by Ivy Hunt
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him hard. When he picks me up, I wind my legs around his waist. “I love you, too, you know?” My arms loop around his neck, and my eyes water, the tiniest bit.
Connor’s lips twist into a smirk, some of that familiar confidence returning. “I knew it.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Well, I didn’t know for sure… but I figured maybe you did. At least I hoped,” he says.
My mouth traces his jaw, his neck, anywhere I can reach. In front of everyone in the room, hell, I’m happy to give them a floorshow, just so thrilled to have Connor close.
Scratch that. I’m a jealous burbitch. I’m not sharing any more of him with anyone. Not even those sexy knees. “Well, I was just about to come find you and tell you. There was no way I was going to let you walk away. I’m going to turn into a stage three clinger,” I threaten, and demonstrate my sincerity by tightening my legs.
Connor brings his hands down to my butt, cupping me. “Cling away.”
Hoots follow us as he carries me out into the hallway. “Private performances only, remember?” he whispers, his voice husky. Once we lose our audience, he leans me against a wall and kisses my throat.
“How did you pick it, this costume?” I ask, when we come up for air.
Because he looks ridiculous. Adorably ridiculous.
He presses his forehead against mine, his shoulders shaking under me. “It was either this or your other asinine idea with the ballet skirt thing over my uniform pants, whatever it took,” he whispers, bringing his lips to my temple.
I grin. Connor Hall. My perfectly imperfect Boy Scout.
Epilogue
CONNOR
“I seriously can’t believe I let her pick these pumps for me.” Ella fumes as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other while clutching my arm for balance. I look down. There’s only a bit of silver visible from beneath the hem of her gown.
“I can always carry you off to a corner somewhere. Help you take the shoes off. And anything else you want to divest yourself of.” I give her an exaggerated leer.
“Stripping is your thing, not mine, Boy Scout,” she says, making me laugh. “And I don’t think there’s going to be any kind of sneaking away. Not with all the eyes on us.”
“Hmm.” People mill around the courtyard, having pre-dinner cocktails, congratulating Hannah and Ella’s mom on the beautiful ceremony. Hannah demurs, waving off their praises even though we both know she thrives on it. I don’t really give a fuck as long as Ella’s happy.
A couple approaches us to chat. I’m told they are old friends of Barry and Georgiana. The man’s a Titans fan but knows better than to ask me to sign an autograph or take a selfie today. Once they leave, Ella turns to me. “How much longer, you think?” she whispers. The crowd hasn’t thinned out much, and a few other guests head our way.
“You tell me. You’re more familiar with the standard operating procedure at these things.”
Ella retrieves her phone from the cleverly concealed pocket of her dress. “Hmm, I think there are pictures for the next half hour. Then dinner.” She groans. “I don’t know if I can last that long. I may waste away before we get to that point.”
I flag down a passing waiter and grab us flutes of Dom Perignon while Ella loads up a small plate with bacon-wrapped dates and mini lobster rolls. I take a sip of my champagne. It’s not normally my drink of choice, but I’m happy to make exceptions for celebrations.
“And then there’s dancing, right?” I say.
“Yep.” Ella wrinkles her nose, but only for a moment. “And then cake! I can’t wait. I love how each tier is a different flavor. Now that was a genius idea.” She beams.
My lips quirk as I tip my head in acknowledgment.
Her face scrunches up as she eyes her phone again. “Okay, I think we can be out of here in about three hours.”
Too fucking long.
We’re interrupted when a rabid Hannah beckons us over from across the room. Ella and her sister engage in a battle of glares, pouts, and dirty looks accompanied by frantic gestures. Hannah’s scowl grows, and her movements become more and more agitated until Ella finally sighs in resignation and nods. I lift the remaining roll to her mouth. She takes a bite and then I swallow the rest of it. We clink our glasses together and down the rest of the bubbling liquid in solidarity. Hannah swivels to face the wedding photographer and her beach ball belly (Ella’s words) comes into clear view. She slams open palms on her hips, now directing her wrath on the wedding photographer.
