Dirty Sexy Games

by Laurelin Paige

  We’d been younger, of course. Inexperienced. Ready to move on and add more to our repertoire.

  I hadn’t really loved Clarence. Not in my bones and my toes and in the ends of my hair the way that I loved Weston.

  But the similarities were still troublesome.

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse,” I admitted.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought us into this.” He leaned forward and put his palms on his thighs, staring at the back of his hands. “I guess I’m still wondering why you didn’t ask me to marry you.”

  I took a deep breath in and let it out, thinking before I answered. “Honestly, Clarence, I thought it was too big of a favor to ask of anyone without having something to offer in exchange. I didn’t think I had anything you would have been interested in bartering with.”

  He stared at me, pointedly. “You seriously thought you had nothing I’d want?”

  My spine tingled as I realized he meant he would have been interested in me. It was sweet of him, and it surprised me to hear it, but I was over him. I’d grown out of him a long time ago.

  “Too much time had passed,” I said mindfully.

  “Got it. That’s fair.” He chuckled to himself. “And it doesn’t matter now because you found the right man for the job all around.”

  My entire body pulsed at the thought of Weston. “I hope so. But I mean, he’s not even here right now.”

  “He’s not,” Clarence said standing up. “But if he wants to fight for you too—and Weston King’s a smart man, he’s going to want to fight for you—then he’s not going to want to see me here when he gets back.”

  “I’m sure you’re worrying over nothing.” I started walking him to the door despite my words, just in case.

  “I don’t think so. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Plus, I texted him about a month ago asking for your phone number, and he never replied. It all makes sense now.” He buttoned up his coat, both of us standing by the door.

  “You asked him for my number? And he didn’t give it to you?” This was the first time I was hearing about it. “How does that make sense? It’s not making sense to me.”

  “Obviously he didn’t give it to me because he sees me as a threat. He wants you to be his alone, Bitsy.”

  I cringed at his use of the old nickname, and he corrected himself.

  “Elizabeth. It suits you better anyway.”

  “I don’t know if what you’re saying is the only reason he wouldn’t give you my number. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he’s not good at answering texts.” But I wanted to believe what he said. And I did believe Weston cared for me. “Anyway, thank you for telling me. And thank you for listening. And thank you for checking up on me.”

  “I’m glad I did. A little sorry you didn’t choose me, but content to know you’re happy.” He smiled, and I knew he meant it. He was a good man.

  “Next time I have to get married in order to get my inheritance, I’ll definitely call you first,” I teased.

  I leaned in to hug him goodbye, and as I did I heard the digital beep of the lock, but before I could fully grasp what was happening, the door swung open.

  And Weston was standing there, a deli bag under one arm and a tray with two coffee cups balanced in the opposite hand.

  “Hi,” I said, jumping away from Clarence. “You’re back.”

  The door slammed shut behind Weston as his eyes carefully swung from one of us to the other. “I brought breakfast burritos and coffee. I hope you haven’t eaten yet. I didn’t realize we had a guest.” His tone was flat and hard to decipher.

  I took advantage of the fact that he didn’t know that Clarence was in on the arrangement, and rushed to help, treating Weston like I would if we were keeping up our performance. It was a way to buffer the strange tension that had suddenly filled the air around all three of us.

  “Let me help you. I’m starving. Thank God you brought food.” I grabbed the bag and the coffees and set them on the desk while he attended to his coat.

  “I was just in the area and decided to stop by. I didn’t really get a chance to talk to Elizabeth at the wedding,” Clarence said, trying to diffuse the friction.

  “How thoughtful,” Weston said coldly. He propped his coat on the back of the desk chair and turned to stare at my ex-boyfriend.

  “I was on my way out,” Clarence said. “Bye, Elizabeth.”

