of my pussy. If I wiggle just a little, his forearm would drop and brush against my nipples. Understanding shoots straight through me. It’s all I can think about. To rub myself against him like a cat, to be caged in by his broad shoulders while my hard nipples scratch his firm chest.

  He strokes over my slit, once, twice, again and again until my panties are soaked against his thumb. “Fuck,” he whispers.

  “I want that, yes. God, I want to feel your hard cock inside me so bad.”

  Groaning, he kicks my feet apart and bites the curve between my shoulder and neck, clamping down with his lips. I sigh. He sighs, as his fingers spread me open and he dips into my heat like he owns me.

  I strangle out a moan. He’s touching my most private place. My boss, Mr. Kavanagh, has his hand in my panties, and it feels so good.

  Holding me still with one hand on my hip, he hisses, “Soaking wet,” before stroking the length of me. He circles my clit but ignores the pulsing bundle of nerves that need his touch. “I’m going to make you come so I can take my time eating you. When my cock sinks into this sweet pussy, you’ll beg for it. Do you hear me, Ms. Walker? You’ll beg for me to fuck you harder.” One thick finger slips into my tight channel knuckle-deep and retreats, and then again and again as his palm presses my clit. “Deeper.”

  “Yes, so deep.”

  Holy snickerdoodle, this man knows what he’s doing. The pad of his finger sweeps my spot—the mother of all spots, the place no man has sought before—making my knees weak. My insides tighten into a knot, stretched thin.

  Before I scream my release into the void, I turn and crash my lips against his waiting mouth. Scotch. Cinnamon. Him. All of it is burned together to create his own tasty blend, and I drown in the flavor. He licks into my mouth, long strokes that mirror the slapping of his hand. The wet slide of his tongue fills me like his finger does. He sucks my groan into him as my palm finds his grip in the exact moment he squeezes my breast. I hold him there, straining on my tiptoes to stay with his rhythm.

  “Peach, I feel your need. Give it to me.”

  He tweaks my nipple, twisting it so hard the pain breaks just as I do into a pleasure so bright my legs buckle.

  “Oh, oh, God,” I cry.

  We bend together, my hands smacking the credenza to hold us upright. He groans through my climax, his fingers held firmly inside and against me while my body clamps around him.

  Time ticks by, one clicking muscle spasm after another. “Good Lord,” I murmur and then cry “no” when his fingers slip free from my pussy and he lifts me like I’m a size six, not a sixteen.

  “Hush,” he says. His lips brush my cheek, my nose, nudging until he finds my mouth. Seconds later, my ass is on the burnished top of his desk. One long look, his eyes on mine, his silent plea mixing with my own, and then we fight with clothes. My skirt, his shirt, my sweater—I’m stripped until my panties are nothing more than a scrap of pink lace on the floor and I’m naked.

  Our moans collide when my nipples meet the smattering of rough hair on his etched chest. Moving to my jaw, he nips my neck and the subtle dip of my collarbone. And then the weight of one breast is lifted to his dirty fucking mouth.

  “I want these tits,” he groans around the tip.

  He flicks his tongue on my pointed nipple, once, twice, before sucking it to the back of his throat, pulling a cry from my lungs. I arch and gyrate against his still-covered, hard-as-a-rock thigh. I’ll be damned if I’m not going to enjoy his body while I have the chance. I fumble past his belt loop, the clasp, and zipper, and use my foot to pull his pants just enough to free his ass and until his cock springs free, bobbing into my hand.

  He’s heavy, thick, and hot. I squeeze his base hard enough to warrant a groaned, “Ms. Walker” and then he buries his face in my cleavage. I’d laugh, but the relief of my recent orgasm has expired, and I’m wound into a ball of want and need and unadulterated lust.

  As if reading my mind, he pushes me down. His erection
slips from my grasp and I moan my displeasure. Then I cry out when he licks my pussy. Back to front, legs spread by his hands on my thighs, he eats me like a starving man. I grip his hair as his head bobs between my thighs, his tongue slicking through my wet folds to sink into my center only to retreat and do it again. And again.

  It feels so good. So, so good.

  He groans, and the long vibration tickles my clit. “Sweet peach,” he murmurs. “You taste better than any dessert.”

  It’s not just his voice or the sight of Jayce Kavanagh in a position I’ve imagined a hundred times that sets me on the brink of orgasm number two. It’s not only his open-mouthed kisses or the way he teases my clit. It’s the sounds that accompany his feast.

  My groan, his growl, the wet suction of his lips. His finger when it slips into my channel—all of this brings me to the brink. I squirm to get closer, and then wiggle away from the pleasure dragging down my spine, to escape the brush of his whiskers against my thighs. It’s too much and not enough.

  “Please,” I beg.

  He stops.

  “No, no please. Keep doing that thing with your tongue.”

  He glances up, his eyes on fire.

  “Mr. Kavanagh, please.”

  He kisses the soft pad of my inner thighs. My clit follows, a brush of his lips and chin, subtle sensations that dangle me over the edge.

  “Do you want to come?” he asks, his mouth glistening from my arousal. Standing to full height, he wipes his face and then uses the same hand to stroke his cock from base to crown.

  Holy crap, he’s a hot mess of a man. His dark hair, loosened from my grip, flips on his forehead. Panting, his hard chest rises and falls, rippling his eight-pack into shadows from the streaming city lights. Jayce Kavanagh. Over six feet of sex and sizzle, he’s a five-alarm fire who’s about to explode inside me. My breath constricts.

  He stares at me as if I’m his Bella and my blood will sustain him for an eternity. How is this possible?

  “Say it out loud,” he says while tugging a desk drawer. After taking out a condom, he rips it open and rolls it down his length in seconds. One step forward, and he rubs his cock through my pussy and up to my clit once before pressing the fat tip against my entrance. “Do you want to come?”