Shameless (Playboys in Love #1)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  “Jane and I have a good thing going with our no-strings arrangement. I don’t see any reason to fix what isn’t broken.”

  Roman scoffed. “I’ll give you a reason. Jane’s not the kind of girl you can treat like a casual fuck forever. It might not be today, and it might not be tomorrow, but eventually she’s going to want more. And if she doesn’t get it from you, there’ll be plenty of guys lined up who are more than willing to give it to her. I can name at least five in this room alone.”

  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I scan the basement, scouring for signs of who Roman is referring to—the ones who would take Jane from me given the chance.

  Fuck that. She’s mine, goddamn it, and they can keep their filthy paws to themselves or suffer dismemberment.

  “I gotta go,” I say, my eyes landing on Jane. “You guys know the way out. See that you find it.”

  Stalking across the room, I reach where she’s sitting and interrupt Derrick. “Sorry, D, but this interview is over for now. If Jane needs anything else from you, I’ll let you know.” Without waiting for a response from either of them, I grab her hand and pull her to her feet before leading her up to the kitchen on the main floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “I took too long. It’s late, and we’re in your house, and—”

  “I don’t care about any of that.” I can’t take another second of watching someone else touching and flirting with what’s mine.

  She’s looking up at me, waiting for an explanation of my actions—one I’m still trying to wrap my own head around—when she brings her hand up to cover a big yawn. I glance at the clock on the stove. Ten p.m. She’s worked two jobs today and then sat in on our meeting and interviewed a dozen people. It’s a wonder she’s even standing.

  “You’re beat. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

  Jane stares at me in surprise. We haven’t spent the night together before. Not really. Last week when I’d brought over Chinese, we’d fallen asleep on her couch while watching TV. When I woke up at five the next morning with a blanket draped over my body, I found my dry clothes folded on the coffee table in front of me and Jane still snuggled on the other side of the couch in her robe.

  She’d woken up at some point, gotten my clothes for me, covered me up, and went back to sleep. After getting dressed, I tucked the blanket around her and watched as she brought it up to her nose and inhaled deeply. A contented smile spread over her face as she tucked the corner beneath her head and continued to sleep. I’d liked that she’d sought out my scent, and I left her apartment that morning a satisfied man for more reasons than just sexual satiation.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, her teeth toying with the corner of her lip. “I am pretty beat, but I can totally drive home if it’s an imposition.”

  I give her a small grin. “If it was an imposition, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Right, okay, I’m sorry.” She chuckles nervously, and I wonder if it’s the idea of spending the night at my house, or spending it with me that’s making her apprehensive. “Then if you’ll point me in the direction of the couch, I’ll promptly pass out and leave you to whatever it is you do.”

  “Yeah, that’s not happening. Come on.” I grab her hand again and lead her through the house. Romeo bounds up the stairs ahead of us, tail held high in excitement that it’s finally bedtime. Not quite yet, buddy. I pull Jane into my master bedroom and shut the door behind us so we won’t hear the commotion of the guys when they finally leave.

  I take the messenger bag from her shoulder and set it off to the side, along with her notebook. “Get undressed,” I tell her, “then join me in the bathroom.” I’d rather undress her myself, but if I do, I know I won’t be able to stop myself from taking her up against the wall, and that’s not why I brought her up here.

  I’ve never had a woman in my house before, since I bought it after my ex, Sandra, and I split up. This is my sanctuary, and I’ve never had the desire to taint it with a parade of random ass. But Jane’s different. Despite the fact we started out as fuck buddies, things have somehow shifted. Late at night, when I’m lying in bed and thinking about her, I tell myself that it happened because she’s the only one I’m fucking so it’s natural to feel some sense of commitment. But even I recognize that for the bullshit that it is.

  Jane is different because she’s Jane. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever dated—especially Sandra—and I’d have to be dead not to get attached to her.

