Bad Husband

by Elise Faber

  “Well, I guess we don’t need to take that trip to Amsterdam after all.”

  “What—”

  She kissed him.

  And Clay suddenly started feeling pretty damned optimistic about life.

  Eleven

  Heather

  * * *

  Heather was being an idiot—she knew that, she understood it.

  She just didn’t give a damn.

  Not this close to Clay, not with his hands on her, his mouth against hers.

  So she kissed him for all she was worth, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling herself forward so that she straddled his hips. His arms banded around her waist, bringing her flush against him and reminding her all over again that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  He was still in the button-down and slacks, and the stiff material teased the bare skin of her arms and chest.

  “Mmm,” she moaned when he broke the kiss to nibble along her jaw, down her throat. When he nipped the space just above her collarbone, her grip shifted to his hair, holding him in place.

  “You like that,” he murmured against her skin, and it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” she answered anyway.

  She had liked it when he’d done it before. She loved it when he did it now.

  Fingertips that were surprisingly calloused for a man with a white-collar job traced the scooped neck of her tank top. Her nipples pebbled, aching for his touch to drift lower, for his mouth and teeth and tongue to follow suit.

  Instead, his hands slid up, cupping the back of her head and stealing her mouth in a kiss that made her head spin.

  “Sweetheart,” he eventually said, pulling back, both of them gasping for air.

  For once, she didn’t rebuke the endearment.

  In this room, in this moment, it seemed perfect.

  Alarm bells blared in her head, but then Clay continued speaking, and she couldn’t focus on the internal warning. Hell, she could barely comprehend his words with his fingers massaging gentle circles against her scalp.

  “We should stop,” he said, and the statement took a long time for her desire-addled brain to process. “You don’t want this, not really.”

  “I really do,” she said with a wicked grin. “Because I really like orgasms, and I know you’re the man who can give them to me.”

  “Still—” He groaned when Heather’s hand snaked down to grip the hard length of him.

  “You don’t want me?” she asked, using her free hand to urge one of his out of her hair and down to her chest, pausing to rest it over her breast. Her nipples were hard and aching, standing out sharply against the cotton. And while the action made both of them groan, she didn’t let Clay focus his attention there, instead, she coaxed his hand lower . . . under the waistband of her pajamas and directly between her bare thighs. “Because I want you.”

  He hissed when she shifted so that his fingers caressed the hot, damp center of her. “Fuck. I want you, baby.” He let out a pained breath. “I know you can fucking feel how much, but I’m trying to be good here. You’re tired, and I’m an asshole, and you need to rest.”

  She undulated her hips, teasing herself and him as the movement made his fingers inch nearer her entrance.

  Her teeth found her lip, bit down. “I’d rest a lot better after an orgasm.”

  His head dropped back. “Fuck, Heather—”

  “Yes,” she said, pulling her hand away to strip off her shirt. “Fuck Heather.” She tossed the tank aside just in time to see his head pop up, Whack-a-Mole style, those mocha eyes darkening to espresso.

  And it was like she’d snapped the leash on his control.

  One second she was on top, teasing, urging, the next she was just along for the ride.

  He tossed her onto the mattress, decimating her organized stack of files, snagging both laptops just before they joined a stack of papers in tumbling to the floor. The papers he left, the laptops he plunked into the chair, and then there were no more distractions.

  It was just her and a very aroused Clay Steele.

  Except this time, he wasn’t drunk.

  He was sober. And very, very focused.

  On her.

  His hands found the waistband of her pajamas, yanking them down her legs and tossing them onto the floor. In between the space of a heartbeat, she found herself naked with Clay fully dressed, random papers and file folders biting into her skin.

  It was pretty much the hottest thing ever.

  To find a man who was as driven as her, as smart, as focused was fucking rare and this man—this hot, gorgeous, sexy, surprisingly sweet man—was one in a million.

  Especially when he paused to stare down at her.

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “Never thought this particular fantasy would come true.”

  She blinked, smiled. “You’ve had fantasies about me?”

  He scoffed. “Fuck yes, I’ve had.”

  “Really?”

  Both hands dropped onto the mattress next to her head, his legs coming over her to straddle her thighs. “Too many nights over the last six months, sweetheart.”

  She wove her fingers into his hair, tugging his head down so that she could whisper in his ear. “I’ve thought about you, too. Mostly as I’ve stroked myself to sleep.”

  His curse almost blistered her ears. “You can’t say things like that.”

  Heather let her head drop back to the bed. “Why not?”

  “Because.” He bent and kissed her throat, the tops of each breast. “I’m trying to make it good for you.” Another kiss, this time to each nipple.

  “Then”—she gripped his head, pulled it flush to her skin—“no more talking.”

  Clay took her words to heart.

  His mouth latched onto her nipple, sucking deeply and making her back bow off the mattress. He rolled the aching nub of her neglected breast between his fingers. They weren’t his tongue and teeth, but it was close enough for the moment.

  Especially when he switched sides and alternated tasks.

  Stars spun behind her eyelids, heat arrowed from her breasts directly south, and if she’d thought that she was wet before, now she was absolutely drenched.

