Hamptons Heartbreak: A Sizzling Summer Romance (A New York City Romance Book 4)

by Tara Leigh

I sip at my margarita and try not to drool as Lance unbuttons his shirt, revealing his ridiculously defined pecs, washboard abs, and the treasure trail leading south of his belt.

  This is happening. Definitely.

  When I can’t hold back an exultant smile, I turn away to select a playlist from my phone, mostly instrumental and heavy on the bass. Just before it comes through the speakers, I hear the slide of leather against cotton, the clink of a metal buckle striking tile. When I turn back, there is a pile of clothes outside the doorway. And Lance, clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs that reveal as much as they conceal.

  I take a last sip of my drink and set the glass down. “Ready?”

  “I’m all yours.”

  I hide my wince as I move in front of the canvas. Because Lance isn’t mine. He’s been clear about that.

  But for right now, maybe even for the next nine days, he will be.

  “There’s no wrong way to do this. But I like to start by building a foundation with the lighter colors, using the darker ones as accents.” I dip my hand into one of the jars and drag it across the canvas, leaving behind a streak of gray on white.

  Lance joins me, his pale-blue arc a horizontal counterpoint to my vertical one. “Like this?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  For a while we take turns, sometimes dragging our palms across the canvas, sometimes splattering the paint by flicking our fingers a few inches away from it. In the background, my playlist pulses, music swelling and receding like the tide crashing on the beach just thirty yards away.

  The canvas is almost entirely covered when I finally follow through with the point of this whole exercise. With my fingertips drenched in gold and spread wide apart like starfish, I lock eyes with Lance. My palms hover over his pecs, so close I can feel the heat of his skin through my own.

  He tenses. “What are you doing?”

  “Switching to a different canvas. Don’t worry. It will come off in the shower.”

  “I’m not worried,” he says, his voice rough-hewn and gruff.

  The room is bright with sunlight, every plane and ridge of Lance’s body on display. It really isn’t fair that he’s so . . . delicious.

  I lick my lips and slowly run my fingers over his chest, marking the grooves between his muscles. So many muscles. My heart aches as I trace the tattooed latitude and longitude coordinates that cut over his ribs, marking his stepsister’s gravesite. Lance is a man who loves deeply. Maybe, one day, he’ll even love me.

  I get more paint. Navy this time. I add stripes to his cheekbones and down his arms. I circle his belly button and skim his thighs. And then I wait.

  Come on, play with me.

  The pulse at Lance’s temple thrums. “I can paint you?”

  I nod, barely able to swallow. He dips one hand in blue, the other in gold. He starts at my neck, the warm paint covering my skin like a gossamer-thin film of the finest, softest satin. His thumbs sweep across my racing pulse just beneath my jaw, then down my collarbone, over the rise of my breasts and lower, stopping at my navel, his palms halting where my waist flares to my hips. More paint, more body parts. Everywhere he touches, he leaves his mark behind.

  We are standing so close. A little breathless, I tilt my head back to take in the whole of his face. The bronze scruff dusting a jawline carved of granite. The dramatic cheekbones shadowed by long lashes. The high forehead and strong nose and cleft chin.

  His eyes, though, are molten pools of intensity, locking onto mine in an electrified clash that singes the very fibers of my soul. Lance’s energy slams into me like a lightning bolt. And suddenly my hands are tangled in his hair, my nails raking over his scalp, my mouth pressed fiercely to his.

  Chapter 43

  Lance

  When I first saw Vivienne in the kitchen, wearing one of her skimpy bikinis as she leaned over the counter to make a batch of margaritas, I felt a flare of lust. Hell, it’s become my baseline whenever she’s within view. But seeing her now, with my handprints all over her, her body streaked with the proof of my touch, is next level.

  She tilts her head up for a kiss and I take her mouth with a fierce growl, tugging at the strings behind her neck, her back, and on either side of her hips. Four tugs and her bikini is just a couple of triangles at our feet. Before I can get too carried away, I back her up against the canvas, bending down to cover the tips of my fingers in navy paint. “Arms over your head.”

