Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly #2)

by Lauren Layne

  The fact that other guys have touched her like this and heard those breathy little moans sends a surge of jealous rage through me, something far more intense than the sting of Yvonne cheating on me.

  The realization of just how much pull this girl has on me makes me a little bit mean. Meaner, I should say, since I’ve not been exactly kind in my effort to keep her at arm’s length.

  “What do you need?” I demand, my wrist easily resisting her efforts to push my hand back to her. “You need my fingers on you? In you?”

  “Yes!” She arches, too far gone to play coy anymore.

  Still I press her, wanting to punish her for making me desire her the way I do. “You like when I fuck you with my fingers?” I ask crudely before sliding two fingers back inside her, hard.

  Jenny gasps as I slick my fingers in and out of her without mercy.

  “What about this?” I ask, sliding a third finger into her slowly.

  She gasps again in shock. I sit back slightly so I can watch her face, watching for that ecstatic place between pleasure and pain, knowing from the wild, desperate look on her face that I’ve found it.

  Her eyes lock on mine, pleading, and I know then that I need to make her come. I need to make her come harder than she’s ever come before.

  I hold her gaze as my thumb finds her clit. I press into her, making only one small tight circle around the nub before she goes over the edge with a scream that tears right through me.

  I swear softly as her body milks my fingers, her back arching so high I think she’s going to buck me off.

  I’ve never made a girl come this hard using just my fingers. Hell, I’ve never been so close to coming without even touching my cock.

  I try to tell myself that she’s just a hot piece of ass out for a good time, but the possessive feeling in my gut hasn’t eased up.

  If anything, I feel more possessive, even more pissed that after she leaves here, she’ll find some other guy to finger her to ecstasy.

  I am in so much trouble.

  I wait until she stops shuddering before I withdraw, but the second her eyes open and her wet pussy quits convulsing around my fingers, I slide my hand away from her, unabashedly wiping my hands on my jeans.

  “How was it?” I ask, my voice a little harsh. I mean it to be.

  She looks startled when I sit up, moving away from her.

  “Yesterday you wanted to know where your kissing skills rank,” I say softly. “I want to know how my fingering skills stack up. Better or worse than that pretty boy pop singer?”

  Jenny’s lips part—in shock? hurt? anger? I don’t know, and I don’t care, I just know that I need to keep this girl the hell away from me before I lose my damn mind.

  She props herself up on her elbows, her breasts straining against the fabric of her tank top, and making me realize that I haven’t even seen her tits yet.

  Incredibly, my cock hardens even further, and I push off the bed before I reach for her.

  “Don’t worry about it, babe,” I say, adjusting my erection as I stand. “Your tight little snatch told me exactly how much you liked that.”

  “Get out,” she whispers. “Get out.”

  Yup. That seems about right.

  I deserve nothing less than a slap right now, and I’m well aware of it. Still, instead of apologizing, I turn and walk out.

  As I do, I realize that I just experienced the most intense sexual experience of my life and didn’t even come.

  Hell, I didn’t even take my fucking boots off.

  I take the stairs two at a time, hating myself, hating her for making me feel out of control.

  I barely make it in the door of my temporary home before I’ve got my hand wrapped around my cock, jacking off to the memory of her hot panting and soft cries. I imagine that it’s her hand touching me. Her mouth.

  I come with a ferocious roar that nearly splits me in two.

  And as I try to catch my breath, my hand still on my softening dick, my face buried in my elbow, I try and figure out how the hell I’m supposed to face her tomorrow.

  Jenny

  Are you feeling bad for me?

  Don’t.

  Here’s a not-so-well-kept secret about singer-songwriters.

  The bad stuff in life, other people’s oh shits—they’re our bread and butter.

  I’m not saying that we hurt less, or that we don’t wake up wanting to castrate Noah Maxwell, but the smart ones among us take all that hurt and anger and bitterness and do something with it.

  The more intense the emotion¸ the easier and better the songwriting.

