Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7)

by Krista Ritchie

  “What was that?” Oscar asks, his lips swollen. Abs flexed. “You said I can’t.”

  We’re both still painfully erect and wanting. I lick my lips into a smile. “It was just a lot. It was good.”

  He studies me, then his mouth curves upward. “You gave me a heart attack, Long Beach. I thought I broke you.”

  I let out a soft laugh. “I’m not that easy to break.” At least I sincerely hope I’m not. I trace our positions over and over, and there is a question I can’t contain. “Do you have lube?”

  He stiffens. “We’re not having sex—”

  “I understand that, but if one of us is eventually taking a cock in the ass, shouldn’t we work up to it?” I’ve Google-searched prepping before anal, and I was able to figure out douching on my own. So I don’t bring that up unless he does.

  We texted each other not long ago our recent screenings at the clinic. Negative. No STDs. But I only took our agreement to get checked out as both of us being careful and responsible in case something did happen between us.

  It wasn’t a guarantee.

  It’s still not.

  Which is why I’m on pins and needles as Oscar processes.

  And then he pulls away and stretches his body to a nightstand. His hand stays on my thigh like he’s telling me to stay put. I watch as he pulls a black bottle of lube from the drawer.

  He waves the bottle. “Pick your poison: you want my fingers in you or your fingers in me?”

  Choices.

  My muscles strain. “You choose.”

  “You might not like my choice.”

  “I’ll tell you to stop if I don’t,” I assure. “All I know is I’d try both.”

  Oscar leans back down, and I fall back off my arms. We kiss again, and the swelter reignites as we sink into a sensual mood.

  His hand descends between our bodies, and he jerks me off better than anyone ever has. Fuck. I force myself not to blow a load before we enter a new territory.

  The anticipation of who he chooses to give and receive is annihilating me. And our eyes are on each other as he takes the bottle and lubes his fingers.

  This is happening.

  I picture the moment, his fingers in me, and I shift my legs, my dick aching. I tug myself, and Oscar’s whole body tightens in arousal. We’re both straining and in need of a powerful release.

  My eyes trace his beautiful build. Curves and cuts and sinewy angles.

  Curly hair brushes his eyelashes. His nose ring makes him even sexier. Faint scars dot his chest and knuckles, and his nose was probably reset a few times after punches.

  Beautiful.

  I don’t want him to be with anyone else.

  No one.

  Just me.

  I slide my hand back against his neck and bring his mouth on mine. We kiss for another minute before he whispers, “Turn on your chest.”

  I roll onto my forearms, exposing my back and ass to Oscar. Questions prick my gaze, wondering if this is right. My pulse is skipping, and I ease when he shifts my legs for me. Spreading them apart. He grips my waist.

  “Do your California best and chill some more,” Oscar says.

  It makes me smile. “Am I not relaxed?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  That wells up inside me. Even though he’s said it before, it feels more like a commitment and promise.

  He kisses my bicep, my neck and lips one more time before pressing his body up against me. Pleasure steals my breath, and anticipation descends in rapid headiness.

  I imagine him thrusting against me, and I feel weak at the knees and I’m basically lying down on all-fours. I look over my shoulder. Meeting his serious eyes that reassure and calm anxieties.

  His cold finger circles my entry, and his other arm wraps around my waist. He strokes me with one hand and enters me with his other fingers, slight pressure nuzzling me—I stiffen.

  He lets go of my shaft and trails his free hand up my abs, creating firm waves that leave fiery wakes. So many sensations melt my brain, and I chill inside the moment.

  A second later, he slides his finger in me. My eyes snap shut, overwhelmed for a beat. I bear down on my teeth, breathing aching breath through my nose. He makes a come-hither motion and finds a spot that jerks my limbs in intense bliss.

  Fuck.

  He thrusts his hips with the movement of his finger. A primal noise rumbles out of him and out of me, our groans the best music in the air. His hard body rocks on top of mine, against mine, with mine—pressure.

  Pressure.

  I reach back and try to grab onto Oscar, but his hips and thighs and body are firm muscle that my hand slides off. I almost give up, but then I feel his palm slip into mine. Fingers interlacing and squeezing tight.

