by Celia Aaron
“I don’t know.” She looked away. “Probably dry as the Sahara.”
“Let’s find out. Pull up your skirt. All the way.”
She slid the fabric up her thighs until I saw her pink folds, glistening with her arousal.
I eased my hand between her thighs and ran my fingertip around her clit. “Sahara, huh?”
She shrugged. When I pressed a finger inside her, she let her head loll back. I stroked her then withdrew my finger and rubbed her clit until she was moving her hips to my rhythm.
“Unbutton my pants. I want you on my cock.” I gripped her waist and pulled her to me until she straddled me.
She unfastened my belt and pants. When her small hand gripped me, I groaned and yanked her top and bra down, revealing her left breast. I sucked her nipple into my mouth as she stroked me and ran her thumb over my wet tip. I licked and sucked her tight bud. My cock grew even harder, ready to claim what was mine.
She brought her hand to her mouth and licked my pre-come from her thumb. Jesus. I pulled her closer. She rose as I positioned my cock for her. When she sat down on me, I bit her shoulder. Taking all of me, she lifted and then sank down again. Her tight pussy squeezed me in a delicious vise as she began to ride me, my old office chair squeaking under our weight.
She placed her hands on my cheeks and kissed me, our bodies melded into one. I worshipped her tongue with mine until we shared the same breath, the same soul. Gripping her ass, I pressed her onto me, forcing her to grind her clit against me as she worked my shaft. The squeaking grew louder, and I kissed down to her bare breast, taking her in my mouth again.
I thrust up, embedding myself deeper inside her. My balls pulled up tight to me, every sensation of pleasure rocketing around my body and ending in my cock. She moaned and dug her nails into my shoulders. I pulled down the other side of her top and sucked her nipple while squeezing her breast. Her movements grew wilder.
“Together.” I gritted out. “Come with me.” I slapped her ass.
She squealed and froze, then her pussy pressed tighter around me. She moaned my name low and long and dug her nails into my upper arms. I thrust up hard, pushing myself as far as I could go. The tension crested. I came with a harsh grunt and buried my face between her breasts. My cock kicked inside her, coating her pussy with my release until I was spent.
She leaned forward and rested her head on my shoulder. I stroked her back as her panting subsided.
“That was some excellent stress relief,” she mumbled against my neck.
“I do what I can to help out around here.”
She snorted. “Nothing would get done around here without you.”
“I’m aware.” I kissed her ear. “You’re doing a great job.”
“Thanks.”
“We’ll be on top in no time.” I ran my hand through her hair.
“I’m already on top.” She rocked her hips.
I smiled. “I enjoyed your leadership, Ms. Rochester.”
She giggled and backed off my lap. “I’ll go get cleaned up.”
“If you must.” I straightened my pants.
She smoothed her skirt down and bent to kiss me.
The door opened. “Ugh, kissing again?” Adele wrinkled her nose in an exact replica of how her mother did it.
“Nosy.” Eden quickly swiped her panties off the floor.
Adele didn’t seem to notice. Thank goodness she hadn’t walked in a few minutes prior.
Eden leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then whispered in my ear, “Holy shit. We need to lock the door next time.”
I laughed as she stood and headed to the en suite bathroom.
“Ms. Temple sent me to get you for supper.” Adele leaned against the doorframe.
“I didn’t know she was coming tonight.”
Adele cocked her head to the side. “Yeah, Gramma and her have been having a lot more sleepovers lately.” She shrugged.
Do not laugh. Do not laugh. I decided a subject change was in order. “How was school today?”
Her eyes brightened. “Good. Great, actually.”
“What made it so great?” I stood and switched off my desk lamp.
“There’s a new kid at school.” She smiled, her braces on full display. “A boy.”
“Is he cute?”
“Yeah.” Her cheeks grew into a bright shade of pink as she dropped her gaze.
The toilet in the en suite flushed and Eden hurried out. “A boy? No boys. Boys are bad.”
“Hey now.” I glowered at her.
