“This is about you.”
She started to argue, but he lowered his mouth to hers and swallowed her words with a hot, deep kiss. One taste of him was enough to drive whatever point she’d been about to make from her mind forever.
They’d kissed thousands of times, but still, every touch of his lips, his tongue, to hers was stunning in its heat and intensity. Riddick kissed her as if his very life, his next breath, depended on it.
She uttered a small sound of protest as his lips left hers, but that quickly turned into a moan of pleasure as his mouth moved purposefully down the length of her body, pausing briefly, teasingly, on each nipple, before sliding down her belly, down the length of her legs, all the way down to her toes.
He worked his way back up over her calves, moving her legs apart as he went until he was nestled between her thighs. “I love the way you taste,” he whispered. She shuddered as his breath blew gently across her heated, already-soaked flesh.
His first slow, long lick made her stomach muscles tighten and her hips jerk off the bed. But when he gently sucked her clit into his mouth, she was lost. Completely mindless.
He brought her to the brink again and again, until she was sweating and her legs were shaking, until she begged him to fill her and fuck her and end this delicious torment. She cried out his name in a hoarse groan as he sank two fingers into her, unerringly finding the spot that always made her toes curl.
“Come for me,” he growled. “Now.”
And she did.
Really, it was the only thing he ever ordered her to do that she did willingly. Every time. And not even the staunch feminist in her felt the slightest bit bad about it.
Before her breathing could return to normal, he knelt above her, looking like a rumpled, sleepy-eyed, Greek god. Her rumpled, sleepy-eyed, Greek god. And that’s when she remembered.
He was going to marry her. She was getting married.
Harper jerked up, and in a few quick, limber movements, he was flat on his back and she was straddling him. “Oh, my, God, we’re getting married!” she squealed.
He laughed as she dropped kisses all over his face, his neck, his chest. “So, I’m guessing you haven’t changed your mind, huh?”
She sat up and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Are you kidding? After that? No way am I ever letting you go.”
His eyes moved over her hair and face as if he was memorizing every line, every curve. “I’m a lucky man, Sunshine.”
She gave him her best naughty smile. “Not yet, but you will be.”
His eyes darkened as he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her, then groaned as she wrapped her fingers around him, guiding him into her wet heat. They both shuddered as she sank down and he slid home.
When she would’ve moved hard and fast, Riddick gripped her hips and forced her into a slow, deep rhythm that made her wonder if a person could OD and die on too much pleasure. The effort to keep going slow made a sheen of sweat break out over both their bodies.
He must’ve sensed how close to the edge she was, because he slipped a hand between their bodies. It took only one brush of his thumb over her sensitive flesh to break her.
His own control seemed to snap at that point, and in no more than three deep, hard strokes, he joined her, her name falling from his lips as he came.
Harper collapsed against him. Riddick wrapped his arms around her and threaded his fingers through her hair. They held each other like that for about twenty minutes before Harper asked, “Feeling tired enough to get some more rest now?”
She gasped as he flipped her to her stomach and pulled her up on her knees. “Not just yet,” he said as he slid into her from behind. “But maybe we should keep working on it.”
“Oh…my…God,” she cried out brokenly. “Absolutely…genius.”
Three hours later, Harper wasn’t sure if Riddick was any closer to a restful state, but since she’d come so many times she’d lost count and couldn’t feel her legs anymore, she wasn’t sure how much more she could do to help.
He was lying flat on his back, pulling her hair idly through his fingers while she was splayed across his chest. “I guess we’ll have to pick out rings at some point, huh?” she asked.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered. “First I ask you to marry me on the floor of a strip club, then I forget to give you the ring. Why the fuck do you tolerate me?”
“Um…besides the fact that you just made me come so much that I’m dehydrated?” Then his words really hit her. “Wait…you already have a ring for me?”
She hated that her voice had taken on the tone of a pre-teen at a One Direction concert, but hey, weddings and the idea of sparkly rings did that to her. Shoes, too, but that was another story.
He eased her off him, then leaned over the edge of the bed to grab something. When he rolled back toward her, he was holding the most gorgeous ring Harper had ever seen.
“This was my mother’s,” he said, sliding it on her finger. It fit perfectly.
When she remained silent, he started looking nervous. “If you don’t like it, we can get something else.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I just thought…shit, I don’t know. It looked…like you.”
Harper felt tears stinging her eyes and her bottom lip started to quiver. This ring was probably all he’d ever had of his mother, and he was giving it to her.
The stone was the most brilliant, vibrant orange she’d ever seen, and at least two-and-a-half carats, pear-shaped. The setting was white gold and vintage-looking, fashioned in the shape of an intricate vine, winding around her finger all the way up to just below her second knuckle. It was ornate and completely unique, somehow managing to look elegant and flashy and dramatic all at the same time.
In other words, he was right. It was totally her style.
“I love it,” she murmured. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
He breathed a relieved sigh and grinned at her. Her own breath caught in her throat. Shit, if she could bottle that smile and weaponize it, women of the world wouldn’t stand a chance.
