Spin (The Indigo Lounge Series)

by Zara Cox

  Spin

  The Indigo Lounge Series

  Zara Cox

  Published by Zara Cox, 2015.

  SPIN

  THE INDIGO LOUNGE SERIES #2.5

  BY

  ZARA COX

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DEAR READER

  SNEAK PEEK OF HIGH (INDIGO LOUNGE BOOK #1)

  NOTE FROM AUTHOR/INTRODUCING

  Copyright © 2015 Zara Cox

  Edited by Kate Reed

  Cover by Angela Oltmann

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ONE

  The Months After The Bora Bora

  Bethany

  “Peaches?”

  I’m dreaming. Of white sandy beaches and diamond sparkles glinting off a turquoise ocean. Of deep-seated happiness that saturates every breath I take. No, actually, I’m beyond saturated. I am happiness itself, the very building blocks that create nirvana—

  “Peaches.”

  “Hmm?” Bliss pulses through my moaned response. The smile that creased my lips in sleep stretches wider in consciousness.

  “Wake up, Bethany. I need a fucking answer. Right now.”

  Shit.

  When he calls me Bethany in that edgy tone, I know I’m in trouble. My smile dims. I swallow my next breath of happiness and roll over in the Egyptian cotton sheets.

  We got back just over four hours ago from one of our numerous trips to Bora Bora. For many reasons, it’s become my favorite place in the world. A place where I know I won’t have to share the love of my life with anyone else.

  I crack my lids open and stare at the man in question, and I ponder with quiet awe the dramatic changes I’ve undergone in the past months. From the moment we met, I was captivated by him.

  Zachary Savage.

  A true dominant. A brusque and abrasive billionaire renowned for his entrepreneurial prowess and the A-list, adult-only private jet experience known as the Indigo Lounge clubs.

  A man with one obsession.

  Me.

  Before I knew it, lust at first sight became love at tenth fuck, and overnight he grew into the most important thing in my life. I couldn’t breathe, or eat, or think without him.

  And then he threw the bombshell into my life.

  We got through it.

  But little did I know that bombshell wasn’t going to be our last.

  You see, the man who half-proposed to me on a beach in Bora Bora many months ago isn’t an ordinary man. He’s fierce and possessive, and he makes no apologies for it. His intensity is all consuming, which means I have to fight each day to retain a modicum of independence or be totally absorbed into him.

  So even though I want to throw myself headlong into his arms right now, I stay where I am. And he stares at me with growing impatience as I bite back a sleep-deprived yawn.

  I’m exhausted. I crave sleep. But the time difference doesn’t matter jack shit to the man sitting on the side of the bed with his eyes fixed in a predator’s intensity. Vitality oozes from every pore. Despite the barely broken dawn, he’s dressed in jeans and an indigo colored T-shirt. The man gives bright-eyed-and-busy-tailed a run for its money.

  He fucked me on the plane ride back to New York, in between allowing me half hour naps. And, in between those times, he asked me for an answer to a question that should have been as easy as exhaling.

  I haven’t given him an answer yet.

  Why? I have no goddamn clue.

  My every pore seethes with sublime contentment. I’m happier than the happiest clam in clam land. For fuck’s sake, I should be reaching for that last cherry that sits on top of the clusterfuck of cherries on my bliss cake.

  And yet...

  My eyes meet the most gorgeous grey eyes in the whole world.

  Eyes I’ve drowned in several thousand times. Eyes that now pin me to the bed.

  Zach’s eyes, bracketed by lush lashes beneath sinful, almost cruel eyebrows, set in a face that literally stops women in their tracks, well...let’s just say my man is savagely beautiful.

  And lethal in this mood.

  I try to stall. “What happened to giving me all the time in the world to decide?”

  His dark brows gather thunder. In a heartbeat, he rears over me, all sleek muscles and magnificent dominance. Powerful thighs part mine, and my man asserts his imperious will as he spikes his fingers into my hair. Immobilized, with every cell in my body now awake and excruciatingly alert to whatever’s coming my way, all I can do is attempt to breathe as he stares down at me.

  “Is something going on that I should know about, Bethany?”

  “Umm...not sure what you mean—”

  “Bullshit. It’s been almost nine goddamn months since I put that ring on your finger. I’ve been infinitely patient. How much more time do you need?”

  “Zach—”

  His face clenches ominously in a way that tells me, I’m either gonna get chewed out right now or fucked within an inch of my life. Again. My giddy little heart squeals with delight, certain which of the two options it wants.

  “You love me.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement pulsing with thick, arrogant certainty.

  “I love you,” I respond for the millionth time. I’ve wailed it. I’ve sobbed it. I’ve moaned it while gagged with his cock in my mouth.

  But I hear it. That last molecule of uncertainty that threads my words.

  He hears it too.

