by Regina Kyle
“I met her a couple of months after I moved in. She was struggling with an armful of groceries, and I helped her bring them upstairs to her apartment. Rumor has it her late husband was some kind of mafia boss. She’s got a son, but he’s a big-shot Hollywood producer, so I try to look out for her when I can.”
Work-is-my-life Jake taking time out of his busy schedule to look after a little old lady? I study him out of the corner of one eye as I digest this new piece of information. Every time I think I’ve got him pegged, he changes the game.
I playfully shoulder bump him. Well, my shoulder, his bicep, since he’s so much taller than me. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a nice guy, Jake Lawson?”
“My mother,” he answers easily. “And my fourth-grade teacher, Miss Traylor. She saw me give Annie Pulaski my cherry popsicle when Annie dropped hers. What she didn’t know was that the gesture wasn’t totally altruistic. I was angling for a kiss.”
“So that’s why you’re sucking up to Mrs. G.,” I tease. “Or is it Prince Harry you want to smooch?”
“Very funny.” We’re at the entrance to the Canal Street subway station. Rather than go down the steps that lead to the tracks, he stops and pulls me roughly into his arms. “But there’s only one person I’m interested in kissing right now. And she’s right here.”
As if to prove his point, his lips lock on mine. He tastes like his minty toothpaste, mixed with the quick cup of coffee he downed while we walked Roscoe and raw, masculine need. His strong hands frame my ass, gripping and kneading until I’m moaning into his mouth. This being New York, our PDA goes virtually unnoticed, pedestrians ebbing and flowing around us like we’re rocks in a river.
“Any more questions?” he asks when he’s done turning me into a quivering mess. “Or can we get this party started?”
The subway ride is uneventful. We stand at first because it’s crowded, Jake with one hand on the strap overhead and the other around my waist, steadying me each time the train lurches to a stop. As we go farther into Brooklyn, the car empties out, and we’re able to find seats next to each other.
With each stop, I look questioningly at him, silently asking, “Is this the one? Do we get off here?” He just shakes his head and smiles until we’re almost at the end of the line and it begins to dawn on me.
“We’re going to Coney Island, aren’t we?” I say just as a disembodied voice comes over the loudspeaker to announce it as our last stop.
He’s thrown me for another loop. I love the beautifully, marvelously, gloriously tacky feel of the place once known as America’s playground. The boardwalk. The carnival games. The rides. The arcade. The air thick with the smell of fried fair food.
But I thought Jake’s speed was more sampling cuisines of the world at Time Out Market, or even hunting for treasures at Brooklyn Flea. Not wooden coasters and Whac-a-Mole.
“Beach or amusement park?” I ask, hoping it’s the latter. I’m not wearing a swimsuit, and it’s not like we brought any towels or beach chairs.
“Amusement park.” Jake stands and holds out a hand, pulling me up with him. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Are you kidding?” I hitch my drawstring bag over my shoulder and stand next to him, waiting for the doors to open. “It’s better than okay. It’s awesome. I can’t wait to kick your ass at Skee Ball.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, if I were you,” he says with an overly confident grin. “I happen to be a Skee Ball champion.”
I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “Good. That will make it even more satisfying when I kick your ass.”
The doors slide open, and we head up the stairs into the sunshine and smells of mustard, sauerkraut and beer-battered onion rings. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that we skipped breakfast.
I pull my sunglasses out of my bag and slide them on, searching for the familiar iconic yellow building with the green-and-white-striped awning. “But first, I’m starving. What do you say we stop at Nathan’s for one of their famous hotdogs?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ainsley
“THAT THING IS not sleeping with us.”
I laugh and plop the giant Day-Glo green inflatable alien in a place of honor in the dead center of the bed. “You’re just mad because I won it instead of you.”
“I’m not mad, I’m repulsed.” Jake grimaces. “That thing is hideous. Couldn’t you have picked something useful, like an iPad? Or a jar opener?”
“He’s useful. Put him in the passenger seat, and you can drive in the high-occupancy vehicle lane during rush hour. And I think he’s kind of cute, in an ugly sort of way.”
“I live in Manhattan. I haven’t owned a car in years. Hell, I don’t even have a driver anymore. I’m fine with Uber, taxis and the subway.” He sits on the foot of the bed—as far as he can possibly get from the alien, I note—and kicks off his Vans, giving the alien a side-eyed glare. “How do you know it’s a he?”
“Lucky guess.”
I toss my bag on the dresser and start to shed my clothes like they’re on fire. It’s been a fun day—we rode every ride and played every arcade and carnival game in Luna Park—but it’s been a long and hot one, too, and I’m in serious need of a shower. With a little encouragement, maybe we can have a repeat of this morning, and I can get Jake to join me and scrub my back.
And my front.
The shirt goes first, then the bra. When I pop the button on my cutoffs and start to lower the zipper, Jake lets out a low growl.
“Are you trying to torture me?”
I slide the zipper down another inch. “If I were, would it be working?”
“Fuck, yeah.” He strokes his already growing erection through his shorts. “Put me out of my misery and lose the Daisy Dukes. And whatever’s underneath them. I want you naked.”