  Clay released her nipple with a soft pop and kissed her rib cage, her navel, one hip then the other.

  Then in between.

  And good God did he kiss her in between.

  In one of those swift movements he seemed to be so good at, Clay was between her hips, one of her legs over each of his shoulders. He didn’t give her a second to think, to protest that she’d been teased enough and just wanted him inside her. Nope. He just dove between her thighs, used his fingers to spread her wide, and drove his tongue deep inside her.

  “Clay!”

  “Mmm,” he said against her, the vibrations driving her crazy. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his chin was providing just . . . the . . . right . . . amount . . . of . . . friction.

  Whoever said that friction was a bad thing during sex had never had Clay Steele between her legs.

  His thumb stroked up, gently circling her clit, and the sensation was almost calming—wholly pleasurable, but it was like he was stroking her down from the edge, bringing her back from the precipice.

  But then he pressed firmly the same time his tongue drove deep, and any notion of calm was gone.

  He’d lulled her down only to ramp her back up again.

  And then he did it again. And again. And the bastard would have driven her to that fucking edge for a fourth time if Heather hadn’t reached down to grip his hair, holding him in place as she ground her hips against his mouth.

  She came. Loudly.

  Fingers traced softly along her thighs, her stomach, her waist, but this time she didn’t mind the gentling touch because aftershocks of pleasure were still coursing through her limbs.

  She took a minute to let her brain reset, for feeling to return to her arms and legs.

  Then she pushed Clay onto his back. “Stay.”

  A dart
ing trip to the bathroom for a string of condoms, but she probably hadn’t needed to rush, because he’d remained on his back.

  Albeit he was still clothed, but that was an easy problem to fix.

  She shoved a few more papers to the floor as she climbed back onto the bed and tossed the condoms within arm’s reach.

  “You could have asked if I had any,” he said.

  “I like to be prepared,” she replied, busying herself by beginning to unbutton his shirt. Unbutton. Kiss. Unbutton. Kiss. Unbutton— “Plus, don’t tell me that you’re one of those guys who always has a condom in your pocket.”

  He sucked in a breath when she finished with the last button and spread his shirt wide. “In my wallet, maybe.”

  A nip to his hip. “And do you have your wallet?” She flicked open the top button of his slacks, darted her tongue underneath.

  “No.”

  “So.” Another lick. “Case in point. Women are more prepared than men.”

  For some reason that made him laugh and lean up to strip off his shirt the rest of the way. Since that was what Heather wanted, too, she didn’t object. Instead, she enjoyed the view of all that yummy muscled goodness.

  His pecs were defined, perfect handfuls she wanted to spend some time with, his waist was trim—no desk job pudge in sight—and while he wasn’t sporting a six pack, his abs were flat and defined enough that her mouth watered with the urge to lick.

  In fact, she wanted to lick it all.

  Trouble was, she didn’t know where to start.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Her lips twisted. “That you’re a dessert bar loaded with my favorites, and I don’t know where to begin.”

  He laughed, and she joined in. “So sugar is your weakness?”

  One of her brows lifted. “I wouldn’t dare state such a thing.” A beat as her mouth curved. “But bring me cinnamon rolls, and I would lick your feet.”

  “I’d rather you lick me somewhere else.”

  Heat shot down Heather’s spine, making her insides clench in anticipation. She would rather lick him somewhere else, too. Many somewhere elses. But—

  “How do you get away with it?”

  He froze. “With what?”

  “With using those sort of lines and somehow not sounding like the worst sort of creeper?” She smacked his chest. “That was a terrible line, and my vagina was still like: Woohoo! Let me join the party, ‘kay?”

  Clay stilled, his lips pressing together in a straight line before he lost it.

  Absolutely lost it as laughter burst out of him.

  But she was laughing, too, somehow laughing in bed with a man who she’d always thought was gorgeous but icy cold.

  How?

  Heather didn’t know. She also wasn’t going to examine anything too closely.

  This was one of those chances that came too few and far between, demanding that she grasp life by the horns and live it into submission.

  “You’re amazing,” he said once they’d quieted.

  She undid his zipper. “And I’m going to lick you like you’re my favorite lollipop.”

  Clay’s breath came out in a whoosh, and his eyes darkened to espresso again, but he didn’t tell her that he was the one in charge, didn’t flip her over and do licking of his own—and frankly, while she really wanted to get her mouth on the man, she wouldn’t have tried too hard to stop him if he’d gone that route.

  But instead of snagging the reins back, he merely crossed his arms behind his head and smiled.

  “Do your worst, Heather O’Keith.”

  Twelve

  Clay

  * * *

  Clay was a fucking moron.

  He was going to blow his load like an eighteen-year-old boy.

  When he’d told Heather to do her worst, he hadn’t been thinking. Well, he had been thinking, but the thoughts going through his mind were that he was going to be on the receiving end of a blow job from the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  So no, he hadn’t been thinking . . . or at least not straight.

  Because Heather had taken him at his word and was doing her damnedest to drive him insane.

  If he’d thought it was a good idea earlier to tease her to the edge of her orgasm, this was her payback.

