Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set

by Jackie Ashenden

  I scroll through his Wikipedia article, looking for clues to who Jax really is. Various online sources claim he was born and raised in Berkeley, the bohemian, leftist paradise across the Bay from San Francisco. There are also rumors that he bankrolled his first investments by participating in illegal fight clubs.

  Updates trickle in from the rest of the building throughout the day, like those survivor reports after a natural disaster. Engineering, largely unscathed by his rampaging, nicknames him “The Scythe,” while the numerous VPs who head out the door, newly unemployed, provide more unflattering descriptors. Essentially, he stalks around, all dark and broody, barking at people and terminating their jobs, and while he claims there’s a reason why some people go while others stay, it’s not clear to any of us leftovers.

  Josie pops by at 4:55 p.m. Since she’s smiling, she must still have a job.

  “Drinks?” She bounces up and down. “All of Engineering’s going.”

  If ever a day called for alcohol, it’s this one. The problem is that Jax issued his stay-put order and I have a feeling that he’ll come looking for me if I light out. Since Engineering usually drinks one block down from Hotly, I wouldn’t be hard to find.

  “Not tonight.” I pull a face. “I need to go home and convince my nerves I’m not having a breakdown.”

  “Yeah,” she says eagerly. “Do you think he heard what we were saying? How do you know him? Have you worked for him before? Tim said drinks are on us. He’s planning on getting you drunk and pumping you for information.”

  Tim is the senior architect and he’s a great guy. Ordinarily, I’d appreciate his attempts at bribery, but today? Not so much. My phone buzzes with yet another incoming text. This one, however, is from Jax. Dinnertime.

  “Pass.” Apparently, I’m having dinner with the boss. It’s an opportunity, I tell myself, to point out that he’s not the boss of me. Except, you know, possibly in his fantasies. That we’ve reenacted on multiple occasions. Ugh.

  Meet you out back, I type after Josie’s reluctantly departed. By tomorrow, there’s going to be a dozen different theories as to how Jax and I know each other. This is precisely why I don’t date bosses.

  Jax is waiting for me on his motorcycle by the time I make it out back. It’s really just dumpster storage and enough room to turn a delivery truck around, which means that none of my coworkers can park here. The ones that didn’t walk or take the train are off somewhere down the block—or many, many blocks—recovering their vehicles.

  He should look out of place straddling his bike in a suit, but somehow he makes it work. He’s shed his tie and his hair’s come loose during the day. He looks a little rumpled and yet still completely in charge.

  He holds out a helmet to me. “What do you want for dinner?”

  “I can have anything?”

  He fixes me with that steady stare I remember. “Name it.”

  I’m tempted for a moment to ask for escargot at the top of the Eiffel Tower because I may never have another chance and surely a billionaire boyfriend/husband/boss should be good for something. I restrain myself—I’ve never actually eaten snails, I’m ridiculously hungry, and I’d probably end up flicking snail guts all over Jax—and suggest we head down to Fisherman’s Wharf instead.

  Half an hour later, we’re seated at a narrow counter devouring a mountain of fresh-steamed Dungeness crab while a never-ending crowd of tourists pushes past us on the sidewalk. It’s loud and smells fishy, the seating jammed so close together that I’m practically sitting on Jax’s lap.

  “I don’t think we should work together.” I lick melted butter off my thumb.

  He leans forward and gently sucks at my finger, his teeth scraping the pad. It should be gross or cheesy, but it just gets me hot and underscores the problem I’m going to have maintaining the kind of working relationship that doesn’t involve dancing like a porn star on his lap.

  He sits back. “I know it doesn’t look good, me showing up at your work.”

  “To be fair, you bought it. While my initial reaction was what the ever-loving fuck, I’m willing to concede you probably didn’t read every single HR file before you...” I pause. “How do you buy an entire company?”

  “Lots of paperwork, an ironclad contract and a bank wire.” He cracks a new crab leg for me. “And your understanding is appreciated.”