“All except Jack.” Eden took my hand and kissed the back of it. “He’s okay, I guess.”
I laughed. “Okay, you guess?”
“Oh, Mom.” Adele rolled her eyes. “We all you know you love him.”
“Is that right?” Eden turned to me and wrapped her arms around my neck.
I pressed my forehead to hers. “Yes.”
“Eww, not again.” Adele stomped down the hall.
Eden smiled and brushed her lips against mine. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I smiled and eyed her mouth.
“Are you in love with anyone?”
“There’s one girl. She’s kind of, I don’t know, moody. Beautiful, stubborn, strong, and easily the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”
She smiled, her green eyes sparkling. “She sounds like a keeper.”
I pulled her left hand from my shoulder and kissed her palm, then turned it over and ran my thumb across the diamond I’d given her. “She is. I love her more than anything in this world.”
“Don’t ever stop.” Her voice caught in her throat.
I kissed her with all the tenderness I had. “Not a chance.”
Acknowledgements
This book is particularly close to my heart for two reasons: (1) a dead chick and (2) a hot guy. First, the dead chick. A big thanks to Charlotte Brontë for giving me the idea for Tempting Eden. Charlotte’s unconventional romance, Jane Eyre, has inspired readers to see love in unexpected places. That’s what it did for me when I first read it years ago. Suddenly, my imagination insisted everyone had a shadowy back story and a secret wife in the attic. More than that, she made it okay for the heroine and the hero to be something other than a stereotype of perfection. Jane was, no shit, a plain Jane. Mr. Rochester was a gruff, angular sort of guy—a grump, really. But the two of these characters together? Magic, the fairy tale, love that lasted a lifetime. Charlotte wrote real, visceral, true characters and gave them a difficult story with a hard-won happy ending. So, to Charlotte, thanks for bucking society and making my story possible.
Second, the hot guy. “Reader, I married him.” Mr. Aaron is half black, half Korean, all sexy. He helped me make sure that Jack’s voice came through clear and steady. My life with Mr. Aaron has made me privy to a whole other world, one where the color of your skin is the litmus test for whether you’re smart, hard-working, trustworthy, or dangerous. Together, we’ve seen ugliness, we’ve seen hate, we’ve seen ignorance. But, more than anything else, we’ve seen love. The love we have for each other has inspired two gorgeous children with dark hair and eyes and their mommy’s sassy mouth. The love others have shown us has given me hope that our girls will grow up in a world where they will be judged for their kindness and intellect instead of their color.
Third, my beta boos. Viv and Rachel—y’all are the best. Thanks for helping me tweak until I got the story where it needed to be. Neda, thanks for all that promo magic you do; I wouldn’t look half as cool if I didn’t have you doing my PR. Acquisitions (my FB reader group), y’all are fab. Thanks for supporting me, chilling with me every day, and showing me pictures of your pussies (cats, you perv; we share cat pics).
So, what’s next? I’m working on some exciting new projects, including a smoking story in a Hot for Teacher anthology that’s out in October, a sexy billionaire ménage in a Filthy and Rich anthology that’s out in December with St. Martin’s, some fun holiday stories, and two new series in 20
17. Make sure you’ve signed up for my newsletter at aaronerotica.com to get giveaways, book news, and no spam.
Finally, thanks for reading. I couldn’t do it without you.
Xx,
Celia
CHAPTER ONE
CORDY
I HAD THAT FEELING. You know the one. When your heart is beating against your ribs. Your ears are hot, your fingers are numb, and you could vomit any second. I tried to take a deep breath, but the announcer crowing and the crowd roaring weren’t helping me any. Being in the claustrophobic tunnel with fifty of the largest men in a hundred-mile radius wasn’t helping much, either.
They jostled against each other, their white jerseys with blue numbers taking up every square bit of space I could see. The stadium was full, the fans anxious to see if their team had what it took to be a contender. After all, football season would forever be a big deal in any state south of the Mason-Dixon line.
