Scandalous Box Set

by Layla Valentine

  My words send a shiver through her and she fists my shirt. I’m thinking about how much time we have before the car arrives, whether there is enough of it to enact even one of my fantasies, but before I can risk it, I hear the crunch of gravel beneath tires. Jane-Ann hears it, too, and takes off for the car, hauling me after her. She climbs in the backseat, and as soon as I’m in the backseat, she’s on my lap.

  Oh, the things our poor driver has to see. I hand him a wad of cash and see confusion cross his features at the foreign currency, but Jane-Ann is already crawling out of the car and tugging on my arm. I do not resist.

  Chapter 4

  Jane-Ann

  If Christian wasn’t latched onto my face, bestowing kiss after toe-curling kiss on me, I’d be embarrassed about the state of my apartment. I don’t have to open my eyes to know there is a pile of clean laundry on the end of the couch that I’d meant to fold but decided not to. Or to know the sink is full of dirty dishes and the trash can is full of paper plates and bowls that I’d swiped from a potluck at the sofa store to save myself from having to do dishes for a few days.

  The saving grace is my womanly touch. Bright orange and yellow throw pillows on the couch, a throw blanket over the chair, a candle and a stack of books on the coffee table. On some level, if Christian ever bothers to take his eyes away from me and my body, he’ll see that I care about my home.

  I wonder if that’s important to him. I’d played up the bad-girl vibe at the bar, hating the way it sounded when he’d called me “nice.” Even the memory of it feels like a vice around my lungs. How many times in my life have I been told I’m too nice, too much of a tomboy, too Texan? To hear it come from the beautiful stranger’s lips in his strange accent, it was too much. I am tired of being boring and average. I want to be the American who rocks his world.

  And yet.

  The sensible part of me wonders where this is headed, how long Christian will be in the country, and whether he will ask for my number before he leaves. I can tell by the feel of his clothes under my hands that he is wealthy.

  The chauffeur cap now officially makes no sense to me, and I’m glad we left it behind at the bar. He looks way better without it. But he comes from money and he’s in my apartment, peeling my shirt over my head, and I’m moaning against his lips like a caged animal getting their first taste of freedom. What does it all mean?

  “Love,” he whispers against my mouth.

  I freeze. Did he just read my mind?

  “Love, is something wrong?” he asks.

  I unclench. He is using it as a pet name—love, sport, honey, dear—not a noun.

  I grab the back of his neck and try to pull him against my lips again, grinding my hips against his. “No, why?”

  He nibbles on my chin, and I’m amazed that I never thought that could be a sensual spot before because right now it is on fire.

  “You seem distracted, and I want to ensure I’m not taking advantage of you. I’d hate to be the guy who gets a girl drunk and then—”

  “I’m not drunk,” I say, quickly tapping my finger to my nose several times. “See?”

  He wrinkles his forehead. “What are you doing?”

  “Field sobriety test.” I step out of the circle of his arms, placing one foot in front of the other down a straight line. “Not drunk.”

  He stares after me for a second and then runs toward me, grabbing me around my waist. The action reminds me that my shirt was discarded in the living room as soon as we got through the door, and I’m currently standing in front of him in a white lacy bra that is more for looks than support. Christian seems to enjoy it. He brushes his thumbs across the sides before sweeping down over my ribs.

  “Thank God for that.”

  Then we’re kissing again. Christian pushes me against the wall, caging me in with his arms, and I allow my fingers to explore the rise and fall of his biceps and his forearms. Wherever in the world he is from, he has a gym membership back home. These are not the kind of muscles that one is born with. He earned them. Images of him sweaty and draped over a weight bench doing arm curls fills my head.

  “See, I feel like you might be a bit distracted,” he says, pressing his forehead against mine like he wants to get inside my head.

  “Okay, yes. That time I was distracted, but it was about you. Does that help?”

  He hums in thought. “Maybe. What was it about?”

  “Do you have a gym membership?”

  “The palace has a private gym. No membership required.”

