Keep My Heart (Top Shelf Romance Book 7)

by Lex Martin

  “I was meeting with the team at Elevation.” She smiles brightly. “I’m signing.”

  “That’s awesome.” I squeeze her hand. “Jared and company will take care of you.”

  “And what about you?” Her voice drops, taking on a husky tone. “Will you take care of me, too?”

  “Uh . . .” Is there a diplomatic way to say hell no?

  “I’m here for the rest of the week. Maybe we can get together before I leave.”

  “Uh . . .” I must have a concussion because I haven’t said more than “uh’ in the last two minutes. “Sure. Why not?” In my head, I hear Jared pimping me out at least for drinks until we have her signature on the dotted line.

  She leans closer so her blouse droops, and I see the curve of her breasts. Don’t get me wrong—Pippa’s got a great body. She’s one of the top tennis players in the world. And the sex was good, but her light floral scent is all wrong. Her hair is jet black, missing the burnished streaks. Her lips are thin, not full and pouty and pink. She’s beautiful and just right for someone, but she’s not Iris. So she’s not right for me.

  The door opens again, and another dark head peers around the corner. This is the one I was hoping for.

  “Iris.” Everything brightens—the room, my voice, my smile, and I feel Pippa’s regard sharpen on my face. “Come on in.”

  “Oh, I . . .” She flicks a glance between Pippa and me, darting down to our clasped hands on the hospital bed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  I snatch my hand from Pippa, and she looks at me, wearing hurt on her face. I haven’t given Pippa any reason to think we’ll be anything again. I need to be kind, but clear that we are not happening.

  “You’re not interrupting.” I gesture to the other side of the bed. “Come on and sit down.”

  She walks over to the bed with dragging steps, glancing at Pippa’s expensive clothes and the shiny diamond studs in her ears. Pippa is gorgeous. Of Asian descent, her dark hair falls straight to frame the high slant of her cheekbones. She’s beautiful, but she’s not my Iris.

  Yes, I think of her as mine. I will have no trouble telling her so once we get past “slow.” Hell, I’m hers, too, whenever she wants to claim me. Over the last few weeks, though we haven’t even kissed, we’ve been building something.

  I guess? I think? I hope?

  “Sorry. Blame my rudeness on the concussion.” I gesture to the curious girl beside me. “Pippa Kim, this is Iris DuPree. Pippa’s signing with Elevation, and Iris works with our team.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Ms. Kim,” Iris says, her enthusiasm genuine. She really does love her job. “If you two were discussing—”

  “Nope,” I cut in because if I know Iris, and I’m glad to say that I do now, she’s about to leave. And I can’t let that happen. “We were done, right, Pip?”

  Displeasure passes over her face like a cloud, quickly hidden. “I guess we are,” she mutters, rising and grabbing her purse. “I’ll still be in town this week. I’ll call you about getting together.”

  You just had to say that, huh?

  “Sure.” My smile is stiff and my voice curt. “See you later.”

  As soon as the door swings closed behind Pippa, I reach for Iris.

  “Hey, you.” I bring the back of her hand to my lips. “How’s tricks?”

  She studies me for long seconds, her inspection thorough. “Forget tricks,” she says, her voice subdued. “How are you?”

  “Were you worried about me?” I tease, rubbing my nose over the palm of her hand and smiling when she shivers.

  “Of, course I was worr . . .” She heaves a deep breath and blows it out, running her free hand through the wild hair that’s erupted into waves and curls. “God, August.”

  A tear slides over her cheek, and I feel like a royal asshole. My head may hurt, but I can still lift someone as small as Iris, so I do, dragging her to sit up against the pillows in the bed beside me. I tuck her under my arm and lower my forehead to hers. We’ve covered a lot of ground since she moved here a month ago. She said slow, and I added consistent. The Louisiana irises every morning. Daily text messages. Lunch together whenever my schedule allows. We’ve been seeing how we fit into each other’s lives. After years of seeing each other so sporadically, it’s good to set a normal pattern.

