by Olivia Dade
Mary offered a quiet explanation. “He prefers to deal with me.”
“Be that as it may, I don’t expect you to work during your time off. In fact, I don’t want you to work during your time off.” Angie waved a hand. “If he protests, blame it on me.”
It was hard to tell with Mary’s coppery brown skin, but Sam could have sworn the woman was blushing.
“Okay.” After giving Penny one last hug, Mary escaped back to her table. Where, if Sam wasn’t mistaken, she pulled out her phone and started typing again, her body hunched so Angie couldn’t see what she was doing.
“This wedding was so romantic. If Romeo and Juliet had seen it, they’d have offed themselves in envy,” Sarah proclaimed, bounding over to squeeze Penny tight. “I mean, even before they actually did off themselves. Good work, Callahan.”
Chris simply shook Jack’s hand and nodded at Penny. “Congrats, dude. Treat her well, or else Helen will go apeshit on you. I speak from personal experience.”
Jack saluted him. “Understood.”
When the last of her friends had returned to their tables, Penny smiled at Sam. “I know you’re worried about Mom not coming. But how could I be sad surrounded by so many people who love me?”
Constance’s arm slipped under the table at the mention of his mother. This time, she didn’t reach for his cock. She simply took his hand and held it. But the electricity arcing between them at even that innocent contact promised a long, hot night ahead.
No future. No promises. No one else aware of their agreement.
Just the two of them alone together, naked and fucking.
“You’re right,” he said to Penny. “In a situation like this, it’s very hard to be sad.”
* * * *
“We should leave soon.” Constance placed a hand on his shoulder and rested her cheek against it. Her other hand was clasped in his as they twirled slowly around the ballroom.
He fought the urge to tug her tighter against him.
One dance, they’d agreed. No more, lest their friends and family suspect their arrangement. And they needed to keep it innocent, so he couldn’t urge her arms around his neck. Couldn’t slide his hand at her waist to the small of her back and then down to her ass. Couldn’t rub his hips against hers and let her feel how she affected him.
Dinner had already been served. Cake had been eaten. Penny and Jack had recently departed on their extended honeymoon to various drafty castles and manses around Europe. The crowd was beginning to thin, and the music had changed from up-tempo dance songs to slow, sweeping tunes. Torch songs.
Because, clearly, what Sam needed right now was someone singing about love.
He shook his head. What you’re doing with Con isn’t about love or even romance. This song shouldn’t bother you in the slightest.
When the last notes faded, he held her for a moment too long before letting go.
“Let’s head out. I’ll claim our coats and meet you in the parking lot.” Not waiting for her response, he made his way back to their table to ensure he hadn’t left anything important there. His good sense, for example.
She hurried after him without an argument and snatched up her little purse. But when he turned toward the coat check, she laid a hand on his arm.
“Hold on a second. I have an idea.” Her voice lowered to a husky whisper. “Let’s not wait until we get to my house.”
Oh, shit. Every cell in his body was urging him to say yes, but… “I don’t want a semi-public fuck,” he said close to her ear. “I want to spread you out on a bed and see how wet you get when I strip off that dress and bury my head between your l—”
“This place has a handful of guest rooms,” she interrupted, her cheeks flushed. “Because Pen got the venue at the last minute, all of them were full except one. Which she reserved for your mother. It should be empty.”
For a moment, the mention of Joan cooled his urgency. But when he pictured a dim, quiet bedroom only steps away, impatience flared once again. “Sold.”
They hustled to the entrance of the building, where an elderly man in nineteenth-century costume stood leaning on a cane near an antique desk.
“May I help you? My name is Alfred, and I’m the concierge and night clerk at Thornfield Hall,” he said with a remarkable amount of dignity for a man wearing shiny blue breeches and knee socks.
“We need a room.” Sam couldn’t put it more plainly than that. And his tone indicated the unspoken addendum: Now.
