by Ember Cole
I hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I’m caught in his hungry gaze. So close. He’s going to push me over the edge, and I fight to remember to keep silent. He takes care of that by tightening his grip, licking into my mouth, biting at my lips.
My body shakes, my legs threaten to give out, and oh my God, I’m going to come so hard he’ll have to carry me out of here.
Just before I do, he releases me, sinks down to one knee, and lifts my leg onto his shoulder. His lips find my center, and I cry out when his tongue slides up and over my clit. I brace my hands on his shoulders and look down at him. I love this man so much it hurts.
Every grumpy, sexy, demanding inch of him, inside and out.
“I love you,” I gasp out.
“I love you, too, babygirl.” His eyes soften and darken in a split second. His tongue moves faster; he sucks my clit between his lips and drives two fingers back inside, pumping against my G-spot.
My leg buckles. I dig my nails into his shoulders. All the muscles in my body tighten. He’s brought me right back to the edge. Blissful release is so close, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to contain my scream when I—
“Marry me,” he says against the throbbing ache.
My muddled mind can’t make sense of anything except the sharp pleasure between my legs. I hover on the verge of climax, sure I’ve misheard what he just said. I try to focus on his face, but my vision is too hazy. “What?”
His fingers slow and he adds a third, sinking them in and out slower now, but the effect is twice as devastating. His thumb presses on my clit in rough circles that, combined with his fingers, have my pussy clenching and fluttering.
He stands, still moving inside me, and pins me in place with an intense look that takes what little breath I have left away. “Marry me, Kymber Taylor.”
Emotion crashes through my body at the same instant as my orgasm, and they burst together inside me in a rush so violent that I can’t stop the scream ripping from my chest. His mouth covers mine as I convulse around his fingers, my slick heat spilling out over his hand.
I am shattering into a million pieces.
Tears run from the corner of my eyes as I cling to the man I love.
My screams turns to sobs as he wrings every ounce of pleasure from my willing body. His lips slow, move over my wet cheek, my chin. I bury my face in his neck, and he gently fixes my gown, then wraps me in his strong arms.
I never want to be without these arms, without him, the man who makes me feel safe and who gives me the most intense pleasure I’ve ever imagined. He is it for me, and I knew it the minute I laid eyes on him.
This is real.
This is forever.
I lift my head and smile.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Daniel Black.”
Keep reading for a sneak peek of
Private Prick
the next book in the Carnal Mischief series!
I was only supposed to be a distraction…
When I get the call that a tenant is trapped in the building’s decrepit elevator, I climb down the shaft, drop in through the ceiling...and come face to face with Bekka Zoler, the sexy little redhead who’s starred in more than one of my fantasies.
And she’s pissed.
Turns out her dickwad of a boyfriend failed to mention he had a fiancée, and now she’s feeling all sorts of vulnerable…and claustrophobic. I have to do something to distract her while we wait for the repairman to get her out of this metal box.
So I kiss her.
It’s either the best or worst idea I’ve ever had, because next thing I know, I have her pinned to the wall and I’m doing wicked things to her body.
Bekka’s not even remotely ready for a relationship, and I can’t blame her. Problem is, the chemistry is insane between us, and I know she feels it, too.
It’s time to convince the gorgeous spitfire that I’m the man for her, and this thing between us will last longer than one night.
1
BEKKA
Fuck that guy.
These are the words screaming through my brain as I storm through the front doors of my New York City apartment building and make for the elevator like there’s an open bar and a chocolate fountain inside.
For the record, I don’t mean “fuck that guy” like it’s something on my to-do list. I’m talking about my boyfriend, CJ. Make that ex-boyfriend.
Shit, would I even use the word “boyfriend”? What’s the word for a guy you meet on Tinder, sleep with on the second date because he has a cute laugh and a really sweet labradoodle, and you think maybe there’s a chance this could turn into something serious, so you delete your Tinder profile after a only week and show his photo to a friend who takes one look and says, “Wait, that’s my friend Brittini’s fiancé”?