  If I ever wondered if I was simply infatuated with the idea of Iris and the reality wouldn’t live up to my expectations, I know now she doesn’t just match my fantasies. She’s so much better. As hard as it’s been, I haven’t tried to kiss her. Don’t want to rush her. I’ve honored her request for slow, and now when I see how she watches me, I believe it’s paying off.

  “Hey, I’m okay.” I work my fingers into the thick hair spilling around her neck.

  “You’re sure?” Her breath is cool and minty, but my lips burn. “I saw you fall and . . . I’m just glad you’re okay.” Another tear streaks down her cheek. I brush it away with my knuckle and push the tangle of hair from her face.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” I leave a few kisses along her hairline. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I had to.” She watches me from beneath lowered lashes for a few seconds before clearing her throat. “It was nice of Pippa to come by, too.”

  “It really was,” I agree.

  “She’s even prettier in real life.”

  “She really is.”

  “And so talented.” She pushes a skein of hair behind her shoulder. “I guess you guys have a lot in common.”

  I’m struck by the irony of Iris being jealous of Pippa when Pippa stormed out moments ago, clearly aware Iris is the one I want.

  “Iris.” I lift her chin until she meets my eyes. “Is there something you want to ask me about Pippa?”

  “No, I . . . no, I—”

  “Do you wanna know if I fucked her? Because I did, but that was a long time ago.”

  Her eyes widen and then drop to her fingers twisting in her lap.

  “I was with a lot of people then,” I confess. “Because I was trying my damnedest to forget you were with him.”

  Her head snaps up, and we look at each other.

  “You can ask me whatever you want, Iris, about anyone.” I run my nose along her cheek, listening for the hitch of her breath at the charged contact of my skin on hers.

  She turns her head, and a centimeter, not even a fully drawn breath, separates our mouths. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and reaches up to touch my face, her fingertips wandering over my cheeks and painting a stripe down my nose. Her thumbnail outlines my lips, and I crave her touch on me everywhere. I lean into her, brushing our noses together once, twice, again.

  “What are you doing?” she asks with a breathy laugh.

  “Eskimo kisses,” I whisper, spreading my fingers to span her waist. “I’m scared to do the real thing. To kiss you.”

  She rubs my nose back, her eyes never leaving mine, her lips just shy of a kiss.

  “Why are you scared to kiss me?” she asks.

  “Because the last time I kissed you,” I say, biting my lip, wanting to bite hers, “you disappeared.”

  She leans back a little, but I don’t let it last. I bring her back into my side until our thighs press together and the curve of her breast tortures me.

  “Please don’t pull away from me.” I trace one dark eyebrow, studying the striking framework of her face. “Where’d you go, Iris?”

  Her lips part, then slam shut, then part again before she finally speaks. “Louisiana.” She closes her eyes. “I went to my great-grandmother’s, but I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  Why the secrecy? Was she in some kind of trouble? “Tell me what happened. What’s going on? Did Caleb—”

  “I can’t talk to you about him,” she interrupts abruptly, opening her eyes to hold mine. “Don’t ask me about my life with him, August.”

  “Nothing?” I press my back into the pillow to get a clearer look at her. “But I need to know if—”

  “I signed
an NDA.” A hard swallow flexes her slim throat. “Okay? So when I say I can’t talk about things with him, I mean I can’t. Breaking that jeopardizes sole custody of Sarai. Please don’t ask me.”

  Can I move forward without understanding what happened in the past?

  I have a million questions about her and Caleb, but I doubt her answers would actually satisfy me. I want to know if she ever loved him. I want to know if he was really her first, her only lover. The thought of her giving him that honor when he’s such an asshole scratches the inside of my brain.

  “If you can’t,” she says after a few moments of silence, “then I understand.” She searches my face, her eyes anxious, and clutches her T-shirt in her fist.

  “I used to think of you with him,” I admit. My laugh is bitter between us. “Of you . . .”

  Fucking him.

  Even now, the thought of him inside of her, of him getting her pregnant, watching her grow with Sarai, staking that claim on her that I can’t ever erase or usurp—it’s an asylum in my mind. My thoughts go crazy, and I draw a deep breath to stem the insanity.