“My apologies.” The man bowed with a distinct creaking noise. What the fuck? Was he wearing a corset? “Our guest chambers are fully booked for the evening.”
“One of those bookings is for Joan Heller. She’s not here, so you should have at least one free room.”
“I’m afraid I can’t confirm that.” The man drew himself up to his full height. Which wasn’t saying a lot. “For privacy reasons.”
As if sensing Sam’s growing frustration, Con intervened. “Joan Heller is his”—she gestured toward Sam—“mother, and the bride is his sister. As it turns out, Joan couldn’t come to the wedding. We’ve arrived to take her place. The room is already paid for, right?”
“Yes.” The man appeared to waver under her determined smile. “That’s our policy for events like these. Prepaid reservations only.”
“You can certainly call the newlyweds to confirm Ms. Heller’s absence and Sam’s relationship to the bride.” Con raised her brows in inquiry. “That is, if you want to bother them at the start of their honeymoon.”
A staring contest commenced. One Sam wasn’t sure Con would win, since the concierge obviously had some backbone.
But not enough, as it turned out. After a minute, the man limped his way behind the desk, emerging with a large, old-fashioned key in his hand. “Once you sign our register, you may proceed to the Governess Room. Second floor, third door on the right at the top of the stairs. Do you need help with luggage?”
Sam could answer that question. “No.”
“Hmm.” The man surveyed him suspiciously. “The room already contains a shift for the lady’s nightwear, as we’d anticipated a lone female guest. Do you require a linen shirt for your own comfort while abed?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The Thornfield Hall employee’s wrinkled features pinched even tighter. “Night caps are in the closet on the middle shelf.”
“You have drinks in the closet?” Con turned to Sam. “That’s awesome. Your sister chose a kickass venue.”
The man stared down his nose at both of them. “Not drinks. Caps. For your heads.”
“Oh.” Con looked disappointed, but she shrugged in easy acceptance. “Gotcha.”
“Of course, you’ll also have access to the prepaid amenities arranged by Ms. Callahan.” The concierge handed them a menu of services, hand-written in cursive on a piece of thick, smooth card stock. “She chose the deluxe package for her mother, so you may choose any or all of the following options.”
Con squinted at the paper. “No way we want some random woman rattling our door late at night and cackling maniacally. I’d brain her with a candelabra.”
The concierge stiffened in affront.
“And option four is just macabre.” Sam shook his head. “Does anyone ever choose to have fake smoke piped into their room? Or a display of lights that makes it look like the bed curtains are on fire? Really?”
The man cleared his throat. “That’s one of our less popular options, it’s true. We do get occasional requests, however.”
Back when Sam and Con had exorcised their sexual tension through arguing, she’d been the sole person who could puncture his easygoing nature. She still was. Only this time, he wanted to deal with that tension the old-fashioned way, and Mr. Ancient Breeches was slowing Sam’s roll.
He normally brushed aside delays and ridiculousness, but not now. Not with Con so close the hairs on his arm were standing on end. Not with the prospect of her naked and
gasping in pleasure taunting him with every heartbeat.
“We want clean sheets,” he told the concierge. “We want pillows. Towels. Soap. Shampoo.”
“And conditioner,” Con added, ever practical. “To deal with tangles.”
“An alarm clock or the ability to place a wake-up call. And privacy. Complete and total privacy.” He thrust the paper back at the hotel employee. “No interruptions. No fires. No appearances from a crazy wife trapped in the attic. No fortuneteller costumes. No mysterious visitors afflicted with bite marks. And absolutely no life-size Michael Fassbender cutouts!”
The man creaked again when he bowed, his dignity clearly offended. “Very well. I’ll note your preferences while you sign the register.”
Sam scrawled his name and other pertinent information, snatched the key from the concierge, grasped Con’s hand in his, and headed for the stairs. Under other circumstances, he might have appreciated the architecture, the various period-appropriate decorations, and the sheer insanity of the entire enterprise, but at the moment he could only see the woman racing up the steps by his side.