I take Ella’s hand in mine to help her along the uneven path towards the waiting family. A familiar elation hits me as I rub my thumb against the fourth finger of her left hand—the edge of the diamond ring I put there a few months ago. Then I run my finger along the even more satisfying smoothness of the round band I added this afternoon.
The photographs take more than the allotted half hour.
“I am going to kill her.” My new wife glowers. We’re in hostile territory here, even if it is our own wedding. But I look forward to kissing the frown off her lips in just a few minutes because like any good soldier, I have plans in place.
Right on cue, phase one, in the form of Noah Winters, arrives. He couldn’t make it to the ceremony but assured me he’d come for the reception. As agreed, he heads straight for us.
I introduce him to a starry-eyed Hannah and a halfway-drunk Hank.
Noah shoots me a sidelong glare even as he continues to speak with my new sister and brother-in-law, drawing them away. I just shrug, pretty sure I’m in for a whole bunch of extra drills at the next practice. Totally worth it.
“Nicely done.” Ella turns to me, the little scowl melting off her face.
I was surprised when she said she wanted a big wedding, I’d expected an elopement after all of Hannah’s over-the-top events a couple of years ago. But I’ve been proud and privileged to see Ella become more comfortable in her own skin instead of wearing it like armor to keep people out.
She did leave Hannah and her mom do most of the planning—but retained full control of the color schemes and clothes. Except the shoes.
When she moved into the Charles Street brownstone, she claimed a room for her studio and set the mannequin in the center on a little pedestal. I saw it in many of Ella’s creations until a few months ago. Since then, it’s had a shower curtain wrapped around it. I was informed it was bad luck for a groom to see his bride in her wedding gown before the ceremony. All I knew was that it was strapless because the mannequin was posed with its left hand stretched out to mimic showing off an engagement ring (played by a new stray thread, compliments of another sweater I snagged in my rush to get naked right after Ella said yes to my proposal). I did give her a stern warning to make sure the dress wasn’t too tight, no matter what kind of comments Hannah made.
Phase two of my plan includes stripping the white gown off my wife’s delicious body as soon as possible. I have reason to believe the lingerie underneath is mind-blowing, because in the last few weeks, there’s been a lacy blue garter dangling from the mannequin’s right fingertips.
It’s been driving me crazy all day. I place my hands on Ella’s waist and pull her to me so her back is flush to my chest. My cock hardens against her ass and pulses in anticipation now.
“Don’t get any ideas, Boy Scout,” she whispers, even as she wriggles.
“Who, me?” I duck my head and bring my lips to the curve of her neck, exposed and inviting with her hair up in some kind of knot. She emits a soft moan as I find a sensitive spot.
“Though I did do a little reconnaissance the last time we visited this place. Did you know that they have a second coat closet in the back?” I murmur, with a slight but deliberate thrust her butt. My fingers splay across her middle and I begin to trace slow, teasing circles over her silk-covered belly. Ella’s breath hitches as she arches her back. She rocks against me and shivers in my arms.
Mission accomplished.
THE END
> Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading Not a Perfect Save. If you loved Connor and Ella’s story, I'd be grateful if you left a short review on Amazon.com or Amazon UK (or whatever other Amazon site you got the book at).
If you send me an email at [email protected] with the link to your review, I’ll send you a personal ‘thank you’—these reviews mean so much to indie authors like myself.
P.S. Goodreads and BookBub reviews are also greatly appreciated.
Jake’s story is next in the Wrong Place, Right Time series. Sign up for my mailing list to find out when it’s available or just to keep in touch—I promise not to spam you.
Did you miss Logan and Rebecca’s story? Get Not by the Playbook: A Fake Relationship Football Romance now. It’s the first in the Wrong Place, Right Time series. Read on.
