Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  My breath ragged, my sight fuzzy, I release the back of his head and stand straight. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m about to do you.”

  Needing a release, I swirl my hips against his hand. This only makes him pull it away altogether.

  “Take off your dress,” he orders as he unfastens his belt.

  “But …” I look around the balcony. “Here?”

  “I’m not waiting to get inside you.”

  His pants, shoes, and socks are placed on the chair, his shirt joining them.

  Holt Mason stands in front of me, a chiseled portrait of absolute perfection. His muscles are created, not swollen or pumped by a chemical, but designed … maybe by God or maybe by a trainer. I don’t know, but I’d like to thank them.

  He takes a condom and rolls it over the top of his swollen cock. While he does this, he watches me expectantly.

  Any hesitation I had about getting naked on a balcony is gone. I’d remove my clothes for him in the middle of the street if he told me to right now. This is completely ridiculous, I’m aware of that, but I. Just. Don’t. Care.

  My dress and bra join his clothes in a heap behind him. He takes a few calculated steps my way.

  “I let you call the shots. But from here on out, I’m in control,” he breathes. “I will take care of you in every way, but you need to trust me.”

  “I don’t know you well enough to trust you,” I whimper as he wraps his arm around me and pulls me against his chest.

  “Then give me a chance to earn it.”

  When I don’t respond, his eyes light up. He presses a gentle kiss to the middle of my lips, before turning me around.

  His breath is hot against the shell of my ear, his cock heavy and hard at the small of my back. Moving a lock of hair fallen from my bun, he presses another kiss to the side of my neck. “Bend over and grab the railing in front of you,” he whispers.

  Looking over my shoulder, I’m silenced by what I see.

  Lust. Control. Consideration.

  A man in power.

  And for the first time in my life, I’m okay with giving up that power for one night.

  As I grip the rail, my hands sweaty and threatening to slip, he positions himself behind me. The tip of his cock parts my pussy and hovers right at the opening.

  Before he slides into me, he pauses. “If you start to fall, I have you.” And then he presses into the wetness, parting me into two halves and bringing me more pleasure than I’ve ever allowed myself to enjoy.

  Chapter Six

  Blaire

  His breathing evened out an hour ago, but I couldn’t get out of bed. I laid next to him, his arm protectively around my abdomen, and watched him sleep.

  There’s been plenty of time for me to second-guess everything that happened today, and I’ve tried in a very me-like way, but I just can’t make it happen.

  Holt was rough yet tender, crass yet careful, smoldering yet sensitive, and I can’t make myself wish I’d made another decision rather than to be with him. Even so, I know the choice I have to make now, and that’s to be realistic. Smart. Gone.

  I close my eyes. Even hours later, I can feel him inside me. The taste of his sweat is fresh on my tongue. The strength of his arms as he scooped me up and carried me to bed and lavished kisses against every inch of my body is at the forefront of my brain.

  The safety of his gaze. The gentleness of his touch. The absolute control in which he executed every second of last night will be the bar that every man after him is compared to. But the longer I lie here and relish Holt’s hard body next to mine, the more difficult it will be to extricate myself from this situation scot-free.

  Lifting his arm off my stomach, I slip quietly out of bed. The silk sheets are decadent, and I have a notion to cancel the room my family got me across town and get another one here, but I don’t.

  My dress slips across my body, and my shoes and purse are in my hands in a couple of seconds flat. I tiptoe toward the door but stop when I see a notepad sitting by the little lamp on the table near the window.

  Holt,

  Thank you for a wonderful evening.

  Blaire

  I place the pen next to it and go to leave but stop again. Fishing through my purse, I find the red panties I removed inconspicuously during dinner and lay them next to the note.

  With a final look at a man I’ll never see again, I let myself out.

  Chapter Seven

  Holt

  Ring!

  I shake off the dream clinging to me and swipe my hand against the nightstand. It collides with something where my bedroom lamp should be. I reach farther in my sleep-induced haze to silence the incessant ringing of my cell phone.

  My fingertips hit something smooth, knocking the item—a clock, maybe—onto its side. I sit up in bed, jolted awake by the sound.

  “What the fuck?” I ask as I peer around the room.

  The sheets bunched around my waist are not mine. The mattress under my ass isn’t mine either. What is mine is the ringing phone that’s sitting next to a lamp that isn’t in my bedroom.

  It takes a full minute to piece together where I am. And why.

  Blaire.

  Just like that, I’m wide-awake.

  I scan the suite as I reach for the phone. The floor-to-ceiling drapes on either side of the open doors leading to the balcony flutter in the breeze. Soft streams of the morning sunlight filter through the room. The pillow next to me has a single strand of dark brown hair but no head to go along with it.

  “Hello?” I ask as I bring my phone to my ear.

  “Mr. Mason?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Sherrie from the front desk.”

  I rub a hand down my face and try to clear my head. “What can I do for you?”

  “We found a credit card in the Radar Room after your visit last evening. I believe it belongs to someone in your party.”