“What about you?” My voice is a breathless whisper, my heart’s racing like a subway train—express, not local—and my damn nipples are standing at attention again. Knowing how I affect him is the biggest turn-on going.
“What about me?” he asks right back, stroking faster.
“Shouldn’t you be naked, too?”
“That can be arranged.”
He stands, grabs the hem of his polo shirt with both hands, and lifts it slowly, teasingly, like in a cheap porno. But way better, because unlike most of those guys—yeah, I not ashamed to admit I’ve watched a few, my trusty vibrator at the ready—Jake’s got a body that’s worthy of a Marvel superhero. I take the time to appreciate each abtastic inch of fine, firm flesh as it’s revealed before the shirt is over his head and on the floor.
Way, way better than PornHub and my rabbit.
“On the count of three,” he says, unbuttoning his shorts and reaching for the zipper tab. “One.”
Our zippers slide down.
“Two.”
Our thumbs hook into our waistbands.
“Three.”
We’re naked and on each other faster than you can say nymphomaniac, our clothes strewn carelessly around the room. We smash into each other, everything—lips, chests, legs—coming together like a perfect, frantic puzzle. It’s more than a kiss. It’s an erotic dance, a prelude to fucking.
Or something more than fucking.
Without warning, he slows things down, removing his mouth from mine and hoisting me into his arms, cradling me against him as he starts to move toward the bedroom door.
“Where are you taking me?” It’s the second time I’ve asked him that question today. I hope his answer is as perfect as it was last time. This day has been the most fun I’ve had in ages. And the most fun I’ve had with a member of the opposite sex—in or out of bed—in, like, ever.
And it’s not over yet. Not by a long shot.
“My room.” His eyes shoot daggers at the alien, still holding court front and center on my bed. “I’m not making love t
o you with that thing staring at me.”
Making love. Something more than fucking. Another perfect answer from a guy who’s turning out to be pretty perfect, too.
“Shower,” I blurt out, suddenly remembering my initial reason for getting naked. Well, one of the reasons.
“Later.” He shoulders his way through the door into the hallway. “Why get clean when we’re just going to get dirty again?”
He’s got a point, so I don’t argue. Besides, I kind of like him all hot and sweaty. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and sniff, then lick. It’s like I’m back at Coney Island. He tastes and smells of salt water, fried clams and Italian ice.
I press my lips to his jaw.
Delicious.
It takes only a few steps for him to reach the master bedroom. His man cave. The one room I haven’t set foot in since I started staying here.
Until now.
It’s not like he’s got a lock on the door. Or a No Girls Allowed sign. I’ve just never had a reason to go in there. He keeps the door closed, and we’ve been using my room for sexy times. Whether that’s out of habit or something deeper on Jake’s part, I don’t know. I’ve tried not overthink it and live in the moment.
Just like I’m trying to live in this moment and not attach too much significance to our change of venue.
Fortunately, I don’t have time to dwell on it too much because we’ve crossed the threshold into the inner sanctum. Jake lays me down on the California king that dominates the room and stretches out beside me. I expect him to get right down to business, but he surprises me yet again, propping himself up on one elbow and staring at me with a reverence in his eyes that makes my heart flutter and my stomach flip.
This isn’t about sex anymore. If it ever was. This thing between us—this connection—is more than physical.
It’s new. And exciting. And more than a little bit scary. No man has made me feel this strange combination of exhilarated and anxious. Not even dickweed Dale. And I wasted three years of my life with him.
Well, I’m done with that shit. Life’s too short. I’m not wasting another second.
I slide down his body, positioning my head between his legs. His thick erection stares me in the face, and I swear I’m practically salivating.
“No.” Jake winds his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck. “I won’t last long if you do that. You know how I love it when you use that naughty tongue stud of yours on my cock.”
Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m doing this. And I’m not taking no for an answer. Jake’s made me feel so good in so many different ways today. Giving up his phone. Taking me to Coney Island. I mean, is there anywhere on earth that screams fun more than a freaking amusement park? Now it’s my turn to do something for him.
And a little bit for me, too, if I’m being honest. Giving my man head isn’t exactly a chore.
My. Man. I know it’s fast, but that’s what he is. In my mind, in my heart and in my soul.
“I know you love it,” I say, my mouth hovering over him. “That’s why I’m doing it. You might as well just lie back and enjoy it.”
I curl my fingers around the base of his shaft, and he hisses.
“Fuck, Nightingale.”
His hands leave my hair and fist in the comforter. I’ve won this battle. Not that he put up much of a fight. My lips haven’t even touched his dick, and he’s so turned on he’s already wet with precum.
For that matter, so am I. My pussy’s dripping just from thinking about what’s coming next.
And who’s coming next.
I bring my lips to his tip and lick away some of the moisture. It’s thick and sweet and slightly salty.
I lick again.
“Oh, yeah,” he moans. “That’s it. Tease me. Drive me crazy with your wicked tongue and that fucking stud.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I flick my tongue up and down his length, like I’m licking an ice cream cone. Savoring every inch of him. With each flick, my stud brushes his hard, hot flesh.