Not by the Playbook: A Fake Relationship Football Romance
Wrong Place, Right Time Book 1
There are consequences when you stop following the rule book.
RULE #1
Don't celebrate your new job before you have it.
Especially not by having a one-night stand with a star quarterback.
RULE #2
Don't sneak out of said star quarterback’s bedroom the next morning.
You don’t know who you might run into in his kitchen.
RULE #3
Don’t lie to your potential boss.
Definitely don’t tell her the quarterback is your boyfriend.
Most important rule of them all—don’t fall in love with your fake boyfriend.
Get Not by the Playbook: A Fake Relationship Football Romance now. Read on for an excerpt.
Excerpt from Not by the Playbook
A Fake Relationship Football Romance
BECS
My blood pounds as pin-sized lasers drill through my eyelids, sending twinges of pain between my brows. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the attack and try to shift, but a solid weight holds me down. My head turns, its contents swirling for a second before settling again as I burrow deeper into a cocoon of warm skin.
Warm skin.
My eyes snap open. A muscled limb bands around my torso. A muscled limb that is attached to a naked man. Who is attached to a naked me.
Pressure mounts in my skull and my heart stutters as I seize on the bold features in front of me—a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and slashing eyebrows. Logan Barnes. NFL star quarterback. And my one-night stand.
Beneath my ribs, my lungs convulse. My nipples throb, but not in a good way. If I wasn’t already lying down, I’d keel over.
Don’t hyperventilate. Don’t hyperventilate! God, where’s a paper bag when you need one?
I force myself to suck in and release slow breaths as images from last night assault my brain, rapid fire.
It started out innocently enough. I’d just found out I was one of the final candidates for a job at McCann Advertising. My best friend, Carrie, insisted we meet at a nearby bar where she proceeded to lecture me on the dangers of adulting, all the while calling for more rounds of drinks because one should never squander an excuse to party.
Normally, I wouldn’t get ahead of myself and start counting poultry, but at the grand old age of twenty-four, I am lipstick-deep in student debt, and this HR coordinator position is the only thing that will keep me afloat and tethered to New York.
More pieces of the jigsaw fall into place.
The crowd separates, and three men, each one hotter than the last, swagger into the bar—Jaime Lannister, Thor, and the Christian Bale edition of Bruce Wayne. All are tall, well-built, and oozing confidence, but it is the blue-eyed Batman who captures my attention.
Thor ambles over to where Carrie and I are perched, already two Proseccos in.
“Ladies…are we celebrating?”
Carrie’s flirt is on, her smile dazzling. “Yes. Rebecca is.” She points at me.
“No, I’m not. Don't jinx it.” I shush.
“What are we jinxing?” Christian Bale has followed his friend over. His deep, gravelly voice hums along my skin. And that gaze is more than merely blue, more like a polished sapphire. Mesmerizing. When hypnotists say, “look into my eyes” they’re describing eyes like his.
Carrie announces, “Rebecca’s got a new job!”
That snaps me out of my stupor, and my palm jams over her mouth. “I don’t. Not yet.”
She smacks my hand away and frowns, but that transforms into a confident smile a second later. “You'll find out on Monday. Becs, you’re a sure shot.”
“I don’t know about that. The woman who interviewed me was scary as shit. It was like trying to impress an icicle.”
Blue Eyes chuckles, and the sound skitters down my spine. “Well, how about a drink for luck instead?”
Jaime Lannister, right behind his squad, promptly orders a bottle of Dom Perignon.
Carrie’s eyes flit to him and then to the other two men. Her jaw goes slack. Nails dig into my arm, and she yanks me close. “Holy fuck!” She barely contains a squeal.
“What?” I whisper.
“Do you know who that is? Who they are?” She’s hissing, all googly-eyed. Her Louboutins are doubling as tap shoes.
I slant a gaze back at them. Fine specimens, but the look-don’t-touch kind.I shake my head hesitantly. Should I?