  Let’s just say the morning after my bedroom incident with Noah, I do some of my best work.

  Most of the time when I’m working on a song, I’m not thinking about anything other than the way the notes fit together, or the way the last chorus changes keys, or how much rhyming is too much rhyming.

  I don’t think about how the song’s going to be received, or which one is going to be the lead single.

  I just focus on the music itself. The rest is my label’s problem.

  But every now and then I know a hit song when it pops into my head.

  And this one—this one fueled by last night’s anger—is going to be a chart-topper.

  Why? Well the melody’s catchy as heck, upbeat and a little edgy at the same time. But the theme’s also universal.

  Mark my words, “Predator” is going to be right up there with Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” and SHeDaisy’s “Earl Had to Die” on the karaoke favorites list of scorned women everywhere.

  My working title was “Bastard,” and while it certainly applies, no way that’s making it on the radio.

  But the title “Predator” is a whole other level of perfect for Noah Maxwell. I’ve never met someone quite so skilled at subtly stalking a weaker creature and watching for flaws, just waiting to exploit them.

  And this is not a hunter who seeks a quick, clean kill. Oh no. This is a man who takes sick pleasure in letting his prey bleed out.

  Only he made a misstep with me.

  He left me wounded, but far from dead.

  And now that I’ve got that song out of my system, I have revenge plans. Big plans.

  I stay locked in my room all morning working on the song, so I don’t see him until nearly three. He’s in the kitchen installing a garbage disposal in the sink he put in yesterday when I go in there to get my car keys and a quick snack for the road.

  Noah freezes when he sees me, and for a second I think maybe he wants to say something. Like, oh, I don’t know, sorry.

  He doesn’t.

  He continues fiddling with the sink as I pull half of yesterday’s turkey sandwich out of the fridge and take a bite.

  I don’t look at him, but I know he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.

  Like I said. Predator.

  I slowly eat my sandwich, followed by a handful of chips and then a handful of baby carrots to cancel out the chips, and then a glass of water to wash it down, all the while pretending I’m alone.

  It’s not that I’m giving him the silent treatment so much as I’m afraid that if I look at him he’ll sense my devious plan, and the surprise factor is key if I’m going to make this work.

  After I’ve eaten, I grab the keys for my rental car and leave without a backward glance.

  I’m gone for a few hours. I hit up the grocery store and then Target to get a new pair of flip-flops to replace the ones Ranger destroyed, as well as a couple of the plain journals I prefer for brainstorming lyrics.

  Confession: in both stores, I couldn’t resist a quick peek at the tabloid sections when I was checking out, my eyes instinctively scanning for my name or face.

  I’m delighted to inform you that I’m no longer the cover story. There was only one mention of me, a tiny right-hand mention on a lesser-known magazine with the headline “Good Girl Turned Seductress Still MIA.”

  My plan is working.

  I make a mental note to ca
ll Amber and then check in with my parents, since it’s been a few days. Strangely, though, I’m not really feeling the itch to get back to my normal life, like I thought I would. Even more strangely, this quiet off-the-grid lifestyle feels like my normal life.

  The realization is slightly unnerving, but I push it aside to be dealt with later.

  I have bigger things to worry about at the moment. Like revenge.

  My revenge plan requires only one stop, and I’m in and out in five minutes. I sing along with the radio, even one of my own songs, on the drive back from Baton Rouge.

  I fist-pump when I pull into the driveway and see that his truck’s gone. I heard him on the phone earlier today with someone, making plans to meet up for an early dinner.

  At the time I was wondering if it was a date, but now I don’t really care, except that I sort of wish I could warn the girl what she’s getting into: an A+ orgasm from an A+ asshole.

  Noah’s absence is crucial to my plan, though.

  I go upstairs to check on Dolly, giving her an extra-long potty break (while carrying my gator stick, naturally). I feel a little bad about leaving her alone most of the day, but I’m pretty sure she understands.

