The Vault Box Set

by Summers, Eden

  Shit.

  She couldn’t think through the lust fog.

  “Any other rules before I start?”

  “Yes. I don’t kiss on the mouth.” She’d had the same stipulation since Lucas died. She didn’t want that connection from someone able to walk out the door without a backward glance. The next man she kissed would care for her. He’d cherish the ground she walked on.

  “No problem.” He splayed a hand over her upper thigh, his thumb pressing temptingly close to her pussy. “Only touch.”

  “Good.” Her voice croaked.

  “Anything else?”

  She shook her head.

  “Anal? Oral? Foreign objects?” He raised a brow. “Pain? Submission?”

  “Now you’re just teasing,” she murmured. “I’d be surprised if you had time for even one of those in the ten minutes you’ve allocated.”

  He snickered, the sound sinister. “Maybe that can be a wager for another day.”

  Strong fingers gripped the waistband of her panties and tugged. With bold finesse, he exposed the trim strip of curls above her entirely bare pussy and dropped the material to the floor. For long seconds, he stared at her. At that part of her, his nostrils flaring, his jaw ticking.

  This could be where she gained the upper hand.

  She inched back, lying down against the covers, and slowly spread her thighs.

  His visual admiration turned to humor, his lips lifting as if he knew her game.

  Damn it. How was he so good at this?

  “It looks like it’s time to start.” He glanced at her bedside clock. “It’s eight fifty-three.”

  “Eight fifty-three.” She swallowed over the desire clogging her throat.

  She was wound tight, eagerly wondering how he planned to win this battle in ten minutes. And if he didn’t, how would he deal with a night in her bed? Hell, how the heck would she handle it?

  He slid his palm along her leg, toward the apex of her thighs. He held her gaze as the heat of his touch came closer.

  A finger, or maybe it was a thumb, skirted gently over the edge of her pussy lips. Delicate and oh, so light. It could barely be considered a touch. It was a breath. A whisper of sensation through the slickness of her arousal.

  “I’m surprised you’re this wet. Seeing how you’re not interested and all.” His touch gained pressure, parting her, tempting her opening.

  She wanted more. Needed more. “I never said I wasn’t interested.”

  “Right…” Back and forth, his touch raked over her slit, teasing and torturous. “You just lacked faith in my ability.”

  She opened her mouth, poised to respond when two fingers slid deep, penetrating her, making her back arch off the bed. He curled those digits inside her, finding her sensitive spot faster than she ever found it herself.

  No fair.

  She clamped her thighs together, tight, and rocked into the rhythmic stroke against her G-spot.

  “Still think I can’t get you there in another eight minutes?”

  “Goddammit. Shut the hell up.”

  He chuckled, and she didn’t understand how he could be unaffected. Maybe that was the reason he kept rejecting women in the Vault. Did he have erection issues?

  She lowered her gaze, down his pristine, white dress shirt, to his waistband, then his crotch.

  Nope. His reluctance definitely wasn’t an arousal issue. The hard, thick length of him strained against his zipper.

  He wanted her.

  Or maybe he just wanted sex.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. The thought of his desire made her squirm. Made her throb. Pressure landed on her clit, the spark of enthusiastic tingles taking over her core. He was succeeding. Winning. Not that she wanted him to fail. She craved another of his masterful orgasms.

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  The solemn compliment fractured her bliss and she blinked away the confusion to find him visually worshiping her body. The glide of his attention raked her skin, causing havoc, inspiring hysteria.

  “The worst part about this agreement is the inability to fuck you.” His free hand splayed across her stomach, creeping higher.

  “What? Why not?”

  “That’s not part of the deal.” He grasped her covered breast, working the cup down to brush his fingers over her nipple. Back and forth. Up and down.

  “Forget the deal,” she panted, arching into his touch.

  “I wouldn’t have time.” He grinned, but this curve of lips was half-hearted. “There’s only six minutes left.”