  I’m impressed he is able to maintain the royalty gag in the midst of everything we are doing to one another, but I don’t mention it. “I was picturing you curling dumbbells.”

  He raises an amused eyebrow. “Big dumbbells?”

  I lick my lip and hum. “Yes.”

  “What was I wearing?” He leans down and nibbles on my ear lobe.

  “Less than you’re wearing now,” I say, dragging my hand down his chest.

  He kisses the skin beneath my ear. “Show me.”

  I make quick work of the buttons on his shirt. My mind tells me that a bad girl would rip his shirt off, buttons be damned, but it seems like an expensive shirt, and I haven’t exactly noticed any luggage with him. What would he wear if I ruined his shirt? So, I unbutton it slowly, hoping my caution is a kind of foreplay in anticipation. As soon as the last button is undone, he shrugs out of the shirt, and I stand back to admire.

  Over the couple of hours since I first saw him, I’ve grown accustomed to Christian’s good looks. It’s like taking the first drink of juice and being sucker punched with the sweetness, but by the end, you hardly notice it. I adjusted. But now that his shirt is off, I’m getting a sugar rush.

  “This is unfair.” I drag my hands down the planes of his stomach and realize too late I’ve spoken out loud.

  “I beg to differ,” he says. “I spend an hour every morning in the gym, so it seems very fair to me.”

  “What time do you wake up?” I ask, wondering whether I should start trying to work out before heading to the sofa store.

  “Five a.m. on a good day.”

  I groan. “That sounds like a bad day. Do you eat breakfast?”

  Christian collapses against me and lays his head on my shoulder. “Love, this has been an altogether remarkable evening. Unprecedented, really. You are entertaining at every turn. But I have a great idea for how we could be making better use of our time.”

  I feel something stiff pressing against my thigh, and about the same time I realize what it is, I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull his mouth against mine. He is right. No time to waste.

  Christian moans against my lips, and he tastes like whiskey and chocolate. I nibble at his lower lip, swipe my tongue into his mouth to get a better taste. Everything about him is a delicacy. The way his skin feels moving against mine, the way his fingers melt to my curves, the way his hair slips between my fingers. I want to savor every single morsel of him.

  I’m still leaning against the hallway wall when Christian moves away from my lips, his mouth exploring lower and lower. He kisses his way between my breasts and across my stomach. Then, his fingers are working the button on my jeans, and I shimmy my hips to help him move the tight garment down. He runs his hands down my legs, freeing me from the denim, and goosebumps trail with his touch.

  As soon as he throws my jeans over his shoulder, he runs his fingers back up my legs, massaging my calves and the back of my thighs. He kisses over my knee and to the inside of my thigh, and I thank God above I decided to shave that morning.

  When his fingers and lips both descend upon my center, his finger trailing a line across the lace panel of my panties, I stop breathing.

  This isn’t something I normally do. While Christian is an inch away from my privates feels like a bad time to admit to myself that I’m not a bad girl, but I’m not a bad girl. Everything about this is well outside the small comfort zone I’ve built for myself. But something about him drew me out. I wanted t
o be the kind of girl who could handle a man like him. For once, I wanted to be bigger than Round Rock. Bigger than Colby Brooker. Bigger and badder than Jimmy’s Honky-tonk.

  But now my legs are trembling, and I feel like I might have gone too far. Might have pushed myself beyond my limits.

  Christian massages his fingers around my hips and hooks them on the thin strap of my panties. He gives them a single tug, and I’m bared to him. It feels too late to turn back, and as soon as he presses a kiss to the untouched skin between my hip and my center, I don’t want to.

  He is lavishing me with attention in places I didn’t know I needed it. He cups my backside, trails his fingers down my thighs, tickles the backs of my knees, and I feel like I’m burning. When he finally presses his lips to the apex of my thighs, swirling his tongue over me, I tip my head back and growl. Actually growl.

