Bad Engagement (Billionaire's Club Book 10)

by Elise Faber

  Glanced down to see he’d tugged open the button on her shorts.

  Her breath caught at the sight of his hands just below her navel, broad fingers tugging the pull of her zipper down. He spread the fabric, denim worn so often over the years that it had grown soft, that it was thin and fraying.

  “Unicorns.”

  He smiled, pressed his lips against the fabric of her underwear, bright purple and dotted with dancing unicorns.

  It wasn’t sexy or skimpy. But then again, she hadn’t expected to have a man between her thighs that morning.

  Her hands slid between them, self-consciousness bubbling up, wanting to cover up the ridiculous fabric, but then Jaime took her hands, pressed them, palms flat, against the door.

  “I like it,” he murmured, the words coming against her skin, hot and damp and making her need spiral up and out of control. She barely felt when he lifted one of her feet then the other, tugging off her shoes and chucking them aside because his lips were moving in time with his hands, sliding up, nudging her tank top out of his way. He gripped the arms of her hoodie and that too disappeared, then her shirt was tugged over her head. “Unicorns,” he said, still speaking against her skin, still moving up, only this time he pushed her bra out of the way. “You’re the unicorn, my beautiful, sweet Kate.”

  “I’m not—”

  The sentence didn’t get a chance to form because then his mouth closed over her nipple.

  Her words devolved into a moan. Her hands went to his hair, gripped tight.

  Thankfully, Jaime didn’t stop. Instead, he continued drawing on her nipple, shifting so he could take the other between thumb and forefinger, rolling gently at first, then harder until she was moaning, her hips bucking, her pussy clenching because she needed . . . more.

  She needed him.

  As though she’d spoken aloud, he began sliding his hand down her side, insinuated it between them, between the fabric of her underwear and her shorts, and cupped her.

  “No,” she gasped, fingers still tight in his hair.

  He growled, nipped the underside of her breast. “No,” he agreed. “Skin.”

  “Yes,” she moaned. “Please, Jaime.”

  One shove had her panties and shorts around her ankles, another abrupt movement had them tugged off her legs. One more had her thighs spread wide.

  His eyes met hers, fire in those pale brown depths, and held for a long moment. Then he dropped his gaze, and she felt the slow slide of his heated stare drift down her neck, caress over her breasts, trace over her stomach, dip lower, and hold.

  “So pretty and pink and glistening.”

  She choked but didn’t have time to say anything because Jaime was already moving, shifting forward and lifting one of her legs so it was over his shoulder.

  And then his mouth was on her.

  Or rather, his tongue.

  He traced it through her damp folds, sliding over her sensitive labia, until he pressed the flat part to her clit, firm and sure and making sparks flash behind her eyes. Not rushing, but moving slow and steady, his caresses designed to discover exactly what she liked and then using the knowledge ruthlessly.

  She’d been turned on from the moment he opened his car door and she saw it was him. She’d been wet from the second his palm had touched her thigh. She’d been on razor’s edge from the instant her nipple was drawn deep into his mouth.

  So, it was no surprise that his tongue on her clit, its rhythm perfect, and his finger circling the entrance to her body before pushing slowly inside would catapult her over the edge in mere seconds.

  She exploded, pleasure coating her skin from head to toe in wave after wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss.

  Thus was the power of Jaime.

  Thirteen

  Jaime

  She was asleep in his arms.

  Which was so not his plan.

  It was also so much better.

  She’d come on his fingers, his tongue, crying out his name. He’d never thought he would be the type of guy who would crave a woman saying his name, but Jaime couldn’t deny that hearing it roll off Kate’s tongue was music to his ears.

  Then again, anything she seemed to say was music to his ears.

  To his soul.

  Sappy.

  But finding a good woman would do that to a man, especially one as beautiful and wonderful and lovely as Kate.

  He’d carried her to the couch, had wrapped them both in a blanket, though he hadn’t needed anything more than her naked body pressed to his in order to be warm, to be scorched through down to the bone.

  Her eyes had stayed closed, and she’d cuddled close and . . . he’d lost another piece of himself.

  Fingers sliding through her hair, gliding down her arm, taking full advantage of the fact that she was asleep, that she trusted him enough already to have let exhaustion and pleasure take her over while in his arms, to study her closely. She appeared unguarded, and just so damned young.

  They were the same age, and when she was conscious, that similarity was obvious, made clear by the shadows present in her eyes, the tension in her frame.

  But like this, expression gentled, sleep making the rosebud of her lips shape into a tiny O every time she exhaled, and Jaime thought that she could be much, much younger.

  Maybe not in age but in spirit.

  Smiling when he thought of what her response would be to that—she’d tease him and his poetry skills, of that he had no doubt—he stayed in place, stroking her hair, watching the sun get a little higher, the sky a bit brighter before she stirred, nuzzling at his throat, her breathing changing from to slow and steady to slightly faster.

  Then she froze, ramrod stiff in his arms.

  She was awake.

  And naked.

  Conscious that she might be feeling uncomfortable, he slipped out from beneath the blanket, careful to leave it covering her, then made his way into the hall.