“What kind of stone is this?” she asked. Not that it mattered. She was probably one of the few girls in the world who would say that orange was her favorite color.
“It’s a diamond. Natural orange, according to the jeweler I had appraise it. He seemed weirdly excited about it.” Riddick shrugged. “Said it was pretty rare.”
Harper almost laughed out loud at the thought of Riddick in a jewelry store. She briefly wondered if the appraiser thought he was being robbed before Riddick handed the ring over. Even she had to admit that while he was a good guy at heart, his face and body had bad guy written all over them.
“If it’s rare, and obviously a family heirloom, are you sure you want to give it to me?” she asked. “What if something happens to it?”
He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. “It’s only a piece of jewelry. I’m not worried about it. She’d want you to have it, anyway.”
“Do you think she’d like me?”
He gave her his crooked smile. She sighed. That one was her favorite. “How could she not love you?”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Damn it, there were those tears again.
Then he said something that made her blood run cold.
“So…,” he began, his blue eyes twinkling with pure mischief. “Do you want to tell your family tonight at dinner?”
Harper groaned and pulled the covers up over her head, ignoring his answering laughter.
Chapter Four
Riddick wore the shell-shocked visage of an avalanche survivor.
Harper knew this look well. She’d seen it on the face of every outsider she’d ever brought to one of her weekly family dinners.
Poor Riddick.
Harper knew that on a normal day, her family was…quirky. Maybe a little dysfunctional.
But on a day like today, they could really only be described as a train wreck. In the middle of a quagmire. At the end of a complete clu
sterfuck.
First of all, her mother had taken one look at her and started squealing like a schoolgirl while jumping up and down, which Harper had suspected might happen. One of the dangers of having an empath for a mother was never really being able to surprise her—or keep a secret from her, for that matter.
That in and of itself wouldn’t have been a problem, but after totally blowing the surprise for everyone else, she spent the rest of the dinner yammering about pretty grandbabies and tales of her own pregnancies and breech deliveries.
And in Harper’s humble opinion, the word episiotomy should never be uttered during polite dinner conversation.
Harper’s brother and uncle made it clear—numerous times—that if Riddick ever hurt her, they’d kill, dismember, and bury him where no one would ever find him. Not necessarily in that order.
Her grandfather expressed similar thoughts. At least Harper thought he did. She wasn’t sure if he threatened to poison Riddick and make him into sausage that he’d feed to his dogs…or if he asked him where the nearest goat farm was. Her Italian was pretty rusty.
Her cousins used offering congratulations as a ploy to molest Riddick. She was pretty sure Selena tried to slip him the tongue, and she saw Teresa grope his ass. Twice.
But Riddick took it all in stride until her sister started in with the wedding questions.
Had they chosen a date? Would they have Father Luciano marry them? Who would cater the reception? How many people would they invite? Could her dog Boscoe be a ring bearer? Which photographer would she hire? How many bridesmaids would she have?
The list went on and on, and Riddick looked a little more nauseous with every question. Clearly, he thought the hard part had been convincing her to marry him.
Little did he know, that was the only easy part of this whole ordeal.
He didn’t try to snag the keys from her as they left her family’s restaurant, which was weird. Riddick always wanted to drive. He said it was because her disregard for speed limits and right-of-way was scary, but Harper knew it was really because her vintage Mustang was all kinds of awesome. So, the fact that he was willing to ride shotgun tonight without putting up any fight spoke volumes about his mood.
She glanced over at him as she slid the key in the ignition. “I’m sorry about all of that. Are you totally freaked out about all the wedding stuff now?”
He sighed and pushed his hands through his hair. “A little, I guess. I’ve never even been to a wedding. I had no idea how much planning…and just…shit went into them.”
He still didn’t know the half of it. His naiveté was kind of adorable, really.
Normal weddings were stressful. But a wedding in her family? Well, those usually reached a whole new level of bat-shit crazy.
The act of creating seating charts alone had driven more than a few of her relatives to drink, disown, or assault each other. All three in the case of her second cousin, Sylvie.
And here was Riddick, an orphaned only child, marrying into a family that had generation upon generation of crazy, all up in your business with an opinion about everything. No wonder he looked like he might throw up when her sister was talking.
“Look,” she said, grabbing his hand. “I don’t care about any of that shit. I just want to be married to you. We could go to Vegas right now—to hell with all the pomp and circumstance— and I’d be the happiest woman in the world.”
His brow furrowed. “Do you really mean that? Or are you just saying that because I felt like throwing up the whole time your sister was talking?”
Harper grinned at him. “Just you and me and an ordained Elvis impersonator? Sounds like heaven to me.”
He released a huge sigh of relief before tugging her bodily across the front seat into his lap. She laughed as he sank his hands into her hair and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Did I ever tell you you’re a goddess?”
“Maybe once or twice.”
Riddick rested his forehead on hers. “When do you want to do it?”
Her mind immediately traveled into the gutter at his words, reminding her that her mental maturity had probably peaked at the age of twelve. “Whenever you want me.”
Riddick’s eyes darkened, and she was secretly pleased that his mental maturity was apparently no better than hers. They really were perfect for each other.