  She complies, and I trace the outline of her body on the canvas. I’m not sure what will happen after Labor Day. It no longer seems like a finish line. More like . . . a milestone. One I can’t quite see past yet. For now, all I know for sure is that I want—at the very least—more than just a memory.

  Of this.

  Of her.

  Of us.

  The future is a question mark. But I can’t think about it now.

  I pull Vivienne into my arms, her legs hooking over my hips, ankles locked behind me. I carry her to the narrow wall across from the door, using leverage to hold her against it as I slide my boxers down my legs. My cock springs free, hard and thick and aching.

  “Don’t make me wait anymore,” she begs. “I can’t wait.”

  “You don’t have to.” I can’t wait any longer either. It’s been weeks since we’ve had sex. Weeks of jerking off in the shower to memories of her, believing they were all I’d ever have. Though this past week was the worst. And the best.

  Because Vivienne was back in my bed, every night. Her goodnight kisses an open invitation. Her head on my chest, hair falling over my neck, our legs intertwined. And still, I didn’t give into temptation. And there has never been a woman more tempting than Vivienne.

  But now, Vivienne is in my arms again, needy and naked. Her face is beautiful, but it’s what shines from her eyes that has me spellbound. Strength and determination and vulnerability.

  And this kiss is no goodnight kiss. It’s rough and hungry, vengeful and searching. This girl has torn down every one of my defenses like they were never there at all.

  She’s burning so hot, the heat of her pussy hitting me even before I drag my pulsing crown through her.

  That’s when I realize. Fuck. I drop my forehead onto her shoulder with a growl. “I don’t have any protection.”

  “I don’t care,” she answers immediately, an edge of desperation to her voice.

  “I should really—”

  “I’m on the pill. I’m totally clean.”

  I jerk my head back to look at her. “Are you sure?” I’ve never had sex without a condom. Ever. But the thought of taking Vivienne bare, with nothing between us . . .

  “One hundred per—”

  I swallow the rest of her answer, unable to wait even a second longer. Lifting Vivienne’s hips, I position her directly over my cock, and let gravity do the rest. Vivienne cries out as I slam into her wet heat, taking me deeper than I’ve ever been. Fuuuuuuuck.

  After that, I operate purely on instinct, pulling out and thrusting back in, hitting her from an angle that makes her claw at my back, bite at my neck, and make noises I’ve never heard her make before.

  We’re two animals in heat, attacking each other with a ferocity I didn’t know humans were capable of. I press my hand to the base of her throat, the delicate tendons giving way beneath the pressure of my grip. I want to control everything, even Vivienne’s access to air. Her eyes go wide, arousal edged in fear. It’s a natural instinct to fight for unimpeded breathing, but while she wraps her hand around my wrist, she doesn’t push me away. She’s letting me control her. Trusting me to take her to the brink, but keep her safe.

  It’s enough to make me explode, but I hold back. I’m not ready for this to end.

  I release her throat, allowing her one gulp of oxygen before covering her mouth with my own, penetrating her mouth with my tongue as I shove my cock back inside of her, using my body to hold her in place while my hands seek her breasts, rolling and pinching her nipples as she moans and squirms.

  Ev
ery inch of her body is completely at my disposal. Mine. All fucking mine.

  The pressure builds, a wrenching ache that grips my balls and the base of my spine. It builds and builds, swelling and expanding until it’s like a dense fog of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Vivienne screams, flinging her head back as her pussy clenches around my cock, so hot and tight the pleasure-pain ratchets up another level and finally crests. I slam a hand against the wall as I empty inside her, my forehead dropping onto her shoulder, her breaths gusting over my neck, our heartbeats thudding in rhythm.

  Eventually I release Vivienne from my hold, and she slides down the wall. Together we survey the room and then our paint-splattered bodies.

  “I’d apologize for the mess,” she says with a rueful smile, “but I’m not sorry. Not sorry at all.”

  Same, Red. Same.

