Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set

by Jackie Ashenden

  We’re halfway down the beach before she thaws enough to start talking to me again, her shoulder bumping my arm companionably as she comments on the weather, the stars, the traffic, a random dog dashing across the sand, and a dozen other things I can’t be bothered to notice.

  All my attention is focused on her.

  She has a great voice. It’s low and husky, a cheerful murmur that I can’t find any comparison for. Maybe it’s the animation with which she delivers her words, or her seemingly genuine interest in the stuff she’s sharing. I like listening to her.

  When there’s a break in the flow of words, I reach for her hand, threading her fingers through mine. She has the long, slender fingers of an artist. Mine are stronger, bigger, and way blunter in comparison—the hands of a boxer or a brute.

  She doesn’t seem to mind.

  She swings our hands where they’re connected. “Are we pretending to be boyfriend-girlfriend?”

  Sometimes I get tired of pretending. This is only the second time I’ve seen her, I remind myself. It’s not like we have an actual relationship. So far we’ve just had sex and two meals. Pancakes and tacos, not even a real dinner in a restaurant or at a table. My favorite restaurant wouldn’t let her in dressed like she is, or at least they wouldn’t until I forced the issue. She’s wearing a ragged pair of denim Bermuda shorts paired with a tank top that cups her tits. A patchwork kimono flares out behind her in the ocean breeze. She’s twisted her hair up on top of her head in a messy swirl, little strands escaping here and there.

  I’m used to the women who come to Liam’s parties, usually looking to hook up with a wealthy techie. I stopped believing they were interested in more than my money or my dick years ago. To be fair, I wasn’t looking for more than sex from them, either. There’s something exciting about whatever this is with Peony. She’s here for the sex, but I think she’s also here for me.

  There’s a gust of wind that plucks at her kimono, dragging the folds through the water that creeps in, washing over our feet. I have our shoes in my right hand, the one that’s not holding on to Peony. I get the feeling she’d sprint away from me if I let go for even an instant. She’s not into staying put.

  “Jax?” Peony pats my arm. Right. She’s waiting for my answer.

  “I’d like that.”

  She looks at my face for a moment. I’m not sure what she’s searching for, but I doubt she’ll find it. I don’t have much experience with actual, long-term relationships. My thing has always been quick hookups.

  “All right,” she says. Her hand swings mine up in a little arc. I’m not sure what she’s agreeing to.

  We make it back to her camper far too quickly. A quick survey reveals the mother of all puddles in front of the door and a steady mini-deluge from the tarp. A familiar skunk-stink wafts from her neighbor’s place.

  “Jesus,” I growl before I can stop myself. My sister’s taught me the value of silent protectiveness. I can get away with fixing a lot of things as long as I don’t editorialize or comment on what I’m doing.

  Peony puffs up and I’d like to kiss the righteous indignation off her face, but she’d a) punch me in the balls, and b) just go inside this crappy camper that much faster.

  I sublimate my feelings for the time it takes to straighten out the tarp and dump the excess water onto the ground. It’s not great, but it’s better.

  When I come back around to the front, she’s already got her key in the lock and is working it determinedly. I suspect the lock is as busted as everything else based on how long it takes her to get it open.

  And...fuck caution. “This is substandard, Peony.”

  “It’s mine,” she says firmly, hopping up onto the first step. “You have a nice day now.”

  What she really means is Go away, but substandard is a white lie on my part because I don’t actually want to trample her feelings. The truth is that her camper should be condemned.

  From the stink eye she’s giving me, however, this isn’t a battle I can win right now.

  Plus, I’d rather kiss her goodbye, and she won’t let me do that if she’s pissed at me. I don’t even try to fight that internal battle. Pleasure wins over ethics.

  I swoop in for that kiss, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into my body. It starts out perfectly PG, my lips pressed against hers. After a moment, she sighs, her mouth parting beneath mine all the invitation I need. My tongue sweeps inside her mouth.

  She groans, her hands grabbing my face and angling me so she can kiss me back harder. Not as if I’m gonna protest because once wasn’t enough. Twice wasn’t enough, either. This girl is my long-term as long as I don’t piss her off the wrong way.

  I groan when her tongue slides against mine. We’re grinding against each other, as if we both need to come one more time right here on the steps of her goddamned RV. Her hands move from my face to my ass, squeezing me over my jeans. My mouth devours hers, hers giving as good as she gets. Never mind that we’re outside and on full display, or that the slap of my hand against the RV door makes the whole thing shiver and rock. If we actually did it inside, the place wouldn’t be standing.

  When she tugs her mouth free, I growl as if I really am the animal she makes me feel like. Her mouth is kiss-swollen and slick, and I want to dive between her pretty thighs and lick her there until we’ve achieved symmetry.

  “No sex on the front steps,” she whispers.

  I straighten reluctantly. My breath sounds like a freight train, but I know no when I hear it, enough that I don’t ask her how she feels about inviting me in.

  Instead, I eye her piece of shit rental and run through options in my head. I could track down her landlord and buy her place. Then I could fix it, but I’d a) be officially a slumlord, b) have some serious explaining to do about my finances, and c) worry about things changing between us because she’d be pissed. My sister’s explained on multiple occasions that just because I can buy something doesn’t mean I should.

