The Stone Brothers: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  When he takes the list from me, his fingers brush mine. I’m sure he felt it too—the pulse of electricity that passed between us. He clears his throat, not hiding it as well as he thinks he is.

  His lips move in silence as he reads the names to himself. My gaze zeroes in on his mouth as I watch it form each syllable. A chunk of hair falls across his forehead and he absently pushes it back. My breath comes quickly and I reach down to grip the sides of the chair so I don’t start squirming. The man is hotness on steroids.

  “These are all men,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. His thumb and forefinger rub across his faint stubble, meeting at the base of his chin as he studies me.

  “And that’s a problem because you only enjoy tracking down women?” I deadpan.

  “Just making an observation, Charlie.”

  As my first name rolls off his lips for the third time – why am I counting? – I realize I want him screaming that, too. First name, last name, hell, he can even scream his own name as long as he’s deep inside me when he does it.

  “A few of these men are famous,” he points out.

  “Yeah?”

  He silently appraises me. He reminds me of the one and only shrink I saw a few years ago. Except better looking. And more fuckable. The guy would just stare at me and occasionally spew out some existential shit that was supposed to get me talking.

  Stone, though, makes me want to open my mouth for a far different reason.

  He jots down a few notes and it doesn’t escape me that he’s a lefty. Like me. Damn, even the way his pen flows across paper is sexy. I shift in my seat and his knowing eyes find mine.

  Becoming oddly uncomfortable at the piercing silence, I say, “Uh, my mom died.”

  His stubborn expression softens. “Yes. I heard. I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t be.” Then I clamp my lips together before I reveal anything I don’t want him to know. I don’t think private investigators fall under the same rules as say, attorney-client or doctor-patient privilege. And since I don’t yet know what I’m truly capable of . . .

  Brows lifted, his dark eyes study my face. I shrink a little in my seat.

  “So, the list. My mom was kind of a” —I try to think quickly— “um . . . she liked her men. And I thought I owed it to her to find them. I have something for each of them.”

  “That’s nice of you,” he says, making more notes.

  “Yes. I thought so.”

  More silence.

  “You’re not much of a talker, are you, Stone?”

  He puts down the pen and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he stares at me thoughtfully.

  “It’s my job to read people, Tate. And I’m very good at my job.”

  A shameless grin stretches wide across my face. “Well then, Mr. Private Eye, tell me—what are you reading right now?” I ask, looking at him through lidded eyes. “Angsty drama? Exciting thriller?” I lean forward and rest my elbows on his desk, suggestively leaning my head onto my hands. “Steamy romance?”

  He’s good at hiding his emotions. Better than most. But that doesn’t stop me from noticing how he shifts around in his chair. “Why do I get the feeling you are a bit of all three?” he asks.

  I laugh. “So, you are good at your job,” I say. I look around his office again and then let my eyes rake over him slowly. I watch his pen come to his mouth and trace a thoughtful line across his lower lip. “And you—you’re a bit action/adventure, crime documentary, sullen mystery.”

  “Sullen?” he asks, his lip twitching in amusement.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Don’t get me wrong, Stone. It’s hot. But you have this moody, ill-tempered, melancholy feel about you.”

  He lifts a judgmental brow.

  “Kinda crazy,” I say, flashing him a mocking smile. “Having someone read you so well, huh?”

  He looks at me. Hell, he looks through me. Nobody looks at me the way he does right now. Like he sees more than the pretty daughter of a washed-up actress and model. Like he knows I’m full of shit.

  “Ahem.” He clears his throat and shakes his head as if ridding it of unwanted thoughts. “So my cousin tells me you’re a friend of the family that owns the Mitchell’s restaurant chain. What do you think of him? Of Jarod?”

  “I haven’t met him yet,” I confess, removing my arms from his desk. “Piper Mitchell—that’s my best friend—she’s the one who told me his cousin was a private investigator. She got your contact information from him.”

