The Vault Box Set

by Eden Summers

  Because that was what he was good at.

  The only thing he was good at.

  He snatched the wine bottle from beside her and filled their glasses. The comfortable silence had turned chaotic. A hint of panic tinged the air, or maybe it only lingered in his blood.

  “How many times have you done this?” He needed to know where he ranked on the list. What was his number in the line?

  “Had wine and Chinese food?” She didn’t meet his gaze as she lifted the bag and made for the kitchen.

  “Brought someone from the club back to your apartment?”

  She shrugged. “This is the first time I’ve had any man in my apartment.”

  “The first?” He followed, dirty dish and full wine glass in hand. “I thought Shay said you’d been a widow for years.”

  “And now you’re taking the invitation as a compliment?” She opened the fridge, shooting him an unimpressed glance over the top of the door as she placed the food inside. “Don’t. Believe me, you’re not special. I just haven’t had much luck with men since Lucas passed.”

  With every insult, he struggled to hide his smirk. Her compounding disinterest had the opposite effect on him. A dangerous effect. For once, he felt a strange pull for more.

  “Maybe that will change after the demonstration night.”

  She closed the fridge and came toward him, taking the plate from his hands to place it in the sink. “You’ve gotta get me there first, bucko.”

  “I guess you’re ready for me to prove my worth. Tell me where you want to do this and we’ll get started.”

  “Now?” She turned from the sink, her eyes wide. “God, no. I just ate a truckload of food. Unless you have a pregnancy fetish, you’re going to have to wait until my belly settles.”

  No, no pregnancy fetish, but he was starting to think he had a thing for kitchens.

  He could picture her bent over the sink. Slammed up against the fridge. Splayed on the counter. He didn’t want to wait. He had to get this over and done with before his needs became demands.

  “Can we sit for a while?” She made for the dining table to claim her wine glass, bringing a waft of heavenly scented citrus air as she scooted past. “I’ve been on my feet all day.”

  He huffed. He didn’t even try to hide it.

  Her responding chuckle only increased his annoyance.

  “Is it going to threaten your bachelor status if we sit side by side on the sofa?”

  “Doesn’t worry me in the slightest.”

  “Liar.” Her mouth curved in a knowing smile, the wine glass raising to those tempting lips. “I knew being here would make you uncomfortable.”

  “We’ll see who’s uncomfortable once you’re naked and writhing. I figure the apology you’re going to owe me for doubting my skills will be hard to spit out.”

  “I’m never going to apologize for not being endeared by your shitty attitude.” She strode into the living room, an added sway to those hips. “If you can work any sort of magic it will merely be a payoff for the crap you’ve put me through.”

  His gaze strayed to her ass encased in those tiny sports shorts. If anyone was going through crap, it was him. He was the one who had to figure out how to get her off while holding his own lust in check. Lust that rapidly morphed into a driving force.

  He followed her, choosing to stand by the stacked bookshelf while she lazily slumped onto the three-seater sofa. She kicked her feet onto the coffee table, spreading long, smooth legs before him like an appetizer.

  “So…” He turned to the bookshelf, taking in the middle shelf stacked wall to wall with cancer information. A cold ache formed under his sternum at the thought of the nightmare his parents were enduring. He wanted to familiarize himself with their suffering, to pretend he was involved somehow. “That’s a lot of books.”

  There were emotional titles—When Breath Becomes Air, Everyday Strength, and How to Help Someone with Cancer. Research titles—Radical Remission, What You Need to Know About Cancer, The Facts 101. Even those that promoted alternate therapies.

  “Lucas had terminal cancer.”

  He’d guessed as much. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  He pulled a title from the shelf and stared at the couple on the cover—Supporting Someone with Cancer: A Loved One’s Guide.

  He wondered if his father had this book filed neatly on their perfect shelf back in Tampa. Had he purchased all these titles for the woman who made his life worthwhile?

  “How much time did you have with your husband after his diagnosis?”

  “Eleven months.”

  He frowned and shoved the book back into place. “I thought you said you were married for eleven months.”

  “I did.” She sipped from her glass, her eyes trained on his. “It’s a long story.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what it’s like?”

  “Cancer?” Her forehead wrinkled.

  “Yeah. What’s the process? The end game?”

  Her mouth opened and closed. Her eyes remained wide.

  “Sorry, is that a shitty question?”

  She snorted through a sip of wine, then placed the glass down on the coffee table. “I guess it depends why you’re asking.”

  He could’ve given a lame excuse. He could’ve lied. “My mother has terminal cancer.”

  “Oh, Bryan. I’m so sorry.” Her face scrunched with genuine sympathy, masking all her beauty and replacing it with pathetic emotion.

  “Don’t be.” He stepped over her legs and took a seat beside her. “We’re not close.”

  “But still, she’s your mother. The news must be devastating.”

  The fact his mother had withheld the information from her only son was more traumatic.

  “Feel free to take any of the books home with you. They’re no use to me anymore.”

  “No. I’m good.” He could ask a question or two to feel connected to a family who disowned him, but he refused to spend hours researching his mother’s downfall. He never should’ve mentioned her in the first place.