  “So you didn’t buy an entire company just to get in my pants.” I blame this on my third beer. Crabmeat has proved insufficient to soak up the alcohol. “Not that it would have worked. Or that I should even say that to my boss.”

  “I wouldn’t force you to do anything.” He dips the crab and holds it up to my mouth. I chew. “I’m a bastard, yes, but I limit that bastardy to one-hundred-percent legal activities. And some shit’s just not okay, even if I was allowed to do it.”

  “Great.” I swallow. “I’m glad we got that cleared up. Now, tell me how you envision the next three months playing out.”

  That sounds nice and business-y, right?

  “Do you want a contract? Or a postnup?”

  I stare at him. “Are you serious?”

  I hear the words coming out of his mouth, but they make no sense.

  “We could draw up a contract, if you want.”

  “So... I wouldn’t know what to put.”

  “Then put the things you don’t want to do. What are your limits?”

  “Like sex stuff?” This feels like one of those deals with the devil, where if you don’t spell out your demands super clearly, you end up signing away your immortal soul for a cupcake. “No contracts. I don’t usually... I mean it was fun but...”

  He shifts, stretching his legs out. His legs bump mine.

  “What can’t I do in the next three months?”

  “We’re gonna be an open secret at work, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do anything that makes people want to whip their phones out. No public sex acts or cute nicknames or anything that makes people think about the two of us being in a relationship. My recognizing you today is a little awkward, but there could be a perfectly good, non-naked reason for that.”

  He nods. “So you want me to not say anything about our marriage.”

  “Uh, yeah. That would be great. I mean it’s not even a sure thing, right? And I don’t need the whole company speculating about our sex life in the middle of a meeting.”

  “I can do that. You can have nine to five, and then I get five to nine.”

  I frown. “That’s hardly fair.”

  “You’ll have to sleep,” he points out. “Plus, it’s going to be a lot harder for me to behave myself at work than it is to play with you afterward.”

  I think he’s playing with me now. His eyes are warm and lazy as they move over my face.

  “I wouldn’t have gone out with you if I’d known you’d end up being my boss.”

  “And I wouldn’t have done it, either. Not that I’m a Boy Scout, but there’s some stuff that’s off limits, even for me.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’ll show you. Later.” He leans over the counter and settles up with our crab dealer, then stands. “Come on.”

  “I should go home.” I definitely need to get on the train because it’s late and I’m having an attack of the memories. Mostly they’re of naked Jax—on his back, on his knees, hand braced against the wall of his shower.

  I pull up the bus app on my phone. I can just catch the last bus if I hustle. The train will take over an hour and then I have to sprint off the platform, catch the commuter bus, and hope it makes it to the transfer point before the last regular bus leaves for the night. A Lyft from there will cost a fortune.

  “I could take you home,” he offers.

  It’s tempting. I mean it’s not as if he can’t figure out where I live. It would probably take him all of thirty seconds to call payroll and get my addre
ss. My apartment’s not in a great part of Richmond, however, and it just underscores the financial differences between us.

  “Or,” he continues, “you could come back with me. We could start our three months tonight.”

  “Okay. You still rent that beach cottage?” I love that place.

  For the first time today, he looks uncomfortable. “I bought it.”

  Of course he did.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Peony

  ON OUR FIRST NOT-DATE, I challenged Jax to name six impossible things that he believed in. In the weeks since I found out that my summer fling is both my boss and my husband, I’ve made my own list.

  1. My big bastard boss has a wicked sense of humor.

  2. Not every date has to end in sex.

  3. Last night was amazing.

  4. Today is even better.

  5. Sometimes pretend things feel the most real.

  6. I love Jax Valentine.

  Jax is super generous, both in the orgasm department and elsewhere. He’s also super dirty. Like the whispering filth, fingering me in public, sex-on-the-beach kind of dirty. He has all sorts of ideas about how to get me off and he’s definitely a ladies’ first kind of man. He likes to surprise me with weird, thoughtful presents. It’s kind of awesome. It’s also more than a little surreal.