  I rushed to the door and opened it for him. I waved goodbye as he disappeared down the hall, then shut it again, but I didn’t turn back to face my husband right away, worried he was, as Clarence had predicted, not happy about the circumstances he’d walked into. Honestly, if he was upset, I wanted to say fuck him. Because he’d left with no explanation today. And I was still pissed about that myself.

  But I didn’t want to fight anymore.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned around, my back pressed to the hotel room door, and wrapped my arms around myself. “Thanks for getting food. I’m starving.”

  “You said that.” He looked at me, a fist on his hips, examining my expression.

  “Weston,” I asked tentatively, still unable to get a read on him. “Are you mad?”

  He tilted his head, his jaw working as he thought about it. “Mad? No. I’m not mad.” He took four steps, even and bold until he was standing just in front of me, then placed his palms on the wood of the door next to my head, caging me in. “What I am is curious.”

  I swallowed, my pulse picking up. This close, I could see that his pupils were dilated, could see the flick of his gaze to my lips.

  “What is it you’re curious about?” I splayed my palms on the door beside me, as if that could hold me up. No other man could turn me on instantly like this. No other man could make me wet with just his presence. Make my body vibrate and hum and stir.

  He brought one hand down and reached into the divide of my robe, sliding it up the front of my thigh.

  “Are you mine?” he asked, his voice steady, and waited, as though everything that mattered between us rested upon the answer to this one question.

  I couldn’t answer fast enough, and yet the word came out choked, strangled by emotion. “Yes. I’m yours.”

  The strain in his face seemed to ease the slightest bit as his fingers found their way to the space between my legs. “Is this pussy mine?”

  I nodded, spreading my legs farther apart to give him better access.

  “Not good enough. I need to hear the words.”

  “This pussy is yours. It’s only yours.”

  His fingers massaged my clit until I was gasping, then went down farther to where I was wet and aching. “This is mine? All this? Is it for me?”

  As if I could have been wet from Clarence Sheridan.

  “Every drop,” I moaned, and he pushed two fingers deep inside me, twisting them so that I bucked against his hand.

  He moved his free hand then to anchor me at my neck, and reached up to my lips with his thumb, rubbing roughly against them. “What about this mouth? This mouth is mine?”

  “This is your mouth.”

  He leaned forward to tease my lips with his, brushing against me, sharing space and breath. It was hot. Hotter than actually kissing, somehow. With the way he was still finger fucking me below, claiming and taking ownership of me, I was going to come any minute.

  Except this was only one-sided. I had my own stakes to claim.

  I reached for him with my hand, fumbling until I found the thick bulge in his jeans. I covered it with my palm. “Is this…mine?”

  He leaned his head back just slightly so he could look at my eyes, could gauge whether I was sincere or taunting him.

  I might’ve been taunting him, only a few weeks ago I would have been. But now, I was so sincere.

  “It’s yours.”

  It was more of a relief than I realized it would be to hear him admit it. “Say it again,” I whispered.

  “It’s only yours. I’m only hard for you. Only ever fucking hard for you.”
>
  I undid his jeans and stuck my hand under the band of his briefs. His cock felt solid and powerful in my hand. Like a staff. Like a scepter.

  “Mine,” I said, stroking him up and down.

  His breaths grew thicker. “Whose ring’s on your finger?”

  “Yours,” I answered, growing more confident in the game now. “Whose body am I touching?”

  “Yours.”

  I pushed down his pants and briefs, freeing his cock, telling him what I wanted from him without words.

  He moved both of his hands under my ass, and I threw my arms around his neck so he could lift me up, lining himself up at my hole. “Who are you?” he asked again, just before he thrust in.

  “I’m Mrs. King. I’m your wife. I’m your home. I’m yours.”

  He drove into me, slowly enough that I felt every inch of him, but with full power, so that I was sure he was there, really there. With his eyes locked on mine he pulled out again, almost to the tip before pushing in again. And again. Each thrust purposeful and distinct. Each one defining his place inside me.

  As he fucked me, he laid down the law.