  “I see.” He twirls his pen expertly between the fingers of his left hand. “Well, since you’re a friend of the family so-to-speak, if you want to hire me, I’ll give you a discount off my regular fee. I charge by the hour so the total cost will depend on how difficult it is to find them.”

  My confidence wanes for the first time since walking through his office door. “Yeah, about that. My inheritance won’t come through for a while, and I’m not sure the court would look kindly on me spending estate money on this.”

  He nods in understanding. “I can offer you a payment plan. Also a perk of knowing someone who knows someone.” He winks and a hot shiver crawls down my spine. All the way to my center. “That is, if you have a job. You have a job, right?”

  “Duh.” I roll my eyes dramatically. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want this guy to think I’m dead weight. “Of course I have a job. At Mitchell’s.”

  He raises an argumentative brow. “And yet you’ve never met Jarod.”

  “Well, I haven’t started yet. I just got back to town a few days ago.”

  “Mmmm,” he mumbles, as if my shit is clear as mud to him. “Do you like tattoos?”

  My mind goes crazy thinking about what ink he has and where. “Very much,” I say.

  “Then you’ll love Jarod.”

  My mouth curves down into a pout when he chuckles and shakes his head alerting me to his sarcasm. He breaks into a smile. One that reveals his hidden dimple. One that melts me like ice cream in the desert.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Do you like them?” Please say yes.

  He shrugs. “They’re okay.”

  “Do you have any?” I bite my lower lip awaiting his reply.

  “That’s kind of a private question, Tate.”

  “Just brushing up on my P.I. skills, Stone.”

  He laughs. It’s a deep, throaty, intoxicating laugh. But for some reason, I get the idea he doesn’t do it very often. “I may have one or two.”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I say, my gaze sliding casually down his body before rising to meet his again.

  His eyes close and he slowly inhales then lets out a deep breath. He’s thinking about it.

  “Charlie,” he says, like he’s my fifth-grade teacher, and I know the answer is no. But that doesn’t keep me from trying to change his mind.

  “Ethan.” I look up at him through my lashes. “Mr. Stone,” I say in my best seductive voice. “Do you ever date clients?”

  “No. I don’t.” The authority in which he says it makes me know it’s true.

  “Oh.” I get up from my chair and walk over to the door. But instead of opening it, I go to lock it. But I can’t find the lock. Oh, screw it, who cares? I turn around to face him, quickly whipping my shirt over my head before I throw it on the floor of his clean and tidy office. “Well, do you ever fuck them?”

  Chapter Four

  I’m sure as a private investigator, he’s seen it all. But the look on his face tells me he’s never seen this.

  Surely women throw themselves at him all the time. Gretchen at least.

  “You really didn’t need to do that,” he says, calm and collected as if I hadn’t just put my tits on display for him.

  For a moment, I almost have a feeling of remorse. Shame even. I’m about to pick up my shirt when he stands up and I see without a doubt how affected by me he really is. The front of his pants are tented so much, I question if he’s even sporting underwear.

  “I
mean the door. I can lock it from here.” He pushes a button on the wall behind the desk and I hear the electronic click of a bolt on the door.

  His long stride narrows the gap between us in only a few quick steps. His eyes have further darkened and look almost black as his intense stare freezes me into place. His arms come up and his palms loudly meet the door behind my head as he cages me in.

  This close, he towers over me and I crane my neck up until our eyes meet. He grabs me on either side of my head, moving his fingers into my hair, pulling it up and away from my face.

  His gaze falls briefly to my bare chest before returning to focus on my lips. I can’t help the victorious smirk that crosses my face. He doesn’t miss it, but answers it with a roll of his eyes as his face breaks into a slow, sexy smile.

  Yeah. He knows I’ve won this game. I almost always do. Along with my red hair and hazel eyes, I also inherited the art of seduction from my illustrious mother.

  “I don’t normally make a habit of this.” His face moves closer to mine. “But there’s something about you.” His mouth hovers over my mouth, breathing in the air that’s coming in quick spurts from my lungs. “I can’t think straight.” His lips brush across mine and hold there. “This is probably a bad idea,” he whispers right before he crushes his mouth onto mine.