“That’s Connor Hall.” She points at Jaime Lannister. “The blond is Jake Cunningham. And your guy is Logan Barnes.”
My guy? Did they come pre-assigned?
My lashes flutter upward. Blue Eyes—Logan—is staring at me, a cocky grin playing on his lips. My pulse quickens, and electricity sizzles through me.
Carrie continues, “They’re NFL. They play for the New York Titans. Connor is the linebacker. Jake is a running back. Logan is their star quarterback.”
My brain kicks in at that statement and orders my body to refuse the drink. I have no idea why someone like Logan has singled me out, not in a place littered with models and celebrities. I’m about to step back, but he is already in front of me, pressing a champagne flute into my hand. His touch is intoxicating enough; the bubbly is superfluous.
“In anticipation of good things to come.” His eyes are hot on my skin. “Very good things.”
We spoke well into the night. I don’t remember what about, just that there were more lingering gazes and illicit touches, and the vague sensation I was doing something I shouldn’t.
Champagne was followed by tequila shots that morphed into Fireballs, then into a series of Jäger Bombs.
And now here I am. From HR candidate to ho.
Hold it together, Becs. I try to shift Logan’s arm, but it’s too heavy. What is this guy made of? He’s more Man of Steel than Dark Knight.
Do I wake him or duck out from under his arm? The sudden dryness in my throat makes me swallow. I risk option two. I press my face against his side and start to slither down, my nose grazing his skin. Logan’s scent evokes more scenes from the night before. His body tense and hard over me, his eyes blazing with every hard thrust. His face buried between my parted thighs while his fingers dug into my hips as he pushed me over the edge.
My head spins at these pictures and a low, strangled grunt escapes my lips.
Beside me, Logan shifts and makes a sound.
I freeze. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.
Throat tight, I wait. But he only lets out a soft sigh. I suck in a breath of my own and continue my journey down, one tanned mile at a time, my heart thudding the entire way. The moment my head clears his arm, I spring up and angle my frame away, covering my breasts with my hands as if his hadn’t been all over them last night. What was I thinking? Oh right. I wasn’t.
I sneak another look at Logan. Closer perusal reveals corded muscles and tight brown nipples. Mouth dry, my gaze trails down his body, inch by slow inch, only stopping at the base of his eight-pack. I know the “V” is there, but it’s covered by a thin sheet. My stomach clenches, and my eyes skid up to his face.
His features are relaxed. There’s no hint that he might share the shitstorm raging inside me.
Cool air hits me, and queasiness wars with embarrassment. My clothes and his are breadcrumbs of shame from the door to the bed. I trace them back, first snapping on my blue lace bra then tugging on the rumpled mess that is my shirt. My black pencil skirt resembles a broken accordion.
Where are my panties? My eyes dart around the room, taking in the details I missed last night—floor-to-ceiling windows with views of Battery Park, dark shelves anchored to slate walls filled with books and trophies and other memorabilia. But no underwear.
Shit. I skulk back to the king-sized bed and inhale sharply. My crab pincers inch up the sheet. No panties, but I am confronted with an eyeful of that. I drop the cloth and squeeze my thighs together in reflex.
Oh yeah. That.
More pieces fit together. Logan’s lips hot on mine in the Uber, making out in the elevator up to his floor. Plastering me against the front door the moment we’re inside then carrying me to the kitchen counter and pressing his hard body between my thighs while fishing a condom out of his wallet.
Skirt rucked up, panties yanked down, and touchdown.
It was the quickest orgasm of my life.
I was still pulsing when we relocated to the bedroom for round two only minutes later. Football stamina is real.
Even though his wooden headboard is notch-free, I’m reasonably confident based on his—skills—that he’s done this before.
What’s the protocol now? Run? Leave him my number? Write a thank-you card for the best sex ever? My stomach picks that exact moment to rumble. I should wake him up and demand breakfast for services rendered.
The sheets rustle again, and Logan turns over.