  She whimpered and he responded to her unspoken plea by adding another finger to her pussy. He stretched her, the muscles of her core protesting with a delicious twinge.

  “I want your feet on the bed. Soles on the mattress.”

  She complied, lifting her legs, bending her knees, willing to do anything to continue the bliss.

  “Ass up. I want to see you.”

  Her cheeks warmed as she obeyed, raising her butt off the bed to give him a better view.

  “Fuck.” It was barely a word, his voice more of an incoherent growl. “Tell me what you’re thinking. I want to hear those dirty thoughts.”

  She shook her head, speechless at the ferocity in his eyes. She couldn’t think past his touch, the wicked stroke of her G-spot, and the palm massaging her breast. She kept her ass off the bed, each second making her climb higher in search of more.

  “Tell me.” He glanced at the clock, unhurried as he massaged and coaxed.

  They had to be running out of time, but he didn’t rush. There was no frantic pace, only a slow build to the perfect rhythm.

  “Fucking tell me, Ella, or I stop.” His movements slowed, inspiring panic.

  “No, don’t.” Her voice broke. “I want this,” she admitted. “I want you.”

  “How?” he snapped.

  She continued to shake her head. If she pictured the ways in which she needed him—visualized the two of them together—she’d come. And she wanted that… But she didn’t want it, too.

  Not yet.

  He growled and shoved another finger inside her, her pussy now stretched around four digits. He worked her hard, making her legs burn, her body sweat. He slid his other hand from her breast, over her collarbone, this time stopping at her throat. He held her there, pushing her toward mindlessness with the tight grasp of dominance.

  She was close. Her orgasm within a flick of those fingers.

  Then he paused.

  Fucking stopped.

  For seconds or minutes, she didn’t know.

  “If you don’t tell me your dirty thoughts, I don’t make you feel good.” He appeared to lack concern over the approaching deadline, even though his chest heaved and his eyes blazed. “So, keep talking, sweetheart, or this ends.”

  “Oh, God,” she pleaded, the tingle of bliss fading. She couldn’t let it go. Refused. “I never want you to stop touching me. I want to feel you everywhere,” she rambled. “I want you to fuck me. And I want it to be hard. So hard it hurts.” She wasn’t a masochist. Slaps and pinches weren’t her thing. The excitement revolved around harsh penetration and vicious thrusts. The thrill of helplessness in the arms of a strong man. “You’d fuck my pussy… My mouth.”

  His nostrils flared as he groaned. Slowly, the grasp around her throat tightened, increasing her heartbeat. Then the fingers in her cunt twitched. Both sensations were profound on their own. Together they were an exquisite surge of sensation.

  She bucked, demanding more. “Then you’d fuck my ass.”

  The pulse inside her quickened. The squeeze at her throat tightened. His focus held more intent than she’d ever received from him before. Frustration and delirious lust built in those eyes—over her.

  He wanted to be inside her, just as much as she needed him there.

  She grinned with the knowledge. The pleasure doubled. Multiplied. His fingers kept pace. She whimpered, the sound turning into a mewl. A scream. She tensed, every inch of her becoming a slave to the first pul
se of orgasm bursting forward, making her buck.

  He didn’t stop as she spasmed, calling his name, arching her back. Over and over, he continued to work her, until the pulses lessened. Even then, he didn’t stop. In fact, he did the opposite, pressing harder on her clit, spreading her pussy wider.

  Another wave hit, blindsiding in its attack.

  This orgasm was short but more surprising. The pleasure a breath-taking hit before an equally shocking vacuum. She was capable of multiples now?

  She panted through the delirium and slumped against the mattress. When he released her throat, she fought not to show her disappointment. That hold had been transforming. A grasp of nirvana. And those fingers. Damn him. They still gently stroked inside her, not letting the bliss entirely fade while his other palm trailed along her sternum, her stomach.

  Too much talent had been given to this man. Too much god-like finesse for someone entirely undeserving.