  Jesus fuck.

  I bury my head into the pillow as he starts moving his finger deeper and faster. Another groan strangles me. “Os,” I choke out his name like a wounded animal. Like I’m pleading for that pressure to turn into a release.

  And the way he’s riding me…

  It’s too good.

  I try to shrug off his hand from mine—so that I can touch myself.

  “Nonono, shhh.” He holds tighter to my palm and kisses the back of my shoulder. “Hold out a little more. Trust me.”

  Trust him. There is no question. No uncertainty. He has all my trust. I’ve gift wrapped it and delivered it to his door.

  Emotions spill over pleasured shockwaves. My breathing comes out hoarse and ragged, and Oscar keeps whispering in my ear. His gruff voice turns me on just as much as how he works me over. When he hits my prostate, lights dance in my vision. It happens again. And again. “Os,” I cry out. Everything else that leaves my lips are noises and grunts and heavy breaths.

  But my head is one giant chant. Os. Os. Os. Os.

  A climax annihilates me, and it takes me a second to realize I released in his palm. With all the confidence in the world, Oscar grabs a towel and wipes off my cum. He kisses the edge of my lips, and I fall onto my shoulder blades, both hands on my head.

  He grins. “Not gonna lie, you enjoyed that way more than I expected.”

  I laugh in a pant. “Am I your biggest surprise?”

  “Oh yeah, every fucking day, Highland.”

  I eye his erection. “I can—”

  “Just catch your breath.” Oscar stands near the foot of the bed, and he strokes himself a couple times. I heat up, and I watch this gorgeous guy come with another firm tug. His muscles flex, and he grits down on his teeth, eyes almost rolling.

  I only wish his orgasm was closer to me and from my body or hands. “Now I feel like I’ve missed out on something.”

  He uses the same towel to clean up, his grin rising again. “Maybe next time, Highland.”

  Next time. I want the hot-and-cold just to be boiling hot between us. I want to reassure Oscar so the window flies fully open and I can climb all the way through. But I’m not sure how to do that without a major declaration.

  One that could change my entire life.

  Am even ready to tell my parents I’m not straight? To tell Jesse? To tell all of Oscar’s friends and everyone else we know?

  My throat closes.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  I breathe out and let those concerns go for tonight.

  Oscar comes back to bed. Lying next to me, he reaches over my chest to pull the cord to a lamp. “It’s five a.m.,” he says. “You should get some sleep.”

  We both should.

  But we’re awake another hour. We lie on our sides, hug each other’s frames, and whisper about his job, my job—the top-secret aspects that we can’t really share with other people. Details about the famous families. If we discuss sex, we might actually do more, so we make a concerted effort not to bring up what just occurred.

  We talk until we put the moon to bed and wake the sun. Bright rays cast over the loft, the bed, us. Sleep catches up. Sleep that I don’t want but my body demands.

  And finally, our eyes begin
to shut.

  21

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  This motherfucker.

  I stare with a strained wince at Gabe Montgomery in the Studio 9 Boxing & MMA Gym. The new temp I’m training acts like his head was screwed on ass-backwards.

  “But like…” He rubs his temple. “If I’m in front of the client in a crowd, how do I see them?”

  Leaning a hip against a boxing bag, my Cheeto freezes halfway to my mouth. “You can glance over your shoulder, Gabe.”

  He shakes his head, wavy blonde locks falling across his pale white forehead. “But wouldn’t it just be like easier to walk behind the clients?”

  I slowly chew and take out my aggravation on my Cheeto. “Then how are they going to make it to the door?” I ask. “They can’t push through paparazzi and crowds like you can.”

  Gabe’s delts are the size of honey baked hams. This kid is only twenty-two, same age as Quinn, and he’s built like a bulldozer. Security doesn’t usually hire guys this built because their endurance tends to be in the gutter, but Gabe passed all the entry-level tests.

  Too bad he’s an idiot.

  “Huh,” Gabe ponders all of this. “So…I make the path?”