Asshole.
That’s the new word screaming through my head as I stomp past the bank of brass mailboxes and the handmade wood desk in the lobby. I punch the elevator button a lot harder than I should—not that it’ll speed the ancient machine up. The elevator car eventually wheezes to a halt on the first floor, doors groaning open with a sound my best friend and roommate, Kymber, describes as a ghost hacking up a hairball.
I charge inside, snagging the heel of my slingback stiletto on the plush carpeting that always catches me off-guard. Who the hell puts plush carpeting in an elevator? An idiot, that’s who.
I swallow hard as the door swishes shut behind me and the car starts to move.
Idiot. That word stings more than the others.
What kind of idiot falls for the same kind of guy over and over again and expects something different?
Me. I blink back tears, determined not to cry. I’m the idiot, Bekka Zoler, the dummy who thinks she’s going to find her soul mate on a dating app. Like that’s even a thing. Not that I’m looking for a soul mate, exactly. I’m a 21-year-old college student, for crying out loud. I’m hardly ready to settle down.
But is it too much to wish for a genuine connection once in a while?
The elevator shudders, and I grab the handrail to steady myself. A hunk of hair falls free from my ponytail, blurring my vision behind a curtain of red-gold.
Yeah, I know. It’s always the gingers with the hot tempers and the bad judgment. I’m a walking goddamn cliché. I reach up to fix my hair as the elevator starts moving again, headed for my apartment on the fourth floor and that pint of Chunky Monkey waiting for me in the freezer. That’s assuming Kymber hasn’t eaten it, but I’m positive she’s a good enough friend to save me half.
I glance at the elevator’s control panel, surprised to see we’re still only at the second floor. Or maybe the damn thing’s broken again and the readout can’t be trusted.
Not unlike CJ, or my own taste in men.
Seriously, what was I thinking? And he didn’t even deny it when I showed up at his apartment and confronted him about it. Just gave me that slow, sexy—make that sleazy—smile and suggested we continue the conversation in the bedroom. I told him I’d love to, just let me grab a fillet knife from the butcher block in the kitchen.
He lost interest after that.
Bastard.
The floor lurches beneath me, and I grab the handrail again. “Goddammit!”
This time I curse out loud instead of in my head, which feels better, so I do it again. “Stupid fucking piece of shit! I don’t have time for this.”
I stomp my foot, which only makes my heel wobble again. We’re not moving, so I yank my phone out of my bag and hit speed dial for Kymber. If she can tear herself away from my ice cream, maybe she can hit the call button from the fourth floor and get this bucket of bolts moving again.
A man answers on the third ring. Daniel. I recognize the huskiness of his voice. “Kymber is unable to come to the phone right now,” he says stiffly.
“Stiff” being the operative word. Knowing them, he’s probably got her bound with a mouthful of cock.
Jealousy spears through me as I think of the goofy, satisfied
look on my best friend’s face every time she talks about her sex life with the building’s hot-as-fuck owner.
“The goddamn death trap of an elevator is broken,” I bark at Daniel, since he is the owner, and therefore more likely than Kymber to fix my predicament anyway. “I’m stuck between two and three. Get me out of here.”
I hang up before he has a chance to say anything, which is just as well. At this point I shouldn’t be talking to anyone, especially not the guy who owns the building and gives my best friend multiple Os.
Could this day get any worse?
As if to answer, my pulse starts to jackhammer, and my palms go clammy. My chest is tight, and I can’t breathe.
Hello, claustrophobia, my old friend.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I chant this as I pace back and forth, my heart drumming harder with each footstep. I hate enclosed spaces. I hate tiny rooms. I hate this goddamn elevator. Am I running out of air?
I’ve never had a panic attack before, but maybe that’s what this is. It feels like CJ sitting on my chest waving his stupid, not-that-impressive dick in front of me in an oh-so-classy request for a BJ.
