Beautiful Player

by Christina Lauren

  I jerked against her, relishing her sounds and whispering my apology into her neck over and over. “It’s too intense . . .” All of it was overwhelming: the feeling of her around me, her words, and the understanding that she was really mine now. “I’m too close, Plum, I can’t . . .”

  She shook her head, nails biting into the skin of my shoulder, and pressed her lips to my ear. “I like when you can’t hold back. It’s how I always felt with you.”

  With a groan I let go, feeling myself spiral down

  down

  down

  pressing deeper and harder until I could hear the gentle slap of my thighs on hers and her back on the wall, and felt my body flush warm and wet, coming inside her so hard my shout echoed sharply off the tile all around us.

  I don’t think I’d ever come that fast in my entire life and I felt both euphoric and mildly horrified.

  Hanna pulled my hair, silently begging for my mouth on hers but after only a small kiss I slipped from her with a groan, and fell to my knees. Leaning forward, I spread her with my hands and sealed my mouth around the soft rise of her clit, sucking. I closed my eyes and groaned at the sound of her sweet moan, the feel of her sex against my tongue. Her legs shook—exhausted from the run, probably also exhausted from the rough treatment I’d just given her against a wall—and I slid my arms between her thighs, spreading her legs and lifting her so her thighs rested on my shoulders and my palms gripped her ass.

  Above me, she cried out, her arms grappling wildly for something to hold on to, and finally she settled for clutching my head with her thighs and reaching down, bracing her hands on the top my head while she watched me with wide, fascinated eyes.

  “I’m so close.” Her voice wavered, hands shaking where she gripped my hair.

  I hummed, smiling into her and moving my head slowly side to side as I sucked. I’d never done this before and felt so much like I was loving someone, making love in every way I possibly could. My chest warmed intensely when it occurred to me: this was our beginning. Right here, partially hidden by the steam of the shower, was where we clarified everything.

  I could see the moment she started to come, the hot flush bloomed on her chest and spread upward, reaching her face just as her lips parted in a gasp.

  I’d never get tired of this. I’d never tire of her. With the most possessive pleasure I’d ever felt, I watched as her orgasm rocked through her, pulling a scream from her throat.

  Stopping when her thighs went lax, I carefully slid my arms from her, easing her down on shaking legs. I stood, staring down at her for a beat before she slid her arms around my neck and stretched to hold me.

  She was soft and warm from the heat of the water and seemed to melt in my arms.

  And it was so fucking different. It had never felt like this—like I was completely connected to her—even when we were in our most intimate moments as “just friends.”

  Here, she felt like mine.

  “I love you,” I whispered into her hair, before reaching to the side for my soap. Carefully, I washed every inch of her skin, her hair, and the delicate skin between her legs. I washed my orgasm away from her body, and kissed her jaw, her eyelids, her lips.

  We stepped out and I wrapped her in a towel before pulling one around my own waist. I led her into the bedroom, sat her on the edge of the bed, and dried her, before urging her back onto the mattress.

  “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

  “I’ll come with you.” She struggled against my roaming hands, tried to sit up, but I shook my head, bending to suck her nipple into my mouth. “Just stay here and relax,” I whispered against her skin. “I want to keep you here in bed all night long, so you’re going to need to eat first.”

  Water from my hair dripped onto her naked skin and she gasped, eyes wide, pupils spreading inky black in the soft gray of her irises. She slid her hands to my shoulders, trying to pull me down and, fuck, I was ready to go again . . . but we needed food. I was already starting to feel woozy.

  “I’ll just throw something together.”

  * * *

  We ate sandwiches, sitting naked on the bedspread, and talked for hours about the race, about the weekend with her family, and finally, about how it had felt when we thought things had ended between us.

  We made love until the sunlight faded outside, and then slept, waking in the middle of the night starving for more. And then it was wild, and loud, and exactly how it had always been when things were best with us: honest.