  As if reading her mind, his lips quirked. “Are you ready to apologize for doubting my skills, Ella?”

  Chapter Eleven

  He’d thrown the bet.

  He’d deliberately thrown the whole fucking thing.

  She didn’t even know yet. She just lay there, blinking up at him with sated, euphoria-glazed eyes.

  He hadn’t been able to talk himself out of it. She’d been at the mercy of his touch, her perfect body writhing and contorting with each of his movements. Then he’d paused, unable to stand the thought of her coming so soon.

  He’d known how much time he’d had left. He’d known exactly how long it would take to get her back to the peak, too, and he’d stopped anyway.

  For what? A handful of seconds of her at his mercy?

  He couldn’t remember a woman ever ensnaring him with erotic fascination. She wasn’t merely sexual, she was sensual. A combination of vulnerability and confidence. Carnality and trepidation.

  Obviously, he suffered from a case of temporary amnesia. He’d played a hand in innumerable sexcapades. His sexual bucket list had been ticked off long ago. But this was different somehow. If only he could pinpoint the why of it all.

  The lust-filled decision to throw the bet was a mistake. And now he was staring down the barrel of an overnight stay in a barely-known woman’s home.

  He pasted on a fake smirk, needing to dissolve the blissful state of her features. “Are you ready to apologize for doubting my skills, Ella?”

  The daze didn’t fade. Instead, she smiled, those ruby lips making his dick twitch. “Hmm?”

  He removed his fingers from her body and fought the need to lick away her arousal. “I’m waiting for you to admit you were wrong.”

  She chuckled. Breathy. Barely audible.

  She was a pliable kitten.

  He felt the same.

  “I was wrong.” She pushed to her elbows, then her knees. She straightened before him, putting her bra back in place, then glanced over her shoulder. “But it’s five past nine. You didn’t win the bet.”

  He could’ve talked his way out of it. Probably could’ve convinced her she’d been lying in a trance for more time than she had, but again, that amnesia had him questioning why he wanted to leave in such a hurry. “I guess I’m not quite as good as I thought I was.”

  She tilted her head, blinking up at him. He itched to loosen the top button of his shirt, to adjust his cock. She had him in all sorts of discomfort, and he’d be damned if he showed it.

  “Are we done here?” She raised to her elbows.

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  She’d come. He’d felt it. Her pussy had spasmed around his fingers. More than once.

  She’d bucked.

  Writhed.

  Shit. He needed to get the memory out of his head.

  Her smile increased, her lashes still batting in a lazy, content rhythm. “It was a subtle way of asking if you were done.” She pushed to her elbows, her thighs closing slightly. “I mean, can I return the favor?”

  “No.” God. No. The last thing he needed was to be force-fed more temptation. “This isn’t a favor. This is…”

  Torture. Pure and simple.

  She stiffened, and finally that daze fled the scene like an Olympic sprinter.

  He wanted to fuck her in so many ways he’d be able to publish a sex guide to rival the Kama Sutra. But before he did all that, he wanted to spank the look of rejection off her face. “Fucking you is a bad idea, that’s all.”

  She nodded, sat up straight, and then swung her legs off the bed. “Don’t elaborate. I’ve already taken the hint.” She reached for her bedside table, pulled open the top drawer, and removed a large expanse of shiny black material. A robe.

  In seconds, she was covered, her beautiful body hidden from view. She tied the thin belt around her waist with jerky movements, then clutched the lapels to hide her cleavage. “I’m going to freshen up. You don’t have to hang around. I’m not going to hold you to the bet. Feel free to leave whenever you’re ready.”

  He nodded, remaining silent as she strode for a door at the side of the room and closed herself in.

  This was what he hated. The bullshit. The ping-pong match of hurt feelings and expectation. His dick didn’t seem to care, though. The rock-hard part of his anatomy soldiered on, determined not to stand down until it glimpsed the front line.

  He should leave.

  It was the sensible option. He should walk out of here before she returned. No explanation. No goodbye.

