His eyes darken. “Run, Firefly.”
I consider staying put just on principle, but, oh my God, he’s too much fun. I bolt across the sand, shrieking.
My flight to freedom lasts five seconds before big hands snag me and toss me up, up, up.
“You need more cardio.” He smacks my ass as he deposits me over his shoulder.
“You have longer legs. I demand a handicap!”
My current position isn’t quite as sexy as I’d imagined it would be—his shoulder is rock-hard, which turns out to be a bad thing when it’s jabbing into my midsection. It’s also not the widest perch in the world. By the time we reach his front porch, I feel like I’m about to slide down his back and face plant in his hydrangeas. You win some, you lose some.
I slap at his porch railings, laugh-shouting, “Safe,” and he smacks me playfully on the ass again. My butt’s stinging and other related parts of me are on fire.
“This isn’t baseball, Firefly.” He produces a key and then boots the door open. I promptly forget all the reasons this is a bad idea.
He shifts me until I’m cradled in his arms. This position lets me pepper kisses across his shoulders and lick the little divot at the base of his throat. Muscles working, he somehow manages to simultaneously shove the wet suit down and kiss me. My hands are everywhere because pirating should always be equal opportunity.
“You’re my prize,” he rumbles, setting me down on my feet. “Savvy?”
“Maybe you’re mine.” I nip his plush lower lip.
He kisses along the edge of my jaw, his hands holding my face steady as he walks me backward toward the stairs. The upside to his lack of furniture is that we could practically waltz in here if we wanted.
My back hits the wall and he pulls my arms over my head, pinning my wrists with one hand. The other tangles in my hair.
“Ahoy,” he says roughly.
“Yeah?” It’s not proper pirate speak, but when he kisses me like this, I can’t think.
So I just kiss him back.
We’re locked together so tight that I can’t believe penetration hasn’t happened. My bikini bottoms are no match for his enormous, delicious erection. I wrap a leg around his waist and grind on him.
He pulls on the left-hand string and it comes apart. “These are my favorites.”
I arch a brow. “Aye?”
“Aye.” My bikini bottoms disappear over his shoulder. The man definitely has a thing for tossing my clothing because my top gets the same treatment. His hand descends, tracing my curves and dipping lower.
There’s a whole lot of kissing now, more mouth action, our tongues sliding and licking while we try to devour each other. I’ve never had sex on the stairs before. Despite its popularity in books, it seems uncomfortable.
“Bed,” I order. Possibly I whine-groan it, but his mouth has found my boob, his free hand is stroking south, and conversation’s never been my strong point.
He scoops me up with a muttered curse and I wrap my legs around his waist and hang on. This could be awkward but Jax doesn’t seem to mind my weight. His dick is trapped between us and I get my arms around his waist so I can squeeze his ass. He strides up the stairs and we land on the bed. It’s a freaking miracle.
I grind against him, making heavy breathing sounds that are porn-worthy.
He nips my bottom lip. “Yes?”
“I’m naked,” I groan, humping his hip. “You’re naked. Yes. Aye. Shiver me timbers but pick up the pace, ’kay?”
A wicked grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Firefly, I love hearing you tell me yes.”
There’s more kissing and shameless grinding on my part, and then, right when I’m ready to beg-demand some more—
He’s flipping me over, his hands shaping my ass while he curses and tells me how amazing I look. A strong hand strokes down my back, finding the sensitive, knotted places and pressing firmly. Surfing is hard work.
“God, you have porn star hands.”
His hand kneads lower. “And you have an amazing ass.”
It’s hard to miss my ass, that’s for sure. It’s always been a little bigger, a little curvier, than most. His mouth follows his hand and I feel the sharp, bright sting of his teeth as he moves lower.
“You’re such a kinky bastard,” I moan into my pillow.
Touching him like this would require mad yoga skills. I rock back against him to be helpful.
“You like it. You like me.” He twists, moving me up the bed as he slides underneath me in what’s probably an amazing feat of athletics that I should appreciate more, but his mouth grazes me right there and the only sounds I’m making now are greedy ones.
My hips buck and he grabs them, holding me steady above him. All of his balancing on a board is paying off for me. He licks a scorching path up my center, sucking on me with exquisite gentleness. I’m so slick I can hear the wet sounds, but I’m way past embarrassment. I need more. I need—
Jax is merciless, his tongue stroking, his teeth grazing lightly on sensitive spots I didn’t even know I had. His lips brush my clit, teasing, and I press my hips toward his wicked, talented mouth.
“Jax—”
I whimper, tearing at the sheets, reaching for him. He just licks harder, the bastard.
And then he sucks.
Sensation explodes through me. I can’t separate what he’s doing from what I feel. It’s one big maelstrom of white-hot heat and a growing tension as my body tightens, preparing for the big storm. I moan his name.
He pushes one big finger into me and we’re both groaning and making sex sounds someone out on the beach could hear. Yes and more and our names all mixed up with profanities. I think. Fuck if I know because I fly apart, coming and coming, squeezing his face with my thighs.