  She did, after all, bear witness to the, um, incident last night.

  It’s Ranger who’s the weak link in my plan, and he’s the reason I’ve got a long, boring night ahead of me.

  I spread a towel on the bed for Dolly and give her the new bone I picked up today. Then I kiss her head before changing my clothes. Everything I put on is black, from the lacy bra and panties to the cropped yoga pants and tank top. Also part of the plan. I need to be all ninja-like for this to work.

  I throw a bone for Ranger into my bag, as well as my Kindle and the supplies, before I make the trek over to Noah’s cottage.

  As expected, Ranger greets me with happy barks, and I reward him with the bone before settling in with my Kindle.

  The time passes quicker than I expect, or maybe it’s just another early night for Noah, because Ranger sounds the alarm when I’ve been there only an hour or so.

  I hurriedly grab my stuff, making sure there’s no sign of my presence before I dash into Noah’s tiny closet, leaving it open just a crack so I can breathe and see what I’m doing.

  Oh, what’s that? I didn’t mention that my revenge plan is totally creepy and a lot immature? It is.

  Don’t care.

  I stand still, my body humming in anticipation, as Noah comes in the door.

  “Hey, boy,” I hear him say quietly to Ranger. “Where’d you get that bone, huh? You steal it from the stupid cotton ball?”

  I roll my eyes. Sure, my dog’s the stupid one. I saw Ranger barking at his own shadow the other day.

  I hear the clatter of keys tossed on the table, followed by what sounds like the sloshing of liquid into a glass. Whisky? I saw some Jim Beam on the counter when I first came in.

  Then there’s nothing, and I frown.

  This is the part of my plan that gets a little tricky.

  If he decides to settle in for a long night of watching TV, I’m totally screwed. I need him to get close to the bed. Close enough for…

  I’m in luck.

  So much luck.

  Noah wanders into my line of sight, moving to the bed and setting a glass on the nightstand. I’m right about the whisky. He opens the nightstand drawer and pulls out a book before kicking off his shoes and settling back on the bed. He tosses aside a bookmark, then folds one arm behind his head.

  It could not be more perfect if I’d planned it.

  The universe is clearly giving me its blessing for what I’m about to do, because even Ranger’s not giving me trouble, far more interested in the bone I paid $7.99 for than me hiding in the closet.

  Or maybe he too knows that his master deserves what’s coming.

  I take a deep breath, silently, so as not to tip him off.

  Go time.

  I burst out of the closet and launch myself at Noah.

  I hear him mutter “What the fuck?” a split second before I’m on top of him, my knees straddling his hips.

  He’s stronger, but the element of surprise makes me faster, as does the fact that I’ve been planning this moment in my head all day.

  He bucks beneath me, nearly throwing me off, only to freeze when he realizes that his right hand…is zip-tied to the headboard.

  I take advantage of his stunned outrage to quickly maneuver his left hand to match his right.

  And just like that, Noah Maxwell is zip-tied to his bed, glaring up at me, first in shock and then in anger.

  He jerks his arms, hard, and though the headboard rattles, the ties stay firm.

  I can’t help it—I gloat. I’m feeling very victorious and maybe a tad dominatrix.

  “What the fuck, princess?”

  I reach out a hand and pat his cheek. “You know, I just got to thinking. Remember how we chitchatted that day in Home Depot about whether I had kinky fantasies about being tied up? Well, we never talked about you.”

  He glares, and I grin. “What’s the verdict? You like?”

  His nostrils flare, and I bite my lip, flirty-like. “Hmm, I wonder if this might change your mind.”

  I reach down to the hem of my tank top and—slowly, teasingly—pull it up and over my head, tossing it aside so there’s just me straddling him in a tiny black lace bra and tight-fitting pants.

  I feel him harden between my thighs, and smile in victory.

  “What are you doing, princess?” he asks, his voice a little rougher than usual.