“You ready, princess?” Ethan Granger, a good defensive lineman but a great dickbag, squeezed my ass. He leaned over and spoke in my helmet’s ear hole. “I think one of these days I’ll dress out with you in the girls’ locker room. Sound good?”
I shoved him, but he barely moved. He was six-five, two hundred and seventy-five to my five-seven, one-forty. I had a better chance of being a star quarterback than moving his chunky ass out of my way.
“You’d faint if you ever saw a girl naked.” I kept my eyes straight ahead and raised my voice so he’d hear me through the helmet. “Now get the hell away from me. I’m trying to concentrate, and your wildebeest stench is making it impossible.” A couple guys turned to look at me and my apparent case of Tourette’s.
“See you, princess.” Ethan stepped away, and another meathead took his spot beside me in the crush of bodies.
I tried to keep it together, to think about what I’d do after the game, or my homework, or the last poem I read that really spoke to me. My conjured distractions failed, and the mass surged as the players burst forward. The lights were bright beyond the dark tunnel, and I was carried out into the stadium by a wave of blue and white. The cheerleaders yelled, smoke billowed, and the band played the Billingsley fight song.
I broke into a trot along with the hulking men, sticking close to them so no one noticed me. Fat chance. After Bill the Bobcat, I was more or less the team’s second mascot. I liked to refer to myself as “Mav.” Sadly, it wasn’t because I was capable of shooting down fighter jets or winning homo-erotic games of volleyball like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Instead, my nickname stood for Mascot with a Vagina (the “w” didn’t count.)
My university—Billingsley—had recently lost a particularly vicious Title Nine lawsuit where several women alleged discrimination in sports spending. To mend the school’s reputation, the president decided to add a female kicker to the football roster. Ornamental only, of course. But it provided a partial scholarship, so I was all over it.
I needed the money; the school needed a female who could kick. That was how I wound up on a football field with the crowd cheering, the Gatorade flowing, and the testosterone reigning.
After a pat on my helmet from the weathered coach, I took my seat on the farthest bench. My long brown hair was braided down my back, and I didn’t bother with any eye black. I wouldn’t have bothered with pads, either, but the dean wanted it to appear as if I were ready to go at any second. I could have laughed at the idea. The only place I got—or wanted—playing time was on the soccer field. Football was a means to an end, nothing more.
I pulled off my helmet and stowed it next to me, the thick plastic thunking onto the metal bench.
The stadium lights, hum of the crowd, and smell of popcorn and beer mixed to create a familiar cocktail of college football. I used to love going to games with Dad when I was little. But now, dressed out as number three of the Billingsley Bobcats, I’d rather have been reading, or kicking the soccer ball around, or getting my nether regions waxed.
I glanced down the row of players standing and chatting before the game. They were nice guys for the most part, each of them doing his best on the field while getting a top notch education on the hallowed grounds of Billingsley. Despite their politeness, the team hadn’t been welcoming. But that assessment wasn’t exactly fair. I hadn’t warmed to them, either. Getting close to them would have meant getting close to Trent Carrington. No, thank you. I was more than happy to remain the outcast, the hood ornament, and the Mav if it kept me away from him.
Sitting alone, I had a decent view of the field, and no one to bother me. I preferred it that way. It was the second game of the season, and I was third-string. I didn’t need any last minute coaching or warming up. Riding the bench, keeping to myself, and earning a chunk of tuition money was the plan for the rest of the year. Easy.
I’d grown up watching football, going to games with my father, and following the state teams. Soccer was my sport, but football was in my blood. All the same, I wasn’t here to play. Not really. I was just a Mav with a front-row seat for every game of the season.
The bench shifted as someone sat beside me, and the band began playing at my back. “Hey.”
I knew that voice. Trent. Goose bumps rose along my arms, but I didn’t look at him. I hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since freshman year, and I didn’t expect that to change anytime soon.
“Cordy?” He used my nickname.
“Yep.” I gripped the edge of the bench, the metal warm in the muggy air. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, flipping coins or something?”
The deep bass of the band thumped through my heart, forcing it to keep a quicker beat than usual. It was the band that sped it up. Not Trent.
