Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1)

by Elizabeth Miller

  So many things batter my mind. For as often as I’d fantasized about him, this moment is so much better, and scarier too. The amazing things he’s doing to me will fade, and what will remain tomorrow? I’ll be left to my own devices and Vinnie, my trusty number one. Maisie Walker will become another notch in Jayce Kavanagh’s bedpost, err, desk. And how will I feel about it then—post-orgasmic glow? What happens to me when I’ve been discarded like yesterday’s news? I’ve never said his first name, not to him, anyway, and he’s seconds away from being closer to me than any other human has before.

  “Say it, peach.”

  The resounding answer is—dreams do come true. I never thought I’d have a memory as incredibly erotic as this one. One night—one chance to experience what it’s like to be wanted by a scorching-hot piece of man flesh.

  The moment I refocus on him, his hand finds my neck in a possessive hold, his thumb pressing against my hammering pulse. “Don’t,” he says, so low I barely hear him. “Don’t think—feel.”

  I nod so fast my head hits the desk, but I manage to squeak, “Yes, yes I want to come.”

  He slams into me in one long drive, and I scream through the pinch. My heart shoots to my throat, my eyes wide, and he stills completely.

  “What the hell?” he pants, his skin pulled thin over his cheekbones from what looks like strain, awe, and horror.

  He’s embedded in me, pulsing through the shredded remains of my twenty-four-year-old virginity.

  “Fuck.” Regret washes over his face. “Maisie.”

  He closes his eyes, and tears race to mine. I don’t want my first time to suck for either one of us. But I’m afraid withholding the small bit of information about an intact hymen has killed the mood.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” His question is hard. The hand on my hip grips harder.

  “Because I’ve wanted this for so long,” I whisper. It’s my turn to block out everything, everything but the ginormous cock stuck in my sore vagina. I close my eyes to the fury I know I’ll find in his gaze.

  As soon as I do, he picks me up. My feet wrap around his ass and he transitions us to the leather couch in the corner. “You deserve a bed, but this will have to do for tonight.”

  Jayce Kavanagh lays me down and settles between my thighs. His wide shoulders ripple as he hovers over me, his hands beside my head. He draws near so slowly, and I watch as his pupils paint his hazel eyes black just before he kisses me. He kisses me—sweet, gentle, tempting my mouth open with the pressure of his lips and the tip of his tongue. And just like that, desire sparks back to life. He remains buried in me, but he doesn’t move. His hips stay still through his constant touch, his petting and pinching of my breasts, my clit, his rubbing of me into a squirming frenzy beneath him. The entire time his mouth is on mine or whispering the nicest things. Gone is my sexy, dirty boss, and in his place is a gorgeous, sweet man. So beautiful, he says. My ripe peach, I’ve longed to taste you. And he does, everywhere.

  Every piece of me belongs to him.

  I’m a slave to the pace of his hips as they pull back and slide forward. He feels so good. I’m stretched and full in a way I never imagined. In, out, he watches me—my eyes, my lips. He takes in every reaction, every breath and moan.

  I hold his cheek, cup his face in my palm as he picks up the pace.

  “For she had eyes and chose me,” he murmurs.

  Shakespeare. He quotes fucking Shakespeare as my lips part in a silent O when I can’t breathe and every muscle in my body stretches thin. All the while he watches. Rising, straightening his arms beside me, his muscles flex beneath my roaming fingers and he pounds into me. I scrape my nails against his shoulders and dig in to hard muscle.

  The first tremor is a shock, pushing me over the edge and into a spasm. I clench around his cock, but he moves through each pulsing grip, propelling me into a tumbling orgasm. It’s so intense I rise to the highest peak and freeze, only to crash on the other side of it, shaking and winded.

  “Fuck, Maisie,” he says, pulling his cock free.

  He jerks off the condom, tossing it to the floor. I’m transfixed, tangled up in Mr. Kavanagh as he pumps his pulsing erection and spurts come on my stomach and breasts. It’s so hot. I mean, he’s hot, and having him all over me has never made me feel sexier. This is better than perfect.