  Panties tangled with her shorts, both shoved in the corner.

  Bra one way. Her tank top the other.

  He gathered them all up and snagged her hoodie, which had somehow ended up on the coatrack, then headed back to her, setting them on the couch next to her.

  She was staring out the front windows when he walked in, gaze on the lush greenery that was dotted with purple flowers, jumped when he placed the pile on the cushion beside her thigh.

  Her eyes flew to his, a blush crept into her cheeks. “Jaime—”

  He ran his knuckles over her cheek. “I’ll go make some coffee.”

  “I—” Teeth digging into her bottom lip.

  “Coffee first,” he murmured, running his thumb lightly over her skin.

  More hesitation then she nodded.

  He went back into the hallway, moved to the opening he’d spied on his limited travels, and moved to the Keurig. Opening a couple of cabinets led him to a set of purple glasses lined up neatly next to a stack of purple plates.

  Her favorite color is purple.

  Remembering her quick recital from the other night had him smiling.

  It seemed that her favorite extended to plates and cups. His eyes flicked to the right.

  And coffee mugs, he realized, reaching past the tidy rows of purple drinkware to retrieve a pair of lilac ceramic cups, plunked them on the counter, and stuck a mocha pod in the coffee maker, then set the machine to run. Once it was working, he slipped out the front door and retrieved the bag of pastries, pleased to find out there were more than crumbs inside.

  By the time he made his way back to the kitchen and was placing a slightly squished pumpkin muffin, an apple turnover with one end broken off, and a peppermint scone on the plate, Kate came in, fully dressed.

  Now that was a disappointment.

  The color was still high in her cheeks, but her eyes when they met his were soft. “Sorry, I fell asleep on you,” she murmured. “I . . . um . . . didn’t get much rest last night.”

  He set down the bag, crossed over to her.

 
“My fault,” he said, tracing a hand down her arm, relieved when she didn’t back away, when she let him lace his fingers through hers and hold tight.

  “No.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “Mine,” she explained. “I keep waffling between guilt at lying to my family, thinking that I should just stop this madness and confess the truth.”

  “By stop this madness do you mean stopping . . . us?”

  “Jaime,” she said and sighed. “I like you. I really do. But I don’t lie to my family.” A shake of her head. “I never have, and to lie about something this big.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I wanted the setups to stop, that’s it.”

  The back of his throat burned, and he wanted to shout at her, to demand she acknowledge this, that they were more than just a lie.

  But he needed to stay calm.

  So, he gritted his teeth, sucked in a long, slow breath through his nose. One. Two. Three. Holding it in his lungs before releasing it just as slowly. Out. Two. Three.

  Then he asked, “And the other thing?”

  Her gaze came up, eyes sliding to his, questions in those whiskey depths.

  He took solace in the fact that their hands were still laced together, squeezed her fingers lightly. “You said you were waffling,” he murmured. “What was the other thing you were waffling with?”

  Bright white teeth pressed into a lush, rosy bottom lip.

  “Kate,” he warned, using his thumb to free it, unable to stop himself from stroking his finger across the plump, lickable surface.

  She shuddered. “God, I like it when you touch my lips like that.”

  He grinned. “Then keep biting them, and I won’t be able to resist.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed hard.

  “Kate.” Another warning, one that had her eyes flashing with fire, annoyance entering her tone.

  “You haven’t earned the right to give me orders,” she snapped.

  He dropped his hands to her waist. “Well, then tell me what you’re waffling with, Red. The lying to your family and what?”

  A mulish expression on her face.

  His fingers tightened.

  Just slightly, but enough that he felt her shiver. So, his Red liked it when he gripped her hips. Not that he didn’t like it. Hell, just putting his hands on her made his cock hard. Still, it was another piece of the Kate puzzle and as thus, he filed it away.

  Along with the image of gripping those hips and thrusting deep.

  “What, Red?” he asked again, forcing himself to focus.

  “I’m torn between the lie and wanting what’s between us to be real!”

  It was a burst of noise, of words, and combined with her yanking out of his hold, of moving away from him, it took Jaime a second to process.

  By the time he did, she was at the counter, shoving another pod into the Keurig.

  “I—” Slam. The top went down. “Kate—” She kept her back to him and hit the button, the coffee popping and hissing. “I’m—” Scrape. The plate slid back onto the counter.

  And that was about all of the interruptions he could handle.

  He closed the distance between them, coming close just as she spun around, just as she began to speak. “I—”

  He sealed his mouth over hers.

  Stiff. She was stiff against him for a single heartbeat. Then she melted, hands coming around his neck, and kissed him back, her tongue a scalding brand, her luscious curves pressed close. He’d been dipped into a vat of molten steel, his body burning up from the inside out, boiling with need, his nerves firing, his cock hard and aching.

  She pulled back, chest heaving.

  “I want us to be real,” she said. “I want it so fucking bad.” Her fingers tightened. “I want it because you’re nice and funny and kind and gorgeous. I want it because you seem to like me. I want it because you’re sexy and kiss me like you think I’m the same.” Her eyes drifted away. “But at the same time, I know I can’t want it because it won’t last.”