  “You’re mine. I’m yours. I won’t share you. And I don’t expect you to share me. As long as this works, as long as you wear my ring, we are an us. We are a we. If that doesn’t work for you, then you need to get off my cock right now because I’m not playing the pretend game with you anymore.” He pushed my thighs up higher so that he hit me deeper, and the angle was just right, getting me in a spot that would have me exploding any second. “You got it?”

  I couldn’t speak, could only make a sort of mewling sound, high-pitched and breathy, which I knew he wouldn’t accept, and he didn’t.

  “You got it?” he asked again, meaner, more intense.

  “I got it. No games. We’re together, and it’s real.”

  “You better never doubt this is real,” he said, glancing down at where we were joined. He slowed for a moment to watch as he worked himself in and out of me, then brought his gaze back to mine and increased his pace, driving me, riding me, urging me to release.

  I fell over the other side like I’d been pushed. Tumbled into the bliss of my orgasm, growling out his name and digging my fingernails into his shoulders while he continued to stab into me at a frenetic pace. And in the bliss, the warmth, it wasn’t just the explosion of endorphins. It was the words he’d said, the relief he’d settled in me. They didn’t solve any of the problems between us, but they let me know where he stood. He wanted to fight for us too. He wanted us to be together, and if we both wanted that, then it was a good start.

  There was hope.

  I could feel him as he got close, as he slowed and stuttered, then suddenly he set me down and pulled out, and began stroking himself in front of me. With his free hand, he untied my robe and spread it open so my torso was bare in front of him. I watched, eyes wide, the same way that I had the night I’d spied on him in the living room. This time it was so much more fascinating because I was up close, so much harder because he was right in front of me, so much more arousing because I knew what he was about to do.

  I felt another orgasm building in me, at the very idea, and reached down between my legs to touch myself, massaging my clit rapidly so that I could get there with him.

  “Good girl,” he praised. “Touch that pussy of mine. Come with me.”

  He got there first, freezing and then shooting strings of cum over my tits and belly. The sight was so hot. So fucking hot, I came immediately afterward.

  Weston stood back, watching proudly as I shuddered through my second orgasm.

  When I was finished, he pulled me into his arms, not seeming to care that I was sticky and covered with his cum. He kissed me slowly, languidly.

  “Let’s get you in the shower and clean you up,” he said when he broke away.

  I nodded and let him lead me to the bathroom, let him undress me and wash me and take care of me, because I was his. And even though he was mine, too, even though I was still a queen on my own—Weston King was the one who ruled me.

  6

  Weston

  I took my time washing Elizabeth. I thoroughly shampooed her hair, rinsing it out then washing it again just so I could have the luxury of listening to her moans while I massaged her scalp. I liked the freedom to keep touching her too, without any questions or explanations.

  I’d have to give them soon enough, and I wasn’t ready.

  When I’d shown up at our room, brunch in hand, I’d been carrying the baggage of the morning. I was still thinking of Sebastian, and my primary focus was on how to make my life fit into his.

  But when I walked in the door and saw Clarence holding my wife, everything changed.

  It was a sharp reminder that I needed to think about things the other way around. My life with Elizabeth came first. My life with Elizabeth was the foundation. Before I could figure out how my kid fit into that, how to build him room and space, I had to be sure she and I were solid.

  Were we?

  How did I begin to find out?

  It wasn’t as simple as figuring out where we’d live or choosing whether to follow her to France. Even if I didn’t have a son to think about, could I say that Elizabeth and I were ready for that? That was serious commitment, and while I was sure I knew enough about her to follow her anywhere, I wasn’t sure she knew enough about me to just let me.

  We had to draw up some plans. And I had to tell her things about me, show her everything before we laid down cement.

  Except, we’d done it all backwards.

  We’d already laid the cement. I’d already put a ring on her finger—twice.