  I rest a hand on his chest, my fingers toying with the top button of his shirt. “Turnabout’s fair play and all that.”

  His eyes narrow as I flick open a button. Then another.

  “Jenny…”

  I ignore him, undoing every last button before spreading his shirt to the side. “Have I mentioned I like your chest hair?” I say, raking my nails lightly across his pecs.

  He sucks in a breath, his hips shifting slightly beneath mine.

  I bend forward slowly, giving him a good look at my cleavage before my lips find a spot just below his jawline, and I suck in a bit of skin before biting, hard.

  His arms pull at the ties, and I sit back up with a smug smile. “Something you want, princess?”

  My hands go to his belt buckle, watching his eyes go shadowy as I slowly undo it.

  “Wait,” he says quietly.

  I do, just for a moment, and although I’ve been envisioning this moment all day, intent on keeping this impersonal and a little bit cold, I slip.

  My chest fills with hurt and I stare down at him. “You slut-shamed me, Noah. You made me want you, and then you degraded me for wanting you.”

  “I know,” he says quietly.

  I look away, and his arms jerk again, as though trying to reach for me. “Hey. Jenny. Look at me.”

  I do, and he holds my gaze patiently. “I’m sorry. I’m damn sorry.”

  The simple words rip through me. They’re less than I deserve, but also more than I expected.

  “You were beautiful last night,” he says gruffly. “And hot as fuck when I fingered you, but I suspect you know that. And you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I feel a pool of moisture between my legs, and I have to remind myself that I’m in control, that this is my game.

  I occupy myself with his belt buckle before I start on the zipper of his jeans, pulling it down slowly to reveal the plain navy boxers beneath.

  I trail a finger over his erection. “I don’t know that sorry’s enough, Noah.”

  “Tell me this wasn’t what you were doing all day,” he says, “buying…” Noah glances up at his wrists. “Pink zip ties.”

  I give him a happy smile. “See, I knew you’d like the pink.”

  He glares at me. “Stop this now, princess. You’re in way over your head.”

  “Seems to me you’re the one in way over your head, big guy.”

  I wrap my hand around his cock a
nd his hips buck.

  “You like this?” I ask, stroking him through the fabric of his boxers.

  His breathing is harsh and he says nothing.

  I give a little pout. “No? What about this?”

  I carefully ease both jeans and boxers down over his hips so that he springs free. I’ll admit to not having a ton of sexual experience—not good sexual experience, anyway—but even I know that Noah Maxwell’s body is extraordinary.

  He’s all man, and the way he’s looking at me is all heat.

  Well, heat and a bit of anger.

  I touch my palm to his skin and he swears.

  “You like this,” I say again. Not a question this time.

  “Jenny—”

  I remove my hand and sit back slightly, trying for coyness even though the first traces of panic are setting in. My plan was to torture him the way he tortured me. Making him say it the way he made me say it.

  But what if he doesn’t want it like I wanted it?

  What if this doesn’t work?

  “I can leave,” I say with a shrug.

  His eyes lock on my breasts as they bounce, and hope reignites.

  My finger traces along his pubic bone. “Or I can stay. Up to you.”

  His eyes are practically black now as they glare into me, and I know he’s fighting the good fight, torn between pride, common sense, and the lust that’s got him tied up in knots.

  “Untie me,” he says gruffly. “Now.”

  My stomach sinks. It’s not going to work. He doesn’t want me enough.

  I swallow my disappointment as I start to scoot off the bed. “No, I don’t think I will,” I say tartly. “You treated me like garbage last night, and there’s something you should know by now about us country girls—we can be slow to forgive.”

  Noah’s hands pull at the restraints as I slowly bend to retrieve my tank top, giving him one last look at what he’s turning down.

  I slip my arms into the shirt and am preparing to pull it over my head when he stops me with a rough “Don’t.”

  I lift my eyebrows in challenge, and he lifts his right back. A counterchallenge. “Touch me, princess.”

  My stomach falls again, this time with anticipation.