  Running the water in the huge, custom-made, claw-foot tub, I dump in a couple of cups of the powdered mixture of lavender milk that I make myself. It’s relaxing and keeps my skin soft and smooth so that I don’t have to use lotions. Go ahead and call me a fucking girl, or tell me I have a vagina for taking milk baths, but my day job wreaks havoc on my skin, and I have an aversion to rubbing greasy shit on my body. I have to make sure I’m supremely touchable for the stripping gigs, and I found this alternative regimen that works for me. So, suck it.

  “Chance?”

  I turn to see Jane standing in the doorway, gloriously naked, with questions in her eyes. I reach out, and she walks over and places her hand in mine. I love that she comes to me without hesitation, so trusting and willing.

  “In you go, sweetness.” She gingerly steps in, then sinks into the milky water with a contented sigh.

  “Oh my God, this is absolutely heavenly,” she says, tipping her head back to rest on the curved edge of the tub as she closes her eyes. “Any objections if I set up a permanent residence in your bath?”

  I chuckle as I close the door to keep the heat in and Romeo out, then turn the dimmer switch on the overhead light fixture to its lowest setting—just enough to see by without the glaring brightness. “I’ll call the post office and have them forward your mail to my master bathroom.” She giggles, but even that sounds tired and reminds me that I’m in here to take care of her so I can tuck her into bed.

  With me.

  I promptly shuck my clothes and lower myself in on the opposite side of the tub, stretching my legs out on either side of her. She’d bent her legs to give me room when I got in, but I want as much of her submerged as possible, so I pull one ankle to rest on my upper thigh and set the heel of her other foot on my stomach. Then, under the water, I use my thumbs to knead her aching foot.

  Her eyes fly open as she lets out a gasp that instantly turns into a moan. It’s not a sexual one, but my dick is having a hard time telling the difference. Stand down, asshole. Not tonight.

  “So, I don’t mean to sound judgy or anything, but…” She’s trying to hide her amusement about something. “A milk bath? Really?”

  I grin at her question. “You suck at not sounding judgy, but yes, really. I don’t like the way lotions feel, and the lactic acid is great for the skin.”

  “I knew it.” She sits up so fast the water almost sloshes over the side. Pointing a finger at me, she says excitedly, “I knew the first night I met you that you had to have some kind of skin care regimen. You felt way too soft not to. I suppose when you have as many women touching you as you do—”

  I don’t want to talk right now about all the other women who get to touch me, so I dig one of my thumbs into her arch and her subsequent groan cuts her off, just as I’d intended.

  “Holy shit, that feels amazing,” she says.

  I smirk. “You tell me that all the time, and yet it never gets old.”

  She rolls her eyes and flicks some water at me, and I chuckle at both my own joke and her reaction. “You would turn that into a sex compliment.”

  “Of course I would. I’m a crass Neanderthal who only thinks about one thing. I’d hate to ruin my rep by not rising to the occasion. No pun intended.”

  I set that foot down and start working my magic on the other one. I watch her through the thin veil of steam as she draws her bottom lip between her teeth. The hair around her face is damp and moisture is beading on her skin, making it glow in the low light.

  “Then why are you
doing all this?” she asks softly.

  The mood has shifted from playful to serious, and I have to make the decision to let it ride or shut it down. So naturally, I stall. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Chance, you know what I mean. The invitation to stay, the bath, the foot rub. These aren’t the actions of a guy who’s only thinking about one thing. So, what gives?”

  I look down at the milky water where my hands are working on the arch of her foot. I feel as though her eyes are peering straight into my soul right now, and I’m not even sure if I’m ready to see what’s in there, much less allow her to.

  When I don’t answer immediately, she continues. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything. I’m just trying to understand what this is, because it doesn’t line up with what you originally said you wanted.” I hear her take a deep breath, then she finishes with a hesitant note in her voice. “I don’t want to make any assumptions that might ruin things with you. I don’t want to lose y—what we have.”