  “I can’t change the past, August.” Slowly, one finger at a time, she unclenches the shirt fisted at her waist and reaches for my hand. “But we can talk about the future, if you want.”

  If I want?

  If I fucking want?

  I’ve never wanted anything more.

  “Iris, once we start this, I can’t go back.” I’m a fool for giving her time to reconsider, but we have enough regrets. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, but I . . .” She lowers her lashes, hides her eyes. “Things with Caleb were . . . I haven’t been with anyone since . . .”

  I really don’t want to talk about him, but whatever this macho ego shit is I got going on, I need to set it aside so she feels she can talk to me about anything.

  “Hey, look at me.” I tilt her chin, catch her eyes. “We said slow. That’s on everything. Physically. Emotionally. Whatever you need. You set the pace, okay?” I drop my hands to my sides.

  “Okay.” Mischief lifts some of the seriousness from her eyes. “So if I say I’m ready for our next kiss, would that be alright?”

  “Is that a real question?”

  We laugh, and my heart thumps while I wait for her to make a move. I said she could set the pace. Now to keep my hands to myself until she lets me know how this should go.

  Her hands are gentle on my face, and for a few moments, she just looks at me, and then, eyes still locked with mine, she takes my bottom lip between hers. There’s something uncertain in her gaze when she tilts her head and deepens the kiss with the first pass of her tongue over my teeth. It’s an exploration, a tentative touch that singes my lips and ripples from the point of contact to the tips of my fingers.

  It may be the sweetest moment of my life.

  I grip the sheets, pressing my back deeper into the pillows, fighting the urge to pull her closer, tighter. Fighting the urge to do what I’m conditioned to do. Take over. I’m the floor general. I run the team. This is foreign, putting the ball in someone else’s hands. It goes against everything in me to let someone else call the plays, but I’ll do it. God, I think for Iris I’d do anything.

  She stares at me while our mouths meld, cling, open, and the intimacy swells between us the longer we watch each other. The longer we taste each other. With every second, the more I have, the more I want. She pulls away just long enough to glance at the sheet knotted in my fists. With a smile, she sifts her fingers into my hair.

  “August,” she whispers, “you can touch me.”

  I’ve been waiting for permission, but now I’m the one who’s tentative. It’s crazy. We’ve kissed before. Hell, in that closet, we did a lot more than that. But there’s something more fragile about her this time. I’m a big guy. I’m sometimes clumsy and not always careful. Whatever is fragile about her, I’d rather die than break.

  “It’s okay,” she says softly. “Touch me how you want.”

  My hands glide over her waist, slipping under her T-shirt and learning the exquisite craftsmanship of her ribcage, the flare of her hip. My lips wander down her cheek and dot kisses over her chin, jaw, neck, every inch of fine-grained skin I can get to. She’s the most intoxicating champagne. I sip. I drink. I slurp. I gulp her until I can’t remember the taste of another woman—there’s only ever been her scent and her hair and her shape. She is singular, obliterating every kiss that came before her, eliminating the possibility of anyone else ever tasting this good.

  She ducks her head, recapturing my lips, angling her mouth, as hungry for it as I am. Her lips are greedy. Her tongue matches mine, velvety stroke for velvety stroke. I’m panting, almost choking on need. Knowing she wants this as much as I do drives it higher. It’s wet and hot and urgent. Every kiss stokes the craving that’s been brewing between us since our first moment in that bar.

  She presses closer, whimpering under my hands and crawling onto my lap, straddling me. The smallest movement of her hips rolling over me stills us both. I’m only wearing a thin hospital gown, so she has to feel how hard I am. I thrust up, and she drops her head into the cove of my neck and shoulder, her breath a heat wave on my skin. Our hips move in concert, each of us seeking traction, relief. She sits up, capturing my eyes and rocking into me, the rhythm of her body steady and deep. Her eyelids droop, and her mouth falls open on a quiet moan.

  “Oh, God, August.” Her brows pinch together and she bites her lip, rolling over me, dropping her head back until her neck is elongated. I lick the stretch of satin from her jaw to her collarbone. I nudge the neck of her T-shirt aside, licking the tops of her breasts. I insert my tongue, dipping in to taste her cleavage.