  The beach cottage we just vacated is a good example. Peony would be mad if she knew I’d bought the place on a whim. The name makes me think of her and it’s just up the beach from her. I’m used to founder hounders chasing me, usually naked, so Peony’s charming abandon followed by icy reserve is novel. Because I wasn’t sure she would call me, did I try to put myself in her path? You bet. Plus, a million-dollar beachfront property—even if it’s barely eight hundred square feet—is always a good investment. By this time next week, I’ll have already turned a profit.

  Peony doesn’t invite me inside. The slice of camper that I can see through the open door seems small and eighties-style, with a Formica-topped built-in table with a bench on one side and some dingy faux walnut paneling.

  “Bye,” she chirps, already shutting the door in my face.

  It’s a good thing I have a healthy ego.

  When she’s inside and has things shut up, I tap on the door. “Lock it, Peony.”

  I press one hand against said door. It’s so thin that I can hear her breathing on the other side.

  She laughs. “You are so overprotective.”

  “And you’re worth sticking up for.” I walk away with a smile on my face. “I’ll call you. Pick up, okay?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Peony

  SECOND-DATE JAX should be illegal.

  True to his word, he calls me during the week and announces that he’ll be by on Friday night at an unspecified time to collect me for our date. He seems to think this constitutes asking me out—and my accepting—but I sort of don’t want to shoot him down. Okay. After a week of self-induced orgasms, I almost call him myself and ask him to come over and help a girl out.

  His Friday night arrival is heralded by an almighty bang on the door that has me wondering if the landlord is collecting the rent early, but when I squint through the peephole a previous tenant drilled into the door, it’s just Jax.
That is kind of like saying Oh, that’s just the Eiffel Tower or Hey, look, we’re passing the Roman Colosseum.

  He’s like a big, inked barbarian and I totally want him to storm my castle. Better yet, when I finish wrestling the door open and get the full Jax picture, I realize he’s only half dressed. That makes him half naked and one-hundred-percent hot. Yet another wetsuit covers his lower extremities, cupping his manly bits in impressive fashion and making it perfectly clear the man has legs the size of tree trunks. He’s knotted the sleeves around his waist. There’s a damp-looking T-shirt tossed over his shoulder and a pair of aviator sunglasses pushed up on top of his head.

  His gaze travels down my body. “Are you working?”

  Since I’m wearing my usual downtime uniform of cotton shorts and a tank top, I appreciate his vote of confidence. San Francisco is full of work-from-homers glued to their laptops while they build the new Facebook or Tinder one line of code at a time, but my own job skills are less commercial. My most recent stints of employment have included work as a personal assistant, set stager for an Instagram influencer, coffee barista, and—my personal favorite—two months helping a closet design store install thousands of dollars’ worth of custom shelving. I love organizing messes.

  “As a matter of fact, I just stepped out of the boardroom. I’ve been schooling the executive team for their lack of foreplay.” Oops. Freudian slip. “Foresight. Whatever. You look like you’ve been making similar inroads on the business community.”

  I lean against the doorjamb. I’m not wearing underwear because I’ve just been lounging around completing online surveys for a dollar a pop and checking Craigslist for more lucrative job openings.

  He sucks in some air and coughs out a hello.

  “Did you want something?”

  “Peony.” He groans my name like it hurts.

  He gets a gold star for not staring at my boobs for longer than it takes to catalog my outfit. To be fair, I’m wearing an old tank top. It’s stretched out and the lacy bits barely skim my nipples.

  I grin at him. “It’s okay to ogle them.”

  “Uh, what?” He drags his gaze back up to my face.

  “The girls. The cupcakes. My twin melons?” I pat the boobs in question. “They like admiration, plus there’s no way I’m not going to ogle you since you’re half dressed.”

  “Now I feel like I should have brought them flowers.” He sounds slightly dazed, which makes me giggle. I know firsthand, after all, that Jax is Mr. Control, so any opportunity to undo him should be seized. “But I feel the need to say that I’m not expecting sex tonight.”

  “Oh.” I’m not entirely certain what the socially correct response is to that bombshell, so I go with the truth. “That’s so weird I can’t even plot it on my sexy-times scatter graph.”

  “What?” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.

  I want to push his hand away and replace it with mine. I’ll bet his skin is warm and soft there. I want to pull him close, kiss him hard, rub him all over me so that when tonight is done, I smell him on my skin. I shouldn’t say any of that, though, so instead I explain.

  “I don’t know if I can promise your virtue is equally safe with me.”

  He grins. “I’m easy.”

  “So, fun as this is, why are you here?”

  “You agreed to go out with me tonight. Do you want to go surfing?” He points to the ocean, as if his request could possibly need clarifying.

  “You may have me confused with someone more coordinated.”

  He shrugs. “You can always sit on the board and I’ll be your Italian gondolier and paddle you up the coast.”

  “Can you make sweet, sweet love in Italian?”

  “Facciomolo adesso.” His hands tangle in my hair, his gaze holding mine. “Voglio di te.”

  Holy.