  For the moment, I was sated, and reached for my bedside table to find a pen. Curling around her, I put her tattoo back on her hip—All that is rare for the rare—hoping that I could be that rare thing, a recovered wildness, a reformed player, that Hanna deserved.

  Epilogue

  The flight attendant walked past, snapping the overhead bins shut with decisive clicks before bending to ask, “Orange juice or coffee?”

  Will asked for coffee. I shook my head with a smile.

  He patted my knee, palm up. “Give me your phone.”

  I handed it over, but complained anyway: “Why do I need wireless? I’m going to be asleep the entire flight.” Never again would I let him book 6 a.m. flights from New York to the West Coast.

  Will ignored me, entering some code into a tiny box on my phone’s Web browser.

  “If you haven’t noticed, I’m sleepy. It’s someone’s fault that I was kept up all night,” I whispered, leaning into him.

  He stopped what he was doing, turning to smolder at me. “Is that how it happened?”

  A thrill ran from my chest, down my belly, and between my legs. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t come over after lab, a little . . . worked up?”

  “No,” I lied.

  His eyebrow rose, a smile curling half of his mouth. “And you didn’t interrupt my preparation of the very romantic dinner I was planning for you?”

  “Me? No.”

  “And pull me down onto the couch asking me to ‘do that thing with my mouth’?”

  I held my hand to my chest. “I would never.”

  “It wasn’t you who then ignored the delicious smells coming from the stove and pulled me to the bedroom and asked for some very, very dirty things?”

  I closed my eyes as he leaned close, grazing his teeth over my jaw and murmuring, “I love you so fucking much, my naughty, sweet Plum.”

  Images from the night before pulled me deeper into the hungry, achy place I practically lived in anytime I was near Will. I remembered his rough hands, his commanding voice telling me exactly what he wanted me to do. I remembered those hands tugging my hair, his body moving over mine for hours, his voice finally low and begging for my teeth, my nails. I remembered the weight of him collapsing on me, sweaty and exhausted and falling asleep almost as soon as he found his release.

  “Maybe that was me,” I admitted. “It was a long day working in the safety hood, what can I say? I had a lot of time to think about your magical mouth.”

  He kissed me and then returned to my phone, smiling as he finished what he was doing and handing it back to me. “You’re all set.”

  “I’m still going to sleep.”

  “Well, at least if Chloe needs you, your phone is working.”

  I slid my eyes to him, confused. “Why would she need me? I’m not in the wedding.”

  “Have you met Chloe? She’s a fearsome general that could conscript you at a moment’s notice,” he said, gripping the back of his neck in the way he did when he was uncomfortable. “Whatever. Just sleep then.”

  “I have a feeling about this trip,” I murmured, leaning into his shoulder. “Like a premonition.”

  “How uncharacteristically spiritual of you.”

  “I’m serious. I think it’s going to be amazing, but I also feel like we’re in a giant steel tube headed toward a week of insanity.”

  “Technically airplanes are made of aluminum alloy.” Will looked over at me, bent to kiss my nose, and whispered, “But you knew th
at.”

  “Do you ever have a feeling about something?”

  He hummed, kissed me again. “Once or twice.”

  I stared up at him—at the familiar dark lashes and deep blue eyes, at his five o’clock shadow at six in the morning, and at the goofy smile he’d been wearing since I woke him up—again—four hours ago with my mouth on his cock.

  “Are you feeling sentimental, Dr. Sumner?”

  He shrugged and blinked, clearing a bit of the lovestruck gleam in his eyes. “Just excited to go on vacation with you. Excited for the wedding. Excited that our little gang is having a baby soon.”

  “I have a question about a rule,” I whispered.

  He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering back, “I’m not your dating coach anymore. There are no rules, besides that no other guy touches you.”

  “Still. You know about these things.”

  With a smile he murmured, “Fine. Hit me.”

  “We’ve only been together two months, and—”

  “Four,” he corrected, always insisting I was his from that very first run.

  “Fine. Have it your way, four. Is it bad form after only four months to tell you I think you’re my forever?”