  I snap my gaze up to hers when I realize what she was going to say. I don’t want to lose you. I expect it to hit my panic button, to feel that pressure in my chest of being trapped, but it never comes. Instead, I get a little heady knowing that she wants me. And not only in a sexual capacity. She may not have said that in so many words, but I’m not an idiot, and I know how to read between the lines.

  Jane wants me. Me.

  I think.

  Fuck, now I’m starting to doubt myself. I can’t remember the last time I felt insecure over a girl. Scratch that. I’ve never been insecure over a girl, not even my ex-fiancée. When I realized she didn’t want me for who I am, I packed my shit, told her she could pawn the ring, and got the fuck out.

  But now I’m finding myself in a predicament where I like a girl—really fucking like her—and I’m not sure if she feels the same about me. I know she’s into my body and what I do for her sexually, but I’m not a guy known for my deeper substance, so why the fuck would she want more from me?

  How ’bout you take your balls out of your purse, put ’em back where they belong, and find the hell out?

  My subconscious can be such an asshole sometimes. But it’s never wrong.

  “C’m’ere,” I say, leaning forward and pulling her over to my side. I situate her in my lap with her back pressed to my chest, and grab the sponge from the ledge behind the tub. Gathering her hair, I drape it over the front of her left shoulder before I guide her head back onto mine. I love how she melts into me with a sigh, and I press a tender kiss to her right temple then seal it there with my cheek.

  “Mmmm, you’re spoiling me, Mr. Danvers,” she says. “Keep it up, and I’ll want this sort of treatment on a regular basis.”

  Her mouth is quirked up on one side, and I can tell she’s trying to inject some humor, a defense mechanism for trying to open things up a minute ago. She probably expects me to jump at the chance to make a joke and erase any hint of seriousness. But having her in my arms like this, in my house, in my tub, makes me feel ten-fucking-feet tall, and I’ve decided that I like that feeling too much to go backward.

  “Well, Ms. Wendall, you’ll be happy to hear that I kind of like spoiling you, so anytime you want a milk bath and foot rub, you just say the words.”

  “Funny,” she says, “but you actually sounded serious when you said that.”

  “I am serious.” Soaking the sponge in the water, I run it up her right arm and then back down. Then I do the same to her left arm. When she still hasn’t spoken, I try elaborating. “I know we agreed to no strings, and I think I speak for both of us when I say it’s been fucking fantastic. But I don’t know…” I shrug, moving her head in the process. “Now I’m thinking that maybe it doesn’t have to be only about the sex.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” she asks carefully.

  I watch my hand as it drags the sponge over her clavicle and upper chest. “Meaning I like you, Jane. I like spending time with you whether I’m balls deep inside your tight little body or we’re watching reruns of The Dukes of Hazard at two in the morning. So, I’d like to spend more time with you. Take you out on a real date to a restaurant that doesn’t serve pancakes, or any other kind of breakfast food, so you’re not reminded of work.”

  I take a moment to enjoy the light tinkling of laughter that escapes her as she opens her eyes and peers up at me through wet, spiky lashes. Damn, she’s stunning. I abandon the sponge and bring my hand up to cup her jaw. “I want to be able to spend nights with you in my bed or me in yours. Doesn’t have to be an every night thing, but I’d like the option, if that’s something you’d be okay with.”

  “I’d be very okay with that,” she whispers. “I really like you, too, Chance.”

  Jane smiles at me, full and wide, and I swear the room actually brightens. I told myself coming up here that I wasn’t going to start anything with her—and I’m still not—but I need to kiss her more than I need my next breath right now, so I do. I lower my head the couple of inches and press my lips to hers.

  That’s when I feel her hand snake between our bodies and close around my cock.

  Fuck. Me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jane

  Chance likes me.

  I have no idea how I got so lucky, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, much less punch it, so I’m going to do the smart thing and take this one day at a time.