  I nod slowly and pop another Cheeto in my mouth. Kitsuwon Securities needs a good batch of temps to run efficiently, which means all of us on Omega have to clock in time training new guys. So while I’m here teaching Tweedledum, Charlie Cobalt is in New York with another temp on his detail.

  I just hope Gabe can retain some of the shit I’m throwing at him. He can’t be such a lost cause if Thatcher Moretti referred him to Kitsuwon Securities. Apparently, he’s fresh out of the Navy and friend of a friend of a family member. If you ask me, we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel these days.

  I glance at my watch. We’ve been working through basics for the past three hours while Studio 9 is closed to security only. We’re the only ones here right now.

  “Give me twenty laps around the gym,” I tell Gabe. “And we’ll call it a night.”

  “Right on.” He darts off. I watch him sprint. Alright, the kid is fast for being that big. I’ll give him that.

  The gym door blows open, and I hear a cascade of shouting and squealing. “MAXIMOFF! FARROW! MAXIMOFF!” and “MARROW FOREVER!”

  I yearn for a forever-in-love stable relationship like Farrow has with Maximoff, but damn do I not want that cacophony and headache brought by the media. The Oslie rumors are bad enough.

  Farrow is grinning at his husband as they stroll in. The Hale prince looks high-key irritated at whatever Farrow said or did.

  Where’s the popcorn?

  I dig into my Cheetos.

  “Can you wipe your memory?” Maximoff asks the guy with a near-perfect photographic memory. “Scrub the last two minutes and tack on another century. Except don’t erase all the parts where I remind you that I’m smarter and hotter.”

  “You mean the parts where you lie?”

  I laugh, and it draws half of their attention to me while they approach.

  Maximoff growls out his frustration. “Seriously, you didn’t hear what I said.”

  “I heard a fan outside ask who your celebrity crush is,” Farrow grins wider, “and I definitely heard you answer, my husband.”

  “Aww,” I pile on the teasing with the bat of my lashes.

  Maximoff is bright red. He looks to Farrow. “It’s like you want me to shove you in a gym locker or something.”

  “Or something,” Farrow laughs.

  I have a theory that no one taught Maximoff Hale how to flirt. He literally does the kindergarten sandbox “I hate you” maneuver with Farrow, and largely, it’s probably because he’s never needed to flirt to get cock or pussy. He’s a fucking celebrity.

  They kick off their shoes to walk on the gym mats. Coming closer, they weave through the hanging boxing bags.

  I pop a Cheeto in my mouth. Trying not to let bitterness replace good-natured humor. Maximoff is balancing Ripley on his waist, and while Farrow takes earplugs out of their son’s ears, I hear Maximoff say more quietly, “I just want our son to know I love you. When he sees media footage, I don’t want him to think I don’t care about you.”

  Must be why he answered the paparazzi too honestly and not jokingly. Farrow whispers something softly, his hand on the back of Maximoff’s skull, and then their lips meet in a tender kiss.

  A pang thumps against my chest.

  I’m not a bitter guy, and I hate wading in these shitty emotions for even half-a-second.

  I’m about 99% positive it’s what Charlie has felt ever since Maximoff got a boyfriend. Seeing the cousin he hates receive the love he wants has caused more jealousy. But I’m not a twenty-one-year-old genius who can’t control my base impulses. And I never want to be bitter at the sight of someone else’s happiness or love. Especially a friend’s.

  I look around the gym.

  And I just wish Charlie were next to me so Highland would be here too. I’d turn my head and see his focus behind a camera. He’d notice me and smile that hundred-watt smile, and maybe he’d even redirect his lens my way.

  “Oliveira,” Farrow says, snapping me out of a bad daze.

  “Yeah?”

  Our heads turn when Ripley drops his stuffed pirate parrot. I pick up the toy that I bought him and rattle it. “No doubt, you love Uncle Oscar the best.”

  Ripley hugs onto the toy with a giggle. He’s a cute baby.

  “Thanks,” Maximoff says to me, his sincerity soulful. “You know where my brother might’ve left his phone?”

  My brows knot. “Xander left his phone at the gym?”

