Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3)

by Ember Leigh

  I slip out of her, because the orgasm is knocking on my door like an impatient Fed-Ex guy. I want to draw this out a little longer. I gently bring her legs together, and she watches me with a dazed expression.

  “What…”

  “New pose. And I need a breather or I’m going to qualify for premature ejaculation.”

  “We wouldn’t want that,” she murmurs, looking more than content as I urge her to flip over onto her belly. I nudge her legs apart with my knee, and then lift her by the hips. She slides back so her ass is in the air and her cheek on the comforter. The sight alone is almost enough to undo me.

  “There we go,” I whisper, pressing kisses along the bumps of her spine. She is lithe lines and golden skin. Freckles and softness. Silk and sensual. And I already know that tonight with her isn’t enough.

  I need this every night of my life.

  “You aren’t…” she trails off.

  “Not unless you want me to,” I say, pushing my fingertips over the slippery folds of her pussy from behind. My middle finger finds the tight bud of her clit, and she jerks forward. My fingertips slip back and forth over her swollen clit as I ease myself back into her. The extra deep angle is even more fatal to my composure. A long, shuddery moan slides out of her as I bury my cock in her velvet depths again.

  But this time, I can’t keep myself in check. The walls of her pussy clamp around me, and everything inside me is ready and begging to come. I start a fierce rhythm, one that has her fisting the comforter, alternating between screaming my name and shrieking. My head is spinning. Sweat collects on the tops of my shoulders, and I grip her hips for dear life as I fuck her exactly the way I’ve been imagining for weeks.

  Time folds to a blissful, tense burst of moments: London wailing ‘fuuuuck yessss’ while her pussy turns into a vice around my cock; the deep churn of pleasure that shoots like fireworks through my limbs; and then finally the powerful rounds of my orgasm bursting out of me.

  I slip my cock free, because it seems wrong to come inside her on the first date, even if we’re barebacking it already. A gruff cry passes my lips as my cum arcs through the air and right onto the small of her back. She’s already collapsed on the bed by the time I can catch my breath to say anything.

  “Hang on,” I tell her. My heart is racing so fast I feel like I might pass out. That’s how good the sex is: nearly fatal. God forbid “Amazing sex after a two-year lull” be the cause on my death certificate. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

  She laughs weakly, and I find the bathroom after stumbling around for a minute. I bring back a damp washcloth and wipe her down, as gingerly as I can. My cock is still hard and throbbing, as though I hadn’t just given it the workout of its life.

  “Sorry,” I say once I’m lying beside her. “Should have warned you.”

  “Next time, you can come somewhere else,” she says with a grin and closed eyes. Like she’s still floating in outer space. But what I hear more than anything is that she wants there to be a next time.

  “Where, like all over your dining room chairs?”

  Her laughter is sharp, and she rolls onto her side, reaching for me. I bring her against me for postcoital cuddling as if we’ve been doing it for years. Her warm body tangles into mine, smooth thigh pressing between my legs to find a comfy resting spot. But it’s not until she buries her face into my neck and sighs that the hot tendrils of satisfaction begin unfurling inside me, dangerously slow, with roots exposed.

  London makes it too easy. To be with her. To know her. To want to dive headfirst into this lagoon that I honestly believed had dried up.

  She smooths her lips against my collarbone, and I respond by pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

  But the matchmaker has shown me that the lagoon wasn’t dry at all.

  I was just wandering the desert.

  Chapter 16

  LONDON

  The scent of coffee is the first thing that registers. I crack open one eye and then the other, the wash of bright light filling my apartment feeling like an attack. My coffee pot gurgles, and that’s when the questions arrive.

  How the hell is my coffee maker on?

  Has it been brewing since last night?

  Is half of my kitchen on fire and I’m unaware?

  Why does my pelvis feel like I was attacked by a battering ram?

  I groan and roll onto my side. And then I hear humming. Low hums, a distracted accompaniment to whatever is going on out in the kitchen. The realization hits me as a quick punch: Dom is here.