  His thumb brushes over my cheek as his mouth descends and takes mine in a sensual kiss. Instantly, my body reacts. I feel my nipples pebble and my breasts grow heavy as I arch my back and they break the surface of the water. I move my right hand behind me and wrap it around Chance’s hardening cock, needing him.

  He groans at my touch, but then pulls my hand away and wraps me up with our arms, holding me tight against him. As he dips his face into the crook of my neck, I feel his chest expand with a deep breath before it shudders out on a long exhale. “I didn’t bring you up here for that, sweetness.”

  I’m temporarily distracted from my mission by his use of the endearment. I’ve come to adore it, but the idea that it’s something he uses without discernment causes a twinge of resentment each time he says it. “Is using nicknames like ‘sweetness’ a professional necessity so you don’t accidentally call a woman by the wrong name?”

  He raises his head and looks me in the eyes. “No. I’m always present enough in the moment to remember a woman’s name—if nothing else, she deserves that from me—and I’ve never been one to use pet names. But somehow calling you ‘sweetness’ came naturally to me, Jane, and now your name is the only one I remember.”

  And with that, the last of my inner cynic swoons and faints dead away. I’m officially a goner for this man. I don’t know how to respond without sounding like an emotional and much less eloquent Juliet to his badass Romeo, so I communicate with my hips and remind him of what we both want. He inhales sharply and presses his forehead to mine.

  “You’re making this awfully fucking difficult, Jane. I’m trying to be good. You’re tired. I wanted to take care of you and tuck you into bed with me.”

  My heart swells at least three times its normal size. The fact that he’s trying to abstain from sex—something he clearly wants, if the erection prodding my lower back is anything to go by (and it is)—to “take care of me” is the most romantic thing he could do right now. His actions are backing up his words, and that’s something that means a lot to me.

  Justin always claimed how important I was to him, but I was never a priority, a fact that was never more evident than the day he told me he was taking a job clear across the country, knowing full-well I couldn’t leave Chicago until after I’d finished my degree. And it’s not like it was even a better job. It was a lateral move to a company in Los Angeles where there was “better weather” and he could “finally learn how to surf.”

  The serious boyfriend before that left me “to focus on his career,” too, except I discovered that his career’s name was Candy a
nd she had fake DD boobs and a Brazilian butt lift. So, it’s fair to say that I have issues when men I’m with choose other things (or women) over me.

  It’s why Chance’s side job as a stripper-for-hire has started to really bother me. The stronger my feelings for him grow, the more I hate the thought of random women groping him as he pretends to seduce them with his mostly-naked body. And that makes me ill. It’s similar to a woman worrying about her man cheating because she was once his mistress and knows there’s a chance of history repeating itself. Chance and I got together because I was a client—albeit an unknowing one—so who’s to say he won’t meet another woman the same way?

  I have to wonder why he still does the job at all. It’s certainly not because he needs the money, and if he likes dancing that much, he could go to one of the city’s dozens of clubs. Is it the female attention? The rush of hearing their outrageous reactions to every little thing he does? Are they able to give him something I can’t, satisfy him in a way I never can?

  These are the things running through my mind every time I know he’s at a gig, and I can’t even say anything about it because our sexual exclusivity has no bearing on the other aspects in our lives. At least it didn’t. Now that we’re moving from casual lovers to something a little more substantial, I have a feeling my insecurities will get worse, not better.

  But the last thing I want to be is that girl who nags her man about things he’s been doing since before they were together. And he doesn’t deserve to have the sins of the men who came before him dumped on his doorstep. Just because my previous boyfriends chose other things over me doesn’t mean that Chance will do the same.

  That’s why, though it’s on a much smaller scale, Chance putting my immediate needs above his is a gesture that truly touches me. And that makes me want him actually touching me all the more.

  “You have taken care of me, and I loved it,” I say, turning my face to place a kiss on his forehead. “But now I want to take care of each other.”