  For one minute, one aching moment, with his come laced on my torso and his eyes burning into mine while he shudders out his release, I think I belong to him.

  Chapter Six

  “Mutual” 2:31

  Jayce

  I CAN’T CATCH my breath. My legal assistant is beneath me with my come painted across her tits and stomach. Her chest rises and falls at the same rapid pace as my own. She’s sexy as hell. But she’s also a cocktail of destruction. My destruction. One word from her could wreak havoc on my firm. I know this, yet I can’t help but enjoy the sight of her beneath me.

  I also appreciate her smirk. The I told you so lift to the corner of her lips. She knew we would be good together. And she loved it. I’ve stolen her virginity and she’s not squirming away. The pink in her cheeks is the remnants of her screaming orgasm—not a hint of embarrassment mars the pristine landscape of her ivory chest. Even my softening dick likes the sight of her. It twitches, and I groan when she drags her finger through my seed before bringing it to her mouth. Closing her lips around the tip, her lids flare and then narrow to peer up at me through thick rows of lashes. “Delicious.”

  “Fucking tease.” I release my cock and fall around her. With my knees bent between her thighs, my stretched arms hold me above her now-smiling face. “You want me to fill that filthy mouth of yours with something else, Ms. Walker?”

  “Well, I do like to eat, Mr. Kavanagh.”

  A deep ache erupts in my chest and I want to bang that smirk off her face. I touch her instead. My fingers slide up and down the rather exquisite line of her throat.

  “You could swallow me whole, couldn’t you, peach?” I ask, glancing at her mouth. The mouth I’ve thought about time and time again. The lips I’ve wanted stretched around my aching shaft.

  “I’d like to try.”

  I’m screwed. She’s so intoxicating I’ve lost sight of anything but her, me, us, and recognizing how wrong all of this is. It’s wrong on so many levels, but rather than stopping, I kiss her. My mouth is hard and insistent, demanding entrance with my tongue to taste myself mingling with the soft flavor of her seduction.

  There is no doubt having sex with a subordinate could throw a wrench in my career. My clients expect integrity. It’s the foundation of the firm Lucas and I started years ago. Our celebrity clients expect complete dedication and our forthright approach. Fucking an associate and hiding it is anything but straightforward.

  I should walk away, put distance between us. But without a doubt, one time is not enough. One time has not satisfied weeks’ worth of salacious thoughts. I haven’t had her backed against the wall, on the stairs, on my car, in my back seat, on the floor, or in a bed, from behind or in a sixty-nine.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  She’s reduced me to Dr. Seuss-like analogies.

  With that thought, I pick her up through a mumbled protest. I like her weight and the feel of her ass as it rests in my hands so I smack a butt cheek. Her squeal is muffled in my neck as I take her into the bathroom attached to my office.

  Setting her on the counter, I flip on the light and smile. Maisie is a spectacle with her just-fucked hair haloed around her head.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” She points and scrunches her nose.

  “Hmm,” I murmur and take a stab at a wayward curl, straightening it between my thumb and forefinger, soft as silk. “It’s a good look. One you should wear more often.”

  “If you’re the stylist, maybe I will.”

  A pinch in my chest steals my breath. When my gaze becomes heavy and concentrated solely on the full landscape of her face, and I think she might get embarrassed because, let’s fac
e it, her boss defiled her moments ago and now she’s perched naked on my vanity—she just turns to the mirror and laughs. Her giggle isn’t practiced or dainty; it’s brazen and confident, just like her.

  She talks and smoothes her hair while I run the water to hot and grab a washcloth. I admire her never-ending curves, creamy skin, breasts that are a handful, and the fact she’s not hiding them while spewing something about not having much time to get ready this morning because of a neighbor’s dog. Her constant monologue comes to a hissing stop when I place my hand between her legs.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” she cries, grabbing my wrist to halt my ministrations.

  “Shh, it will only sting for a second.”

  “Right. That’s like saying your cock is of average size.”

  I laugh. “And if I said it was?”

