Back then, she hadn’t had a clue what she was doing. Neither had the swimmer, for that matter. She hoped a six-pack didn’t come at the expense of knowing how to treat a woman in bed.
Well. She’d find out soon enough.
She continued to look on, riveted as Ian next stripped off his jeans, leaving him with a completely discernable thick rod that bulged out from his boxer briefs.
“Red,” she said, remarking on the color of his underwear. “My favorite color of wrapping paper.” Fortunately this wasn’t a gift she had to wait to tear into.
She got up on her knees and crawled over to him so she could help him remove the packaging from his package. “Jiminy Christmas,” she said when his cock popped out, stiff and long.
“It’s all yours.”
Thank god, because she wanted to lick that thing like it was a candy cane. Gripping him at the base with one hand, she leaned forward so she could wrap her lips around his crown before dragging her tongue down the length of him.
“Yes,” Ian hissed. “Just like that.” His lids shuttered as she took him all the way into her mouth, sucking him and teasing him until he was throbbing.
It wasn’t too long before he pulled away.
Jane batted her eyes up at him. “I was enjoying that, thank you very much.”
“So was I. Too much.” He kissed a trail up her neck. “Now, let me enjoy this.”
He pushed her back down on the bed and crawled over her. His lips never left her, gliding over her skin, down her neck, to her breasts then returning to her mouth before setting off on another journey of her body.
As he explored her with kisses, his hand found its way between her legs. His thumb brushed against her clit, too softly at first, and she was just about to correct him when he pressed harder.
She moaned.
Then, she moaned again when his fingers slipped lower. Slipped inside her. She didn’t know how to describe the sound she made when he rubbed against her sensitive wall and increased the pressure on her clit. What she did know was that this was one area where Ian needed absolutely no instruction.
In fact, she thought as she threw her head back in ecstasy, he could charge for this.
When she came down from her orgasm, Ian was settling between her thighs. His cock nudged against her, rubbing her tender nub in such a way she was already on her way toward another O.
Ian’s lips tickled at her ear. “Jane. I didn’t—. Do you have…something?”
“Top drawer!” She’d exclaimed it maybe a little louder than she’d needed do, but she was worked up and desperate to have him inside her. She was also impressed that he’d been the one to mention a condom. She couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t the one insisting that her partner suit up.
She’d praise him on that. Later.
Now, though, her mouth was busy suckling on Ian’s shoulder while he donned a raincoat. Then he was pushing at her entrance. Gliding in with one long stroke.
They groaned together in unison.
He felt big inside her. Big and wonderful as he rocked in and out. Did sex always feel this good? She couldn’t remember it ever feeling like this. Like, perfect. As though they were made to be wrapped around each other. If this were a test for compatibility, Ian would pass with flying colors.
If only they were this compatible in other areas of their lives.
She didn’t want to think about that. She wouldn’t think about it. She’d only think about him, above her, inside her.
She brought her knees up around his waist, allowing him to sink deeper. They moved together like that, in sync, until she came again.
Ian followed soon after, his whole body shuddering as he rode out his release. When he’d finished, he kissed her again, lazily now.
As her breath and heartbeat returned to normal, even as her hair was still damp from the snow she’d been half-buried in, Jane laughed a little to herself.
Apparently there were other ways to warm up besides hot chocolate.
Seven
On a normal year, Jane was nearly breathless with anticipation about her Christmas décor dinner party.
The party followed the same standard pattern each year—champagne cocktails and carols while everyone admired the greenery. Next, a beet and spinach salad, chosen for the perfect holiday colors it displayed. The entrée was a seafood risotto. After some chitchat around the table, Jane turned off all the lights, leaving nothing but the candles lit, and then turned on all the Christmas lights.
With the place suitably lit for Santa, everyone enjoyed another round of drinks and a dessert buffet. The food was catered, but Jane would never dream of giving up the Christmas baking.
Cut and frosted cookies, various rolls and pastries, mincemeat mini-pies and spiced cupcakes—visions of those beat out sugarplums any day.
So as she piped the final touches on a batch of snowman cookies, yes, she was anticipating the beloved tradition of food and wine with friends, and the inevitable compliments about her interior. But this year, she could admit, her stomach was extra fluttery, not just because her house looked better than ever, but because of the added component—one delicious Ian Brooks.
Her nerves at how they would be received as a couple and her anxiety over seeing him again now that they had slept together layered together like the famous baumkuchen she’d spent the entire morning baking a quarter cup at a time.
And she was as eager to pull this off as she was to eat the almond-flavored cake.
A dollop of buttercream dripped off the end of the tip of the pastry bag, and Jane smiled. It reminded her of the look on Ian’s face when he told her about the buttercream on her lips when they met—intense, and a little charmed. Which basically summed up how she felt about him, too.
She’d be disappointed once this whole charade was over, she realized as she licked a smudge of frosting off her little finger. Gutted, actually. Maybe they could still have a relationship after the job ended, but, really, how would that work? How would Ian ever fit into her life on a permanent basis? He couldn’t lie about who he was forever, and she’d never come clean about this ruse.