  A knock on the door startles us. She’s still scrambling off my lap and I’m reaching for a blanket to cover my erection when the door swings open.

  Fucking Kenan.

  First, he elbows my head.

  Now, he blocks my cock.

  With his jet-black brows lifted, Kenan tips his mouth in a knowing half-grin.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not part of the concussion protocol,” he says. “If so, you can elbow me in the head.”

  “Jackass.” I grin, still panting, and run my fingers through my hair. “You come to finish me off?”

  His smile evaporates, and he steps farther into the room. They don’t call him Gladiator for nothing. At nearly six-eight, with wide shoulders and a broad chest and just about zero body fat, I’m glad we’re on the same team.

  “Bruh, I’m sorry.” He crosses over to the bed, glancing speculatively at Iris.

  “Kenan, this is Iris.” I grab her wrist so she doesn’t leave the bed just because he’s here. “Iris, this is the man responsible for my concussion.”

  “I know,” she says smiling faintly, her cheeks still rose–gold with embarrassment. “I saw. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he says, not trying to hide his curiosity. “You look so familiar.”

  Iris stiffens at my side and tugs harder until her wrist is free. “Maybe I’ve just got one of those faces,” she murmurs, her smile stiff and plastic.

  Her text alert sounds, and she frowns down at her phone.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. It’s just Lo asking me to translate something Sarai is saying. Sometimes I’m the only one who understands her.”

  “She’s at home?”

  “No, they actually came with me. They’re in the waiting room.” She rolls her eyes. “Lo thought I was too upset to drive.”

  “Were you?” I tug on one coil resting on her shoulder. She looks from me to Kenan, her smile tight at the corners.

  “I’d love to see Sarai and to finally meet Lo,” I say, sparing her having to answer in front of Kenan. “Give her the room number.”

  “You’ll love Lo, and she can’t wait to meet you.” She types out the text, sinking her teeth into a smile. “I’ll warn you in advance. There’s never any telling what will come out of her mouth.”


  “Lo?” Kenan asks, one brow cocked.

  “My cousin.” Iris stands, and I miss her already.

  The door opens and Sarai darts across the room to her mother, throwing her arms around Iris’s knees as if they’ve been separated fifteen years instead of fifteen minutes. With it being just the two of them for the last year, she probably got really attached.

  Sarai peeks out from behind Iris’s knees to look at me, her lips curving up to match the huge grin I’m giving her.

  “Hi, Sarai,” I say, wishing she felt comfortable enough already to give me a hug, too.

  “Gus,” she whispers.

  Iris snorts, laughing at the nickname I told her I hate. There’s still time to retrain Sarai, but right now she could call me Attila the Hun and I wouldn’t care.

  Iris’s cousin enters the room at a more measured pace.

  The first thing I notice about Lotus DuPree is how much she and Iris look alike. There are marked differences. Her skin is a few shades darker but no less smooth. Her hair is coarser but still curly, cut close and died platinum blond. She’s slimmer than Iris, a little shorter, but she looks like a model. Not in her stature, but with an effortless kind of grace. Over a white tank top, she wears a fitted multi-colored silk kimono jacket. Dark jeans mold the lean line of her legs. The tiniest hoop adorns the keen curve of her left nostril.

  Beyond her obvious attractiveness, there’s something about her that highjacks your attention. Even with no expression, Lo’s face seems animated. The expressive brows and wide, mobile mouth speak on her behalf without her uttering a word. She’s as hard to look away from as Iris, but for different reasons.

  Iris said they come from a long line of voodoo high priestesses. I see it in Lotus. A regalness—a mystery and an aura, like she knows your thoughts before you think them and is fully capable of changing your mind.

  Kenan can’t seem to look away. His eyes follow her path from the door to the bedside.

  “Nice to meet you, August,” she says, extending her hand.

  Where Iris’s voice is sweet and husky, Lotus’s voice emerges low, commanding, and with an inherent sensuality that would have many men under her spell immediately.