Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  “That doesn’t answer my—”

  I wrap my hand in his tie, rise up on my toes, and kiss him until my blood is rushing and I can’t breathe.

  When I break away Wade’s eyes flutter open, like he’s drugged.

  His voice is rough when he says, “So, uh, is that goodnight, or …?”

  “It’s ‘or.’” I take a step toward the stairs, my hand still knotted in his tie. “Come up to my apartment, Wade St. George. Make love to me. I’m very, very sure.”

  “That’ll do it,” Wade says, and we race up to my apartment.

  7

  Stella

  Wade throws the door closed behind us and backs me toward the bed, kissing my lips, my neck, my eyelids, my forehead, my wrist. The back of my knees hit the bed.

  “Lights on or off?” I ask in the dark.

  “On,” Wade says.

  “The light switch is on the other side of the room.”

  “Off it is,” he says, and his hands find the small zip at the back of my skirt. He slides the skirt down my legs, and I’m a little in love with the feel of Wade easing the silk lining down my legs as he kneels carefully before me. I toss my jacket aside, followed by my shirt.

  Wade runs his finger just under the hem of my underwear, and I shiver as he kisses me through my underwear.

  “Oh. Oh God,” I breathe, my fingers tangling in his hair.

  When I’m gasping and trembling with want, Wade scoops me up and tosses me on the bed. If the bed creaks under my weight, it downright shudders as Wade crawls over me in the dark. I’m caged in by the heat and shape of him, and the feeling is so sexy I almost can’t breathe.

  When I do take in a shuddery breath, I smell pine and sandalwood and him.

  I trail my hand down Wade’s chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “Pants. Off,” I say, and my voice shakes.

  “If you wish it,” he murmurs into my neck, kissing and sucking a spot that feels good until I’m literally twisting in the sheets, like a bad teenage fantasy.

  Wade reluctantly pulls back just long enough to ditch his pants, and my brain clears enough to realize what he just said.

  “Wade.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Was that … a Princess Marigold reference?”

  He can not be referencing a cult-favorite fantasy satire movie about a woodcutter’s son who falls in love with a princess.

  “Obviously.”

  “You’re such a geek,” I say, and he laughs, grabbing me, pinning me under him.

  Here’s the thing: making out with Wade is fun. I’m used to hot, desperate, one night stands I like more than I should, and the occasional tepid, polite night with a respectable man I should like more than I do. But in Wade’s hands, I’m bucking one moment and laughing the next. And when I reach down into his boxers and squeeze his impressive length, the sound he makes is barely human.

  And that’s fun, too.

  So fun, I slide down, take him in my mouth, and suck.

  “Stella,” he groans, his big hands tangled in my hair. “Oh, yes, that, I—” his hips jolt, and I grin. I love driving him wild. I squeeze and suck until he’s writhing in the sheets like my own personal fantasy.

  “Stella, if you don’t stop I’ll …” He moans. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Sure you can. A big strong man like you,” I tease, giving his rock hard cock an absolutely delicious tug. “You can take anything I dish out.”

  And suddenly I’m on my back, and he’s sliding into me.

  “I can’t,” Wade says as I gasp. “I really can’t.”

  Then he freezes. “Shit. Condom.”

  I groan. “You are such a tease.”

  He laughs, then kisses me quickly, and pulls out.

  I stare at the ceiling while he fumbles in the dark for a condom, and I try to get control of my breath.

  I know it’s been seconds, but it feels like ages.

  “Here I am, just waiting to be fucked,” I say, wistfully.

  “Patience, woman,” he says, and then there’s the sound of foil ripping, and Wade’s back on top of me, back in me, rocking me toward the kind of intense, all consuming, full-body pleasure I haven’t felt in a long time.

  He reaches down to play with my clit, and I’m pretty sure I scream. “Yes. That.”

  Wade thrusts so hard the bed clanks, and something drops and tilts a level.