He shudders and lets his knees fall open, making more room for me. I move in closer and take him into my mouth, wrapping my lips around him and sucking him in.
“Holy fuck.” Jake’s knuckles are white, that’s how tightly he’s gripping the comforter. “That feels incredible.”
His admission spurs me on. I bob faster, swirling my tongue around him, making sure he can feel the stud he loves so much. The hand circling the base of his cock moves lower, to his balls. Cupping them. Squeezing them. Teasing them with my fingertips.
His hips jerk upward and he swears under his breath. “I wasn’t kidding about not lasting, Nightingale. I’m about to blow.”
He means it as a warning, a signal for me to pull off him. Instead, I double down, open wider and suck him in.
All. The. Way.
He’s balls-deep in my throat now, and I’m going down on him like a pro. He mutters incoherently as I flatten my tongue and make my lips tight so I can suck him harder, but every third word or so I catch a “yes,” “fuck” or “more.”
It’s only a few seconds before he comes hard. I stay with him until he’s done, swallowing every last drop. Then I give him one last, long, lingering lick and let go.
He drags a hand through his hair and makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Have I told you how fucking fantastic you are at that?”
“Only after every blow job I’ve given you,” I say, laughing as I crawl back up his big, beautiful body. “But don’t stop. A girl can never get too many compliments.”
He pulls me in to him, hooking his leg over my hip and kissing my forehead. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready to go again.”
I snuggle closer, my head burrowing into his chest. The soft, fine hair sprinkled across his pecs tickles my nose. “No rush.”
I mean it. The sex—no, lovemaking—is great, but this is pretty great, too. Just being together. Skin to skin. Our chests rising and falling in unison. His heart beat slowing to a steady rhythm under my cheek.
After about five minutes, I feel his hand snake between us and move down my belly, toward my clit.
“So soon?” I ask, sucking in a ragged breath as he finds his target. “Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?”
He rocks his hips, pressing his resurgent cock against my stomach and showing me exactly how up he is.
“Challenge accepted.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jake
I WAKE THE next morning with Ainsley wrapped around me like boa constrictor. Par for the course these days. What’s new is the bed we’re occupying.
Mine.
I wait for the panic to set in. Bringing her here last night was a spur of the moment decision. I don’t usually have women in my master suite. With enough spare bedrooms to accommodate the Knicks’ starting front court lineup, keeping my personal space just that—personal—has never been a problem.
The realization dawns that I could have done the same thing last night. Taken Ainsley to any of those other spare bedrooms. Or just shoved the hideous plastic alien off her bed and taken her right then and there.
But I didn’t. I brought her here because I wanted her here. It might have seemed spur of the moment, but my subconscious was telling me something.
It was telling me that this woman is different. Special. Someone I want in my life—and my bed—for more than a night or a week.
Instead of panic, a tidal wave of calm floods through me. Her, me, together like this—it feels right. More right than anything’s felt in longer that I can remember.
I brush her hair off her neck and leave a trail of kisses down her spine. She stirs but doesn’t wake. Unlike my cock, which is wide awake and raring to go.
But as good as a slow, sweet session of morning sex sounds right about now, that’s not w
hat Ainsley needs. She needs to know how I feel about her. And what better way to start than by showing her, not telling her.
It’s like that old saying. Actions speak louder than words. And I want my actions to scream. I don’t want Ainsley to have any doubt about what I’m saying.
As carefully as I can, I slide out of bed, doing my best not to disturb her. I hold my breath as her eyelids flutter open, but they drift shut just as quickly and she rolls over, back in dreamland.
Although if her dreams are anything like mine—and Christ, I hope they are—she’ll wake up horny as hell with her hand down her pants.
Figuratively speaking, of course. Because when we sleep together, clothing is less than optional. It’s forbidden.
Remembering that Ainsley’s naked under my expensive sheets makes it that much harder to leave her, but somehow I manage to throw on a pair of boxer briefs and get my ass out the door. I pad barefoot into the kitchen and practically trip over Roscoe, who’s lying in front of his food bowl looking mournful. I give him a quick scoop of kibble and some fresh water so he’ll stop mooning like a sick calf and yank open the subzero fridge.
My initial plan was to start my actions-speak-louder campaign by cooking her breakfast—you know, the whole way-to-the-heart-is-through-the stomach thing. But one look inside my empty refrigerator—my housekeeper’s on vacation, and Ainsley and I have been too busy fucking like sailors on shore leave and ordering takeout to food shop—kills that not-so-brilliant idea.
Good thing I can think fast on my feet, a skill I’ve honed at Top Shelf. You can’t own a business and not have to make split-second decisions when things don’t go according to plan.
I close the fridge and do a quick pivot to the counter, where my cell phone’s charging. I can call Bubby’s and have sourdough pancakes, cheddar grits and crab cakes Benedict at our door in less than an hour.
But when I power up my phone, the damn thing goes crazy with email, text messages and voicemail alerts, most of them from Connor and Alex, my contact in Miami. My heart drops to my stomach as I click on the most recent voicemail and hear a clearly panic-stricken Connor.