  He wouldn’t have even contemplated his options if it were any other woman. He’d be out the door, down the hall, and driving back home without a second thought.

  A toilet flushed, followed by a rush of tap water.

  Leave or stay, Bryan? Leave or stay?

  Shit.

  It wasn’t like she was an emotional threat. She had no interest in him. But why the fuck was he considering staying, anyway? For the bet? Maybe. He’d never backed out on a wager before. Problem was, he didn’t know if it was more than that.

  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was overthinking this when he shouldn’t be thinking at all.

  A cupboard closed in the adjoining room. The water stopped. The door reopened and the light spilling in from behind created a flawless silhouette. Her hair sat against her shoulders, the thin robe pulled tight at her waist. She looked like a model. One with beautiful curves and slightly faltering confidence.

  “You’re still here.” She switched off the light and padded into the room.

  He didn’t bother fighting the laugh that escaped. “Yeah, sweetheart. Still here. I want to clear up the reason why fucking you is a bad—”

  “Please don’t.” She held up a hand as she approached the bed. “I think I’m at my quota for your honesty.”

  He growled. If she didn’t wipe the backslap of rejection off her face, he was going to do something he’d regret. Something they’d both regret. “The reason fucking you is a bad idea,” he grated, “is because I can’t sleep with a woman more than once.”

  Why the fuck had he said that?

  She rolled her eyes and pulled back the coverings. “I also don’t need a refresher on your rules. Shay gave me the Cliffs Notes.”

  He ground his teeth and wished he was the brute she thought he was. At least then he wouldn’t feel obligated to give her an explanation.

  “An incapability,” he clarified. “Not a rule.”

  Her brows pulled together, the pinch of her forehead taking seconds, if not minutes. “You can’t…”

  “Get an erection? Wood? A hard-on? Whatever you choose to call it, I can’t get it more than once for the same woman.” He let the information sink in. The private, close-kept secret he’d never told a soul.

  “Wow… So, you haven’t slept with a woman more than once for how long?”

  “Over twelve years.”

  “Holy. Shit.” She drew out the words as she stared at him with a mix of fascination and concern. “Have you been to see anyone about i
t?”

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Don’t go thinking there’s something wrong with my dick. There’s no problem as far as I’m concerned. It’s a skill. A talent that took years to master. It’s my insurance policy.”

  “Insurance,” she repeated slowly.

  “Yeah, to protect the commitment phobia you seem to think I have.”

  “Seem to have?” Her lips quirked. “Is there really any doubt? You’re seriously messed up.”

  “You won’t hear a denial from me. But the reason for the explanation is to set things straight. The lack of fucking has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me needing to remain interested for the demonstration night.”

  She climbed onto the bed, her brow regaining its furrow. “You know, Bryan, I never took you for the it’s-not-you-it’s-me type.”

  Because he wasn’t. Never had been. She inspired anomalies. “And I never took you for a woman who could come with a mere twist of my fingers. I guess we both made inaccurate assumptions.”

  He kicked off his shoes and placed his socks inside them.

  “You’re still staying?”

  “We made a bet. I’m not a sore loser.”

  This was a mistake. A huge mistake. His dick stood rigid as fuck. His restraint was equally vulnerable. Yet, for some unknown reason, he wasn’t sprinting for the door.

  He undid the top button of his shirt, moving down, one by one. Her hungry gaze ate up each new inch of exposed skin. He could practically feel those eyes sending their laser beam of fascination down his chest. The distraction should’ve made him stop and throw this upcoming train wreck in reverse.

  “Want me to turn off the living room lights before I climb in?” He shoved the material off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s early. I just want to lay here a while.” She pulled the covers to her chin, snuggling farther into her pillow.

  The entire scene before him seemed like a parallel universe. He didn’t do this shit—not the sleepovers or the dinner. Definitely not the wine. And, Jesus Christ, if he thought about throwing the bet one more time, he’d probably throw his cookies, too.