  His smile straightened, his eyes moving over my face in that way that felt like a caress. He kissed me once, and then again.

  “I would say that’s incredibly good form.” He pulled back to look at me for a long, heavy beat. “Sleep, Plum.”

  My phone buzzed on my lap, startling me awake. I straightened from where I’d been asleep on Will’s shoulder and blinked, looking down at my phone, where a text from him lit up my screen. Beside me, I could almost feel his smile.

  I read the text: What are you wearing?

  I squinted sleepily at my phone as I typed, A skirt and no panties. But don’t get any ideas, I’m a little sore from what my boyfriend did last night.

  He made a sympathetic clucking noise beside me. That brute.

  Why are you texting me?

  He shook his head next to me, sighing with exaggerated weariness. Because I can. Because modern technology is amazing. Because we are 30,000 feet in the air and civilization has progressed to the point I can beam a filthy proposition to you from a satellite in space to a flying “steel tube.”

  I turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “You woke me up to ask me what I’m wearing?”

  He shook his head, and kept typing. In my lap, my phone buzzed.

  I love you.

  “I love you, too,” I said. “I’m right here, you nerd. I’m not texting a reply.”

  He smiled, but kept typing. You’re my forever, too.

  I stared down at my phone, my chest suddenly so tight it was hard to breathe. I reached over my head, adjusting the airflow of the nozzle aimed at my seat.

  And I might propose to you soon.

  I stared at my phone, reading this line again, and again.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  So give me a heads-up if you won’t say yes, because I’m mildly terrified.

  I leaned back on his shoulder and he dropped his phone into his lap, wrapping his shaking hand around mine.

  “Don’t be,” I whispered. “We’ve totally got this.”

  Acknowledgments

  By the time we started working on this book, we’d only known our editor, Adam Wilson, for eight months, but together we had already released two books (Bastard and Stranger), with four more scheduled in the same year. This type of publishing schedule for a new author-editor combination is a bit like summer camp: everything is wild and goes by in a blur, and relationships don’t have the luxury of the normal slow easing-in, getting-to-know-you time. As with anything else in life, sometimes those intense experiences work, and sometimes they don’t, but with Adam we’ve been so profoundly lucky. When we finally met in July, we just knew: he is our people and is absolutely our brand of crazy (or very convincingly pretends to be because we send him both metaphorical and real cupcakes). Working with him has been one of the best experiences either of us has had, ever, and we can’t wait to see what we get to do together next.

  When we were first going through the query process, we read probably a hundred blog posts that emphasized the importance of finding an agent that clicks for you. It’s not about finding an agent, everyone said, it’s about finding the right one. In truth, Holly Root is not only the right agent for us, she’s also one of the best people we’ve ever known. Without her, these books would never have found the perfect home with Gallery, or with Adam. She still says she knew from the very first time she spoke to him about the project that he would be a perfect fit for us. It’s these types of relationships that make us feel eternally grateful.

  But it’s also the involvement of our beta readers—Erin, Martha, Tonya, Gretchen, Myra, Anne, Kellie, Katy, and Monica—that makes us realize that the process of writing is so much more than putting words to paper; it’s also finding your community of people who will help you battle the crazy on the bad days, and help you celebrate the awesome on the good ones. If you’ve ever sent your work to someone to read, you know what a vulnerable experience that can be, and to every one of our readers who has helped with the Beautiful books, thank you for so perfectly balancing support with criticism. Sorry that we’ve killed some of your brain cells. Anne, thanks for the Nietzsche and the kick-ass line about him. Jen, thank you a million times over for the promo and cheerleading. Lauren, thank you forever for running the Beautiful social media, and being excited for every cover, excerpt, and email. We love you all.