  He doesn’t waste time lingering. His tongue pushes through and devours my mouth like it’s searching for air. I’ve kissed my share of men. So many I’ve lost count. But I’m not used to kisses like this one. Powerful. Demanding. Passionate.

  Passion is not exactly an emotion I’m comfortable with. I need to take control of this situation so I grab onto his shoulders and jump up, latching my long legs around his waist.

  He cups my behind, walking me over to his desk. I suck on his neck along the way, eliciting deep growling noises from his throat.

  He holds me with only one hand, the other leaving my body to find the keyboard of his laptop, typing away while I continue my assault of his neck. “Multi-tasking?” I ask.

  He nods to the ceiling where there is a small, dark, glass globe. “Just turning off the video.”

  Shutting the lid to the laptop, he sets me on the edge of his desk, not even having to clear a space because it’s so sparse. I look at the vast emptiness of it and frown.

  “Too hard?” he asks.

  “It can never be too hard,” I joke, grazing the front of his tented pants with my fingers. “But, no. It’s just that . . . well it’s probably every girl’s fantasy to shove all the crap off a desk before she gets screwed on it. But yours is just too clean.”

  His brow arches in amusement. “I never knew being organized was an abhorrent offense.” He quickly shifts his laptop over to the credenza on his left. “Go for it,” he says.

  I turn around and dramatically sweep my arm across the expansive glass desk, catapulting the sole file folder and pen across his office. We both watch the papers flutter through the air before settling onto the floor. It wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as it was in my dreams.

  “That was so much better in my fantasies,” I tell him.

  He laughs and the sexy sound has my belly flipping over. I grab his waistband, pulling him between my legs, trapping him with my thighs. I untuck his shirt and then as I undo each button, my eyes drink in the pure male perfection that is underneath. I push the sides of his shirt off his shoulders to reveal the result of what is surely hundreds of punishing hours at a gym. I feel like I’ve hit the lottery and am claiming the biggest, best prize of all.

  I blow out a long, steady breath when I eye the tattoo over his heart. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t dare ask, because it’s probably some chick’s name. But the Chinese symbol is more than a little bit sexy.

  I trace my finger around the edges of his ink and then across the ridges of his steely abs. Shudders wave across his body at my touch. For some reason, I want him to kiss me again. But for some reason, he doesn’t. I’m not usually a fan of kissing. It’s too personal. Too intimate. But there’s something about him.

  There’s something about you. His words replay in my mind.

  His hand comes up from where he was holding me steady. It stops before he touches my breast. His eyes meet mine and question me as if he’s asking for permission. Nobody has ever asked me for permission. Not ever. I grab his hand and press it to my chest, hoping it feels as good as I think it will.

  My eyes close upon his touch as his strong yet gentle hands discover my breasts, squeezing and pinching my sensitive nipples.

  When I’m about to explode from his expert manipulation, his hands fall away. I audibly protest his retreat, but surrender to his plan when he goes a step further, hiking my skirt up all the way to my waist. He removes my panties, hooking his thumbs on either side, dragging them down my thighs slowly. Seductively. Almost painfully.

  His eyes follow the motion of his hands, taking in every curve of my legs as they pass over me. He stops when they land on the unicorn tattoo on my inner thigh. He traces it with his finger, sending shockwaves right through me.

  When my panties have made their way to the floor, he slips a finger inside me, groaning at the awareness of how wet he’s made me. He coats my clit, gliding his thumb easily across it in slow, tantalizing circles.

  I reach for his belt buckle. “You have a condom, right? Please tell me you have a condom.”

  He smiles, retrieving his wallet from his back pocket. “I have a condom.”

  There is conversation in the hallway as people pass his office door. Then, as if he just realized where we are and what we’re doing, he glances at the clock on the wall. “If we’re going to use it, we’d better be quick. I have a two o’clock.”

  I check the time. 1:54.