He eases me down because the man’s the crowned king of aftercare. He even handles the mechanics of lifting me off his face and finding me a safe landing spot on the bed, which is good because I don’t have a functioning bone in my body. I press my burning, sweaty pink face against the cool cotton of the pillow case. He’s turned me into the best kind of mess.
He reaches for a condom, tearing the foil packet open. I should help but he’s orgasmed me into a useless, happy puddle. I mumble this into his pillow and he laughs.
“I like you this way, Firefly. You stay put.”
No problem. I do my best impression of a blissed-out starfish, sprawled on his bed, as he pulls my hips up and presses himself against my entrance. That part of me’s apparently an on-ramp to the sexual highway because things speed up fast. He pushes himself inside me in a hard, sure thrust. He works himself into me, one arm braced by the side of my head, his fingers playing with my hair.
I turn my head so I can press stupid little kisses against his inked forearm, licking the sun-bronzed skin just because I can.
“Peony.” He groans my name, burying his face buried against my throat. “Is hard and fast okay?”
“Is there a menu? Do I get choices?”
“More like a buffet,” he grits out. “You get a little of everything on your plate.”
“Okay,” I say a little breathlessly.
He pushes himself up on one arm so he can see my face. “Yeah?”
I nod frantically, the heavy breathing starting up again, because the way the muscles in his arm work to hold him is sexy. Everything about him is sexy except that his thoughtful check-in has removed his penis from my happy place.
“Come back,” I whine.
He groans something and lowers himself against me. It feels so good. He opens me up, driving deeper. “You’re amazing, Firefly.”
So is he. I claw the bedsheets with one hand and wrap the other around his thick wrist. Each thrust pushes me up the bed and I fight the urge to giggle.
He anchors my hip with his hand, solving that logistical issue, and then there’s not
hing but the in, in, in as he makes room for himself inside me. Pulling out. Driving in again. I mumble-groan his name.
“Yes?” His mouth finds my cheek.
“Come in me, big guy.”
His “You first” is a dark rasp.
He’s no gentleman, but his hand reaches around me to find my clit and stroke. My body spontaneously ignites, apparently finding an unexpected burst of energy from somewhere. I don’t know. I just grip his arm and moan out compliments because, God, this man knows how to fuck.
My name punctuates the litany of dirty promises that fall from his mouth.
Fuck me, Firefly.
Hold me.
Like that.
I’m gonna...
He comes, I come, and then he collapses on top of me for the briefest of moments before he rolls, pulling me into his side before he can squash me flat. I sound like I just attempted a marathon after a summer of couch sitting.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing and run my fingers over the arm locking me against him. We were supposed to be playing.
We were supposed to be pirates.
We were supposed to be just fun and games.
At some point, though, we became just Jax and Peony, and now I don’t know what the rules are.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jax
THE DAYS FLY BY. I’ve made a point of spending as much time with Peony as I can. Work is crazy as always, but we spend nights and weekends together. For the last ten years, I’ve worked long hours. It’s the price tag of success and I’ve never regretted it. But now I find myself changing my focus. I’m still chasing new opportunities in the boardroom, but the pace is different. Less intense. It might not be a good thing to admit out loud, but more and more, Peony becomes my focus.
We wander around San Francisco’s tourist attractions because Peony is new to the city and hasn’t seen much. We ride the cable cars, hike across Golden Gate Bridge, and get lost inside the big museum of modern art that Peony adores and that I will never, ever, get. She insists on going Dutch for dinner, so we also spend hours chilling on the beach, eating cracked crab because “I know a guy who can get it for free” and trading funny work stories without mentioning names. I like that I can complain about my week and let her in on some of my secrets. She shares her own work horror stories, and the teller of the most horrific story gets to choose our Friday night movie.
I know that I should tell her the whole truth—that I’m not just a programmer and that really I own the entire business enchilada. I’m a billionaire CEO and my work stories have been carefully edited so that she doesn’t figure out that Mark is the CEO of a major software company and not just an annoying guy down the hall. I should have been honest, but I chose not to be, and that’s on me. I keep waiting for the right moment to let her in on my little secret, but it never seems to come.
Tonight, Peony’s tucked against my chest, facing outward because otherwise, she claims, I accidentally suffocate her. I’m not sure that’s technically possible, but I want her happy and not worried, so this has become our go-to position after sex. I press a kiss against the top of her head, wishing I could see her face.
I love seeing her face.
She mumbles something, shifting restlessly. Peony’s a bed hog and a light sleeper. She flails around, kicks the covers off, and gets up at least twice during the night. She usually tries to bug out and go back to her shitty RV after we’ve had sex, and I always try to convince her to stay. My bed’s bigger, better, and right here, so I don’t see the point in leaving. Most of the time, I can convince her.
Tonight we played teacher and student. I got to be the teacher because we rock-paper-scissored for it. Peony complained I’d cheated, but I just sent her to stand in the bad girl corner and then things escalated and...we ended up here. Boneless and satisfied.