  “Careful,” I say, and Wade freezes.

  “Did I hurt you? Shit. I’m sorry. Damn. It’s been a while, but you’re so small, I should have …” he starts to ease out, kissing my temple, but I wrap my legs around him, holding him in place, and bucking up.

  “Um …” he gasps. “God, that feels … I’m getting mixed messages here.”

  “Not careful of me,” I say, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down, back to me, so my lips can find his again. “Careful of the bed. I bought it in the as-is section,” I say.

  Wade thrusts, shifting the angle, and I grab his hand, bringing it back to my clit. “There, please. There.”

  “Anything you want, Marigold,” he says, and I laugh, then gasp, because God bless the man, he takes the direction.

  It’s hard to ignore how fucking strong he is when he’s bracing himself above me with one arm, and working me hard with the other while he pushes deeper into me, shaking the bed with each thrust.

  “Oh God. Oh, God. WADE.”

  “Come on, honey. You can trust me. Let go. Let go,” he murmurs into my ear, and I arc up into him as his weight slams me into my bed.

  “Wade—”

  “Yes, baby, yes.” He thrusts and I tremble and the bed moans louder than either one of us.

  “WADE, WE’RE BREAKING MY BED,” I say, trying to get a hold of myself, trying to slow down, but I’m so far gone I can’t think. I’m so close, and there’s pleasure everywhere, pleasure and Wade—

  Wade. Wade can think. He’s good at that. He’ll fix it. “We need to go slower—”

  “I’ll buy you a new bed,” Wade says, and thrusts hard at the same time as he scrapes his thumb over my clit, and I seize and shake as wave after wave of pleasure hits me and Wade coaxes and rocks me through it all, pushing me harder and deeper than I think I can go, until I wash up on the shore trembling and sensitive and gasping for breath.

  When my breathing slows down enough for me to take stock of the world around me, I notice the bed is still standing.

  “Hey,” I say, pleasantly surprised. “My bed’s not broken.”

  “Oh, honey,” Wade says, and his voice is thick with pleasure and promise as he shifts, and I remember I might have come, but he’s still big and hard inside of me, and that combined with the look he’s giving me …

  “We’re not done yet,” Wade says, and I give a little whimper of anticipation as he starts to move again.

  We do end up breaking my bed, but since it’s accompanied by Wade collapsing stone dead on top of me, and saying in a stunned voice that that was the best orgasm he’s ever had, I forgive him.

  When he regains the use of his limbs, he carefully helps me off the bed, and we move the mattress to the center of my empty apartment. When he goes to the bathroom to take care of the condom, I hesitate.

  I want him to stay. Somehow, that’s become very important to me. If he stays, if we’re comfortable enough with each other to do that, then this is a friends with benefits thing, and we’ll still be able to be normal on Monday.

  Or as normal as we can be, when I know what Wade sounds like when I’m trailing my hand over his dick.

  And that’s nothing compared to the sounds he dragged out of me.

  But if Wade leaves now, before we’ve managed to ease ourselves back to whatever normal is…

  Then this is just another one-night stand. And the idea of him avoiding eye contact on Monday, like we’ve done something wrong and shameful, feels like a sharp, thin knife to the stomach.

  But I can’t just ask him to stay. That feels too vulnerable.

/>   I hear the bathroom door start to open, so I panic, throw his shirt on me, and hide under the covers like the mature woman I am.

  I’m facing away, but I can feel the mattress shift as Wade crawls in.

  He reaches over, and runs a tentative hand down my back.

  I hold my breath, waiting for the part where he makes his excuses.

  “You put clothes on,” he says, surprised, and maybe a little disappointed.

  “Sort of,” I say.

  His hand finishes it’s trail down my back. “You put my clothes on.”

  “You weren’t using them,” I say. “And I can’t sleep in my suit.”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  “You’re sleeping in my shirt,” he says, and he sounds almost … delighted.