  My eyes flip to the bureau along the wall. Folded next to a statue of a half-dressed woman are my clothes from last night. Next to them, the spot where I laid Blaire’s clothes after she fell asleep, is empty.

  I glance at the clock.

  “I’ll pick the card up at the front desk before I leave this morning. Thank you,” I say. Before I can end the call, she speaks again.

  “It’s not your card, sir.”

  My forehead crinkles. “Is it Miss Gibson’s?”

  Sherrie sighs. “I shouldn’t divulge that kind of information. But, yes. Gibson is the name printed on the card.”

  My body feels like I went a couple of rounds with Boone in the boxing ring as my feet hit the floor. I stretch my free hand over my head and try to work some life back into my limbs.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. May I put you on hold for one moment, please?”

  “Sure.”

  I switch the phone to my other hand and walk around the suite. There’s no sign of Blaire anywhere … except on my back. I stop in front of a mirror and spot scratches from her nails etched in my shoulders.

  My gaze sweeps through the room again as my brain deciphers my current situation. She’s gone. That’s clear. And while my ego is a little bruised, it’s a total boss move on her part, and I can’t be pissed about it.

  I run my hand over my jaw and fight a grin.

  “I apologize for making you wait,” Sherrie says. “Is Miss Gibson available to pick up her card?”

  I turn—mouth open to speak—when something catches my attention. It takes all of three steps to reach the piece of red lace illuminated in the sunlight. I lift the piece of paper beside the panties to find her goodbye written beautifully in black ink.

  I want to laugh at her choice of words. Thank you for a wonderful evening.

  First of all, I should be thanking her. Men don’t often get the pleasure of being with a woman of her caliber without jumping through a lot of hoops. And, second, who uses the word wonderful to describe what happened last night?

  Blaire. That’s who.
/>   My chuckle comes out before I can stop it.

  “Excuse me?” Sherrie asks.

  “I apologize. Miss Gibson is my guest,” I say, picking up the lace. “If you leave the card with the front desk, I’ll pick it up before I leave today. As I said.”

  She starts to object but reconsiders—probably in part due to the rather large tab my family spends at Picante every month. Her sigh is quick but present. “Yes, sir. Have a good day.”

  “You, too. Thanks.”

  I toss my phone onto the bed. As soon as it hits the mattress, it rings again.

  “Fucking hell,” I say, picking it right back up. “Hello?”

  “What’s up your ass?” Oliver asks.

  “You right now.”

  He chuckles. “Well, let me worm my way up there a little farther. Just got off the phone with Graham Landry.”

  I bunch the lace up in my hand and hold it at my side. The fabric is soft and stretchy, and I wish I could’ve seen it on Blaire’s skin.

  The thought makes me hard.

  Pushing the image out of my mind, I try to focus on my brother.

  “Do either of you two sleep?” I ask.

  “Landry called me at one in the morning. While I do appreciate a good night’s rest, I’m thinking he doesn’t.”

  “What did he want?”

  I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips with my weight and instantly brings back memories of laying Blaire in this very spot just hours ago. The way she smiled with a vulnerable confidence. How her body molded into my hands. The feeling of her handing over control … and then taking it back this morning by leaving with only a note.

  A fucking note.

  Still, I have to admit that it’s better than waking up with a woman stuck to me like sleeping together somehow equals monogamy and having to coax her into a cab as gently as possible. Blaire left. On her own. And while I wouldn’t have minded a morning round for good measure, I respect her game.

  Hell, I wonder if I could adapt it for my own use.

  “Holt?” Oliver draws me back to the phone.

  “Sorry. I’m here.”

  He sighs. “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are you doing? You’re distracted as hell.”

  My lip twitches. “I was doing Blaire. And I did it well, I might add.”

  Oliver sighs. “Well, let me turn around.”

  “Why? What are you doing?”

  “Well, I was on my way to your house. But if it’s this early in the morning, and you’ve been with Blaire, then you sure as hell aren’t at home, are you?”

  I rub a hand down my face.

  My refusal to take a woman home with me, even for one night, is a running joke with Oliver. He can’t understand it. He also didn’t help me clean up the mess the last time.

  It’s a rule that allows me to work and play and keep them in separate, clean little boxes—just like I like it.

  “No. I’m at a hotel,” I say, bracing for the rant that I know is coming.

  “Look, I really don’t give two shits about Blaire or what the two of you are or are not doing … although by the sound of you this morning, I do have to say that I’m leaning more toward the are not. But—”

  “Hey, Oliver.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuck off.”

  He laughs. The sound works its way through me and, before I know it, has me smiling too.

  “Back to Landry,” I say, feeling a bit more focused. “What did he want?”

  “Well, Graham talked to his dad, I guess, and he has reservations about selling us the land. Something about a promise they made in a campaign about protecting the environment.”

  I balk. “Since when did they become environmentalists?”