  “Just the way I like it,” I say, making fast work of unbuttoning his pants. I push them down until they drop around his ankles, my eyes following the movement.

  I see what looks like a garter belt strapped around his calf. I look closer to discover he’s got a gun secured to his leg, down by his ankle.

  I question him with my eyes.

  He shrugs. “For protection,” he says.

  This guy. This virtual stranger is about to fuck me with a weapon strapped to his body. Holy hell, that’s freaking hot.

  I snatch the condom from him and roll it on, his cock twitching from my touch as he works his skillful fingers inside me. I give him a few long strokes before I guide him to my entrance. He sucks in a breath as he glides into me. The sound makes me look up at him, our faces inches apart. I could swear the air crackles between us, like static electricity, and for some reason, I can’t look away.

  I never look at them as they fuck me. A habit from long ago I suspect.

  I put distance between us, leaning back on the desk to give him better access to my clit and breasts. He doesn’t need an invitation to use both of them to bring us to a quick and simultaneous orgasm.

  Holy God. It’s only been thirty seconds—a minute max—but damn . . . it’s the best thirty seconds of my life.

  We both shout quietly. I could almost swear my name was whispered among his incoherent declarations of ecstasy. And I might be mistaken, because it’s never happened before, but I’m pretty sure I murmured his.

  His office phone buzzes and Gretchen’s nasally voice comes over the intercom. “Your two o’clock is here, Ethan.”

  “Thanks, Gretchen. Give me five,” he responds as if his dick isn’t still balls-deep inside me.

  “Sorry,” he says, looking guilty as he pulls out.

  “For what? That was great, Stone.” I shimmy off the desk, looking down in amusement at the sex-smudged glass.

  He shakes his head. “That shouldn’t have happened, Charlie. I’m usually not that unprofessional.”

  I make quick work of putting my clothes on. “Don’t sweat it. I still have every confidence you can get me what I need.” I nod to the list of names lying among other papers on the floor. “You are totally hired.” I punctuate my wor
ds with a playful wink.

  He zips up his pants, looking at me in utter disbelief. “What? No. I can’t work for you now, Charlie.”

  “Well, why the hell not?”

  He gives me an are-you-crazy kind of look as he ceremoniously wraps the condom in a tissue and throws it in the trash.

  I giggle. But then I realize no other private investigator would give me the good deal he offered. He’s my only option. “Shit,” I say, handing him his shirt. “What if I promise not to take my top off again? Will you work for me then?”

  He rubs a hand over his erupting stubble. “It’s a conflict of interest. Rule number one of P.I.s – don’t get involved with clients.”

  My face distorts with disgust. “Involved? Who said anything about getting involved? This was just sex. Fucking. A quick lay.” But as I say the words I know to be true, I get a funny feeling in the middle of my chest. I push it down. “Plus, I can’t afford anyone else.” I plaster my best innocent smile on my face. “Please?”

  His eyes close as if I’d said something hurtful. As if maybe he’d had a funny feeling in the middle of his chest as well. When he opens them, the intense dark eyes are gone, replaced by cold, distant ones. “Fine.” He bends over to gather the strewn papers. “But this can’t happen again. I’m not in the business of servicing my clients.”

  I sigh with relief. “Thank you, Ethan.”

  His eyes soften at my use of his first name. “I’ll be in touch in a week or so with what I can dig up. Would you mind letting yourself out?” He nods to the ass prints on his desk. “I have a bit of cleaning up to do before my next appointment.”

  I giggle. “Sure thing. Bye . . . Stone.”

  He gives me an eye roll before hitting the button that unlocks the door.

  I walk down the hallway towards reception when I hear him call out behind me. “Hey, Tate?”

  I smile before turning around. “Yeah?”

  “Why the unicorn?”

  I open my mouth to feed him whatever bullshit I’ve told every other guy who asks about my tattoo. But what comes out surprises the hell out of me. What comes out is as close to sharing a truth about myself as I ever have with a man. “For protection.”