  “Well, I’ll leave the offer open if you change your mind.” Her voice turned somber, her expression, too. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of them for years. Having the reminder stare me in the face every day is getting a little old.”

  “Thanks.” He concentrated on her fingers, noticing how they dug deeper and deeper into the sole of her foot, as if trying to massage the pain away.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” She flashed him a look, one that told him she’d battle through this painful conversation, if only for his benefit.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “Okay. I get it.” She flexed her feet, feigning relaxation. “So, tell me, why a class?” The pain didn’t leave her features as she blatantly changed the subject. “What will you get out of it?”

  “Satisfaction.” At least that’s what he’d told himself in the planning stages. He’d wanted to tweak the club on the most intimate level. To mold the greedy Vault patrons into more selfless participants.

  But that aim didn’t hold his interest anymore. Now, the only thing he wanted from the demonstration night was a one-way ticket between Ella’s thighs. To sink under her skin, the same way she was crawling under his.

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “I don’t need you to.”

  “That’s exactly my point. You don’t seem the type to willingly help others for the sake of it. And you already have a posse who think you’re the messiah of the female orgasm.”

  “You’ve got me pegged. After what? Two conversations?”

  Her lips curved, the grief gradually seeping away. “Don’t you think I deserve to know, considering I’m contemplating helping you?”

  “Helping me? We both know this is mutually beneficial.” He jerked his chin toward her feet and indicated for her to lift them in his direction with a crook of his hand.

  She frowned, remaining immobil
e.

  He slapped his lap, trying not to make a big deal out of the offer. He wouldn’t be able to stop fixating on his parents until she stopped thinking about her husband. And neither thought process was conducive for what he had planned. “Put your feet up here.”

  Her lips worked over silent contemplation until finally she turned on the sofa, placing her heels on his thighs. “Your fixation on this being mutually beneficial is a load of bull. It’s not like I can’t get an orgasm without you. I can do the work myself.”

  “And you’re satisfied with that? You don’t need a guy to break the monotony?” No matter how she responded, he knew the truth. A woman with her sexuality and passion could never be entirely satisfied with masturbation. It might dull the ache, but she needed to be fucked. There was no substitute for skin on skin.

  “I have toys.”

  He didn’t appreciate the visual. Actually, his body appreciated it too damn much. His cock stirred, the hard length nudging against her heel. “I’d like to see that.”

  “I know,” she drawled. “And you wouldn’t be the only one.”

  No doubt. He could sell tickets at the Vault and pack the room with willing voyeurs. She’d enjoy it, too. This woman would love to be the center of innumerable fantasies. She deserved to be.

  He grabbed one of her feet, distracting himself as he worked his thumb along her inner sole.

  “Oh, God.” She groaned. “That feels good.”

  Shit.

  As far as distractions went, this one was counterproductive. Her throaty moans and the arching of her back made his cock push harder against his zipper. And those toenails. Jesus. He’d never spent much time admiring a woman’s feet. It wasn’t his kink. But he understood it now.

  Those dainty, delicate toes.

  The feminine light pink polish.

  He was in fucking trouble.

  How many men came home to this every day? A beautiful woman. A nice meal. Light-hearted conversation. And the promise of a sweaty, energetic fuck.

  “I don’t get you, Bryan.”

  Not surprising. He didn’t understand himself. Maybe they could work out his insanity together. “What’s not to get?”

  “You bought me dinner and wine. You’re being kind. Well, way beyond civil, anyway. And now you’re massaging my feet.”

  His skin itched with the influx of reality. He’d stopped pretending this woman annoyed him sometime in the last hour. Probably earlier. This afternoon could’ve been the culprit.

  He shrugged it off, determined to snap back on track. “You’re not a vulture. It gives me the freedom to relax.”

  “So, this is the real Bryan?” She scrutinized him, her brows pulled tight. “Far from the brute who torments everyone?”

  “I don’t torment anyone. Neither do I pretend to be someone I’m not.” Not really. He lowered his focus to her feet, gently curling her toes under. “This is me. And the guy you met at the Vault is, too.”

  She remained quiet, and he didn’t dare look at her to fill the void.

  “I’m not an asshole, Ella. Not entirely. I just have a low tolerance for bullshit.”

  She tilted her head, pondering, and he knew exactly what skittered through her mind. He knew it even before she opened her mouth. “Why El—”

  “Are you ready to get started?” He tapped her ankles, indicating for her to move. He liked her, but not enough to field questions about his reluctance to say her name.

  “Ahh. Sure.” She placed her feet on the floor and sat up straight. “How do you want to do this?”

  “Let’s start with where.”

  “The bedroom?” Her face remained impassive. “Just in case I get bored and want to take a nap.” Her lips twitched, breaking the tension building in his chest.

  “The bedroom, it is.” He stood, offering her a hand. “And don’t worry—you won’t be nodding off any time soon.”

  Chapter Ten

  The back of Pamela’s neck tingled as she led Bryan down the hall. Nervousness had set in, the shaky, uncomfortable feeling an unwanted blast from the past.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, why?” She stopped before her open bedroom door and faced him.

