Elusive: Princess Presley Duet Book 1 (Full Circle Series)

by S. E. Hall

  “Ohhh… now I get it, my bad. So what you’re saying is, we’re gonna trick Presley Beckett, and what, just cross our fingers and pray we come away with our balls still attached? No way I’m doing any such shit, man.”

  “Don’t be such a pussy. I need ya on this one.”

  “You need your goddamn head examined. Let me think about it, see if I can’t come up with something not quite as manipulative. Dangerous. Dumb as fuck. Stand-by. And did I mention how glad I am to see that you totally ignored my advice, again, to give up for good. Glutton,” he mumbles, then hangs up, and I just grin… knowing he’ll come through for me.

  Chapter 10

  Presley

  “Remind me one more time; you know this guy how?” I quiz JT from the backseat as he drives.

  Why I’m still bothering with my whole asinine “Project Pretend to Date,” I’m not sure. Oh wait, yes I am… ‘cause I’ll be damned if I’m gonna hand anyone the ammunition to suggest I’m flaky, or callous, ever again. If I give it a decent effort, they can’t say I didn’t try. But no sense in going nuts with it, voluntarily meeting up with could-be-serial-killer strangers, which is why JT and Bellamy are joining me tonight, on what I’m betting will be another disaster of “a date.”

  “Jesus, P, the usual I guess. School, parties, mutual friends, I don’t know, I just do. Seriously, relax. He’s a good guy, and we’re right here with you,” he answers.

  “Just seems odd that such a ‘good guy’ wouldn’t call, text, or reach out to me himself to make plans. Or plot twist, ask me if I want to go out with him.”

  “Not that you’d have had my ass if I just gave him your number or anything,” he scoffs, “making it a blind date, hence, the blind spots. But you asked us to set you up. So that’s what I did. Set it up.”

  Bellamy turns in her seat to look at me. “Granted, I’m no expert on dating, but I promise, you have nothing to worry about. Jefferson would never put you in harm’s way.”

  “I know,” I blow out some of my nerves and sit back, searching for even a shred of optimism.

  “Presley, if you don’t want to do this-”

  “No, I do,” I stop her before she can air my every misgiving, abruptly changing gears. “His name’s Mike, right?”

  “Yep,” J pops.

  “And? What else ya got?”

  “He meets all your specs. In the right age range, never been married, no kids, clean background, and his hair’s a lot shorter than yours. He’s not though. Short, that is. Much taller than you.”

  “Ev-”

  “Yes, even if you have heels on.”

  “Who chose bowling, you or him?”

  “Why?”

  “I asked first. You or him?”

  “Me. Public setting, lots of people around, well-lit. Give ya a safe feel.”

  “Perfect answer, and thank you for considering all that. Exactly why I was hoping it was his idea, would’ve said a lot for him.”

  “P…”

  “JT,” I mock his tone of exhausted dread. “Don’t go throwing yourself from the moving car just yet, it’ll be fine. I’m starting to realize, slowly but surely, that apparently, my standards are unreasonable. So, calm your moobs, I’ll give him a chance.”

  ****

  “Since I don’t know what good guy looks like, ball’s in your court, matchmaker. You see him?” I ask JT, the three of us milling about, ‘cause chillin’ in the front of a bowling alley’s a super-fun thing people do.

  He scans the place for the umpteenth time. “Nope, he must not be here yet. Come on, let’s go ahead and grab a lane.”

  Off to a stellar start... he’s late.

  “Hey, how ya doing? Can we get a lane?” JT does the talking at the counter. “We’re meeting someone here, so if a big dude comes in and mentions the same, can you let him know where we’re at?”

  “Big dude, got it. What size shoes can I get ya?”

  Hadn’t even thought of that… thank God I happen to be wearing socks.

  JT pays — rather than my date doing so, going on the list I’m already compiling — and we head toward our lane.

  I must say ‘What now?’ with my face — I’ve been told it often speaks for me — because Bellamy snickers and helps me out. “Step one, sit down and change your shoes.”

  Makes sense. “I knew that, was just about to,” I lie, feeling quite the jackass. “Um, is there some top-secret, “Brotherhood of the Bowlers Members Only” trick to putting these things on?” I’m grunting, all my shoving and attempts at contortion failing.