My brain cells come back online slowly because Peony wrecks me every time. I press a kiss into the hollow where her shoulder meets her throat and roll off the bed so I can take care of the condom. Having sex with her without the latex barrier would be amazing, but it’s a big ask. I’m clean, but I’m not sure she’s ready to trust me like that yet. When I return, I run my fingers down her back before sliding into bed next to her. Her chin’s stacked on her hands as she watches a pair of seagulls battle it out midair. The smaller bird eventually flies off, making indignant sounds.
Peony watches the loser go. Her face is flushed pink from too much sun and her hair is tangled from where I fisted it earlier. She’s pulled the throw my sister gave me around her. It’s some kind of organic, hippie version of cashmere, and Peony’s practically adopted it. She wouldn’t take this one, so I ordered three to her RV. She gave me shit about it for a week, but she didn’t return them, either. She doesn’t expect anything from me except for orgasms, which is something I’d like to change even though my track record with relationships is nonexistent.
If I were like the other guys who’ve conquered Silicon Valley, I’d tell her who I was. I could spoil her openly then and make sure she was taken care of. I’ve never had a problem sharing my money. It’s more that I want the girl I’m with to see me first and not the dollar signs. Telling Peony that I’m successful should be easy. It’s not as if I’ve gotten rich selling babies on the black market or playing dirty politics, so I think she’ll understand.
What I do have is the money to keep her safe and to make her life a little easier. I drag myself up the bed so I can see her sprawled next to me on the mattress. Maybe now is the right time to bring up the complete truth about how I make my money. Mrs. Haverstorm, my kindergarten teacher, always insisted that sharing was caring and important. Didn’t make handing over the purple marker any easier, but I’m starting to see her point.
“You wanna talk?” My fingers play with her damp hair, smoothing out the tangled strands. We started in the shower then moved out here. Duvet’s halfway across the room, sheets tangled at the bottom of the bed. We’re ass-backward anyway since Peony likes to watch the ocean while I fuck her from behind.
“Let’s not discuss world peace or anything important until I’ve recovered from that last orgasm.”
“That good?”
I kiss her neck while I knead her shoulders with my hands. She gives a little groan and wriggles into my hold. “What are you looking at?” I ask.
“They’re knocking your neighbor’s house down.”
“They’ll build something new.”
There aren’t many properties that come up for sale here, and most of the people who buy just knock the existing house down and build from scratch. My Realtor assumed that was what I would do with Our Little Secret, so she was shocked when I just hired a bunch of contractors to give it a quickie fix up.
“I liked that cottage.” She makes a face. “And now they’ll probably put some multistory glass-and-chrome monstrosity in its place.”
“Not a fan of real estate flipping?”
“Not a fan of throwing money around,” she says.
“Maybe they’ve been saving up for a lifetime.” I pull her into my side. “Or maybe that particular cottage can’t be saved. It could have termites or structural damage. Sometimes knocking things down and starting over is the only option.”
“And sometimes people are just assholes.” She rolls over and flops off the end of the bed so she can watch the world go by upside-down.
I trace her ribs until she giggles and swats my hand away. “You think all rich people are assholes?”
There’s definitely no justification for not telling her I’m a billionaire, but since I’m not a nice guy, I’m going for the intel before I confess.
“No.” She thinks about it for a moment. “But my bio dad definitely was.”
“He had money?”
She snorts. “Worse. His family used to have it, years ago. When he met my mom, his own bank account was still a wo
rk in progress. He had a small trust fund that he was using to bankroll a series of businesses.”
I’ve run into the type. They put everything into stupid ideas without doing their due diligence because their illustrious ancestors made money and good business sense must get passed down in the DNA like blue eyes or brown hair. They usually burn through their cash and then get pissed off about it. “He didn’t make a fortune?”
“Blew through one, more like. He could have lived a solid middle-class life if he’d been careful, but he always wanted more. He used to tell us he wanted it for us—the better neighborhood, the vacation home in Martha’s Vineyard, the private travel and schools.”
“So he wanted to provide for you. That’s not a bad thing.”
I lie down next to her. We must look ridiculous hanging off the bed, upside down, but I want her to be comfortable. I also don’t want her to stop talking because Peony rarely opens up. Her likes and dislikes in regard to sushi, modern art and post-ocean shower sessions are well known to me, but I know almost nothing about her life before I met her at Liam’s party.
She rolls her eyes. “Except he wanted to provide what he wanted to provide. There wasn’t a whole lot of consulting going on. My parents would fight about money. Then they’d fight about the house or the car or us. He’d promise that this time he’d got his shit figured out, that our new house and car and life would be for keeps, but then the money would dry up and the bills would start coming in and one day we’d just walk out the door and not come back. After the third time, I stopped decorating my room. The fifth time, my mom took us and told him he was on his own.”
“I hate that you had to live like that.” I take her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together, and set it on my stomach. There’s no good response to hearing her dad was a dick.
“And then one day he got the big house and all the other fancy stuff,” she says. “I don’t know how he did it, but I don’t think it involved felonies or organ sales, so I should have been proud of him, right? Go, Dad—you’ve made a million bucks. But he acted as if having that money justified the way he’d behaved before, as if he should get a Dad of the Year award because he could pay for cars and college and shit. He wanted to pretend he’d never been an asshole, when now he was just an asshole with money.”
Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set Page 24