  We’re erecting (hee! we said erecting!) a billboard in honor of our fabulous S&S/Gallery Books home. THANK YOU, Carolyn Reidy, Louise Burke, Jen Bergstrom, Liz Psaltis, the wonderful art department, Kristin Dwyer (we are kidnapping you soon), Mary McCue (SDCC next year, no choice), Jean Anne Rose, Ellen Chan, Natalie Ebel, Lauren McKenna, Stephanie DeLuca, and, of course, Ed Schlesinger for laughing at Hanna’s jokes. You’ve all made us feel like we’re family. We get a pullout couch in the offices, right?

  Writing isn’t a nine-to-five job, or a Monday-to-Friday job. It’s a job you do whenever you have a slice of time, and it’s also the job that is a slave to inspiration, so if you lack even a tiny slice of time (typical), but you have a flurry of ideas, you drop everything to get those thoughts down before the fickle bastards disappear. Sometimes that means running away to the computer while dinner is boiling on the stove, and sometimes it means that the husband takes the kids to a movie or the zoo or on a hike so that Mommy can get something done. But regardless, writing is a process that requires a lot of patience and support by everyone in the writer’s life, and for that, we make loving heart eyes at the loves of our lives, Keith and Ryan. And our children: Bear, Cutest, and Ninja, we hope you someday realize how patient you’ve been, and how that patience means we now get to spend a lot more time with you. Thanks to our family and friends for putting up with the crazy: Erin, Jenn, Tawna, Jess, Joie, Veena, Ian, and Jamie.

  And last but certainly not least, writing these stories would mean nothing without the amazing people who read them. We’re still blown away when you tell us you stayed up all night reading, or pretended to have the stomach flu to steal a few hours locked in a bathroom because you couldn’t put down our book. Your support and encouragement means more to us than we could ever hope to convey. Thank you. Thank you for continuing to buy our books, for loving our characters as much as we do, for sharing our sense of humor and dirty minds, and for every tweet, email, post, comment, review, and hug. We hope we get to hug each and every one of you one day.

  Bennett would like to see you all in his office.

  Lo, you are so much more than a co-author, you’re my best friend, the moon of my life, the chocolate to my . . . you see where I’m going here. I love you more than all the boy bands and glitter and lip gloss combined.

  PQ, you look so pretty today! I love you even though you make me pee myself laughing. In fact, I love you more than I love Excel, GraphPad, and SPSS combined
. Is your collar tingling?

  ONE BEAUTIFUL BASTARD OF A GROOM. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BITCH OF A BRIDE. A PANTY-RIPPING OFFICE HOOKUP TURNED TRUE LOVE EVERLASTING.

  You are cordially invited to the wedding of Bennett Ryan and Chloe Mills

  Take a sneak peek here at the opening of Beautiful Beginning . . .

  “I’m about to cut a bitch,” I hissed, pushing my share of the work away from me. Bennett failed to even look up, so I added, “And by that, I mean paper-cut a bitch.”

  At least this got a tiny flicker of a smile. But I could tell, even after doing this for the past hour, he was still in Wedding Preparation Zone, and would keep robotically working until the entire, unending pile of cardstock in front of him was gone. Our normally immaculate dining room table was littered with Tiffany-blue wedding programs. Across from me, Bennett methodically folded each one in half before moving it to the Completed stack.

  It was a simple process:

  Fold, move.

  Fold, move.

  Fold, move.

  Fold, move.

  But I was losing my damn mind. Our flight left at six the following morning for San Diego, and our bags were all packed but for the five hundred wedding programs we had to fold. I groaned as I remembered we also had to tie five hundred blue ribbons around five hundred tiny satin bags full of candy.

  “You know what would make this night so much better?” I asked.

  His hazel eyes flickered to me before returning to the task at hand.

  Fold, move.

  “A gag?” he suggested.

  “Amusing, but no,” I said, giving him the finger. “What would make this night better would be getting on a plane and flying to Vegas, getting married, and then fucking all night in a giant hotel bed.”

  He didn’t bother to reply to this, not even a whiff of a smile. It was probably fair to say he’d heard this exact sentiment from me approximately seven thousand times in the past few months.

  “Fine,” I replied to his silence. “But I’m serious. It’s not too late to drop all of this and fly to Vegas.”