  He is the battering ram.

  Dom pokes his head past the partition a moment later, his blue eyes landing on me. And suddenly, all my qualms disappear. The man stayed the night, and he made me coffee the next morning. He is already a thousand steps ahead of most romantic rams—er, partners—I’ve met in my life.

  “Morning,” he chirps. The man is an early bird. I grope for my phone, squinting at the numbers. It’s eight a.m.

  “Grrrnnnngh,” I say.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “No, my hangover did that all on its own,” I tell him, collapsing back onto my bed. A dull throb punctuates each breath. “But the promise of coffee is reassuring.”

  “Coffee and eggs,” he clarifies. “Hope you don’t mind that I raided your fridge.”

  He disappears behind the partition, and his shadow returns to the kitchen. I burrow into my covers, savoring this unexpectedly perfect Saturday morning. Sexually sated. A gorgeous man who wants to be here. A homemade breakfast awaiting me.

  I relax, buried in my bedcovers, until the lure of caffeine is too great. I tug my sheet off my bed and wrap it around me, since the thought of finding any clothes—much less putting them on—makes my headache throb to life.

  But I’m not prepared for what I find in the kitchen. Dom is naked except for his tight green boxer briefs, which cling to his sculpted thighs. He hums absent-mindedly as he hovers over the sauté pan, my trendy plaid dish towel slung over one shoulder. He turns toward the cupboards, rummaging for plates like he’s done it a thousand times before.

  “You sure know your way around my kitchen already.” My voice sounds like a bullfrog as I shuffle toward the stools lining the kitchen island.

  “I’m a good guesser,” he says. “There’s only one logical option for your plates based on where your sink and countertop are.”

  I nod, my eyes turning to slits. “True. Never thought about it like that before. Though I kind of liked imagining you taking notes about my cabinetry before I woke up.”

  “Oh. Right. I totally did that.” He sends me the type of grin that could stop a human heart. And if mine were to stop right now, he’s the first and only man I’d want reviving me. He’s finishing up the eggs, and my gaze drifts over the stove top.

  “Wow. You even cook like a doctor.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You have everything laid out like surgical instruments.” The chef’s knife exactly parallel to the spoon, which is exactly parallel to the stovetop. Two bowls sit on the cutting board, equidistant from all edges of the cutting board.

  He smirks. “I can’t even deny that. It’s force of habit.”

  “Just don’t get confused in surgery. You don’t want to scoop out somebody’s heart and accidentally taste test it.”

  He snort laughs, which feels like a victory somehow. This man, whom I’d met in a peak state of assholishness and distraction, is now relaxed and nearly naked in my apartment.

  Though the nearly naked part is the opposite of a victory. In fact, it’s a symbol of my professional failing. My moral failing. The truth trickles through me, tugging my mouth into a frown. How low have I fallen?

  Apparently not low enough to repent. The boulders of his biceps snag my attention as he pushes two exactly equal portions of eggs onto the waiting plates. The memory of him—both buried inside me and wrapped around me last night—shivers through me, warm and inviting. Sleeping with a client shou
ldn’t feel that good.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” he says, setting the pan back on the stove. He garnishes the piles of eggs with shredded cheese, his flourish equal parts chef and surgeon, and then pushes my plate toward me. I can’t fight the grin taking over my face.

  “This is certainly a surprise.”

  “No, the real surprise is that you don’t have an espresso machine,” Dom says, pouring a steaming mug of French pressed coffee. He sets it in front of my plate. “Do you take cream?”

  “This is perfect,” I say, my eyes stuck on him as he walks around the kitchen island to sit beside me and enjoy his own breakfast.

  He tugs at my bedsheet as he settles onto the stool. “Why are you hiding all this gorgeousness?”

  My cheeks flush, though I can’t say why. He’s seen every part of me and more. His lips went where my ex’s ventured too few times to count.