The truth was simple–this was temporary and she had to face that. It was probably for the best anyway. Her thoughts strayed to him and what they had shared in bed far too often since he’d left the evening before. As the New Year came in she’d have so much to occupy her time. Jane had promised to spearhead a committee to help fundraise for new seat upholstery at the symphony. It was a cause close to her heart for its connection to music, and close to her rear for the number of times she had uncomfortably perched there. She simply would not have time to moon around when there was work to be done.
So that was that. No matter how painful it felt to think about now.
And she really shouldn’t be thinking about it now. Not today. She had a party to put on.
A final dusting of sprinkles, and she’d have exactly enough time to freshen her makeup and pour a glass of wine before Ian showed up.
Except the buzzer rang before she even had a chance to remove her apron, something she had not noticed until she’d answered the door and Ian’s eyes strayed to her ruffled waist as he held up a bottle of wine. How very embarrassing, to be caught like that. Her mother was likely spinning in her grave right now. With a silent apology to Mother and one smooth motion, she removed it and invited Ian in.
With the door still open, he said, “You look beautiful.” He leaned in and she thought he might kiss her, kiss her for real and not for show, but just before their lips brushed, her eternal frenemy Parker came trilling “hellooooo” up the steps.
“Parker, so lovely to see you,” she said, noting with great satisfaction that her rival’s skirt was wrinkled. Clearly Parker was slipping. Jane wouldn’t be caught dead in public looking rumpled.
Then again, before last week, she wouldn’t have thought she’d be caught in public doing anything untoward. Astor & Black was clearly prized for their discretion as much as their suits. Hopefu
lly Mr. Jacobson was equally discrete.
“And who is this?” Parker asked, tossing her shoulders back to best display the bosom everyone in Boston knew she’d received as a push present after having her son.
“Ian Brooks,” Jane said. “My…well. We’re in a relationship.” She’d rehearsed this, introducing him as her boyfriend. Why did it feel so awkward to say it now? It should feel more natural since they’d slept together…since they’d taken a turn for the romantic.
Except, had they really?
Everything was just so confusing, but here he was holding up a bottle of chilled white like an utter gentleman. “Ladies, may I open a bottle for you?”
Jane felt herself relax. His manners were impeccable. She had nothing to worry about as far as his performance was concerned.
Then she caught a glimpse of the label.
Oh no. No one, no one was drinking chardonnay from this year at her party. That wasn’t even wine, it was grape juice! These ladies hadn’t saved up their extra calories all month to be served anything less than ten-year old Italians.
“You may not,” she told him, just as Parker said yes please. He winked.
“It’s no trouble, really.”
Well, too late to do anything about it now. Jane reluctantly pointed him to a wine key, wondering how exactly she would pass off this faux pas when someone inevitably noticed.
“Check this out,” he said, and Jane actually flinched as he screwed the corkscrew into the foil without removing it, then popped the cork out through the resulting ragged edges. Thank goodness at least the label faced away, so Parker had yet to notice the swill she was about to be served.
“I didn’t know you could do that!” Parker said.
Neither did I, Jane thought grimly. And never hoped to know, either. How déclassé.
“You can, and it saves you a lot of trouble. Ever cut your thumb on the little knife? Or worse, the foil? Say farewell to those bad boys.”
Parker was clearly delighted. So delighted, luckily, that she appeared to be drinking the wine without a peep as to its origin. “Well, typically I don’t open bottles of wine myself. Can I tell you a little secret? I actually really just love a good margarita,” she confided as the buzzer rang again.
Great. The person she wanted to see least was here first, drinking what barely passed as wine, and now everyone was arriving. Jane still didn’t even have any mascara on, and she wasn’t about to slip away now.
“Hello, Olivia, Susan. Oh, is that Tinsley coming up the walk? Tinsley! Merry Christmas!” she called. “Drinks will be served in the kitchen, as usual, I just need to uncork the bubbles.” Ideally, the promise of champagne would keep them all well away from the wine.
And had she really heard Parker Winthrop admitting to a secret love of margaritas? She was shocked anyone of their class would say such a thing, but particularly Miss Prada herself. Wonders would never cease, it seemed.
Truly, margaritas were best left to sororities and Cancun resorts.
Once the drinks—the proper Kir Royale drinks—were in hand, Jane felt better. This was how things were supposed to be going. The amount of scrutiny on Ian was just fine—a healthy curiosity tempered by good-enough manners so as to never appear intrusive.
“Janie!” She always cringed when Susan called her that, but one did not correct Susan Tagliatelle. “I’m telling you, you have utterly outdone yourself this time around. This is by far my favorite décor reveal you’ve hosted. To tell the truth, things had been starting to look a bit stale.”
“So stale,” Parker agreed.
“I have been bored for the past three years,” Tinsley declared.
“Well, I have Ian to thank for the shake-up,” Jane said brightly. Stale? Absolutely not. These women weren’t big Christmas fans, was all. They were more New Year’s people—glitzy, social, and only sparkly on the surface. Any true Christmas devotee understood the value of tradition in a holiday.