  Since we skipped dating and went straight to marriage, Jax decides I deserve make-up dates. So I go to work in Hotly’s archives during business hours, and then after hours or on the weekends, Jax shows me around the city. He’s happy to take me to all sorts of places and just hang out with me, chatting about the stuff we see or weird crap that’s happened at work or on the internet. There are dozens of amazing costume shops in San Francisco and we spend hours browsing through the racks.

  It turns out Jax is a dedicated lunch maker. I’m not sure where he got the idea from, but he packs me lunch every day. He has a long way to go before he can quit his day job and become a gourmet chef, but he’s really good at Googling recipes. He follows them with laser-like precision, the cutest frown of concentration crinkling the little space between his eyebrows, like he’s assembling a barbecue or conducting a killer game of Operation. Mostly, I’ve ended up with peanut butter and jelly in my cactus-print lunch bag, but the sexy notes he tucks in with my sandwich make up for the lack of variety. My favorite so far is Have fun with the boss tonight.

  Executive summary? There’s a ton of very creative, highly satisfying orgasms because Jax is a giver in that department, too. His favorite is the long, slow fuck, and the man can go forever. Seeing as how I’m a lifelong devotee of the quickie and the hookup, this is a change for me. I’m pretty sure by now that the slow, sweet feel of him deep inside me is literally addictive and his penis releases magic feel-good endorphins directly into my vagina.

  Also? My vagina clearly is connected to my heart.

  If all the orgasms don’t kill me, there’s a very real chance that I’ll beg Jax for more time after our three months are up. I’m sort of in the mood for forever. And yet...

  He hasn’t asked me to give up my Richmond apartment. I don’t mention it because, hello, awkward. I guess I could invite him to move in there with me, but it’s a bit of a dump. At first, I make a point of going back there most nights, but it’s a two-hour commute, and since Jax makes it his nightly mission to wear me out with orgasms, I tend to pass out in his bed. I’m almost positive that he’s doing it intentionally.

  Tonight is our date night. At least, that’s what Jax calls it. We take turns planning it, but tonight it’s his turn. I got a very inappropriate email from him in my Hotly account inviting me to a sexy times masquerade on a private yacht in the San Francisco Bay. He’s attached a hand-drawn map of how to get from Hotly to the yacht, which appears to be moored at the Central Waterfront based on the very pornographic penis he’s sketched in lieu of the traditional X-marks-the-spot. Since he’s offsite today managing one of his other companies, I’m meeting him at said wharf.

  Or possibly on the moon.

  Or in a sex dungeon.

  Drawing is one of the few things Jax absolutely sucks at.

  Five minutes after his obscene invitation lands in my inbox, he follows up with a second email.

  Dear Ms. Harding, Please respond or send photographic proof of life. I can make suggestions. J.

  I’ll bet he can. I’m grinning like a loon when I fire off a return email.

  Dear Mr. Valentine, This is not an acceptable use of corporate resources ;)

  Less than two minutes later, my screen is filled with dancing, purple eggplants.

  Dear Mr. Valentine, Don’t make me call security.

  It’s downhill from Hotly to the Central Waterfront, which is a blessing. I can roll if I get too tired. Narrow Victorian-style buildings that have been divided into apartments or pricey condos line the streets, along with more modern glass-and-steel condos, offices, and a few patches of green space. Sure, it’s loud, but it’s a familiar noise, all car sounds and the Muni buses clattering along the street. A lot of it is postcard-worthy, but there’s also a handful of homeless people camped out beneath the trees. I drop a dollar into the coffee cup marked Spare Change for Beer! I know I’m supposed to donate to the programs that offer support services instead of passing out cash, but I can’t just walk past.