  Bellamy flits her eyes left, right, then leans in and whispers, “yes, but don’t ever let them know it was me who told you, or they’ll revoke my membership. The key is… you have to get your actual shoe size.”

  “Psstt… fuck right off, I did that. I said ‘eight.’ I wear an eight. And lookie there,” I point to the number on the back of the shoe, “I’ll be damned, it’s a fucking eight!”

  “Guess they run small.” She shrugs. “Or it’s just you. Mine fit fine. Either way, no biggie. Quit being such a sourpuss and go exchange them.”

  “Be right back,” I grumble, putting my perfectly-sized shoes back on.

  “We’re gonna go pick out our balls while you’re at it,” JT says.

  I lift an arm over my head in acknowledgement, already trudging my way back to the counter. And while dragging ass, I give myself a talkin’ to. This was my idea — dating, not bowling— so no one else is to blame, or deserving of my foul mood, and I need to flip the switch on bitch-mode.

  Besides, every great love story had to have started somewhere. Who’s to say my destiny isn’t destined to blossom in a bowling alley?

  “Can I please get these one size bigger?” I ask, forking over the incorrectly marked pair.

  The problem is — I wander back to my thoughts — I don’t want a great love story. I want to have mind-blowing sex with Sutton, say, once a week, then bid him adieu until next time. And perhaps, now that it’s been brought to my attention, a dog. Nothing more. Nothing complicated or risky. Nothing I don’t deserve. That is my destiny.

  But of course, despite knowing the path I’m meant to travel, I had to veer off course and take a liking to the one guy on the planet all up in his “feelings.” Okay, maybe not the only one, or even close, seeing as how every man I know is ate up with the fucking feelings. My father? Mad about my mom, at first sight, blinded for life. Uncle Dane? Madman. Or, as Aunt Laney calls him, Caveman. Indeed, one-of-a-kind, and more than in love with his wife. Zach, Judd, JT… the same… feelings, feelings, feelings. And my favorite real-life fairy tale of them all: Uncle Evan. Thought Aunt Laney broke his heart, until Aunt Whitley came along and showed him what holding his whole heart in her hands, having the power to truly break it, really meant.

  It’s all their fault; trying to infect me with their sappy examples.

  Well, I’m not having it. Not happening. Can’t happen. I refuse to allow it.

  “Miss? Your shoes?” The attendant reminds me what I’m here for, giving me a questioning look.

  “Sorry, thanks.” I snag them and rush away, but as I near our lane, my steps falter, an unnamable sensation slithering its way up my spine. No JT or Bellamy in sight — how long can it possibly take to pick out a friggin’ ball — but there is a new arrival; huge guy, back to me and hunched over, placing his ball on the rack thingy. With a really nice ass.

  No big deal — his presence, not his ass… it’s a pretty big deal — or need to stand here like a socially-inept idiot until they get back; I’m perfectly capable of introducing myself to someone. I take a few steps toward him, wiping the sweat off the hand I’m about to extend on my jeans, and he turns around… that unnamable sensation suddenly making perfect sense, and getting named — anger. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Well hello to you too,” he laughs, smirking at me. “My name’s Sutton Ellis and I’ll be your date this evening. I enjoy concerts, horseplay in swimming pools, impromptu backyard b
aseball, beautiful brunettes with sass for days… and bowling. You?”

  It’s no easy feat, but I manage not to smile, or laugh, reminding myself that I’m mad. Livid. This is treason. Conspiracy. Absolutely unacceptable.

  And so damn hard to resist.

  He’s just so… Sutton. Smart, gorgeous, charming… and a sneaky bastard. I use that feature as my fuel to jump back on track, and the defensive. “I’m gonna-”

  “Bowl.” He crowds my space, finding my hand with his and bringing it up to his mouth for a kiss. “You’re gonna bowl, Boss.”

  “You mean Hot Shot.” I realize too late I’ve whispered.

  “I do?” He cocks his head, leveling me with a humored, flirty grin.

  “Yeah. You only call me ‘Boss’ when we’re about to attack together, on the same side. We are so not on the same side right now. ‘Hot Shot’ is for banter, sarcasm, and fighting. This is a ‘Hot Shot’ moment. We. Are. Fighting.”

  His grin spreads… beautifully, dammit. “Since we’re fighting, I probably shouldn’t admit this, but, you’re right, Hot Shot. And don’t mind admitting this part at all, like hearing that you pay such close attention.”