“Fuck you, asshole!” I yell, grateful no one can hear me. “Fuck you and your stupid, tiny penis. Fuck you and your ‘you came, right?’ after thirty fucking seconds when, no, dumbshit, of course I didn’t come. Are you kidding me?”
I’m really on a roll now, with anger bubbling up like hydrogen peroxide on a fresh cut. “Fuck you and your fiancée! Fuck you and your stupid Tinder profile and your inability to distinguish between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’ It’s not that goddamn hard!”
Ha.
“Sort of like your dick!” I add, even though there’s no one around to appreciate my joke. “Fuck you and your tighty-whities. Does your mother buy those for you at Sears?”
I’m totally screaming now, screaming and pacing like a crazy person. My hands are clamped into fists, and I swear to God I would junk-punch CJ so hard if I saw him right now. Christoph, too, and Kevin and Nate and all the other jerks I’ve met through these stupid dating apps.
But hell, I can’t just blame the dating apps. There was that Uber driver I hooked up with a few weeks ago, Ben? The fact that I’m not a hundred percent sure about his name should be a red flag, and so should the fact that he never called me after that first night, even though I know for damn sure I rocked his world in the bedroom.
At least I think I did. Hell, I’m not sure about anything anymore, except that I need to seriously reevaluate my dating choices.
I keep pacing as my heart continues to gallop. I don’t know how much time passes. Five minutes? Ten? This pacing isn’t helping, and neither is my current line of thinking, but I can’t stop. Should I be more panicked about my shitty love life or the likelihood of dying in this death trap of an elevator?
Another lock of hair slips from my ponytail, but I leave this one alone. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone in this four-by-five-foot hell box. I’m all alone.
And probably will be forever.
“I’m so over this shit,” I snarl, not sure if I mean the elevator or the men. Maybe both.
I pivot and stomp toward the control panel. There has to be something I can do to get this steel hellhole moving. Maybe if I punch a few buttons.
I’ve just lifted my hand to hit the up arrow when something thuds to the ground behind me.
I whirl around, convinced some huge, greasy elevator part has just fallen through the fucking ceiling.
But it’s not machinery at all. It’s a man—a living, breathing, tight-T-shirt-wearing man, and he’s towering over me in the goddamn elevator.
So I do the only logical thing.
I scream bloody fucking murder.
2
ADAM
It’s far from the first time I’ve made a girl scream, but this isn’t the way I prefer to do it.
The little redhead shrieks and jumps back like she’s been electrocuted, then stumbles in her sexy high heels with metal studs all over the straps. I grab her without thinking, roping my arms around her waist to keep her from falling.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she demands, pressing both palms against my chest and looking me right in the eye.
A legit question.
I’m the guy whose father owns the building, the guy who answered the call to “deal with it” roughly four minutes ago because I’m pretty much the super of this place.
“Don’t try fixing the damn thing yourself,” he added as an afterthought, which is fair. I probably would have, but even before I served, I knew better than to ignore a direct order from the colonel. So I left my toolbox behind, grabbing a granola bar instead as I headed out my door and made my way down the elevator shaft to the hysterical tenant trapped inside.
A hysterical tenant who turned out to be the knockout redhead I’ve seen around the building. A knockout redhead now glaring daggers at me with eyes the color of beach glass.
Maybe that’s because I’ve still got my arms around her.
Not that she’s objecting. Her body is soft and lush and practically weightless, and I could swear she just stroked my chest instead of pushing me back.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps.
It dawns on me I haven’t answered either of her questions, and I should probably unhand her, but I can’t seem to do either.
“I’m Adam,” I force out. “Adam Black. You’re Bekka Zoler from 4C. You called about the elevator?”
Her eyes flash with surprise, and maybe something else. Desire? No, that’s not it. Or maybe—
“You remember me?”