The rich purple of her dress set off her golden skin and dark hair, and the soft material clung to the slim, strong lines of her body. Her breasts, usually hidden so completely beneath thick sweaters, bounced as she ascended the stairs. And when she licked her lips, the glossy curve of her smile reflected the light from the battery-operated candles in sconces along the wall.
Pragmatic, combative Con had transformed into a stranger, and he didn’t know whether that excited or scared him.
She paused at the top of the stairs. “Shit. Do you remember which side he said our room was on? Because my mascara is annoying the fuck out of me, and I want it gone.” Her eyes crossed as she appeared to glare at her own makeup. “I’m not used to seeing my lashes like this. It’s like having spiders dangling over my eyeballs, threatening to strangle them at any moment.”
“Strangling spiders?”
She gave an impatient huff. “Maybe I’m thinking of boa constrictors. Whatever. Shut up and get us to our room, Wolcott.”
Ah. There she was. The Constance he knew. And strangely, she turned him on even more than the classy, seductive woman he’d briefly glimpsed on the stairs.
He placed a possessive hand on the small of her back and guided her to the right and down three doors. A discreet plaque on the door indicated they’d reached The Governess Room.
She bent at the waist to peer through the generous keyhole. “Oh, yeah. We’re definitely covering this. I don’t trust Creaky McBreecherson.”
When she straightened, he handed her the key. “You’re in charge of what happens tonight, Con. If you tell me you want to drive home alone, I’ll walk you to your car and let you go. If you tell me you want to sleep in this room by yourself, I’ll leave. But if you tell me you want me to stay…”
He stroked the graceful line of her spine from the small of her back to her nape, and then down again. Farther than before, until he was cupping her ass. Her lips parted when he squeezed her firm flesh. Not hard. Just enough to demonstrate his urgency and desire.
Leaning in close, he made sure his lips brushed her ear. “I want this round ass naked. I want your sweet little pussy naked. And then I plan to spread you wide, Con. So wide I can see and taste every inch of you. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll have you wet and panting my name.”
Her breath hitched, but she frowned at him. “I told you I needed to take off my mascara.”
“Eleven minutes, then.”
“Twelve.”
He sighed. “Jesus, Con. Can’t you let a man talk dirty? I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Her smile turned dark and wicked. “Oh, I did.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he grumbled.
She opened the heavy wooden door, tugged him inside, and locked it behind them. Wisely, she left the key in place to block any potential voyeurs. Then she let go of his hand and strode across the room.
“Sam?” Just before entering the spacious bathroom, she turned to face him. Without warning, she reached down and slowly raised her skirt to her waist.
Holy shit. She wasn’t wearing panties. She’d been naked under that dress all night. All fucking night, and his cock strained against his pants zipper at the glorious sight.
His breathing, already labored, halted entirely when she slid a hand down her flat belly. And then, in the most salacious, arousing move he’d ever seen, her slim fingers delved into the folds of her pussy. She made a low, purring noise as she caressed herself.
The sound of wet flesh whispered through the dim room, obscene and unabashedly sexual. Then she lifted her hand and slicked her shining fingertips against her thumb, staring at him with provocation clear in her eyes.
“You’ve already hit part of your target,” she said. “I’m wet for you. Soaking. But panting your name? I don’t think so.”
“Is that a challenge?” His voice had turned hoarse. Rough.
She smiled. “What do you think?”
11
Sam was waiting for Con when she emerged from the bathroom, his eyes heavy-lidded and his suit jacket slung across an overstuffed leather chair. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, as if readying himself to undertake a dirty job.
She sincerely hoped he was doing just that. In bed, she liked her men confident, strong, and filthy. Tender caresses didn’t work for her, and neither did shy overtures.
Somehow, she didn’t think Sam would disappoint.