  Desire blazing through his mind, eliminating his brain cells, but he still managed to ask, “Why, honey? Why do you think we won’t work out?”

  She pulled back, and though it was difficult, Jaime made his hands release her.

  A stumbling step away, a shaking hand pushing her hair off her face. But then her gaze was back on his, and the bleakness in it stole his breath. Because she’d already written their ending, even as they’d just barely begun.

  Her words confirmed the sentiment.

  “Because anytime someone says they want me, they never mean it.”

  That was a fucking punch to the gut.

  “Red,” he murmured.

  Her eyes closed and he watched her shoulders lift and fall on a long, slow exhale. Then she spoke, and it was like her tone had taken a one-eighty. “Anyway,” she chirped. “That’s just reality in dating in this world of Tinder and technology. Everyone has a short attention span and is always thinking of the next great thing.” A shrug, her hair whipping as she spun back to the coffee maker. “How do you take your coffee?” She giggled, and it wasn’t gentle or sweet or anything like her normal husky laugh. The rough sound cut through him like a dull blade. “I’m guessing black because I’ve seen the hair on your chest in your pictures.”

  Since she was doing a damned good job at having her conversation by herself, Jaime just leaned against the island counter and crossed his arms.

  Then waited.

  “Or maybe one sugar.” Another false giggle. “Because you’re so sweet.” She nudged the plate holding the pastries. “Or at least have a sweet tooth based on the sheer volume of sugar on this plate.”

  Kate picked up the plate, brought it to the island. She didn’t look at him as she set it on the island, nor before she turned and went back for the mugs.

  Nor when she then set those on the counter.

  “Do you want the turnover or the scone?” she asked. “Because this pumpkin muffin is mi . . . ne?”

  Her statement ended on a halting question.

  No doubt because her eyes finally made it to his.

  “Who hurt you?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Who hurt you?” he repeated. “You keep talking about our end before we’ve even begun. I’ve told you, I’m not interested in ending anything, that you already mean something to me”—he uncrossed his arms, ran his knuckles over her cheek—“I want to prove that to you, but I won’t be able to do it if you keep pushing me away before I can.”

  “Jaime,” she breathed.

  “I know,” he said and took her hands in his, pressed them to his chest. “I know we’re new. I know trust takes time to build. But I also can’t prove that you mean something important and big and wonderful to me if you won’t let me in.” He slipped one arm around her waist. “Just crack the door, Red. Just the tiniest bit. Ride this wave with me. Let me in so I can show you.”

  She dropped her forehead to his collarbone. “I’m scared.”

  “I’m here,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

  “But for how long?”

  Forever.

  That was what he wanted to say, to declare, to force her to believe.

  But how could he say that? How could he possibly make her understand that when they were so new, when she’d clearly been so hurt?

  When pushing her to open herself wide may expose those wounds to the air?

  He couldn’t.

  He just needed to keep practicing patience, to keep showing her that he was there, that he wasn’t like whoever had injured her heart, and hope that someday she would see that he was different and recognize he was worth the risk of dropping all of her barriers.

  “Okay,” he said on a long slow breath. “I get it. I understand and I’m not going to keep pushing you to tell me something you’re not comfortable sharing.” He touched her cheek. “You don’t have to tell me who hurt you, but Red, can you just give me a chance? Can you just let us have some time to learn each other before
you end us? We haven’t we even had a chance to begin.”

  “Jaime,” she breathed.

  “Please,” he said, aware that he was pushing, even though he promised he wouldn’t, that he was making his own crack in her barriers and shoving himself through.

  Less patience than persistence.

  But he couldn’t make himself stop.

  The reason for that made itself clear when Kate and her kind soul gave generously again. The woman who’d cared about his pain in the car. The one who’d worried and texted in the night. The one who looked up at him gently and nodded, lifting her hand and pressing it against his cheek before she leaned close, brought her lips to his, and whispered, “okay.”

  Then she kissed him.

  Sweetly. Gently. Kindly.

  Even when she was scared, she gave. Even terrified, she’d cracked the door to her heart.

  She’d thrown a lifeline to a begging man.

  There was no fucking way he was going to waste that.

  He was going to make damn sure he gave back.

  Fourteen

  Kate

  She lay in bed that night, hours after Jaime had left, hours after she’d eaten a delicious pumpkin muffin and he’d had an apple turnover.

  Hours after she’d made a promise to herself to stop thinking about the inevitable end of her and Jaime and how she knew it would be more devastating to lose him than it had been to lose any other relationship. Hours after she’d decided to focus on enjoying the time they had left.

  “Fuck,” she muttered, punching her pillow and tossing and turning in her bed.

  Her very expensive, supposedly the world’s most comfortable pillow. Her pricey mattress. Her ridiculously overpriced linens that were cozy and fluffy and normally had her sleeping like a baby.

  Well, like a baby that wasn’t little Lacy, up at all hours.

  But instead she was awake, the fucking broken record of fear and end cycling through her mind.

  Jaime had gone into his clinic about an hour after they’d eaten together, after cleaning the dishes and mugs, after putting his muscles to excellent work by digging a series of holes for the new plants she’d planned on purchasing later that day.