  Wade fits his chest to my back, draping a hand possessively over my stomach.

  “You’re sleeping in it all night long,” he says.

  “That’s generally how long people sleep,” I say, trying to sound irritated, but I know I don’t succeed.

  He tucks me under his chin. “You’re sleeping in my shirt, which I can’t leave without.”

  Busted. Wade sees through me all right.

  I nestle back against his heat. “Don’t overthink it,” I say to a man whose overthinking founded a billion-dollar company.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wade says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  I fall asleep holding that smile to my heart.

  8

  Wade

  I wake up with a sore back and a happy dick. It is hard to express how deeply shitty Stella’s mattress is. Maybe when I’m replacing the bed she’ll let me replace the mattress, too.

  Not that she’s given me any reason to expect I’ll be back.

  Still. A man can hope. I kiss her shoulder, and she nestles closer to me in her sleep.

  It is even harder to express how deeply right it feels to wake up with Stella in my arms. In the early morning light her makeup is smudged, her hair’s a mess, and her lips are still a little swollen with my kisses.

  She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I glance over at the old pastel-painted-Jesus clock I’m assuming a prior tenant left on the wall.

  And then I swear. I’ve got a conference call I’m supposed to be on in fifteen minutes, and I’m pretty sure my phone is dead.

  Shit.

  “Honey,” I say softly. “Stella, honey, I need you to wake up.”

  The most beautiful woman in the world gives me the middle finger.

  “Stella, I need my shirt,” I say, but she just buries her head under the pillow.

  Ok. Not a morning person, my Stella.

  Not that she’s mine.

  I get dressed, hoping she’ll wake up, but by the time I’m dressed (minus my tie and suit jacket, because I feel too much like a stripper putting those on without a shirt), Stella is snoring softly into the pillow.

  I look down at her and feel a helpless swell of tenderness. I feel like I’m being held hostage by the cutest pink-haired demon this side of the Mississippi.

  Or more precisely, my shirt is being held hostage.

  Ok. Plan B.

  There’s a man’s large black t-shirt spilling out of her suitcase, printed with a random band name I don’t know, and a picture of the band underneath. There are tour dates and cities listed on the back of the shirt.

  I look at the picture of the band more closely. A grin splits my entire face when I recognize Stella on the drums.

  The shirt fits me like a glove, which means Stella must be swimming in it. But when I add my suit jacket, I manage not to look like I’m wearing a muscle tee.

  If anything, I think I look a little … punk.

  I glance at the clock. Ten minutes till the conference call. I need to leave now.

  But I don’t want her to wake up and think I left.

  I mean, I am leaving. But not thanks-for-the-one-night-stand leaving.

  I pull out my business card and a pen, and start to leave a note saying I’ll call her, but I don’t actually have Stella’s number.

  I could get it from H.R., but that seems like a violation of privacy.

  What if she wants this to be a one-night-stand, shirt thievery notwithstanding?

  So instead, I write down my personal number on my business card.

  Then I add, I stole your shirt. Don’t overthink it.

  I place the card carefully in her hand, kiss her cheek, and head out to the most inconveniently scheduled conference call in the history of humanity.

  Three hours later, I’m pacing around my mansion of a house, conference call completed, tossing my phone from hand to hand, waiting for Stella to call.

  Face it. She’s not going to call, I tell myself.

  I glance at my laptop. I should really do some work this weekend. At the very least I could see how that Joshua King movie ends.

  A half hour later I’m yelling at the screen to just to tell her how you feel, man, when my phone buzzes.

  “Hello,” I answer, distracted.

  “Hello, shirt thief,” Stella says, and I nearly fall off the couch. I pause the movie hastily.

  “Stella. Hi! Hey.” I run a hand up the back of my hair, wishing I could see her face. How am I supposed to know if I should play it cool, or be a man and put myself out there, if I can’t see her face?

  I settle on treading water. “How are you?”

  “Short one shirt, since I saw you last,” she says, wryly.