  Farrow explains, “After a boxing lesson this morning. I didn’t want to announce that shit over comms.” Yeah because Donnelly would be reamed out by the boss for that security mistake. Xander Hale is his client, and a missing phone is a heartbeat from a security leak.

  Donnelly isn’t usually that careless.

  “I haven’t seen it,” I tell them, “but I’d check the lockers.”

  Holding Ripley, Maximoff leaves the mats and searches the wall of lockers.

  Farrow sticks around me. “You okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You tell me,” he says, concern in his pierced brows.

  All I’ve really expressed lately to Farrow is that Jack and I are better. We’re cool. No more awkwardness. Pretty true. But I can’t explain anything further without telling him Jack’s not straight.

  I already promised I wouldn’t do that to Jack.

  “I’m good,” I nod a few times. “When’s the Out Loud magazine photoshoot? I heard it’s soon.”

  “Next week.” He skims my eyes.

  I hang onto a feeling I love.

  Pride.

  I’m proud of my best friend for agreeing to be on the cover of Out Loud. It took him a while to say yes. And now here I am, unable to talk about the guy I’m kissing and falling for.

  Unable to even hug him in public.

  I don’t love it, but I have to be okay with it.

  For me, pride is best felt embracing the people I love. And I just wish I could embrace Highland.

  I’m so fucking far gone.

  I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I wish I could ask Farrow for advice. He’s the “relationship guy”—the one who establishes boundaries up front before hopping into bed. He won’t even sleep with someone unless there is potential for an actual relationship.

  And look at me with this flimsy “no sex” declaration. I already jumped way past first base with the guy.

  Don’t beat yourself up, Oliveira.

  I exhale a rougher breath.

  Jack is complicated. He started off questioning. This was never going to be simple. And I want to believe that he’s willing to be in a relationship, but it can’t be easy for him to rewrite the story he envisioned for so long.

  He’s used to sticking to his life’s script. And that’s it.

  “You still want to do Woody’s for
dinner?” Farrow asks me, thankfully not giving me a hard time even though he can tell something’s up. “Donnelly said he’d meet us.”

  “Yeah, for sure.” I’m too in my feelings, so I focus on downing the rest of the Cheeto dust, and I tell Gabe to go home.

  The trainee ends the run with sweat streaming down his jaw. “Really?” he pants, out of breath. “I can go another ten.”

  I take it back. Tweedledum isn’t so bad.

  “Go home,” I say again. “I’ll see you again tomorrow morning.” I’m squeezing in a comms lesson before the start of the day.

  “Thanks, Oscar.” He heads towards the showers.

  “He’s huge,” Farrow says.

  “But fast.”

  Farrow whistles and looks back at Gabe “No shit.”

  Maximoff makes a face at Farrow like he just cat-called another guy.

  I laugh.

  “Shit,” Farrow says between his teeth, but he’s smiling. They’re both territorial motherfuckers.

  I elbow his arm. “Wanna bet that Kitsuwon’s going to fight over the temp for Sulli’s detail?” Akara always puts the best temps on her whenever Banks is unavailable.

  “No. Because I don’t want to lose a bet.”

  Smart, Redford.

  “Found it!” Maximoff calls out, showing us his brother’s phone. Ripley reaches up for the cell.

  Before we leave the gym, Farrow says to me, “We have to drop off the phone, and then we’re grabbing the furball before we head out to Woody’s.” The furball is their weird Newfoundland puppy. Arkham thinks a pint-sized bird is a pterodactyl.

  “Sounds good.” I sling my gym bag on my shoulder. “See you there.”

  We split apart, and I forget to ask Farrow about the ancient camcorder he gave Jack.

  I end up at the cheesesteak restaurant alone and climb up the rickety wooden deck. Chipped, old red paint on a plank overhead reads Woody’s. The place is mostly outdoors with picnic tables along the deck, and the order-at-the-counter station is inside. The mouth-watering scent of grilled meat floods my senses.

  God, I’m hungry.

  The downside: Woody’s is packed tonight. People spill onto the street, and since I have to order first, then hunt down a table, I just wait on the deck for Farrow, Maximoff, and Donnelly.