  “Don’t read too much into it.” I aim for a dismissive tone and roll my eyes. “I have ears, you talk out loud, doesn’t take a lot of effort.”

  “About that…” he inches closer, eyes hooded. “I’m a reader. Like to read, in fact. Love to fill in the parts the author doesn’t tell you outright.”

  “Swear to,” I shake my head, “you are the deepest dude in the world. Always with the talking, thinking, and now reading? You wear me out.”

  “Really? Tell me more. I wouldn’t know how that feels,” he quips.

  “I’m not trying to wear you out. I’m trying to leave you alone, remember? It’ll work better if you don’t lure me in under false pretenses!”

  “Didn’t say I minded.” His deep, seductive gravel clinks against my armor.

  I shake my head again, taking a step back. “Nope, not doing this. Joke’s over, you can tell JT to come out now. Save me some time, chewing both your asses at once, then I’m outta here.”

  He cinches his hold on my hand and tugs me flush against his big, solid frame. “He left, and you’re not going anywhere. You wanted to date, so date. Me.”

  “Because you asked so nicely?” I sneer.

  He chuckles lightly as he wraps an arm around my waist, resting his forehead on mine. “I don’t ask questions I already know the answer to. You would’ve said no, so I had to get creative. You’re already here.” He rubs the small of my back. “Will you please stay, at least try to have fun?”

  “I won’t have to, I always have fun with you, Sutton. That’s the problem!”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “I’ve told you, more than once. At this point, we’re talking in circles,” I groan in exasperation. Big mistake, because naturally, it’s followed by an inhale, bringing with it a gulf of his unique scent — man, a dash of cologne, testosterone, and him — bombarding me, an immediate, sizeable dent in my defenses.

  “I’m okay with that too.” He tucks me impossibly closer to him, skimming his nose along my jawline. “Because, circles never end.”

  Chapter 12

  Sutton

  I should pull away. Leave her hanging. Starved. Or even a fraction as agonized as she always leaves me. Anything other than ravish her right back, meeting her tongue lashes and demanding more.

  Fuck me if I can resist her though. Anyone else, I’d stand a fighting chance, but I’m defenseless when it comes to Presley Beckett. She’s it — the one — put on this earth for me… and made to bring me to my knees.

  But I got to at least try to maintain a shred of dignity, so I shove both hands in her hair and tilt her head back to kiss down her neck. “Friday night, seven o’clock. Picking you up, for a date.” I edge, sucking the race in her pulse. “That you know about and agree to. That you want to go on, with me.”

  “Okay,” she too-easily agrees in a sexy moan.

  I raise my head and glide a hand down to the back of her neck to do the same to hers, forcing eye contact. “That you, or your pussy talkin’?”

  Crude? Yes. Offensive to eleven out of ten women? Probably. Presley? Grins, slow and devilish, odd delight in her eyes. “Both,” she answers. “I’ll even do you one better. Your bike, sexy as hell. You on your bike? Even sexier. But having sex on your bike? Not sounding near as fun now, I’m already uncomfortable,” she snickers, soft and feminine, sliding her hand under my shirt and up my chest. “Let’s go home, to my apartment, and you can park out front… overnight.”

  I smile, aware of the bigger message hidden in what she said, determined to make her actually say it. I grab the collar of her shirt and tug it down, just as roughly yanking her bra to the side, giving me one perfect, exposed tit to suck. She has the best fuckin’ tits — well over a handful, soft and natural, responsive, and so goddamn gorgeous. “Why am I parking overnight?” I ask around a mouthful.

  She arches her back, offering herself up, and moans, “‘cause you’re spending the whole thing with me.”

  “You want me to stay all night, Sugar?” I flick my tongue against her peaked nipple. “No changing your mind? Kicking me out after you finish coming?”

  “All night. Staying, and coming,” she grasps for breath, and my head, hauling it up to attack my mouth. Her kiss is drunken, lazy, gently invading… as if she means it. And too soon, yet not at all, she robs me of her sweetness and begs, “Sutton, take me home. Hurry.”

