by Tawna Fenske
Maybe I’m flattering myself, but I know for a fact Bree complains about big brother letting no one in. Is it wrong to feel smug for getting a tiny glimpse behind Iceman’s blackout curtains?
I want more.
It’s the more that rules my thoughts as I park in front of the main lodge at Ponderosa Resort. There’s a cluster of people milling around in the courtyard wearing zillion-dollar suits and the expressions of perpetually bored rich people. I remind myself that this is the world James comes from; that we have little in common besides lust and some good conversation.
Not the worst foundation for a relationship.
Now where the hell did that come from? I need a relationship like I need a barbed wire thong, thank you very much.
I spot Bree in the center of the rich people mob, and she gives me a friendly wave. I wave back, then blow her a kiss in girlfriendly solidarity. Say what you will about the wealthy getting a hand up, but the Bracelyns have worked hard to build this place. It was only a few years ago that the property was just the vanity ranch of a rich guy who flew out a few times a year to play cowboy. Now it’s one of the top luxury resorts in the country. They did this, Bree and Sean and Mark and James and—
James.
My breath catches there as I weave my way through the hallways leading to his office. I doubt I would have found it if he hadn’t given directions. Bree’s office is right up front off the lobby, but James’s space is tucked near the back with a nameplate that says CEO in big, gold letters.
I knock once, quietly, anxious about disrupting any important work he might be doing. And about seeing him again. And about what I’m here to discuss with him, which is crazy. Who has freakin’ meetings about building the beast with two backs?
“Come in.”
His deep baritone sends a ripple of gooseflesh tickling up my arm, and I push through the door to see him rising to his feet. He’s got his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing startlingly muscular forearms. There’s a navy tie knotted at his throat, and his suit jacket hangs neatly on a hook by the door. I wonder if he took it off for me.
“You look beautiful.” His green gaze sweeps over my gray and white striped dress that buttons all the way up the front. “It’s great to see you.”
“Thanks. You look pretty great yourself.” I sound nervous. Why am I nervous? This is James, for God’s sake. I fed him Pringles when he was too drunk to remember how his fingers worked.
Compensating for the nerves, I add a little extra wiggle to my walk as I make my way to a leather chair in front of his desk. I’m moving to sit when he sweeps a hand toward the window instead.
“How about the couch?” He nods at a small sofa upholstered in red and gold. “I don’t want this feeling like a job interview.”
“Good idea.” I pivot and head that direction, conscious of his eyes trailing me toward the window.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he offers. “Water or tea or coffee or wine? Jonathan was here a second ago and brought a great bottle of Pinot.”
“Just water would be nice.” I wonder if he’s nervous, too. We’re in his element here, so he has the upper hand, but the faint crack in his voice tells me he’s on edge like I am.
There’s a glug-glug-glug behind me as he fills two glasses from one of those filtered dispenser things. Then he strides over and hands me a rocks glass filled with water. “Please, have a seat.” He waits for me to settle on one side of the sofa before lowering himself beside me. “I was thinking we could get started by—”
Pfffffffft.
As his butt hits the couch cushion, his jaw hits the floor. The unmistakable blast of flatulence echoes through the immaculate office, and he stares at me like he’s never heard it before. “What on earth—”
“Stand up,” I command.
He blinks. Maybe he’s too stunned to argue, because he gets up off the couch without a question. Bending down, I grab hold of a sofa cushion and flip it over.
“Nice.” I pick up the whoopee cushion and wave it in front of him with a flourish. “I take it this isn’t yours?”
His expression goes from confusion to annoyance to the faintest hint of appreciation in the time it takes me to plant my butt back on the sofa.
“That son of a bitch.”
I bust out laughing; I can’t help it. He looks so indignant. “What? Who did it?”
“Jonathan,” he grumbles. He takes his seat again, a little closer to me this time. “He thinks it’s his brotherly duty to make me laugh. He’s done it since we were little kids. Drives me batshit.”
I can tell by looking at him that he’s not actually mad. Maybe a little annoyed at having a potential romantic moment spoiled by fart sounds, but the annoyance is tempered by a hint of amusement. He might have a funny way of showing it, but James Bracelyn loves the hell out of his family.
“Jonathan,” I repeat, trying to conjure up a face. “I’m not sure I’ve met him. He’s the brother who isn’t around much?”
James nods and casts one more withering look at the whoopee cushion. “He’s part-owner like all of us, but he chose not to be part of the management team.” He spreads his arms over the back of the sofa, his hand barely brushing the edge of my hair as he moves. “He’s a boat captain for a humanitarian organization that rescues refugees at sea.”
The pride in his voice is unmistakable, and it sparks an unexpected burst of warmth in the center of my chest.
“I think I’ve heard of that.” My brain does a slow rewind to recall where. “There was a documentary—I forget what it’s called, but they screened it at BendFilm Festival a few years ago.”
“It’s called Lifeboat.” He looks surprised by my knowledge of obscure indie films. “It got an Academy Award nomination for documentary shorts that year.”