The man hid quite a body beneath those frayed superhero tees and loose cargos. His rolled-up sleeves revealed muscular forearms, and the rest of him looked equally fit. His white button-down shirt strained at the seams near his broad shoulders. His suit pants faithfully followed his slim hips and long legs. And the bulge behind the zipper of those pants…Well, she had no complaints. Not about his size or his apparent eagerness to fuck her.
Then she couldn’t survey her prize for the night anymore, because she was on the move. Sam was stalking toward her, and she was backing away. Not because he scared her, but because she enjoyed the chase.
But she enjoyed getting caught even more.
Her back hit the wall, and Sam was suddenly pressed tight against her, from her breasts all the way to her sex. His leg slid between hers, his hands on her ass tugging until she was straddling him, her dress hiked to her waist and her pussy naked and wet on his hard thigh. She began to grind herself on him, her hips rocking as he licked a line from her collarbone up to her jaw. He nipped her earlobe, and she gasped in excitement.
Fuck, the pressure against her clit was amazing. Enough to make her come if he gave her a couple more minutes. She was soaking his pants leg, and the most primitive part of her hoped he’d never get the smell of her arousal out of the fabric. Every time he wore his suit, she wanted him to think of her. Picture her. Get hard at the memory of what they’d done together this night.
“You’re beginning to pant.” Sam grasped her hips, stilling her movements. “I win.”
She licked her dry lips. “I’m panting, but not your name. Not yet. Maybe”—slanting him a look of challenge, she wiggled her ass—“not ever.”
“Fair enough. I can do better.”
Without hesitation, he hoisted her higher, hooked her legs around his hips, and strode to the bed. She’d expected him to toss her onto the tall, mounded mattress, but instead he laid her down with deliberate care. As if she were breakable and cherished. And for some reason, her pulse kicked up at the gesture.
Not in desire. And definitely not because of anxiety, because why would tenderness from her lover make her anxious? She could understand impatience, sure, but nervousness made no sense.
Impatience. Yes, that was definitely what she was feeling.
“I’m not fragile.” He was kneeling between her legs, so she prodded his hip with her knee. “You can stop being so gentle and slow. Hurry up.”
God, he really needed t
o quit looking at her like that. Why did he seem so engrossed by the mere sight of her?
His laugh sounded rough but genuine. “Con, we got into our room maybe five minutes ago. I just backed you against a wall and ground your pussy on my leg. I haven’t even kissed you yet. How the hell can you consider what we’re doing either gentle or slow?”
“You’re just…” She flung a hand in his direction. “You’re just staring at me. Do something, goddammit.”
A crinkle appeared between his brows, but he offered her an easy grin. “Exactly my plan. I only have about five minutes to spare before I lose the challenge.”
His big, hot hands spread her legs further apart, positioning her with firm command, and she began to breathe more easily. This is what I want, she thought. A quick, rough fuck. An orgasm and a hasty return to my normal life. But why hasn’t he undressed yet?
A split second later, she had her answer. Instead of unzipping himself, slapping on a condom, and fucking her into oblivion, he dipped his head and dragged his open mouth up the inside of her thigh. His soft hair trailed over her flesh, the cool tickle of the strands a contrast to the heat of his insistent hands pushing her wider and his mouth nearing her clit.
Normally, she loved oral sex. Demanded it, actually. But something about Sam, about the whole situation, was knocking her off balance. In that moment, the thought of lying splayed before him, helpless in pleasure while he watched and tasted and listened, only ratcheted the tension in her chest tighter.
“Sam…” She shifted up the bed, away from him and his mouth. “Let’s not do that tonight.”
When he sat up again, the line between his brows had grown deeper. “You don’t like someone going down on you? I swear, I can make it g—”
“That’s not it.” She’d never been on a four-poster bed before, much less one with white, crisp bed curtains, so looking at them instead of him was perfectly logical. Really. “I just don’t want that right now.”