  Chapter 44

  Vivienne

  2 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY

  I’ve been on plenty of boats in my life. It’s almost impossible not to when you grow up on Long Island. But the gleaming white yacht docked in the ultra-exclusive Sag Harbor marina is a far cry from the Boston Whalers and Sea Rays I’ve spent the occasional afternoon on.

  Lance and Tripp have borrowed it for the night from their friend Nash, who recently purchased it as a one-year anniversary present for his wife, Nixie. For the last Saturday of summer, they’ve invited everyone who’s anyone in the Hamptons aboard for a sunset cruise to formally announce the launch of RiskTaker’s nationwide initiative to teach at-risk youth the basics of budgeting and money management.

  It’s a big night for Lance, and I know he’s nervous. But all I can think about is the ticking clock. We’re down to the final forty-eight hours. In just two days . . .

  Summer will be over. And so will we.

  Lance and I arrive first, except for the small army of crew and catering staff. He pulls me to the top deck, all the way to the front of the yacht. The bow, or is it the stern?

  “Are we having a Jack and Rose moment?” I ask, as he positions me in front of him, looking out over the bay and to the ocean beyond.

  A moment is all I want though. Jack and Rose had an epic love, but not a romance. Their love story wasn’t a love story at all. It was a tragedy.

  Lance gives me one of his broad, cocky, Viking-esque smiles, and my knees go weak as his strong arms encircle my waist, holding me tightly. Like he might never let go.

  Hope skitters over my frayed nerves.

  The past week has been incredible. Our night painting the canvas—and each other—served its intended purpose. Not only do I smile every time I look at the art we made together, a bold statement piece that hangs proudly over the fireplace. But, even better, Lance and I have had sex in every way, in every room, and plenty outside, too.

  Each morning I wake up, feeling closer to him than the day before. But still, he hasn’t brought up our impending deadline. He hasn’t admitted to any real feelings for me.

  Sometimes I wonder if Lance is waiting for me to blink first. But I already did, the afternoon I returned from Jolie’s house steaming mad and very hurt.

  I didn’t like his answer then and I won’t put myself in a position to hear it again. Once burned, twice shy.

  If Lance has had a change of heart, he needs to speak up.

  “You look gorgeous tonight,” he murmurs now, his chin coming to rest on top of my head, his thumbs sweeping over the structured waist of my strapless, emerald green dress.

  I blink into the wind, feeling a blush rising up my cheeks. “You’ve already told me that.” He did. When I came downstairs in my bare feet, a pair of wedge sandals dangling from my fingers. He’d watched, his eyes darkening to ochre as I sat down on the couch and tied the laces around my ankles.

  I may have drawn out the action, letting the hem ride up my thighs further than necessary, spreading my legs just enough that he couldn’t help but dare a glance up my skirt.

  “Well, it bears repeating.”

  I release a contented sigh. “So, is there anyone in particular you want to schmooze with tonight?”

  I feel the rumble of his chuckle against my spine. “I don’t schmooze.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You do so. And you do it pretty well, by the way.”

  He looks out over the water, and for a moment, I can feel the spiraling anxiety of the boy he used to be. The kid who wore secondhand sneakers and did his homework on a table covered in overdue bills. Who climbed onto the roof just to be closer to the stars. “Because of you.”

  Lance Welles has lost his entire family. There’s a hardness to him, but he’s not bitter. He’s passionate about his business, but even more passionate about giving kids the tools to succeed, a solid foundation so they can reach for the stars.

  I brush a hand over his smooth jaw, knowing that in just a few hours, Lance’s stubble will once again abrade my palm. “No. You are quite charming all on your own.”

  I’ll be his family, if he’ll let me. If he doesn’t throw me away.

  “There you are!” Jolie waves from halfway across the ship, striding confidently toward us with Tripp at her side. “Before our guests start to arrive, I just want to say how proud I am of you both. Seriously, you’ve done something truly amazing and I’m grateful to have played even a small part.”

  Tripp looks adoringly at his wife. “You’ve done more than that.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Barely.” But her attention is distracted by the two other couples walking our way, followed by a server bearing a tray of champagne flutes. “Perfect timing.”

