My skin prickles with the heat of Bel’s stare. I thumb the rifle’s safety back into place.
“What?” I ask, removing my earplugs.
“I don’t like guns,” she says. “But Lord, do I like watching you handle one. It. The gun.”
Our guide, Carlos, a young Argentinian guy with hair that curls out from under his Blue Mountain baseball cap, tries not to smile as he opens a new box of shells.
“You sayin’ I handle my weapon with exceptional skill?”
Bel’s eyes dart to Carlos. “He’s not usually this much of a perv. Wait, that’s a lie. He totally is.”
Carlos clears his throat. “You two need a minute alone, or—”
“No. Nope.” Stepping behind Bel, I help her position the rifle on her shoulder by covering her hands with mine and showing her where to hold the gun. She presses back into me, almost curling into my body, inviting me closer.
Touching this woman is an addiction I can’t seem to break. Even though this morning I promised myself I’d keep my hands off her. We spent the night apart. I made the decision easy and blamed my inbox, which wasn’t entirely a lie as I had, no joke, one hundred twenty-two unanswered emails plus seventeen voicemails. Granted, my assistant can handle a big chunk of those, but they’re still scary numbers to see.
I figured we needed time to cool off. Process.
Yesterday was a lot, and so was last night. I guess I wanted to give Bel the chance to digest all the stupid decisions we’re making.
Me, I’m impulsive. But she’s still sharp as a tack. She’s still capable of proceeding with caution. It’s important to me that she be given the headspace to think clearly and pull the ripcord if need be.
I half expected her not to show to our clay-shooting session this morning. My rational side hoped she wouldn’t. Part of me hoped she’d already gone and pulled that ripcord.
But Bel showed, looking cute as hell in jeans and boots and a sweater that makes her full tits look even bigger. Purple thumbprints under her eyes. (“Maisie definitely did not sleep through the night this time.”) Eyes that sparkled when they landed on me.
Aw, shit.
The stuff inside my chest had to rearrange itself to fit around my swollen heart.
Something else swells, too, as I nudge Bel’s left leg forward with my own. Once she’s in the proper position—legs spread, torso tight, that slight lean forward—I should back off. But I don’t.
She’s here, isn’t she? She knows what this is, knows what my limits are, and she’s accepting it.
It makes me a little angry. She deserves the world—she deserves to be someone’s whole life—so why is she settling for two weeks with me?
She feels warm and sure pressed up against me.
I fucking love having this girl in my arms. Admitting as much may make me a shameless bastard, but I can’t help it.
My desire for her, for her to have the best of everything, leaves me stuck between a rock and a hard place. Dipping my head, I brush her ear with my lips. You deserve so much better, I want to say to her.
“Say ‘pull’ when you’re ready,” I say instead. A little louder than normal, on account of the earplugs she’s put in. “Finger on the trigger. That’s right. Now aim.”
“Pull!”
Carlos releases the clay.
Bel squeezes the trigger. Her entire body recoils at the force of the kickback, the butt of the gun sliding from her collarbone into her armpit.
The untouched clay lands somewhere on the ground with a muted thud.
“Je-sus.” Her fingers immediately move to the inside of her upper arm, her mouth a perfect o of shock. “Ow, Beau, I’m afraid of it. That hurt!”
I try not to laugh. “Have more faith in your weapon-handling skills. You gotta hold the gun in your shoulder nice and tight. Otherwise, you’re gonna get beat up. Here, I’ll hold you so my body will absorb some of the shock, too. Try again.”
I can tell she’s still afraid of the gun when Carlos releases another clay, but I press my body into hers, urging her to lean forward. When she pulls the trigger, I hold her steady, helping her absorb the shock and keep the butt of the gun in its proper position.
“Better, right?”
She lets out a breath. My body leaps. “Much.”
She missed the clay again. But her stance and aim are already improving.
She misses again. And again.