His answering smile promised sex and sin and forever as he said, “What are you doing right now?”
Chapter Five
Mischa Bartone glanced down at her first paycheck from Harper Hall Investigations, trying to make sense of the memo line.
Second place: blow job contest.
Mischa had been office manager for the agency for a week, and in that time, she’d managed to figure out Harper’s filing system (tax paperwork was filed under “f” for “fuckers”), fielded calls from anxious humans who were sure their vampire neighbors/employees/employers were trying to kill them (they weren’t), and collected on three long-outstanding accounts receivable (werewolves never paid anything on time, apparently).
But for all her accomplishments, her best friend’s sense of humor still completely flummoxed her at times.
Her iPhone suddenly blared I’m too Sexy. Mischa sighed. Another of Harper’s favorite activities: grab Mischa’s phone and change her ringtone to something annoying, embarrassing, or potentially offensive. All three if Harper was on a roll.
She jabbed the call button with her index finger and without waiting for Harper’s greeting, she asked, “Why not first place?”
“Huh?”
“The blow job contest you referenced on my paycheck. Why not first place?”
Harper scoffed. “Second place is hilarious, but first place? That’s not funny at all.”
Wow, she could actually feel her blood pressure going up. That couldn’t be good. “Second place isn’t funny either!”
“Yeah, well, bygones. Anyway, listen, I have something huge to tell you. Seriously,” Harper added. “Biggest. News. Ever.”
“Uh huh,” Mischa muttered, wondering if Harper wrote little notes in the memo lines of all her accounts payable.
“That’s all I get?” Harper asked dryly. “A bored, half-assed ‘uh huh’?”
Mischa opened up last month’s bank statement on her laptop and pulled up a few pictures of checks Harper had sent out. Sure enough, the check Harper had written to the power company had “for hookers and blow” written on the memo line.
Damn it. Was she going to have to apologize to the power company on Harper’s behalf? That’d be embarrassing. In fact, she’d probably quit right now if she didn’t love Harper like a sister.
The rotten bitch.
“Seriously, that’s all I get?”
Mischa sighed again, feeling like a little piece of her soul escaped each time she did so. “Well, Harper, this isn’t exactly the first time you’ve come to me with the biggest news ever. The last time was when you told me the McRib was back.”
A pause on Harper’s end of the line. “I really like the McRib,” she eventually grumbled.
“Everyone likes the McRib. That’s why they keep bringing it back. But that’s not the point. The point is that you tend to overreact, which is why I don’t hang on your every word when you say you have the biggest news ever.”
Harper sniffed indignantly. “I do not overreact.”
No, overreact was probably too gentle a euphemism for Harper’s level of…enthusiasm for life. Drama was pretty much always her co-pilot. “Remember the time you saw Jon Bon Jovi at the airport?”
Another loaded pause on Harper’s end. “I didn’t overreact. I was maybe just a little too…fervent for his liking.”
Mischa rolled her eyes. Fervent. “And how many feet does the restraining order say you have to stay away from Jon Bon Jovi?”
“Fifty.” Harper blew out a sharp breath. “Touché.”
“Uh huh,” Mischa said, closing the online bank statement and pulling her glasses off to rub her weary eyes. “So what’s the bi
g news you have?”
“Riddick and I are getting married. The weekend after next. In Vegas.”
The glasses fell from her fingers to the desk. “Shit! Are you kidding me?”
“Nope,” she said, making a popping sound on the “p”.
“Oh my God! That’s the biggest news ever!”
She could practically hear Harper’s triumphant smile on the other end of the line. “This is what I’m saying.”
The conversation degenerated from there into a lot of squealing and giggling, but Mischa eventually got all the details out of Harper and gave her best friend in the world—her only friend, really—her blessing to run as far away from her family as she could to get married. After all, she was pretty sure she still had a little scar on her forearm from the fight that broke out at Harper’s Aunt Sylvie’s wedding.
The takeaway of that experience for Mischa was never intervene when a drunk bride threatens her new sister-in-law with a broken bottle. The takeaway for the sister-in-law was never insult a drunk bride’s choice of table runners and centerpieces.
Yeah, she couldn’t imagine the ever-antisocial Riddick lasting too long at such an event.
By the time they ended the call, Mischa was starting to feel a little…
Well, she had no idea what she was feeling. Sure, she was happy for her friend. Harper and Riddick adored each other and had fought hard for their happy ending. They deserved it.
But then there was this little part of her…a selfish, totally bitchy little part of her, buried-deep, that wondered: why her and not me? Why does she get to be happy, and I’m all alone?
Because even though she knew a happy ending wasn’t in the cards for her, having someone to go home to every now and then sure would be nice.
All Mischa had waiting for her at home was an overweight beagle mix, several recorded episodes of Game of Thrones, and a boyfriend who required charging every week.
She’d named her battery-operated boyfriend Antonio, but even he wasn’t keeping her as satisfied as he once had.
If you want someone to go home to, all you have to do is call Hunter, her lonely lady parts reminded her.
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