  She pinches my bare ass with her free hand. “I may have been a virgin before you deflowered me, but you, Mr. Kavanagh—yours is not the first penis I’ve seen.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Right. And as a modern woman I have many tools available.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like pornbud-dot-com.”

  “What?” I choke on a laugh. “What do you know about porn?”

  “I know I like it.”

  Well, shit. I lean forward, hovering over Maisie. One hand lands on the countertop next to her hip and the other remains trapped between her legs where I rub. I’m tempted to drop the cloth and bring her to another orgasm, but she’s got to be sore. Instead, I ask, “What do you like, Ms. Walker?”

  “You want to know my favorite porn?”

  “Tell me.”

  Her breath fans against my lips. “Hmm, I like when a man licks his girl’s pussy and he loves it, eats it, tongues her until she’s soaking wet and needy and gripping his hair just to breathe, bringing her to a howling orgasm with his face between her thighs. I could watch that over and over with a vibrator on my clit.”

  The feeling’s mutual. My fucking dick twitches so hard it hurts, and I drop my forehead to hers. “Jesus, Maisie.”

  She shrugs. “You asked. And why shouldn’t I like it? Men have gotten off on porn for ages. Women have just as much of a right to erotica as they do.”

  The short taste of her pussy I had minutes ago is suddenly not enough. I’d like to see that, her, squirming with a vibe on her clit while she’s watching porn, better yet with my mouth on her. Jesus.

  I wipe away the remaining evidence of just how deflowered she is—from her body and then mine, while she tells me about women-friendly pornography and its increasing popularity. My cheeks hurt from my stupid grin, and my throat rasps raw from laughing.

  “I don’t buy it for a second,” I say, tucking my dick into pants that never came off. I step away only long enough to get the rest of our clothes.

  “Buy what?” she asks, as I separate hers from mine and hand them over piece by piece.

  She holds up what’s left of her lace underwear. With a raised brow, she tosses the scrap in the trash.

  “Buy what, Mr. Kavanagh?”

  “Hmm, oh.” I shake my head to dislodge her and her underwear from it. “That my dick is the first you’ve come face-to-face with. Beautiful girls don’t grow up without opportunities. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “You’re gorgeous with a body made for sin. Why’d you wait?”

  “You think I’m pretty?”

  This is the first hint of insecurity I’ve sensed from her. It’s curious that she’s so confident, and yet she doubts I find her attractive? Her uncertainty disturbs me in a way I don’t want to analyze, but I know I don’t like it. So I step forward and tip her chin.

  Eye to eye, we stare. An up-close inspection clarifies her irises are gray with an outer rim of the brightest cobalt blue—unique, like her. Fuck my chest and the tight ache. I think I’m having a heart attack, but I ignore the symptoms. “Make no mistake, Ms. Walker—you’re a knockout. Anyone who doesn’t believe that is either blind or has their head buried in a bucket of bullshit.”

  God, her smile. It could light Manhattan during a blackout. “Thank you,” she whispers. “This” —she motions between us—“is better than any first time I have ever imagined. So thank you for thinking I’m pretty and thank you for donating your dick to my research.” She slips past me to stand and I take the moment to slide my shirt on. “I quite enjoyed having sex, and I’d like to do it again. With you. No!” She shakes her head. “Fuck—with you. I mean, I like you.” She sighs and then steps into her skirt. “I liked the sex, it was really good, and I would like to do it again, a lot, with someone.”

  “You’re always like this.”

  She disappears under her sweater. When her head pops free, she asks, “Like what?”

  “Unfiltered,” I say, while looping my tie around my neck.

  She steps forward before swatting away my hands. “My dad taught me how to do this when I was eight. He always had some meeting or event to go to and I wanted to help.” Dragging one end through the knot, she pulls and catches my eyes with hers. A long beat passes while she tugs the ends in place. “I always wanted to be a good girl.”

  I have to hold back a groan. I’d like to tell her she is a good girl. My good girl. But that’s insane. Maisie Walker isn’t in any way close to being mine.