She gets frustrated. I take a turn and hit three clays in a row. I have her stand behind me, her front plastered to my back, my blood roaring as I try to show her how it’s done.
When I slide my safety back in place, Bel squeezes my ass. I yelp. She laughs.
It’s her turn. She misses over and over, but she keeps at it, keeps trying, determination in the square of her shoulders and the firm line of her mouth.
She’s always been this way. She told me once she’s never been the smartest person in the room (I do not agree with this assessment), but she is one of the hardest working.
One of things that makes her so damn brilliant is that she’s a fast learner.
My blood is roaring now. I’m sporting a half chub, and it’s murder trying to hide it as the minutes tick by.
Time goes too damn quickly when we’re together.
At last, toward the end of our lesson, she nabs a clay. When it shatters, she screams, and I have to remind her she’s got a live firearm in her hands.
She puts on the safety and hands the gun to Carlos. Then she promptly leaps into my arms wearing the biggest smile I’ve seen on her yet. Yesterday morning’s heaviness is a distant memory.
I wrap my arms around her. She wraps her legs around me.
“That was fun,” she says, burying her head in my neck. “Can we never do it again, please? My arm feels like it’s about to fall off.”
I laugh and tighten my arm around her waist, pressing her groin more firmly against mine. The arousal gathered there throbs.
I shouldn’t.
But I already know I’m gonna take her back to my place and take off her clothes. I hope she doesn’t have to be home for the baby soon.
It is absolutely not appropriate to be in this condition around my employees. But Carlos is, as always, great at reading the room. He politely thanks us and disappears with our guns and ammo.
I nudge my erection—it’s there now, full mast—between Bel’s legs. Her breath hitches, fingers finding purchase in the hair at the nape of my neck.
She flexes her thigh, using her leg to pull me closer.
I nip at her earlobe, then kiss her temple.
She touches her forehead to mine and blinks, tangling our eyelashes.
The way we’re touching each other—it’s at once new and familiar.
“Your mom say she could stay until the end of the month?”
Bel nods. “She’ll have to work remotely for the last week. But yeah, we really lucked out.”
“I have some ice back at my place I could put on it. Your arm.” I lean in and kiss her mouth, hard and hot, my tongue toying with the seam of her lips. “You got time?”
Bel nudges her nose against mine. “Not much. Make it quick?”
“Done.”
I drive my golf cart like a lunatic to my house. Bel is on me in the hall before the door closes behind us. Her impatience, her eagerness, puts a big old smile on my face.
She pushes me against the wall, hard, and goddamn if my dick doesn’t scream bloody murder against the prison of my jeans. She crowds me, kissing my neck as she slides her hand inside my shirt. Her fingers are warm on my stomach. They toy with my happy trail and the ridges of muscle that bisect my belly.
She’s learning me, and I love it.
Then her hands are on my fly, her fingers working the zipper, and now they’re around my dick.
It’s my turn to take charge. Otherwise, I’m gonna come in five seconds flat.
Bucking my hips, I make the kiss mine as I back her into the wall, crowding her with my body. She moans, and I u
nbutton her jeans and yank them down her thighs. She’s wearing these pretty little sheer black panties. I can see the sweet lips of her pussy through them, and I wanna yell, so I do.
“You shaved!”
She lifts a shoulder, not at all shy. “It turns me on to try something new. Which I’m hoping will help the lubrication situation.”
“I love it.”
“The bare pussy?”
“No.” I look up at her. The burn in Bel’s eyes is what I live for. “Shit that turns you on. That’s what I love. Your pussy is perfect shaved, not shaved. It’s yours, so I love it.”
I mean what I say. So I firm the muscles in my core and roll back my hips, pulling my dick out of her grasp. She cries out, but I’m already on my knees, trailing my mouth down the slope of her belly.
Her fingers glide through my hair. I press the flat of my tongue to her pussy through her panties, and her fingers form a fist. She pulls on my hair, making the need inside my skin spike.