  “You were walking like I had a gun at your back.”

  Why did he care? Before today, she would’ve assumed it was to exploit her discomfort. But from the way he’d acted tonight, she wondered if the question came from true concern.

  “There’s a lot of pressure on my shoulders.” She hadn’t been anxious about sex in a damn long time. Not that this was anxiety as much as it was nervous anticipation.

  “There’s no pressure.” He led the way into her room, not bothering to turn on the light. “All you have to do is relax and let me work my magic. Once I’m done, you can sing my praises, and then I’ll leave. Simple as that.”

  She wasn’t going to encourage his confidence. Nope. Not at all.

  “I see you hiding a smile under those tight lips.” He smirked over his shoulder. “We both know I’m right.”

  She ignored him and padded to her nightstand to flick on the lamp. The dim light only endeavored to highlight the devilish appeal of his features. His expression spoke of passion. Pleasure and dominance. Everything she’d been searching for since Lucas died stared her in the face, waiting to be grasped in both hands.

  If he demanded things of her, things she wasn’t necessarily prepared to give, she’d succumb anyway. No doubt. Something inside her had become starved for his approval. She wanted to make him smile again. To ease the sterility that coiled around him with suffocating efficiency.

  He inched closer to the bed, his suit pants brushing against the mattress. “Take off your shirt.”

  Her lips parted in shock, but they shouldn’t have. Pleasantries weren’t a part of the deal. Neither was foreplay.

  She grasped the thin material of her shirt, pulled it over her head, and dropped it to the floor. She stood before him, black lace bra and old cotton shorts. Her chest expanded with the need for more. More air. More control. More noise to fill the tense silence. “Better?”

  “Not quite. But we’re getting there.” His scrutiny raked her. It wasn’t a light caress of his attention. It was brutal, like his nickname demanded. Those eyes turned molten, the heat of promise burning bright. “Shorts off, too.”

  “Wait.” Her nervousness came out of hiding, nudging anticipation out of the way. “Should we discuss a rough timeframe to end this?”

  He frowned.

  “I mean…” She sighed. “If this doesn’t seem to be working, should we have a set time in mind to stop? Unlike you, I don’t like hurting people’s feelings, but I also don’t want you all up in my bits, working long hours like a miner, when you’re getting nowhere. So, maybe we need a deadline.”

  He lowered his gaze, paying too much attention to the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “Sure. If it’ll make you comfortable, we’ll put a fifteen-minute timeline on this.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” Was he kidding? “I won’t even be turned on in fifteen minutes.”

  He smirked, that wicked lift of lips telling her he already knew she was simmering. “Trust me.” He tapped the mattress, encouraging her approach. “I’ve got this covered.”

  Her heart kicked.

  Parts lower, too.

  “Not only will fifteen minutes be enough,” he drawled, “but I’m willing to wager I’ll get you over the line in less than ten.”

  “Now you’re delusional.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you’re not going to take this seriously—”

  “Who’s really the delusional one here?” He approached, his sure stride eating up the distance in less than a heartbeat. “The woman who says no man can make her climax?” His hand raised, gently gliding stray strands of hair from her cheek. “Or the guy who achieved it with one finger?”

  Her cheeks heated. “Stop bringing that up.”

  “Why? It was some of my best work.”

  Some? Whisper-th
in threads of jealousy came to life in her chest. She shouldn’t have forgotten his efficiency was equally brag-worthy with other women. It was pathetic to even care.

  “Are we doing this or what?” She shoved at her shorts, letting them fall to her feet, then climbed onto the bed. “Hurry up. The clock is ticking.”

  “Not yet, it isn’t. We still have the finer details to sort out.” He grabbed her ankle and tugged, dragging her toward him. “I’ve got a ten-minute deadline in this wager. All you need to do is tell me what you want to bet.”

  She scowled, trying to determine how to dent his arrogance. Their egos were on entirely different playing fields. He was in the pros. She was warming the bench in adolescent D-grade. “If you lose, you spend the night.”

  No denting occurred. His expression didn’t falter.

  “In my bed,” she continued, hoping to inspire panic. “Like a man who doesn’t have a million commitment issues.”

  The anticipated revulsion didn’t reach his features. She hadn’t even laid a finger on his bravado.

  “Deal.”

  Was he kidding? Where the hell did his confidence come from?

  “And if I win,” he purred, “you need to admit, in graphic detail, how my prowess is unlike any other.”

  “I didn’t think you were the type for accolades.”

  “For you, I’ll make an exception.” He tugged her closer and let her legs fall over the edge of the mattress.

  She clenched her teeth, hating how he’d already made her wet. Her body didn’t comply at all. The men she’d wanted to succumb to had no effect, and the one man she didn’t want anything to do with was like a sexual healer. Her very own Marvin Gaye. Or was she Marvin in this situation?

  Shit.

  She couldn’t think through the lust fog.

  “Any other rules before I start?”

  “Yes. I don’t kiss on the mouth.” She’d had the same stipulation since Lucas died. She didn’t want that connection from someone able to walk out the door without a backward glance. The next man she kissed would care for her. He’d cherish the ground she walked on.