  Her lips are swollen, bruised from the rough treatment of my mouth and day-old stubble. The urge to kiss her again surges through me and into my fingers. I want to grab her hips and hold her close. When the need becomes unbearable, I shove my hands into my pockets. Too many sensations rush me at once, and my health problem returns with my heart thumping an unsteady gallop behind my ribs. Just as I’m about to mention the need for an ambulance, she leans in to place her cheek against mine.

  “It’s okay if you think I’m peculiar.” She drags her mouth down my jawline to end by my chin with a whispered, “I get that I’m . . . different.”

  “Fearless,” I counter.

  “Strange.”

  “Brilliant.”

  Her eyes latch on to mine for a long, blazing moment. It’s intense and my fingers get that urge to grab and hold tight, but I refrain once more.

  “This is me, Mr. Kavanagh. I don’t know how to be anyone else. Now you’ve seen and tasted all of me, but that’s our little secret,” she whispers in a voice made from smoke and ash. The breathy wave of heat holds me still, and in this instant she is fire and I am the fuel to her flame. I finally reach for her, but she’s too damn fast and slides out the bathroom door.

  I stare so intently at her round ass as she bends to slip into her heels that I stumble on the fact she’s preparing to leave. I can’t form words to stop her when she belts her coat and grabs her clutch.

  Maisie steps to the credenza where her fingers run over the document she brought earlier. She glances at me through her lashes. “I hope you’ll find the contract meets your standards. I’ll look forward to your feedback.”

  The contract. I stare dumbfounded at the paperwork. A contract.

  “Good night, boss.”

  Her fucking hips sashay down the hall until the door blocks my view. And then she’s gone.

  Hanging my head, I grip the back of my neck to think. Sweet Jesus. The definition of trouble is Maisie Walker. And apparently, I can’t get enough of it.

  Right now, with this woman, I am not ready to say goodbye.

  Chapter Seven

  “Perfectly Wrong” 3:33

  Maisie

  THE FOLOWING MORNING there are no regrets to be had. None. Well, truth be told, there is one. And it’s that Mr. Kavanagh will never again be responsible for the delicious ache between my thighs. It has to be this way. He’s my boss and I do have a purpose. Law school is just out of reach but I’ll get there if I focus. So that’s it. No more orgasms with the man of my dreams.

  Thinking about the end of our brief affair has my stomach sinking.

  Mrs. Ramirez is a great distraction. Since
I moved in three months ago, every morning I take Diego, her mini-sized mutt, outside. It saves her the trouble at least once a day. Hauling a puppy out for a potty-break wreaks havoc on her bad hip.

  “Hola, Mrs. Ramirez,” I say as she opens the door.

  Diego sniffs and wiggles his butt by my feet. My neighbor is not bilingual and neither am I. Although I spent two years studying Spanish in high school, it’s been a long time since I had put the skill to test.

  Today she hands me Diego’s leash and the morning paper she has delivered to practice her English skills. We’re both works in progress. Tucking it into my bag, I catch every fourth word she says. She’s full of sharp gestures, slashing her finger through the air and saying, “leer” and “seguro” and then “ladrón.” Which I think roughly translates to read, safe, and thief. I’m not following her train of thought and in the meantime, Diego has decided it’s time to go. He tugs me toward the stairs as I wave away her concern.

  “I’ll have him back in uno momento, Mrs. Ramirez. Don’t worry. We’re old amigos by now.”

  He’s quick to finish his business in the small courtyard behind our complex and we return to her door in minutes. As I hand him back, she speeds through another lecture I barely understand, poking her finger at my purse. “Leer, sure Mrs. Ramirez. I’ll read the paper today. Promesa.”

  With one last stop to my apartment, I put my lunch in my bag next to the newspaper. I’ll scan it on break when I have time. I bolt my door, protecting my meager wardrobe and ancient sewing machine behind three locks. In a last-ditch effort to keep me under her thumb, Mom refused me any of the items I had collected during adolescence when I moved out. It was her way of making me stay at home until she could find me a suitable husband. I preferred freedom over forced luxuries in Greenwich. Even Dad couldn’t talk her off her high-handed perch.