  ****

  I don’t care if her whole family sees my bike sitting out front, all damn night, and obviously, neither does she — which says so much more than she probably realizes. Better still, it’s her that takes me by the hand, and leading us to her door — also speaking volumes. Seventy-five percent of communication is non-verbal, and my Hot Shot just told me, twice, I’m making headway on that seemingly impenetrable “wall” of hers.

  Once we’re inside, I take over, scoop her up by the ass, supporting her trademark, favorite of mine, leap into my hold. She winds her legs around my waist and fights to get my shirt over my head as I carry us to her bedroom.

  She wriggles down me, wanting set on her feet, so I allow it; only for the fact it’ll make undressing her easier. “Arms up.” I sound depraved, deprived, both, and have her shirt off the second her arms are in the air. “Goddamn, what you do to me,” I grumble, reaching behind her, and with one deft flick, unfasten her bra. “Now let it fall.” Eyes on mine, she lowers her arms, giving a little shimmy to her shoulders until the black lace hits the floor. “You’re exquisite, Sugar.”

  I crook my finger, coaxing her closer, ready to finish my assault on those pretty, pebbled nipples. But she has other plans, moving in fast, making even quicker work of my belt and button-fly.

  “Wh-” My words die out, killed by shock, and uncontrollable urgency, the instant she drops to her knees, dragging my jeans and boxer briefs down with her.

  “There is something about you, Sutton Patrick Ellis, beyond compare,” her silky purr is loaded with innuendo, her eyes roaming over my dick, hard as granite, standing up and out for her.

  I can’t peel my eyes off the sight of her skimming the tip of her tongue from base to tip of me, paying special attention to the engorged vein, obliterating my ability to stop her, see to her first. She thrills off my depraved groan and goes in for the kill, taking as much of me as she can deep into the hot heaven of her mouth in one greedy plunge.

  My Hot Shot doesn’t ever do anything half-ass, giving bomb-ass ballcap certainly included. It feels fucking amazing — dick plus chick’s mouth equals amazing, is a pretty concrete formula — but this is Presley, on her knees for me. She defies theory, formula… incomparable to any other.

  “Fuck, Sugar.” Again, my grunt spurs her on and she tightens her lip lock around me, every muscle in her jaw, tongue, and throat working my cock, and sanity. She’s determined, a perfectionist
, not satisfied ‘til she’s tested my will to the point of madness. And from our past encounters, she knows what I crave most, the drug that sends me shooting over the edge every time... her dirty mouth.

  She breaks suction with a wet “pop” and peers up at me, brown eyes brimming with downright witchery, a smug grin curving her swollen lips. “Am I doing it right?” she asks in pouty, pretend ignorance, jacking my aching hard-on with a firm grip while she waits for my reply.

  “It feel like it? You wanna play, or you wanna suck that cock?”

  Her eyes instantly blaze with a familiar flame of challenge and she says no more, lowering her head to deepthroat me… swallowing with hard purpose.

  “Goddamn, you know just how I like it,” I growl, holding her hair out of the way and my perfect view, giving it a tug.

  That does the trick — she’s all done with the tease, the buildup — solely trained on showing me what she’s got… an airtight seal and appetite.

  I steal control, fucking her face, only letting up a few times so she can catch her breath. It’s not long before my balls draw up, heavy and ready to unload. “Gonna come, Sugar. You want it or not?”

  Her ‘yes’ is to bob her head faster, and as if in rhythm with my long howl, I shoot endless ropes of thick, hot cum down her throat then stumble back a step in sated delirium.

  That satiation, however, lasts all of thirty seconds… and I need my turn of her, hungrier than ever. Starving. Ravenous with reminder of the spell only Presley Beckett can weave just so. As though reading my mind, or more likely, feeding off my energy, she inches toward me.

  For less than a thirtieth of a second, I worry, but the thought may somehow “jinx” things, but it’s already formed — seems I just may affect her in mysterious ways as well — ‘cause I’d bet a limb she’s never taken any other man’s boots and socks off, while on her knees, before.

  “Don’t get used to this,” she balances the act out with some of her sass. I’d expect nothing less. Actually, might feel ripped-off if I didn’t get all of what makes her… her.

  Once she’s stripped me bare, I wordlessly offer her my hand. Unusually silent as well, she takes it, and my help, to rise to her feet. Keeping our eyes locked, lids now draped lazily over what are now my favorite shade of sultry surrender, I run a hand down her stomach.