  The wild in me is coaxed out with every lap of his tongue, every swirl of his thumb and push of his finger, until my legs shake, and my hands are pressed to the back of his head, holding him to me while I fall apart.

  The wave crests and crests until it is a tsunami washing out everything in sight. The pleasure rushes toward me and nearly barrels me over. The only reason I stay standing is because Christian has a firm grip on my thighs. I wonder if his fingers will leave bruises in the morning. I hope so.

  I’m still panting against the wall when he kisses his way up my body and around my neck. I kiss him lazily, my naked body grazing against his bare chest and his trousers. I slap the wall behind my head, and Christian jumps in surprise.

  “I’m going to hang a monument right here. To Christian—” I pause, studying his face, trying to remember if he told me his last name.

  “Åström.”

  I nod. “To Christian Åström for his remarkable handiwork.”

  He smiles. “It was mostly my tongue, actually.”

  “Wow. A pun. Everyone has to have a fault, I suppose.”

  “If bad puns are my only fault, then I think I’m doing okay.”

  I don’t respond and push on his shoulders, shoving him down the hallway.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Bedroom,” I say, marveling at the feel of his chest beneath my palms. He is solid.

  When I push him against my bedroom door, he twists the handle and lets us in. It’s just as messy as the rest of my house, but I made my bed before work this morning, which I think speaks to a certain level of maturity.

  “I thought a bad girl like you would want it up against the wall,” he said. “Or maybe in the kitchen.”

  I push him back on the bed, and he doesn’t resist, falling back onto my comforter.

  I feel vulnerable standing in front of him with nothing on, but after his performance in the hallway, there is no room for nerves. I have to ooze confidence. So, I move toward him slowly and grab the front of his pants, undoing his button.

  “It sounds like you’ve experienced a few bad-girl posers,” I say calmly. “Girls who think the location makes them bad. True bad girls know it all comes down to your moves.”

  Christian lifts his hips as I slide his black pants down his legs. His thighs are just as muscled as I’ve imagined, like a Greek statue. I resist the urge to lick them like twin popsicles.

  His sea-glass eyes sparkle. “You have moves?”

  My eyebrows twitch in response as I grab a condom from my bedside table drawer and throw it at his chest. The speed at which he tears it open and puts it on hints at his excitement. No matter what Christian says when this is over, I can know I had him wrapped around my finger.

  I crawl over him, my body lithe and limber like a jungle cat, and settle my knees on either side of him. He drags his palms across my body, massaging my breasts and tickling my ribs.

  My breath hitches in my chest, but I try to hide the way my body responds to him, the way I react to every stroke and touch. I lean over him, blowing cool air across his neck before I kiss my way to his earlobe. When I bite the soft curve of his ear between my teeth, Christian moans.

  I whisper, “Wait and see.”

  Chapter 5

  Jane-Ann

  I had moves, all right. My body bucked and rolled and ground into him in ways I didn’t know it could, and when we were finished, we cleaned up and collapsed into bed, spent and too exhausted to think about what it all meant.

  My sleep is dreamless, but when my eyes flicker open a few hours later, I think my time with Christian was the dream. I think the foreign angel at Jimmy’s was a delicious invention of my subconscious. But then I roll over and see him in the bed next to me.

  The comforter is pushed down around his waist, and enough light is coming from the streetlight outside my window that I can see every ripple of his body down to the “V” that disappears beneath the blankets. The slope of his nose is remarkably straight, without a single bulge or imperfection, and I wonder if he’s had work done. Part of me hopes he has. Otherwise, God was playing favorites when he made him.

  I roll over and stare up at the ceiling, the reality of the last few hours washing over me. Before I can slip into a useless panic, I grab my phone from my nightstand and click it on. I have one missed call and several missed messages from Blakely.

  “I was going to apologize for abandoning you, but then I heard you left with a mysterious foreigner. GIRL.”

  “It’s been a while, so I hope you’re having a great time. Text me a picture of him.”

  “Okay, now it’s been so long I’m a little afraid you’re dead, so please don’t be dead. Text me to let me know you’re alive.”