My knees are in agony against the hardwood floor. I’ll regret this tomorrow. For so many reasons.
But her taste is on my mouth, and I want more of it.
I hook my fingertips in her panties and pull them down, baring her to me. Her scent fills my head. The lips of her pussy are like velvet against my tongue. I hold them open with my thumbs, exposing her pink inner folds, and I lick her clit.
She tastes like—
Like the ocean and late nights and life.
“Oh,” she pants, head falling back against the wall. “Beau. There.”
I lick her, gliding my tongue farther inside her to tease her center. I move my thumbs lower and hold her open a little more. I take my time—slow, sure strokes of my tongue—and I grab her knee when her leg starts to shake. I hike her leg over my shoulder, which immediately spreads her wider and opens her more to me. Her hips roll against my mouth, seeking relief, and I dip my thumb inside her, gathering some moisture and slicking it over her pussy. There isn’t much, so we’ll definitely still need to use lube, but it’s enough to heat things up a bit.
Sucking on her clit, I glide my thumb in and out—carefully, as I’m guessing she’s still a little sore from the other night.
I glide my thumb back, grazing her asshole, and she says my name again, more urgently this time.
I grin against her pussy. Bel likes backdoor action.
Of course she does.
But we don’t have time to go there today. So I suck on her clit, hard, and glide my hands up inside her sweater, taking possession of her torso with my grip. I feel goose bumps break out across her skin.
The muscles along her sides tremble. I move a hand inside her bra and play with her nipple.
Oh, she says.
Go, I say. I nick her clit with my teeth.
I watch her as she comes. Hips bucking against my face, tit firm in my hand, and her hands balled into fists in my hair. Her face is screwed up like she’s in pain, a flush working its way up her throat to her cheeks.
Mouth open. Eyes closed. Completely abandoned to her orgasm.
Completely abandoned to me.
I close my eyes, overwhelmed—like I’m the one who’s coming—and plant my lips on her low belly. The ridge of her C-section scar presses against my lips.
A memory carved into flesh.
The moment Maisie was born.
I wasn’t there. But I wish I had been.
Annabel gives my hair a tug. “Hey. Finish what you started.”
Don’t have to ask me twice.
I bend down and carefully—as carefully as I can, anyway—bend her body over my shoulder, careful not to hurt her tits.
To: John Beauregard ([email protected])
From: Annabel Langley ([email protected])
December 5, 2017 3:11 AM EST
Subject: what do I do
I’d call you, but since you’re somewhere in the Maldives with that supermodel you’ve been after, I didn’t want to interrupt y’alls’ love fest.
I don’t know how else to say this, so I’ll just spit it out. Ryan left this morning. He packed a bag and walked out of the house without a word. Maybe he’d already said all the words he’d wanted to say, none of them pretty.
Devastated doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling.
I’m not proud of how rocky our marriage has been. Making a life with Ryan has never been easy. I remember you warning me at the beginning. I didn’t want to listen, maybe because I was so in love after being so unlucky for so long, but now I’m kicking myself for not taking your concerns more seriously.
Deep down, Ryan is a good man. Or he was when we got married. But he’s changed so much since then. His career’s really taken off. He thinks I’m jealous even though I tell him I’m happy for him. And I am. I am happy for him. I know it’s what he wants, to be one of the big guys at the bank. He’s just turned into a different person, you know? He used to be sweet. Genuine. I could tell he had a bit of an ego, but I thought it was harmless. Now, though, it’s turned into this awful sense of entitlement, and this obsession with keeping up with all his fancy new friends.
I’m kicking myself for not seeing it sooner. We talked a lot about having kids when we were dating. But as soon as we were married, and he got that huge promotion to managing director, it all just…petered out until it stopped altogether. Everything. The sex (sorry if that’s TMI, but there you have it). The talking. It’s like we lost whatever connection we had in the beginning.