  “Since they needed votes in the last election, I guess. Fuck if I know. Anyway, I assured them that Wade was on board with using environmentally-friendly designs and building methods.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure Wade gives a fuck.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure that I care what Wade gives a fuck about,” Oliver says.

  I run a hand down my face.

  We’ve spent so much time working on this deal that we’ve neglected others. As the president of the company, that was my call. The future of the company is in my hands in a way it has never been before. And if it falls through … we fail.

  I fail.

  I cause my family to fail.

  The muscles at the back of my neck tighten.

  “You’re right,” I say, working my jaw back and forth. “We have one week to convince Landry to sell to us before he puts it on the market. We have to procure this deal because it’ll change everything for our company.”

  “Exactly. We stick with our plan—get the property in our name. I feel good about this, Holt. I really do.”

  Because I’ve micromanaged the shit out of this for the past ten months.

  “We’ve thought it over from every angle. Boone already has some bites from investors. We have a dream concept with hotels, retail space, spas. If we need Wade to put on his hippie hat to get this contract, then he’ll put on the hippie hat whether he likes it or not. We have seven days to pull this off. We can do this.”

  We have to do this.

  I close my eyes to work through the problem, but when I do, the only thing I see are Blaire’s bright blue eyes. I must sigh because Oliver sighs back with a hefty dose of sarcasm.

  “You’re going to make me play therapist, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “Absolutely not,” I say, opening my eyes. “Why would I need a therapist?”

  “I don’t know. I just know since you ran into this girl at the airport, you’ve been all …”

  “What?”

  “Pussified.”

  I stand and laugh. “I have not.”

  “No, you have,” he teases. “You remind me a little of Boone when you’re all emotional like this, but that’s okay. The family has me.”

  “Riiight. It’s a good thing we have you. Where would we be without your expense reports that easily double the rest of ours? Or your penchant for golfing on Fridays? Or the way we had to pay off the secretary because you—”

  “Hey,” he interrupts. “First of all, my expense reports are because I actually wine and dine potential clients. Golfing on Fridays is also another work burden that you don’t bother helping me lift. And that secretary thing … Well, let’s just say that I didn’t expect her to blackmail me for giving it to her doggy style on my desk after hours, okay? Might not have been my best move.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

  I put the call on speakerphone and begin to get dressed. My clothes smell like Blaire’s perfume—faint and floral with a dose of elegance. As I pull on my shirt, I spot a dab of her red lipstick on the collar.

  My stomach twists, sending a coil of energy through my body. It nestles itself deep inside my core, and I can’t deny my desire to see her again.

  “Where is Blaire now?” Oliver asks. “Not that I care. I just know that we will end up having this conversation, so we might as well get it over with.”

  “I’m not sure,” I admit.

  “What do you mean that you’re not sure?”

  I slip on my socks. “It means I don’t know where she’s at, dammit.”

  Oliver’s laugh is instantaneous. It roars through the speaker and causes me to flinch.

  “I didn’t have her pegged to be a one-night stand. But good for her. I like her style,” he says.

  My jaw tenses as I shove my wallet and keys into my pocket. Before I head toward the door, I grab the panties and shove them in my pocket too.

  “That really bothers you, doesn’t it?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “That she left. Total power move. She stole your thunder.”

  “She didn’t steal my thunder,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And it doesn’t both
er me. I kind of like it, actually.”

  Even though the words come out of my mouth, I’m not sure I believe them. Not totally, anyway. It might be nice not to have to be the one to enforce a one-night stand for once, but I wouldn’t have minded a goodbye.

  Hell, I might have even offered breakfast before going our separate ways.

  When I think of Blaire, I’m heated. Energized. Itching to have a conversation with the woman who intrigues me mentally as well as physically.

  But she’s gone. While that might make things less interesting this morning, it keeps it a clean break. There’s a beauty in that.

  Still …

  “She did leave her credit card,” I say. “I need to figure out how to get it back to her.”

  “Um, call her?”

  “Would you believe that I don’t have her number?”

  It doesn’t take long before his laughter fills the phone again.

  “You don’t have her fucking number? This is gold. She just played you.”

  “She did not,” I fire back, annoyed at his amusement in all this.

  “Yeah, she did. Blaire is my fucking hero right now.”

  “I haven’t needed her number,” I insist. “I ran into her at the Landrys, and we had dinner. I haven’t had to call her because she’s been with me, asshole.”

  Oliver’s laugh dies down. He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly.

  “As the smartest of the Mason family, let me point out one piece of the puzzle that you’ve not yet put together,” he says. “You might not have her phone number, but the Landrys do. And I might have told Graham that you would call him today about Wade being a closet hippie.”

  I shove off the desk. Whether it’s my imagination or whether the sun really did choose this moment to shine brightly into the room, I don’t know. But the warmth radiating in from its rays is impossible to deny.

  Returning her card is the practical thing to do. It’s the right, moral thing. And asking the Landrys to contact her for me—she’s practically their family—would only make me look good in their eyes too.