  The certainty in his face recedes. A flash of vulnerability shadows the arrogance, chips at its edges. It barely registers before it vanishes because Zachary Savage is not the type of guy to give in to weakness. He feels it. It may haunt him from time to time. But the force of his willpower always triumphs. These days, the only time he lets himself show his fear is with me.

  To the outside world, he’s the until-very-recently reclusive billionaire with looks and a body to die for, envy-inciting power, and a business ethic that would decimate most men.

  But I watched his tears fall as he recounted the harrowing circumstances of his ex-wife’s death. We both lived through weeks of suffering last year as he grappled with doing the right thing without losing me. So I recognize that all-too-fleeting look. And I’m not one little bit surprised when he rears up and tugs his T-shirt over his head. His jeans and briefs come off in record time. The cotton sheets are ripped from my useless hands, and my body is laid bare to him as he asserts himself between my legs.

  Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat. There’s no hiding from him as my pulse begins to race with a ferocity that scares the shit out of me.

  Tiny quivers jerk through my body as I weather his stare. He doesn’t speak for heart-aching minutes, just stares at me with his emotions running riot through his eyes.
<
br />   “You love me,” he reasserts.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what the fuck’s holding you back? You don’t love me enough to be my wife? Is that what’s happening here, Bethany?” The rough gravel of his voice rumbles through our connected bodies.

  I shake my head. “It’s not that. Please believe me, Zach. I just...just...” My voice dries up, the words to describe how I feel left unformed, because honestly, I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what’s holding me back.

  “Baby, you’re gonna have to give me more than that,” he warns with a low, deep voice.

  I touch his cheek, trace my fingers over his warm skin.

  Immediately, he nuzzles my hand. His lips find the band that holds the huge diamond adorning my finger. He kisses the knuckle above it, but his gaze stays on my face. His penetrative stare intensifies as the silence stretches.

  “I’m scared,” I whisper. Because being this close to him, I’m undone. He owns my heart and every secret within it. He owns my fears too, even when I don’t know what I’m afraid of.

  A flash of terror bolts through his eyes. His face pales. “You’re scared? Of me?”

  “No!”

  “Then what are you scared of?”

  I suck in a breath. “These past months...they’ve been perfect.”

  He exhales. One hand captures my chin. “Help me out, baby. I don’t understand. You’re scared that marrying me will ruin what we have?”

  Put like that, my turmoil in a teacup sounds like what it is—absurd and puzzling. And yet, it won’t go away.

  I raise my head off the pillow and touch my lips to his. “I love you.”

  “Bethany.”

  The growled warning sends tingles all over my body. “I love you,” I moan into his mouth. “So much. My every breath is for you.”

  I feel his cock thicken and lengthen against my belly. My hips undulate, my sex already craving the matchless high that comes with Zach’s cock inside me.

  With a hoarse groan, he penetrates me, offering me everything I need. His fullness inside me blanches away my fears, and my fingers dig into him with slavish glee.

  He slams into me again, a little harder, rougher.

  “Zach!”

  He deepens the kiss as he repeats his rough thrusts. In under a minute, I’m delirious. I’m back atop my clusterfuck of cherries, gorging myself to my heart’s content. Hedonism, undiluted. This is what he lays at my feet.

  His mouth frees mine and goes on a pleasure trail. Hands, tongue, teeth, cock bathe me in erotic bliss. He fucks me until my head bangs against the headboard. Then he yanks me lower and starts again.

  “Is this what you want?” he demands.

  “Yes,” I gasp. My fingers glide over his warm skin and spike into his hair. I’m holding on for dear life. Parts of me are ridiculously sore from his relentless fucking, but nothing will ever make me refuse being this close with the man I love. “Yes, please. Fuck me harder, Zach.”

  His face contorts in a hot grimace as he groans. “Shit, you fucking wreck me.”

  He rolls us to the side, rearranges me in front of him, and I reach back to clamp my arm around his neck. With full access to my body, he slides into me once more. One hand slips between my legs and he cups my breast with the other. In under ten seconds, my clit is engorged, on fire. A scream builds in my chest.

  His hot breath pants in my ear as we crest higher. My body is slick with sweat. I’m engulfed with raw sensation. “Oh God, Zach!”

  “Yes, squeeze me like that, baby,” he commands. “Jesus!”

  His cock thickens inside me and the scream rips free. “I...can’t...Zach, I’m coming.”

  “Peaches,” he rasps.

  I know what he wants. I turn to look at him, let him see every naked emotion on my face. Seeing me like this has an almost transcendental effect on him. One I treasure as fiercely as he does.

  On the threshold of another mind-bending release, I keep my eyes locked on his and mouth, “I’m coming.”

  A rough, ferocious kiss bruises my lips, then he pulls back, grips my waist and groans. “Baby, I’m there. Come with me. Drench me as I fill up that hungry cunt,” he orders with a thick, lust-glazed voice.

  A wild shudder grips me. Zach’s filthy mouth has always been a huge turn on. The man can make me wet with a single look. Add his raw, unapologetically decadent sex-talk and another lock cages me in the Zachary Savage Rabid Fan Club.