The correct answer isn’t “of course I do—my dad is boning your best friend.’” Well, it’s technically correct, but it’s not the right thing to say.
I clear my throat. “I’m the super. I know who all of our tenants are. Plus, you’ve made a few noise complaints.”
Her eyes flash again, and I know she knows what I’m talking about. Twice in the past week she’s phoned to gripe about the couple down the hall having screaming-loud sex. This girl looks like she knows a thing or two about wall-banging fuckery, with those rockin’ curves and that full mouth and—
I really should put her down.
I release her reluctantly, making sure she’s steady on her feet before I take a step back and shove my hands in my pockets to keep myself from reaching for her again. “Are you okay?”
“No, I am not okay.” She smooths down her super-short skirt and straightens her five-foot-nothing frame like she’s trying to regain her dignity. Like she’s convincing herself I didn’t hear every word she yelled when she was in here alone raging about some limp-dicked asshole I’m assuming must be a boyfriend or husband or something.
“Elevator repair crew is on the way,” I tell her, hoping that helps with at least one of her issues. “They’ll be here in an hour.”
“An hour. A fucking hour? What am I supposed to do in here for an hour?”
Those full pink lips give me a few ideas, none of which I should voice aloud. “Try not to freak out?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I see that right away. Her green eyes blaze with fury and she crosses her arms over the most delicious pair of breasts I’ve ever seen.
“For your information, I have someplace to be,” she snaps. “I’m not just going to sit in here and cool my heels with the goddamn super.”
“I promise we’ll get you out of here,” I tell her. “The best we can do is stay calm until the repair guys get here.”
“We?” She barks out a laugh. “I’m not staying here in this teeny, tiny, dark, awful, airless, enclosed”—her throat moves as she swallows, and panic flashes in her eyes—“box with some stranger.” Her voice cracks on the last syllable, weaker than when she started.
“I’m hardly a stranger,” I argue, pretty sure I’m arguing the wrong point. “I’ve been taking your rent checks for how long? And we won’t even talk about my dad and Kymber.”
> She flushes. “I don’t care. I’m still not staying in this giant metal coffin with you for an hour.”
“Well, I’m not leaving you alone in here.”
“The hell you aren’t.”
I sigh and lower myself to the ground, grateful for the new carpet I installed in here last spring. Nice and cushy. If we’re going to be here a while, we might as well get comfy. “Like it or not, we’re stuck for now.”
“We are not stuck,” she says. “You climbed in here—you can climb your ass back out.”
Her words are heated, but so are her eyes. In a different way, though. Her gaze skims my chest, and I can tell she likes what she sees. Hey, I’m not complaining. A tour in the army, courtesy of good ol’ Dad, paired with the overabundance of energy that’s dogged me since childhood has left me with a constant need to move. When I’m on duty and can’t get out of the building, I lift weights. I know it shows, and if Bekka’s trying to pretend she’s not staring at my biceps, she’s pretty fucking lousy at faking it.
Speaking of faking it—
“So what’s the deal with your guy trouble?”
She blinks. “Guy trouble?”
See? Lousy at faking it. Her cheeks go pink, and her eyes cloud with self-consciousness.
“Hey, it’s none of my business,” I add. “But you were raising hell about it a minute ago. Figured you might need someone to talk to.”
She steps back, and I do my damnedest not to look up her skirt. It takes all the self-control I have, which isn’t much to start with.
“You were eavesdropping?”
“You were screaming,” I point out. “I’m pretty sure they heard you on the tenth floor.”
“Ha!” She huffs out the syllable, even though my joke wasn’t all that funny. “Why would I tell you anything?”
I shrug, not caring one way or the other if she does, as long as I can keep enjoying those flawless bare legs. “Sharing can be good for the soul.” I rap the elevator wall behind me. “Think of this as your own private confession booth.”
That earns me another ha! along with a glare I know better than to call adorable.