“It was my pleasure,” his deep voice cut through her thoughts, “I’ve never been afraid of a little hard work. Really, hanging lights isn’t any harder than laying bricks. Jane has a great eye for this sort of thing.”
He beamed at her, as though he hadn’t just made a reference to the kind of grunt work a well-brought up Boston boy would never have had to do. Why, oh why, hadn’t he made a sailing reference instead? Now that was work a rich man could be proud of doing.
“Ian’s parents were big on building character in the boys,” she said, swallowing her annoyance. They would discuss this later, certainly.
Although, as it turned out, they had plenty more to discuss later. For example, tucking one’s napkin into one’s shirt collar was acceptable at a crab boil—not at a lobster risotto. Perhaps the Irish did not eat risottos, Jane was not certain, but really, he could take a cue from the rest of the table, each guest placing their own napkins into their laps.
Jane was able to whisk the napkin away and down, but she wasn’t altogether certain it had gone unnoticed.
Luckily, the ceremonial lighting went perfectly, and as always, the women pretended to be horrified by the amount of carbs on the dessert table while simultaneously inhaling all of them.
In the kitchen, while making a pot of coffee to mix with amaretto, Jane took a moment alone to take a deep breath. It was, perhaps, the first one she’d taken in two hours. A door opened and closed, but she ignored it. Ian had shown his background a bit, but she felt certain it was something she could salvage.
A few well-placed words in Susan’s ear, perhaps about the sick father, and he’d be forgiven everything. Perhaps they could even invent a summer home upstate that could account for his general demeanor of folksiness. It was a good thing he’d slipped up now so they could work on these details before the wedding next week.
The door sounded again, and suddenly cold hands wrapped around her waist.
“I think it’s going wicked good, huh?” Ian asked. In his regular dialect.
“Ssh!” She looked around to be sure no one had heard him and was relieved to find they were definitely alone. “It’s going okay, yes. Here, do you want to grab a couple mugs for me?” Her body belied her words as she leaned back into him, relishing his sandalwood scent and feel of his arms. Yes, he was a dangerous distraction, indeed.
“I actually came in to find out where you keep your shot glasses,” he said.
Confusion flooded Jane’s face at his words. She turned to face him. “My—I’m sorry, I thought you said shot glasses.”
“I did.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle of Jose Cuervo. “The girls and I decided it was time to kick this shindig up a notch. Oh, here, we can just use these teacups.”
And with that, he headed back out to the living room to serve her upper-crust ladies who lunch…cheap tequila shots. The horror!
So much for salvaging his errors. Jane was never going to live this down.
Eight
“She said she liked tequila! You were right there!” Ian yelled.
The last guest had left only half an hour before. Jane had immediately launched into her evaluation of Ian’s performance that night, as one does with an employee. Apparently, the man wasn’t good with criticism.
“And I like Cheetos, but it doesn’t mean I whip out a bag at the country club! There’s a time and a place, Ian, and this was neither one,” Jane said. Hissed was maybe more accurate. It was uncouth to yell. What would the neighbors think?
Well. That was if they’d had any nice thoughts about her left in their heads after this December. First, Mr. Jacobson had watched her roll around in the snow like a common streetwalker. And then the entire street saw Tinsley Winterbottom exposing her bottom when the tequila shots had turned into a game of Truth or Dare.
“Care to enlighten me on when the time and place is, then? Because at a party is generally exactly right on both counts.”
“Will you quiet down?” Jane asked. “There is a difference between a frat party and a dinner party. Not t
hat I expect you would know. “
This was possibly her fault. She hadn’t covered that in any of their talks. To be fair, it never seemed like the sort of thing that would be necessary to cover.
This was such a preposterous fight to be having. She was merely trying to explain to him the myriad of reasons he had disappointed her at dinner. And he was behaving so defensively. As if he wasn’t even in the wrong.
Wrong. He was.
“Oh, right, because Southie boys never go to dinner parties, huh? That’s—that’s—that’s literally all Thanksgiving is, lady. A freaking dinner party! Where we eat off the good china and we drink wine with our meal, and then football comes on, and we deploy to the living room for laughs and drinks.”
“That’s different, and you know it.” Completely different.
“No, it’s exactly the same.” He stared her down, but she wasn’t blinking.
“Thanksgiving is for family, not for people you are trying to make a good impression on.” Now her voice was rising a little bit, and she made a concerted effort to take a deep breath. Osbornes did not lose their cool. Ever.
“Right. Family. Tell me, ice princess—were they the ones who taught you to act like this?” He was glaring at her, and the disgust on his face hurt more than she wanted to admit to herself.
“My family taught me manners and class, yes,” she said icily.
“So then you’d probably be trying to impress them too. When do you go off the clock? When the hell do you ever stop worrying about what everyone else is thinking?” He slammed his hand down on the counter in frustration.
“When they’re thinking the right thing!” Jane slammed her hand down too, equally frustrated. It felt kind of good, even.
“And who dictates the right thing? You? Because I can tell you what those women were thinking. They were thinking tonight’s dinner was an obligation, and nothing at all memorable, just like every single year. They were thinking it was a nice change to do something fun for once.”
Holiday for Hire Page 6