  There are handshakes and air kisses, and pretty soon we’re all toasting to RiskTaker’s success and bemoaning the end of summer. I’ve met Nixie and Nash, the owners of the yacht, and Reina and Tristan a few times over the past couple of months. Lance assures me that they think I’m his real girlfriend, unlike Tripp and Jolie, who know the truth.

  But I still feel awkward around them.

  “Will you be heading back to Manhattan, Vivienne?” Reina asks.

  “That’s my plan.” I have one of those now. A plan, rather than a to-do list. I am definitely taking the leap and starting my own business. I’ve reached out to the alumni office of my alma mater, FIT, for a mentor to guide me through the process and recommendations for a lawyer to draw up incorporation papers. I’ve also spoken with the organizers of a highly-regarded Designer Showcase and will be decorating a room this winter. Showcases are a lot of work, but they’re highly visible with both potential clients and industry insiders.

  “So will you be bi-coastal then?” Nixie follows up, directing her question at Lance.

  His eyes land on my face and there’s so much warmth in them, I feel myself flush. “I’m seriously considering it.”

  My heart gives a lurch. Is this part of the act? Or could he possibly mean dividing his time between New York and California . . . for me?

  Chapter 45

  Lance

  It’s not a lie. For the past week, all I’ve been thinking about is Vivienne. And the arbitrary deadline I put on my time with her.

  And how I might have fucked everything up.

  Money is a tool. But a hammer is a tool, too. It can be used to build houses and hang art. But it can also crack skulls and destroy lives.

  Just because you’re paying me doesn’t mean I’m yours. You bought my time, but nothing more. I’m not for sale, Lance.

  Lately, the words Vivienne said to me the night we went to the carnival have been echoing inside my head. By using money to get what I wanted from Vivienne, her time, I almost destroyed the time we had together.

  Almost.

  Fuck, I hope the damage I did isn’t irreparable. I’m not ready to let go of her. Not on Labor Day. Maybe not ever. I want more time. Years.

  I am looking forward to the end of summer though. It signifies the end of our arrangement. We can start fresh. Build something new, something ours. Because I’m in love with Vivienne.

  So. Fucking. Much.


  Vivienne’s idea of a fun date is cheap rides, huge stuffed animals, and junk food. She’d probably prefer a beat-up Mazda over my Maserati. And if I still lived in the ramshackle ranch in Hampton Bays where I grew up, she’d find a way to turn it into a cozy retreat.

  Vivienne only took pleasure in spending my money when I forced it on her—shelling out a fortune on clothes because I told her she had to look the part.

  I’ve been so goddamn blind.

  Thank God the yacht pulls away from the dock or I might have been tempted to drag Vivienne away and let Tristan handle the glad-handing. At least it won’t be a long night. Just a simple sunset cruise along the bay and around Shelter Island. And then Vivienne and I will return home, and I’ll tell her exactly how I feel.

  Like a circuit finally connecting to an energy source, my life has become painfully, obviously clear. What I have with Vivienne—what we have together—cannot end in two days.

  I hope we don’t end, ever.

  Our charade, however, is over. At least, as far as I’m concerned.

  Unexpectedly, I feel Vivienne tense up at my side. Her entire body draws so tight she’s practically vibrating. “Anne,” she exhales, though I sense her tension has less to do with the elegant, silver-haired woman than the younger man beside her.

  “Vivienne. My goodness, I didn’t expect to see you here. What a lovely surprise.”

  “Yes. Lovely,” she says shakily. “And Richard, it’s good to see you.”

  My ears perk up at that. Dick.

  He responds with a curt nod, his eyes barely flicking over Vivienne before concentrating on me. He straightens to his full height, which is still several inches below mine, and extends his hand. “Richard Abbott.”

  “Oh, where are my manners. Lance, this is Anne Abbott and her son, Richard. Anne and Richard, this is my boyfriend, Lance Welles.”

  My handshake is just shy of bone-crushing, and I feel a tug of pleasure at the flinch he tries, unsuccessfully, to hide.