  I smile to myself and text her back a simple, “Alive.”

  Blakely takes less than a minute to respond.

  “Meet me at the diner at our usual time. I have SO. MANY. QUESTIONS.”

  I’m about to respond when I feel the bed move beneath me and realize Christian is waking up. I resist the urge to drop my phone and feign sleep. Mostly because I’m pretty sure he already knows I’m awake. When his hand slides across my stomach, my suspicions are confirmed.

  “You have moves,” he says sleepily, pressing a kiss to my arm.

  I twist to put my phone on the nightstand and then roll over, pretending it is perfectly normal to have a man in my bed. A man whose last name I learned only seconds before he was inside of me.

  “Did you doubt?”

  He lifts his shoulders, his wide mouth quirking up to one side. When he sees my narrowed eyes, he smiles and rubs his thumb between my brows, easing away my worry line.

  “Every doubt I may have had has been assuaged, I assure you.”

  I keep my expression stony. “Every doubt?”

  It takes him a second to understand my meaning, but his eyes light up when he does. “Well, not every single doubt. There may be a few still lingering. I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to lay them to rest, though.”

  I stretch the short distance to him and press a kiss to his jaw and then his lips. In a breath, Christian is hauling himself over me, rolling me onto my back and pressing my thighs apart with his knees.

  It’s only been a couple of hours since we were last together, but I already feel parched for more. My body arches toward him, begging him to come closer, to press more of his skin to mine. When he doesn’t immediately respond, instead teasing me with licks and kisses across my collarbones, I hook my ankles behind his legs and force him downward.

  He nips at my shoulder. “Impatient girl.”

  A retort is on my lips, but it is tossed aside and forgotten when he pushes inside of me.

  I’ve been with plenty of men over the years. More than my mother would approve of, but not as many as Blakely, which feels like a good number. Still, it’s never felt like this. Especially not the first time. Though, technically, this is my second time with Christian. Being with him feels easy, natural. Our rhythm smooths out my insecurities, helps me come out of myself and enjoy the sensations, the pleasure that our bodies bring.

  His arms are strong pillars surrou
nding me, and I run my hand down his bicep and over his elbow, pressing into the tight muscles of his forearm. I roll my hips up to meet him, pressing back into the pillow, arching into the sensation building in my lower body. As I near the edge, my eyes flutter closed, and I hear someone moaning, but it couldn’t possibly be me. The sound is too primal, too raw.

  Christian is warm and heavy on top of me, and I am nearing the fall, panting as my body climbs higher and higher.

  Then, he’s gone.

  My eyes snap open, and I’m about to complain when I feel a strong hand on my side rolling me over to my stomach. Then, he is grabbing my hips and lifting me up, up, up.

  When he pushes inside of me again, I cry out and bury my face in the mattress, hoping it dulls the sound. The last thing I need is my neighbor calling the police to report a violent crime.

  Christian grips the soft skin of my hips, his hands spread wide to hold more of me, to claim more of my skin for himself, and I surrender every inch willingly.

  When his fingers circumnavigate to my front, circling across my sensitive bundle of nerves, I come crashing on a new wave. Wave after wave washes over me, and I feel Christian falling apart, too. When we are done, I collapse forward and laugh. It’s a soft sound, buried in the mattress where I’ve fallen forward.

  “That’s a new reaction,” Christian muses, laying back on the pillows, one arm curled behind his head.

  I look at him over my shoulder. “You’ve never had a woman laugh at you?”

  “Laughter isn’t usually the reaction I receive, no.”

  I roll onto my back and pull the sheet up over my chest. Christian seems content to lay around naked, but as the warm glow of what we’ve just done fades away, a tangle of nerves knots in my stomach.

  “Well, this isn’t something I usually do.”

  “Laugh at the men in your bed?”

  He turns onto his side, his head propped up on his open palm. He looks like an extraordinarily attractive live model. I feel the urge to grab a pen and paper to start sketching the image.