  SHIT.

  I hold up a finger. “Give me ten minutes.”

  I shut the door in his face because I’m pretty sure by now that politeness is wasted on Jax. Or worse, he sees it as an open invitation to invade and arrange things the way he’d like them to be. Also, by shutting the door, I have privacy for the little freak-out I indulge in. The man looks like Adonis. He’s got muscles on his muscles, while I’ve carefully concealed mine beneath a layer of fat. It makes me soft and cuddly, but it does not make me particularly athletic and I’ve just agreed to a swimwear date with him.

  I do a quick bikini line inspection and decide things are reasonably okay in the trim and wax department. My red-and-white polka dot bikini is a little smaller than I remember it being, so I do some string adjusting, trying to make it cover more of my ass before I give up. I can stay in here all day, but I’m not going to magically morph into a swimsuit model.

  I reinspect my bikini line and make a few repairs. Okay. It’s as good as it’s getting and he’s already thoroughly inspected my business, so I just need to let it go. I pull the tank top and shorts back on, shove my feet into flip-flops, and grab my key. I don’t have any reason left to not go outside.

  Other, than, you know the big objection, which is that Jax Valentine is six feet four inches of dirty fun and that means I’m going to get into trouble.

  I grab a pink Sharpie from my table and scrawl Remember: This is a bad idea on my forearm. I should probably enumerate the specific reasons, but my ten minutes are up and I’m chicken.

  He grins at me when I come out. “I was about to send in a rescue party.”

  As we head up the beach together, his hand catches mine, big warm fingers lacing through mine.

  “How was your week?” he asks.

  “Are we still pretending to be a married couple?” This is new territory for me.

  He swings our hands where we’re connected. “I like hearing about you, Peony.”

  All righty then.

  I run through the events of the week. “I think the highlight was interviewing for a startup in the Mission District. I got off the train, climbed about ninety billion steps to the street level, and then was assaulted by a pigeon that decided to land on my head. I considered turning around and heading back home for a second shower, but I persevered in the interests of gainful employment.”

  “Very responsible.” His fingers squeeze mine gently.

  “To get to the interview, I also had to step over a passed-out drunk dude who was taking up the entire sidewalk. It was like a demented obstacle course.”

  “Did it go well?”

  I think it did, but I don’t want to jinx it. “I wore my lucky panties.”

  “You have lucky panties?”

  “You bet. It’s way easier to sneak panties into an interview than a lucky coffee cup or a rabbit’s foot.”

  He makes a choking noise. “Holy fuck. Are you wearing them or waving them around?”

  “Which would make you hire me? Kidding!” I bump his arm with mine. “Wearing. Obviously.”

  “How was your week?”

  He shrugs. “Made some money. Wrote some code. Climbed no mountains.”

  We get to the part of the beach where he’s stashed his board and he starts going over the finer points of surfing.

  Surfing is not intuitive. Or easy. Or in any way my thing. This is entirely on me. Jax is a good teacher, but I’m unwilling to stand up on the board because it means falling off and I hate being under water. Plus, I’m less coordinated than the passed-out drunk guy I had to climb over. Eventually, Jax gives up on teaching me surfing mechanics and instead paddles us out until we have a great view of the sunset. We sit together on his board, watching the sun start to set.

  I lean my head back against his chest, trusting him to keep me on the board and out of the water. He’s big and warm, like my own personal ocean-going armchair.

  I peer over his arm at the water. “Do you think there are sharks down there?”

  “Maybe.” He
sounds unconcerned. “It’s not really shark season, though.”

  “Maybe then we should head back in? Is there ever a good time of year to meet a shark face to face?”

  He laughs, but points the board at the surf break. This is the opposite of the direction I’ve requested. He makes a convincing argument, however, that his way will be faster, so I cling to the front of the board while he rides us through a wave toward shore. This isn’t Hawaii and the Banzai Pipeline. The top of the wave barely reaches Jax’s shoulder, but there’s a wall of water and then we’re flying, flying, flying toward the beach.

  I sort of want to do it again, but it’s getting dark and I’m cold.

  Since date-night Jax is trying to be a gentleman, he sacrifices his towel to me when we come ashore. I run my hand over it as he tucks it around me, fussing in a way that’s kind of cute. The towel is bright blue, like one of those Robin Eggs they sell at Easter, and has InterContinental Bora Bora embroidered on it in gold letters.

  “Nice. Did you steal it?”

  He assesses his handiwork and retucks an edge. “Maybe I bought it, fair and square. Maybe the hotel gave it to me as a welcome gift, all tied up with some local tropical foliage.”

  “Really?” I’ve never stayed somewhere they actually give away the towels.

  I rub at my damp arms with the towel. My reminder to not jump Jax Valentine’s very fine ass has mostly washed off thanks to the salty Pacific. It’s like a sign from above.

  “Do you want me to be a felon?” He props his hands on his hips and fakes a glare. “We need to discuss your fantasies, Ms. Peony.”

  “Well, maybe you just borrowed it?”

  “Like a pirate?” He gives me a look of mock indignation.

  “God, yes. Be a pirate. Please. Better yet, do it naked and let me call you Jack.”