  My body seizes in a long precursor to release. I lose focus for a moment as every cell in my body poises for the onrush of ecstasy.

  Then I’m flying.

  I scream incoherent words that he responds to as he bucks through his own climax. His fingers bite hard into my flesh. His semen fills my pussy in a long, hot flood that completely drenches me.

  “Christ, Bethany, you make me come so hard.” He groans against my neck.

  “And I love it,” I reply. “Every single drop.”

  He shudders one more time, then we lie in silence, desperately trying to catch our breaths. Languor that I know won’t last steals through me, and I melt into his arms. He allows me to rest for a single minute, then his fingers slide into my hair.

  “Peaches, look at me.”

  TWO

  Madame Gabor’s Torture Chamber

  Bethany

  I keep my gaze steady as I meet his narrowed grey eyes.

  “Don’t think I don’t recognize your stalling tactics,” he growls. “I’ll allow you to fuck away my irritation with you just this once. I love you. I fucking love that incredible pussy you just used to turn me inside out. But we’ll get to the bottom of this, sooner rather than later. Understand?”

  I nod.

  “Good.”

  He kisses me again, then vaults out of bed, even more invigorated than he was twenty minutes ago.

  I groan, convinced my body has completely melted into the sheets. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

  He pauses halfway across the huge bedroom and glances back at me, a lock of sexily disheveled hair falling over one eye. “You getting up?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you’re doing laps in the pool with me.”

  Before I can think up an adequate excuse, my phone pings. I grab it from the bedside table and shake my head with a little bit of relief when the see the diary alert.

  “I can’t. My ballet class is in forty-five minutes, then I’m meeting a client for breakfast at nine. I need to hustle or I’ll be late.”

  The look he sears me with holds equal amounts of irritation and adoration. “Tomorrow morning you do double laps. No excuses.”

  “Yes, sir,” I respond, glad to be off the hook.

  His eyes darken dramatically, but he shakes his head and continues to the bathroom.

  I relax into the pillows, my thoughts tumbling like dominos onto the other bone of contention between us.

  Swimming.

  Zach loves it. I’ll go as far as to say he’s obsessed with it. After all, it was his refuge during his high school years. Difficult years when his mother was more interested in pursing sexual gratification with as many men as possible rather than be a parent.

  Swimming is a salvation he pursued all the way to nationals. He excels in a wide range of sports, but swimming will always be his first love.

  Whereas I... I hate it.

  I’ve tried to love it again after meeting Zach. During our time in Marrakech, after he persuaded me to ditch the once-in-a-lifetime Indigo Lounge trip I won via his company’s sweepstake, he initiated a plan to help me get over my fear of water.

  Initially, his efforts worked. I wasn’t comfortable with swimming, but I elevated myself from bone-deep terror to treading shallow water. But at some point my progress plateaued. And lately, with each visit to our indoor swimming pool downstairs, the memory of being held down under water, of being nearly drowned by my next door neighbor in our family pool a decade ago, plagues me.

  I know Zach is less
than thrilled with my unwillingness to face my fears head on, but he hasn’t pushed me on the subject. Yet.

  My phone beeps a second reminder and I reluctantly get out of bed. My legs shake a little when I stand. I chuckle as I head to the bathroom. Zach likes to leave me with a reminder of his possession, and this time is no different. I probably won’t be able to cross my legs at any point during my work day.

  He enters the bathroom from the adjoining dressing room wearing his swimming trunks, and freezes when he sees me.

  His gorgeous eyes rake me from head to toe. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

  Hand on the shower stall door, I pucker and blow him a wet kiss.

  He lunges for me and I dance out of reach, closing the door firmly behind me. “No! Madame Gabor will kick my ass if I’m late again. My ears are still ringing from being berated last week.”

  Like a magnet, his gaze drops to my ass, and I hear his rough groan. Zach’s obsession with that sizeable part of my anatomy is a huge turn on. I spent years being embarrassed by my big butt. His singular fascination with it shocked me, but since the second we first met, that obsession—and everything to do with my body—hasn’t waned one little bit.

  I feel him watching me through the glass as I turn on the shower. My body is tingling with renewed arousal, and I know one single glance at him will mean I’ll be late. So I keep my face averted, grab the shower gel and squirt a load in my hand.

  The sheer power of his arousal reaches through the glass, wraps around me. My breathing stalls and my hands shake as I wash. The ache between my legs escalates. I’m dying to touch myself, but I dare not.

  I wasn’t lying about Madame Cecile Gabor. An ex prima ballerina, now a ballet instructor with a steel trap where a heart should be, she warned me that another tardy arrival would see me back on the probationary list—with any further breaches resulting in expulsion from the class. After being on her waiting list for six months before even setting foot in the first class, I wasn’t about to risk being kicked out any time soon.

  Ironically, the person who would be responsible for me getting kicked out was the person who found and signed me up with Madame Gabor in the first place.