“The filmmaker’s based in Portland.” I settle back on the couch, relieved we’re making normal conversation instead of leaping straight to a discussion of jumping each other’s bones. “He spoke at the screening here in town. He talked about how thousands and thousands of people drown every year fleeing North Africa to seek amnesty in Europe.” I’m getting fired up now, fueled by the chance to talk about something that matters. “People fleeing horrific conditions, human trafficking, slavery, that sort of thing. Only a tiny fraction survive on these flimsy little rafts, but they attempt it anyway because even almost certain death is better than what they’re facing back home.”
I’m positive I’ve kept the melancholy out of my voice and my eyes. No tears at all, thank you very much. Even so, James plucks a box of tissues off the end table beside him and sets it on the coffee table without commentary or judgment.
“Jonathan’s ship wasn’t the one featured in the film,” he says. “But he’s been running rescue missions for almost six years now. I can’t even imagine. He’s saved thousands of lives.”
The pride in his voice has dialed up from about a six to a six hundred. For siblings who didn’t grow up together, these Bracelyns are tight. Part of me envies that, being an only child. Then again, I don’t think there’s much to envy in any of their childhoods. They may have grown up with gobs of money, but I don’t get the sense any of them had it easy.
“So.” I cross my legs and fold my hands over my knees. “Now that we’ve killed the mood with fart noises and talk of a horrifying humanitarian crisis, do you want to discuss being friends with benefits?”
He hides his wince remarkably well. “I don’t suppose there’s another term for it? That sounds so…juvenile.”
“Juvenile, huh?” I prowl around my brain for a more adult term. “How about fuckmates?”
He snorts. “Not quite what I meant.”
I laugh, enjoying the visible ruffling of his feathers. This is fun. “Let’s see. There’s bed buddies, of course. Or special friends.”
“That sounds like the worst afterschool special ever.”
He’s right, it totally does. “How about booty call? Or skintimacy.”
This time, t
he grimace is exaggerated enough to show he’s totally digging this. His eyes are laughing, even if the rest of him is totally straight-faced. “How about something more dignified.”
“Dignified.” I take a sip of my water before setting it on the coaster in front of me. “We’re talking about mashing our parts together, not coordinating a dinner party.”
“Perhaps something like nonspecific intimacy companion.” His delivery is so dry that only the tiniest crinkle at the edges of his eyes tells me he’s kidding.
“Oooh, very sexy,” I tell him. “Almost as hot as doing our taxes together.”
“Hey, don’t knock it.” He takes a sip of water and sets his glass on the coffee table. “Numbers get me hot.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He grins and begins to unknot his tie. Speaking of getting hot...
“Your turn,” he says. “You come up with something.”
“Hmm.” I pretend to think. “What about buddies with bennies?”
He tosses the tie on the coffee table and stretches his arms back across the sofa. “Pretty sure Sean makes a breakfast special called buddy bennies,” he says. “It’s served with a side of skillet potatoes and his special chipotle hollandaise.”
“I’ll definitely be ordering that the next time Bree invites me to brunch.”
James winces. “How about we avoid introducing my sister into any conversation about fucking each other silly?”
His use of fucking sends a shockwave of delight straight through my core. I cross my legs, delighted to see his gaze snag on my bare thigh and get stuck there for a few beats.
“Fair enough,” I tell him. “You have more ideas for proper terminology?”
He shifts the tiniest bit closer to me on the sofa, narrowing the gap between our bodies enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his bare forearms. For a guy dubbed Iceman, James Bracelyn generates a delicious bounty of body heat.
“I once heard my father refer to a woman as his ‘slam piece.’” He shudders like that brings up unpleasant memories. “I’d rather not go there with terminology if that’s okay with you.”
“Ditto.” I dredge my brain for more fuck buddy terms. “How about hangin’ and bangin’?” I suggest. “Or penile pals?”
The laugh that erupts out of him is better than any whoopee cushion noise. It’s big and brash and so unlike the cool and collected image he projects to the world.
This must be why his brother lives to crack him up.
His laughter is contagious, so it takes me a few seconds to catch my breath. “Buddies who bone?” I’m hungry to keep the laughs coming, that’s how sexy it is. “Carnal companions? Cronies riding the baloney pony? None of this is working for you?”
He shakes his head, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Let’s table this discussion for now,” he suggests. “How about we define the parameters of our agreement instead?”
I lift an eyebrow. “If you’re busting out an Excel spreadsheet, I’m leaving.”
“No, no. We can keep it casual, I swear.” He shifts again on the sofa, and this time his knee brushes mine. Swear to God, that tiny little touch launches six thousand lust rockets blasting through my body.
His eyes stay locked with mine, and he doesn’t miss a beat. “Do you want to settle on specific days of the week or—”
“Definitely not,” I insist. “I’m all for spontaneity.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Mutually agreed upon spontaneity? We’re both busy, after all.”
“Mutually agreed upon spontaneity is the worst oxymoron ever.”
“Like genuine imitation?”
I grin and uncross my legs, making sure to bump his knee when I re-cross them. “Or working vacation?”
“Or government organization.” He clears his throat and glances down at my bare knee. That seems to distract him for a second, and he looks rattled when his gaze returns to mine. “For what it’s worth, I’m not expecting monogamy with this arrangement.”