  “Because if we both have breakfast while naked, the balance of the universe will become disrupted. Or something super serious like that,” I crack before I shovel a mouthful of eggs past my lips. They are perfectly salted and fluffy. My eyes flutter shut.

  Damn this man.

  “I’m willing to risk it,” he says, turned toward me as he smooths a palm over my covered thigh. His breakfast is totally forgotten, and I look up guiltily at him. This would have been easier if he was on the same page as me. That page being, “Why don’t we just pretend we didn’t violate all the client/provider boundaries last night?” which would lead to him disappearing in the night.

  But no, he has to be Mr. Secret Thoughtful. You can’t count on outward assholes to also be inward assholes, which is the most confusing part of the dating game.

  He’s fishing for the edge of the sheet, the unmistakable fire of lust burning in his gaze. Even after all the postures and moaning and grinding we did last night into the wee morning hours.

  “You really want me to eat breakfast in the nude, huh,” I murmur, already willing to do whatever he asks of me. As long as he keeps looking at me like I’m the only thing he wants in the entire world. I swear my body might combust with the intensity of his gaze. I’ve never been looked at like this. By anyone. Ever.

  He nods slowly, tugging expertly at the edge of the sheet. The fabric crumples around me, exposing my naked body. A satisfied grin stretches across his face.

  “Much better.”

  “Now I’m going to drop scrambled eggs in my vag.”

  “Then I’ll just have to eat your pussy as part of breakfast cleanup.”

  I dissolve into laughter at that one. He looks particularly pleased with himself.

  “Dirty doc,” I tease, shoving his shoulder. He finally turns toward his plate, his big hand moving to his groin to adjust himself. His boxer briefs have tented slightly, and I have to admit—even though he fucked me into next year—just knowing that he’s already aroused by me again has desire prickling beneath my skin. Maybe we can have one last romp before he goes. To celebrate the decision that this will definitely never happen again.

  My phone chimes from my nightstand, and I scoop another forkful of eggs into my mouth before I head over to get it. Sunlight fills every inch of my apartment. The wood floor practically sparkles in the sun beams, all the cozy corners of my home illuminated in brilliant beauty. A contented sigh escapes me. Between the light and the amazing breakfast and the hottie doctor in my kitchen, my hangover is already a thing of the past. Maybe I’ve attained perfection for this fleeting moment.

  A text from Hazel is waiting for me: Are you up?

  LONDON: Yeah girl, what’s up?

  My phone rings a moment later, just as I’m sliding back onto my sheet-draped stool. I tuck the phone under my ear as I answer her call.

  “Jeez, Hazel, that was fast.”

  “Well, great ideas call for fast acting,” Hazel intones. The sound of her voice makes me smile, but I can tell that Dom has stiffened at my side.

  “What’s the great idea? Do tell.”

  “Grayson and I realized we have an unexpected night off tonight, and we want to come see you in Cleveland!” she gushes. “If you’re not booked already, that is. I want to see your place, and we can go get dinner and drinks and do whatever. What do you think?”

  “Oh my god, that’s perfect!” I glance at Dom, and the frown on his face makes me wonder if he can overhear her. “What time do you think you’ll get here?”

  Hazel and I set a time for the visit, and when we end the call, Dom looks as sour as the day I met him. I set the phone down, elbowing him lightly.

  “Why the long face? You sad you can’t join us?”

  He hefts with a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

  “You have to admit, a night out on the town featuring dinner and drinks sounds like a suspiciously familiar good time.”

  He smirks. “Fair enough. But not when Grayson is there.”

  “Are you talking about the contract we signed?” Our NDA is burning bright in my mind. “I promise I won’t leak it. Hazel’s my best friend, but I’m not going to say anything.”

  “Well, I’d hope not. But that’s not exactly what I’m getting at.”

  “Oh.” I push eggs around my plate, the cool air making goosebumps flare on the tops of my thighs. “You mean because you’d be in the same room as Grayson.”

  “We can be in the same room,” Dom says, “but not for long.”

  “So I take it he won’t be coming to visit you while he’s in town?”