“The coin toss doesn’t happen until after the national anthem.”
“Right.” I reached beneath my jersey and yanked out a composition notebook. My pen was trapped in the binding. If I had to be at the games, I figured I might as well get some writing in.
“Still write poetry?”
“Yes. Don’t you have a pep talk you should be doing? You know, like ‘let’s go pluck those Eagles?’” I wasn’t going to talk about myself with him. His easy charm fooled me once. I wouldn’t let it happen again.
“I already gave that.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Well, then”—I sighed, trying to fight my irritation and losing—“maybe you should talk to Coach about how you throw off your back foot too much.”
He laughed, the sound deep and rolling like the thundering bass behind me. “Is that so?”
“You throw across your body and into traffic too much, too. Might want to have that chat. You have a million other things to do other than being here right now.”
“Maybe. But I only want to do this—sit here and talk to you.” The bench shifted, and the heat from his arm radiated against mine. “Besides, this has been enlightening. Any more pointers, coach?”
Before I could inform him that his choice of taking a sack instead of throwing the ball away in the last game almost cost us the win, the band started the national anthem. We both stood and put our hands over our hearts. The singer began off pitch and continued her flat spiral with each note.
He leaned closer, his arm brushing against mine. “I haven’t had a chance to really welcome you to the team yet. But I’m glad you’re here. Do you still play soc—”
“Shh.” I would have rather heard the dying cat sounds of the national anthem singer than listen to his rich, sexy baritone a moment longer.
He sighed and quieted. The song continued, and I glanced at him. My eyes only came up to his chest pads, so it was easy enough to avoid his gaze. Instead, I noted his tan forearm, muscled with veins popping. He was even bigger than I remembered, filled out and ridiculously masculine.
I dropped my gaze as the song finally finished. The crowd gave a roar as hype music began pumping through the stadium once again.
He rocked up onto the balls of his feet and then back down. “That’s my cue.”
“Okay.” I
sank back onto the bench. “Break a leg.”
He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear. “I think that’s only for the theater, Cordy.”
A tingle of pleasure ran down my spine as his warm breath tickled my ear. And just like that, I broke my rule.
Leaning away, I met his green eyes with my light brown ones. “What are you doing?”
He smiled, his perfect dimples complementing his square jaw and bright eyes. “Flipping a coin.” He rose to his full height and jogged out onto the field, joining two other team captains and heading toward the referee in the center.
I took a deep breath, my heart hammering, my poise broken. Once I’d looked, I couldn’t stop staring. His muscled ass filled out his football pants just right. The pads exaggerated the width of his shoulders, but not by that much. He was the perfect ‘V’—broad shoulders, narrow hips, and made of corded muscle. He’d been beautiful when we’d first met, his boyish good looks the first step in my downfall. But now, he was beyond attractive. He was sexy, powerful—a perfect mix of masculinity and grace that had my body warming.
He swiped his hair from his eyes and called heads. The referee flipped the coin. It landed and bounced on the grass before lying flat. It was heads. Of course it was. Not even the whims of chance could deny Trent Carrington.
I dropped my eyes to my notebook and tried to ignore him again. Why was he even talking to me? We weren’t friends. We were barely acquaintances anymore. Taking my pen out, I hovered it over the page as the teams took the field. The stadium vibrated with the fury of the crowd. So far, we were undefeated. The pressure would build with each game to keep it that way. Not that I cared.
I forced my pen to make words on the page. The words turned into doodles of the number nine. I glanced up to the field, my eyes invariably straying to Trent. It was as if that simple “hi” opened the floodgates. I watched him through the first quarter and into the second, pausing to doodle when the defense or special teams were on the field.
Halftime came and went, and the game finally wound down to one minute left in the fourth quarter. Our offense was on the field. Trent was in control. He’d been steadily driving down the field, all the way to the two, but a missed assignment caused a fumble behind the line of scrimmage. We recovered, but lost a yard. Second down was a busted pass play.