“Um, hello.” I raise my hand like a kid waiting to answer a question in sex-ed class. “I’m expecting that.”
“What?”
“For sure,” I tell him. “I might be a slut, but I’m also a serial monogamist.”
He blanches at that. “I’d never call you a—that word.”
“Of course not,” I tell him. “And I appreciate that. But I have no problem with the word. It’s like reclaiming the word ‘bitch.’”
The frown creasing his forehead is not unlike the one I imagined he had when I explained what TPing was. “I’ve heard Bree and her friends calling each other bitches,” he muses. “They say it like it’s synonymous with friend.”
“It is,” I agree. “But the second you call her a bitch, she’d punch you in the junk.”
“I can assure you I’d never call my sister a—anything like that. Ever.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” I assure him. “You’re a nice guy, James Bracelyn.”
Slowly, the embers in his eyes blaze to a deep, dark burn. Lifting his hand from the back of the couch, he moves it to my knee, claiming it with the heat of his palm. His eyes stay locked with mine the whole time, never blinking. “I’m not that nice.”
Oh, sweet baby Jesus.
I order myself to breathe as all the blood leaves my brain and heads south. Some of it’s beelining for my knee, while the rest of it—well, that’s definitely not my knee.
His palm glides a couple inches up my bare thigh like he’s heard my thoughts. He’s still not blinking, and I’ve begun to wonder if he’s human. If this thing sparking between us is some sort of alien attraction.
The big palm stops moving just below the hem of my dress, and there’s a question in his eyes now. If I asked him to back down, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He’d pull his hand back, re-cinch the necktie around his throat, and apologize like a perfect gentleman.
But I’ve seen enough of James’s perfect gentleman. It’s the other guy who piques my interest. The one I met the night of Sean’s wedding, minus the alcohol. Does he exist?
Judging by the pulsing heat in my knee and in places high above that, I’m thinking he does.
He finally blinks, but none of the heat leaves his eyes. “Tell me what you want, Lily.” His voice is low and husky, his eyes shifting from grass green to dark forest.
I’m not sure if he wants me to talk dirty or if he’s looking for information. Either way, my mouth has gone dry, and my tongue has stopped working. Since I’m incapable of speech, I try the next best thing. I lunge for him, starving for a replay of our last kiss.
“God.” He groans the word against my mouth as his hands slide around my back to pull me closer. This time, I’m the one starting it. This time, I’m the one catching him by surprise.
But he’s quick to recover and back in control, just the way he likes it. No way am I complaining as he cups his hands under my ass and pulls me onto his lap without breaking the kiss.
I slide with my thighs around him, dress riding up around my hips. The hardness I’m grinding against tells me he wants this as much as I do, and also that James Bracelyn did not get shortchanged in the endowment department.
Moaning against his mouth, I slide my fingers into his hair as his hands tunnel under my dress and squeeze my bare ass. I’ve never been so grateful to favor thong panties, since it grants me the quick, searing heat of his palms against my bare flesh. His touch is rough and possessive, not the soft hands of a pampered business man.
And the way he kisses, my God. That’s all master-of-the-universe CEO, but it’s more than that. He’s firm and commanding, but gentle at the same time. Strong and soft, forceful and giving. I keep losing my place and gasping as I go under and fight my way to the surface again.
“Jesus, Lily.” The gravel in his voice as he breaks the kiss is my only sign that he’s not totally in control here. That he’s as undone by this as I am.
But then his mouth moves to my throat as he claims that, too, scorching
a fiery trail from where my pulse is beating like mad and moving down into my cleavage. He makes quick work of undoing the top two buttons on my dress, brushing his lips over the tops of my breasts.
I clutch at the back of his head, so dizzy I’m afraid I’ll fall right off his lap. But his grip on my hips is solid, so I give myself to the pleasure, tipping my head back to let him take what he wants.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs from the hollow of my décolletage.
“It’s called Good Girl by Carolina Herrera,” I gasp, surprised I remember the name of my perfume. Then I remember I’m not wearing any.
“It’s you,” he murmurs. “All you, Lily. So fucking sweet.”
I close my eyes as he nudges aside the lace of my bra, lips moving to graze my nipple. I grind against the hardness between his thighs, six seconds from coming just like that. For God’s sake, I’m a teenager dry humping in the backseat.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp as his tongue circles my nipple before he draws me into his mouth and then—
Bam bam bam!
“James!”
It’s Sean’s voice, only it’s not. There’s a frantic edge to it that I’ve never heard before. “James, we’ve got an emergency.”
The doorknob rattles, and I struggle to leap off his lap. But the door stays closed and James’s hands stay clasped around my ass. When did he lock the office?
Green eyes meet mine, and he takes a deep breath before shouting his answer. “What is it?”
I’m still wrapping my brain around the fact that he had the foresight to lock the door—maybe when he got water?—so I almost don’t catch Sean’s terse answer.
“Fire,” he calls back. “There’s a fire at your place.”
Chapter 8
JAMES
I crash through the front door of my cabin with Lily on my heels and my heart thudding in my ears.
I’m pretty sure those things are connected.