  The wharves jut out into the dark water of the bay like teeth in a jack-o’-lantern. It will be Halloween soon, which is the best holiday ever, so my mind’s completely in that headspace. Jax has already promised to dress up as Captain Jack Sparrow and reenact my favorite movie scenes, although this is probably because I had my mouth on his dick when I asked.

  The wharf-teeth are lined with boats and the odd sea lion sunning itself. Most of the sea lions hang out by Fisherman’s Wharf, so these are clearly the loner seals. I like them already.

  Jax is sprawled on the grass, either waiting patiently for me or napping. He’s got his eyes closed, his arms stacked beneath his head and his long legs stretched out in front of him. He cracks an eye when I crash land on his chest, his arms coming around me.

  “You would not believe the day I had.”

  “Do tell.” He regards me with lazy heat, cupping the back of my head with his hand. His fingers find the sore spots at the top of my neck and press gently.

  “My boss came onto me. I had to put him in his place.”

  He laughs and pulls me down for a kiss. It starts out mostly PG but then I get ideas, or he does, and we’re going at each other. There may be some rolling around on the grass and body parts grinding on each other.

  “You’re never gonna train your boss at this rate,” he grumbles when we finally break apart.

  I flop onto my back and stare up at the sky. I point at a plane going by overheard leaving a trail of puffy, white exhaust. “Where do you think that one’s going? And do you think the people up there are peeping down at us and warning each other ‘Cover the children’s eyes!’”

  “Los Angeles. Vegas.” He rolls, shoving to his feet like a big cat. “Tokyo. And yes. You’re a bad influence, Mrs. Valentine.”

  “I blame you, Mr. Harding.”

  So far, neither of us has won the battle of the last names, but it’s shaping up to be epic.

  He grabs my hand and pulls me along the wharf. We’re waved through a locked gate and then he lays in a course for the big-ass boat moored at the end of the pontoon. Of course he can’t own a nice, manageable dinghy. He has to have a big, sleek number that looks like it belongs on the cover of a boating magazine.

  “People are going to think you’re compensating.”

  “Take your shoes off.” He’s already removing his motorcycle boots.

  “As you command, oh bossy one.”

  I plop down on a leather-covered bench and do as ordered. As practical as they are, my sneakers aren’t boat-wear.

 
It turns out that one person is enough to crew Jax’s boat, although he presses me into service. I’m promoted to Vice President of Ropes while he gets to be the CEO of the Wheel. Childishly, part of me wants to take issue with his being the self-appointed leader, but I don’t know how to drive the boat and he does. He takes us out into the bay, laying in a course for whatever destination he’s decided on, while I lean over the side and try to touch the water without falling in. The Bay Bridge looms over us and then we’re underneath it, the cars speeding by overhead sounding thunderous as they cross the metal plates.

  When we’re out the other side and conversation is once again possible, Jax shoots me a look. “Did your boss drive you nuts today?”

  “He needs to stop distracting me with sex when I’m trying to work. Plus, what if someone else read that email? Aren’t they stored like forever in the cloud or on a server?”

  I’ve read news stories about politicians and celebrities who don’t grasp this concept and then their private shit ends up on display for the entire world to enjoy.

  Jax fiddles with the boat controls and then holds out a hand to me. I let him pull me into his lap and then wriggle around until I’m as comfortable as a girl can be with a massive hard-on prodding her butt.

  “Do you want it?” He secures me with one arm, keeping the other free for what I assume are boat-related emergencies.

  “I feel the need to ask you to clarify. We are talking about sex, right?”

  He hesitates. “No.”

  “Jax?”

  “You can run Hotly. It’ll be yours.”

  I can feel my jaw drop exactly like in the cartoons. “I’m the freaking archivist. And where will you be?”

  His arm tightens around my waist. “You’re worried about what people there will think when they find out we’re in a relationship. This solves that problem. I’ll step back and you’ll step up.”