  “Definitely not.” Dom takes a swig of his coffee. “When we were in Bayshore for our grandmother’s funeral, we didn’t exactly have an easy time. And that was after a full six years of not seeing each other. At all.”

  My shoulders slump. Their fractured relationship shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Partly because of the hollow parts that Willow left in my heart. Partly because I know how great Grayson is—at least how great he is with my best friend. And I’m beginning to see how great Dom is. At least how great he is with me.

  And those two individual equations seem like they should add up happily in the middle somehow.

  “Listen, we’ve never gotten along, and I’m sure that’s never going to change,” Dom says, a hard edge to his voice, like he’s wrapping up a meeting with unruly employees. “Besides, he’s happy with Hazel. He has everything he needs now. He’s never going to see me as anything other than his arrogant older brother.”

  I blink rapidly, unsure which part to begin dissecting first. “Wait, you’re calling yourself arrogant?”

  “Well, yeah. But so is he.” He tips more coffee into his mouth. “We all are.”

  “Then you should all understand each other better than anyone else in the world,” I say, poking his arm. “So why don’t you meet up with him sometime? He’s your family. He’s your brother. Life’s too short for silence and resentment.”

  I’m using his own words against him. He straightens his back, crossing his arms over his perfect chest. I’m trying to keep this friendly, but I mean the words more than he probably imagines. Sure, he knows about Willow, ever since I told him that night we reviewed matches in the restaurant. But I never told him how deeply her death still cuts through me. How much my regret stains the edges of my happiness.

  “Sometimes people just don’t get along, London,” he says, his knee bouncing. “And part of being an adult is accepting that.”

  My pulse picks up. “So my encouraging you to make up with your brother is childish?”

  His warm hand finds my knee. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying that not everyone in a family gets along. It’s part of life.”

  “But don’t you ever feel like trying?”

  Dom removes his hand from my knee, presses it to his own. He begins shoveling eggs into his mouth. I can sense that I’ve gone too far. Big surprise. If there’s one platform in my life, it’s reminding others to love their family. And after all I’ve learned about Dom, the gaping hole in his life is more than obvious to me.

  I j
ust wonder if he actually sees it.

  We eat in silence for a few moments, alternately slurping coffee. Once I clear my plate, I squeeze his elbow.

  “Thanks for breakfast. You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?”

  He pushes away his cleared plate and then turns to me, his low belly crinkling. “Normally I wouldn’t accept a title like that. But when you say it, I’m tempted to get it tattooed on my forearm.”

  A giggle slips out of me as I turn to face him. “Tattooed on your forearm? Would the league of cardiac surgeons allow it?”

  His warm palms slide over my knees. “Absolutely not. But I’d do it anyway.”

  Something deep inside me is throbbing. The sincerity in his blue eyes combined with the warmth pouring out of him makes me want to pitch forward and do a nosedive into this man.

  And the urge to fall headfirst works like a reminder. I snap myself out of it. I slide off the stool, busying myself with collecting our plates and cleaning up the kitchen. While I wash the dishes, I ask, “So what’s on deck for your Saturday?”

  He taps the screen of his phone, frowning. “Hospital. In fact, I needed to leave five minutes ago.”

  Our reverie is coming to an end. The realization sends something cold and twisty through me. Despite how much this needs to end, I don’t want it to. Once he walks out my front door, I’ll need to redraw those crisp, professional boundaries. Even though forgetting about them for a night allowed me to break in my new Cleveland apartment in an epic fashion, orgasms blazing.

  “Even on a Saturday?” I ask.

  “Especially Saturdays,” Dom says, heading to collect his clothes from the far reaches of my apartment. “But being late today is worth it.”

  His words thrum through me as he picks up his clothes and dresses. I just wash dishes in the nude, glancing over my shoulder at him like some sort of nostalgic housewife.

  Once he’s back in his dress slacks and gray button-up, he’s grinning at me like he knows a secret. He approaches me at the sink, his rough palms finding the dip in my waist.