  And I didn’t know where to go from here. Did we tear it all down? Start over from the ground up? Did we redesign and build on, like an addition? Did we piece floorboards and walls on top of what we’d already laid out and hope it was strong enough to bear whatever we put on top?

  They were questions with hard answers, and it was easier to listen to Elizabeth’s quiet murmurs as I gently took a washcloth to her most private areas than to confront the obstacles in our way.

  But eventually the water got cold, and Elizabeth got clean. I turned off the shower and pulled her into the bathroom where I continued to dote on her, rubbing her down with a thick, plush towel.

  She was dry and warm when she placed a hand over mine. “What now?” she asked, her eyes catching mine.

  “We can heat up the burritos in the microwave. And the coffee. We should get some food in you.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said, her impatience showing in her tone.

  “I know.” I reluctantly let go of her so I could wrap a towel around my hips. “But let’s eat. You’re less cranky with food in you.”

  She scowled, but she couldn’t argue because I wasn’t wrong, and I had to fight the urge to pull her into the bedroom for another round of lovemaking because her pouty face was so adorable.

  But as good as it would feel to be inside of her, I forced myself to look at the bigger picture. If I wanted to have the right to her body forever—and I did—sex was definitely not the answer.

  Holy shit, I was a grown-up.

  A grown-up with a kid. That thought never failed to punch me in the gut.

  Since I was an adult now, apparently, I had to start acting it. I pulled my jeans back on and threw on a T-shirt, and as much as I wanted her to stay naked, I encouraged her to change into something non-accessible while I heated up our food. After we ate, I had things to tell her, hard things, and I didn’t need to be distracted.

  Ten minutes later, we were sitting on the couch in our suite, Elizabeth’s legs thrown over mine while we ate our burritos.

  “These are spicy,” she said midway through her second bite. “Tasty, but spicy.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Spicy? They have like zero kick. You’re such a gringo.”

  “Weston!” she exclaimed. “You can’t say things like that! It’s not P.C.! Besides, you’re almost as white as I am.
Why isn’t it bothering you?” She downed some coffee, chasing away the spice from her tongue.

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged, taking another bite. I thought about it while I chewed. “It might be from all the chili peppers that Donovan had me eat as a pre-teen. He used to dare me, and I can never turn down a dare.”

  She laughed. “I didn’t know that about you.” She seemed to store that information away for later. “Do you like spicy foods a lot?”

  “Yes, actually. The spicier the better. Why do you think I like you so much?” I cupped her neck with my free hand and ran my thumb along her jaw.

  This was easy—touching and talking. This light banter was the way I’d always communicated with women, skirting any real issues, wading in shallow waters. It tended to get boring after a while, but whenever a girl beckoned me in deeper, I took off for another pond.

  I didn’t want to do that with Elizabeth. I wanted the courage to swim in her ocean, even if it meant getting all the way wet. Even if it meant I might drown.

  She leaned into my palm, closing her eyes and savoring the contact. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “What’s going on between us, Weston?”

  Her voice was soft, her expression vulnerable, and I realized that she didn’t get that I was already in deeper with her than I’d been with anyone ever before. She didn’t know me, not like I wanted her to know me. And I didn’t know her. I needed to learn her before I could trust her enough to walk blindly into the crashing waves. She needed to learn me. We needed time.

  Fortunately, we had two weeks.

  “Let’s find out,” I said, an idea forming.

  She tilted her head, her gaze questioning.

  This was good though. We couldn’t really start again, but maybe we kind of could.

  I dropped my hand from her neck and shifted to face her. “I meant everything I said to you, Elizabeth. In front of all those people, when I put that ring on your finger, I meant it. You changed my life, you changed who I am, and I want to be that man. For you. I want you to be my home. You are my home. But the truth of the matter is that while I was falling for you, I was trying my damnedest not to. And that meant that I was holding parts of me back, pieces of me that I never wanted you to see. Pieces of who I am that I never thought you would have to see because we weren’t real.”