  “What a coincidence,” I say. “If only there was some way for us to remedy the situation.”

  “I suppose I could drop it off,” Stella says, faux-casually. “I’m in the area.”

  What a little liar. She doesn’t even know where I live.

  I grin and settle into the couch. Stella Harrington is lying so she can have an excuse to visit me. This is the best Saturday morning I’ve had in a long, long time.

  Which doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy on her.

  God knows she hasn’t made it easy on me.

  “In the area, you say. What a coincidence.” I put my feet up on the coffee table. “And what area would that be again?”

  “Oh … you know … the area that you live in,” Stella bluffs.

  “Which is where?” I prompt.

  “Within driving distance of the office. Obviously.”

  I laugh. God, it’s fun to play with this woman. But it would be more fun to play in person.

  “I’ll text you the address,” I say. Then I lower my voice menacingly. “Come alone. Or you’ll never see your shirt again.”

  “Oh no! I’ll come alone, I promise!” she says, in a breathy, film-noir voice. “You can do anything you want to me. Just don’t hurt my clothes, you monster.”

  I know she’s just kidding, but Stella Harrington saying in a breathy voice that I can do anything I want to her is doing things to me, and I shift uncomfortably on the couch.

  “Oh my God,” she laughs knowingly into my ear, and I feel my ears turn red. “You are so easy to mess with. Text me your address nerd.”

  “If you wish it, Marigold,” I say, and hang up on her laughter.

  A whole thirty-nine minutes later my doorbell rings, because Stella likes torturing men. I’ve started in on the next Home Sweet Home movie on my list which is, if possible, even cheesier than the Joshua King one.

  I gratefully turn off the T.V.—it turns out some movies are actually worse in high definition—and go to open the door.

  Stella’s wearing ripped jeans, strappy black heeled sandals, and this soft white shirt with a lot of ties that should probably feel modest, since it’s loose and drapey, but it somehow gives the impression it would fall right off if confronted with a strong wind or a well-placed kiss.

  I lean on the doorframe. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to finally show up.”

  Stella looks me over from head to toe, then blinks. “You’re not in a suit.”

 
; “Well no. It’s a Saturday.”

  “You’re in sweats. And you look all … like that.” Stella motions with her hand to indicate what I apparently look like.

  I glance down at myself, looking for a coffee stain or something, but I honestly have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “Um… like what?” I ask.

  “Freshly showered. And lazy and … are you even wearing underwear with those sweats?”

  “Stella!” I yelp. Because no, technically, I’m not, and the way she’s looking at me, that may become a problem real soon.

  I clear my throat. “Do you want to come in?”

  Some of the teasing leaves her face, and for the first time she looks uncertain. “Are you sure? I kind of invited myself over, and I don’t want to ruin your Saturday …”

  I lean down and kiss her. It’s the kind of kiss that needs no discussion.

  When I break the kiss her cheeks are flushed pinker than her hair. Good. Just so she knows where we stand.

  Stella still looks uncertain. But now she looks turned on and certain, which is a step in the right direction as far as I’m concerned.

  I stand back and hold the door open. “I’m sure. I’ve very, very sure.”

  The uncertainty on her face blooms into a smile that takes my breath away.

  It’s possible I grip the edge of the door harder than necessary. How can someone just walk around, looking like that?

  Stella steps into my house gingerly, like Alice stepping into wonderland. She wanders in the living room, eyes wide.

  “Wow. You live here?”

  “Yep,” I say, a little smugly. I know it’s an undeserved fluke of capitalism that I can afford a mansion while Stella is in a studio, but if it impresses her, I’m not arguing.

  It is a nice house. The rooms are bright and open, and the back windows open up onto a yard that would be perfect for lazy summer evenings.

  Granted, I don’t use it on lazy summer evenings. Or ever, really. I pretty much just sit on the couch and work.

  But still. It’s a great house. It just needs more people in it.