  With interest.

  But dammit, he knew the teasing had made it better for her. It had been for her own good. It had—

  Pot. Meet kettle.

  “Fuck,” he groaned when her tongue traced the underside of his cock. He wanted in her mouth. Or better yet he wanted to flip her over and—

  “Uh-uh,” she said, her mouth hovering just above the tip of him. “Behave.”

  He hadn’t even realized that he’d moved.

  “Lay down,” she said, that mouth so close, yet so far.

  “Heather,” he said, dropping back onto the mattress. He was almost begging and didn’t give a damn. She’d licked his fucking cock like a lollipop, as promised, but she hadn’t put her mouth on him and he was running out of patience. “Please, baby, give me your mouth. Or better yet, let me inside you.” A flick of her tongue had every muscle in his body tensing. “Fuck, baby. I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

  “Okay.”

  His eyes flicked down to hers. “Okay?”

  “Blow job later.” A shrug. “Fucking now.”

  Thank God.

  He tore off a packet from the strand of condoms, ripped it open, and rolled it on. Then he lifted Heather up, positioned himself, and plunged deep.

  She screamed.

  Shit. Shit. His hands tightened on her waist, ready to lift her free. Had he hurt her?

  But then she was moaning and rocking on top of him and he relaxed. She’d screamed earlier when she’d come. Maybe that was just her thing.

  Still, he had to be certain.

  He stayed her hips and nearly lost his breath at the look she shot him. Her teeth were pressed hard into her bottom lip, her eyes hazy, her cheeks tinged pink. She groaned, the one almost begging now. “Please, Clay.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” A shift of her hips slid him deeper, and they both hissed out a breath. “Now, please, let me move.”

  He released her waist.

  Instantly, she began riding him, taking him way too high, way too fast. He leaned up, sucking a nipple into his mouth at the same time as he slipped a hand between her legs and pressed down hard on her clit.

  Another scream as the liquid heat of her gripped him tightly. He exploded right alongside her, thrusting deep, holding her tightly to him until they both collapsed back onto the bed.

  Hearts thudding, breathing rapid, they stared into each other’s eyes.

  Clay didn’t regret the moment. Fuck, how could he?

  But lying there with Heather, hugging her close . . . well, that created a whole other set of consequences he wasn’t prepared for.

  She shifted in the circle of his arms, wincing before pulling a file folder from beneath her ass. She huffed out a laugh. “Why am I always finding papers here when you’re around?”

  He chuckled, and her face went serious.

  Probably because his laugh hadn’t sounded remotely natural.

  “You okay, big guy?” she asked, glancing down at him. “You know you don’t have to stay, right? That this isn’t anything more than two people scratching a mutual itch.”

  Her words pissed him off. They were absolutely infuriating—

  For reasons he wasn’t going to examine too closely.

  Still, he didn’t tell Heather that. Instead, he reached behind his back and dumped a stack of papers to the floor. Then he pulled back the blankets and tugged her until she was settled against the sheets.

  A quick trip to the bathroom took care of the condom.

  When he came out, Heather was looking through a file that had somehow survived their horizontal mattress antics.

  Clay snagged it from her hands and tossed it to the floor.

  �
�What—”

  “I’m not leaving,” he said, hauling her into his arms.

  “It’s—”

  He kissed her, long and deep and slow.

  Then Clay scratched their proverbial itches one more time for good measure.

  Clay woke up naked, in a strange bed again, but this time instead of being alone and hung over, he held a beautiful woman in his arms.

  He liked this version of events, as compared to those in Vegas, so much better. Sighing, he closed his eyes and settled back into the pillows. He really needed to grab another hour or two of sleep.

  They’d stayed up for hours, enjoying each other as they took deliberate care to work their way through that string of condoms. But now, Clay needed to make up for some of the sleep he’d lost, especially considering the potential confrontation with Pierce later that evening.

  But sleep wasn’t on the agenda.

  Because the moment his lids closed, there was a quiet knock at the door.

  He flicked his gaze to the clock, saw it was just after six. Too early for housekeeping.

  Another knock, this one a little louder than the previous. Heather sighed, shifting in her sleep, rolling onto her back as a frown pulled her brows together. Clay carefully extracted himself from her body and the tangle of blankets to answer the door.

  He’d set exactly one foot into the hallway when he heard the click of the lock disengaging, the metal against metal scrape of the knob moving, turning, and felt the shift in air pressure as the door opened.

  The crash as it collided with the dead bolt he’d engaged hours before.

  He whipped around, yanking Heather to her feet in a motion that had her instantly awake, a startled yelp emerging from her lips.

  “Run,” he ordered, mind spinning, the memories vivid and all too intense.

  She needed to get out of there. He needed to get her safe.

  “Clay?” she asked, hand coming to rest on his chest. “What is it?”

  The door crashed again, the dead bolt bringing it to a shuddering halt, but he knew it couldn’t hold forever. He knew it wouldn’t.

  Both of their heads turned to the hallway, to the door he could see was open a scant inch or two. A sliver of light illuminated the space as pale fingers worked their way up to the latch.