We’re just different, I guess. We’ve grown apart. He doesn’t listen the way you do. He doesn’t laugh at my jokes like you. I feel like I can’t goof off with him a lot of the time. Like I can’t be myself, you know? Because he wants me to be this, like, Stepford version of myself or something.
Still. I wanted to fight, you know? This is marriage we’re talking about. Something I take very seriously. I wanted him to go back to who he was when we met. That man would fight for us. But that’s the thing. We’ve gotten in one, maybe two blowup arguments recently. For the past six months or so, though, we’ve barely said a word to each other. We’ve been civil. But we haven’t been talking, confiding in each other. It’s like that saying about the world ending with a whimper…that’s how my marriage is ending. Without so much as a goodbye.
Now Ryan’s gone.
Ugh sorry for the word vomit. Mom is coming over in a bit, so don’t worry about me, I’ll be looked after. But I just miss you, and I’m a mess, and I wish I could hear your voice right now. That always makes me feel better.
Thanks for listening. Hope you’re having (safe) fun.
XO,
Me
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Beau
Bel slaps my ass, then squeezes it.
“You have the best butt, Beau.”
“Thank you kindly.” I return the favor and give her ass a squeeze. “Yours is pretty damn cute, too.”
“I like it when you touch it.”
“I noticed.”
I walk into my bedroom, dropping Bel’s shoes, jeans, and panties as we go.
My housekeeper has been here. Bed is made, drapes are open. I hit a button by the door, and they silently glide shut.
“Neat trick,” Bel says as I lean down and set her on her feet.
“It’s a millionaire thing.”
“Gross.”
“I know.”
I’m struck by the fact that Annabel has never been in my bedroom here before. In college, we hung out in each other’s dorm rooms all the time, annoying the hell out of our roommates. We’d do homework in Bel’s bed or watch movies in mine.
But since then, I don’t think she’s been near my bed, much less in it.
“My sweater.” She turns, facing away from me, and pulls her hair over her shoulder. “There’s a button at the neck. Can you get it for me?”
Shamelessly, I lift the hem of said sweater and press my exposed dick into the small of her back as I work the button free, smearing precum all over her s
kin.
She lets me.
Bel holds up her arms, and I gently lift the sweater over her head. I unhook her bra, and she takes it off, dropping it on the floor.
I lean in and put my mouth on her neck, right where it slopes into her shoulder, and her head falls to the side as I work my way up to her ear. She sighs, reaching for my dick. I kiss her as she strokes me, touch sure and patient.
I take her tits in my hands and gently knead them, taking each nipple between my thumb and first two fingers. She arches into my touch with a moan.
“Too much?”
“My milk’s going to come in any minute. We don’t have long.”
Pressing one last, lingering kiss onto her shoulder, I make a beeline for my bathroom to grab some lube and a condom.
I head back to the bedroom, where I find Bel bent over the edge of my bed. Elbows on the mattress, ass in the air, legs spread, pussy exposed in the most lewd and delicious way possible.
My balls tighten like I’m already inside her.
I grab my cock in my hand. Hissing, I give it a vicious, almost painful tug, keeping my eyes locked on the pink slit between her legs. The slight opening in its center is just begging to be fucked.
“What?” Bel glances at me over her shoulder, all innocence except for the hot gleam in her eye.
“You play dirty.”
She digs her teeth into her bottom lip. Her eyes flick to my cock. “So stop being Captain America and give me what I want already.”
Christ.
Even the sex we have is laden with metaphors.
My hands shake as I rip open the condom and roll it onto my length. I coat myself with lube, then coat my fingers a second time and run them up the length of her pussy, front to back. Stopping to linger on her clit.
Stopping to linger on her asshole. Her breath catches, and her head falls between her arms.
“Can I?”
In reply, she presses her ass into my hand.
“Honey.” Honey.
That’s what she feels like when I slip my middle finger inside her rim. Warm and wet. She pants, her body tensing.
Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance Page 23
