Have Me

by Anne Marsh

  Somehow I get us back to our pile of clothes, which suddenly seems woefully insignificant as there’s a definite breeze to go with all of the California sunshine. I hold her against me while I straighten out my hoodie. As makeshift blankets go, it’s not great, but I don’t want to wait until we’ve put on clothes and made our way back to the house to have this conversation, so I drop down and tuck her onto my lap. At the same time, I thread her arms into her flannel. The way the wind makes her wet nipples pucker is amazing, but I don’t want her to freeze.

  “Start talking.”

  Hana

  While Liam’s satisfying himself that I’m not about to imitate a Popsicle, I lean back to better see his face. He has bedroom eyes and he looks like pure sex as he swipes a little errant salt water off his face. Licking him suddenly seems like an equally good alternative to mostly naked story time. But...

  Promises.

  I lace my arms around his neck.

  “Okay. So my dream starts the way they usually do: I’m naked. I’m running through a meadow and it’s sunshiny, full of flowers and bees, and it’s all great. There’s none of the crap that makes outdoors sex so uncomfortable like pollen or sticks that poke you in weird places. It doesn’t matter that I’m barefoot or that I’m not wearing a sports bra.”

  “No need for sunscreen or bug spray.” He grins at me, drawing his fingers up and down my sides in a delicious, scratchy-light tickle.

  I can’t tell if he’s teasing me because so far this is probably the least sexy story ever. I eye him.

  “Do you think I could get a side gig as a phone sex operator?” I blurt it out as soon as the thought occurs to me. “Although maybe that’s a relic of the noble past now, kind of like my truck, and everyone just watches people on webcams. Have you ever done that? I’m talking about the purchasing end. Not the strip down and show off part.”

  His fingertips slide up my sides. There’s laughter in his voice when he says, “You’re running through a field for an awful long time.”

  I probably should have committed to memory a few pages from an erotic romance because I’d love to have that magic, where I’m casually, effortlessly sexy and he goes off like a rocket. Oh well. It’s too late now. He either gets me or he doesn’t.

  “Someone’s chasing me,” I say. “Someone big and male. He’s faster than me, and stronger.”

  “Does he catch you?”

  “Yes.” I can’t bite back my smile. “Of course, I’m not trying too hard to get away.”

  “You don’t want to be rescued?” His fingertips trace the undercurve of my boobs.

  “Not even a little. White knights are pretty boring, although they get bonus points for armor and horses.” I draw a curvy swirl against his shoulder. “When he catches me? He hooks an arm around my waist and there’s this moment where I’m flying and my only connection to the world is where we touch. His dick is enormous and it’s right there, pushing against my butt, sliding up and down.”

  Liam makes a rough sound and his hands cup my breasts.

  I cover his fingers with mine. “Did we discuss audience participation?”

  “I always want to participate with you.” He circles a nipple, pulling gently. “Continue.”

  “And then he tumbles us both to the ground. First he’s on the bottom, then I am, and then we’re rolling around and he’s tickling me. Not hard, just a gentle scrape of his fingers. It feels so good.”

  “Like this?” Liam’s forehead creases as he moves his fingers up my side and then back down again. It tickles, but it also definitely does it for me.

  When I whimper, he does it again. The sun on my back is warm, Liam is warm, even the sand is warm now. His big hands skate up and down my back, following the line of my spine lower until he’s tracing the top of my butt. It’s possible I might spontaneously burst into flame. Instead, I babble some more.

  “I can’t get away, but I don’t want to. He’s bigger and stronger, but he’s making sure I get what I need.”

  The thing about Liam is that he always listens, so of course he nods. “He should.”

  “His nails scratch up my back, over my shoulders. I’ll show you.”

  I draw my hands up my body, nails dancing over my bare skin. There may be moaning.

  “Jesus. Hana.”

  Liam’s breathing sounds tortured. The full-on sexy rasp is tempting to explore closer, but right now I just feel so good that I don’t want to stop. Instead, I draw my nails up my neck and into my wet hair, my eyes drifting closed as my head tips back.

  “Can I—”

  Liam waits until I nod, and then his hands follow the path mine took, pressing small circles over my sides, moving higher until his big hands cradle my head and I relax into his hold. His nails scratch lightly over my scalp.

  “Finish the story,” he says roughly. “Please.”

  I shrug. “We wrestle. And then I feel his fingers tickling up my thighs, scratching lightly. He doesn’t stop when he gets to my panties.”

  Liam groans. “I thought we were naked in a field.”

  “It’s a dream.” I nip his bottom lip. “I’m allowed to have magic panties.”

  I lean a little closer, bracing my hands on his big bare shoulders. The man’s built like a lumberjack and I have plans to appreciate every inch of him. I spread my fingers so I can get started on that and also because I just love touching him. The way my legs are spread and I’m planted on his chest, he has to know how I feel about him. I’m wet despite skinny-dipping in the ocean, and I desperately want to reach for him and make him mine.

  “Sometimes, if I haven’t had sex in a long time or it’s a really good dream, I come when I dream.”

  “Did you come last night?”

  “I always come with you.”

  He blinks.

  “You.” I run my fingers over his shoulders. “I was dreaming about you, Liam. The end.”

  He presses a kiss against my lips. “Do you—”

  “Want to have sex on the beach? Yes, please, right now, and thank you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM

  Hana

  WE POP MY high society cherry a few weeks after we strike our deal. Liam has some gala dinner for a science education foundation and he invites me to accompany him in the spirit of making progress in the “good guy” and social-image-polishing direction. I’m beginning to think I might prefer to focus on my bad-girl lessons because the orgasms are spectacular, but I can’t deny him this. Plus, he makes the valid point that dinner out in nice clothes is really a date, which ought to thoroughly reform his bad-boy self.

  I get in the spirit of things and make my own online donation, although Liam assures me he’s got us covered. I’m sure his contribution would make my eyes water.

  He also goes all out to help me look fancy. A stylist magically appears in the living room with a rack of designer dresses. There are shoes and bags, wraps and underpinnings. All I have to do is point. I sort of feel like I should refuse on principle and go find something at Ross, but the dresses are pretty, I’m weak, and so I let myself be zipped into a sparkly gold floor-length gown that leaves one arm and shoulder bare and demands four-inch heels. A hairdresser transforms my hair into a mane of soft waves and I resist the urge to ask if my new look comes with a tiara.

  Knowing Liam, he either has a spare one somewhere in his McMansion or he has a jeweler on speed dial.

  When I come downstairs, Liam is leaning against the wall, staring out at the city lights. He turns before I can say anything, and I stare shamelessly at him. He looks exactly like the billionaire he is. The laughing, sandy lover from my beach has been replaced by a powerful man wearing a tuxedo that showcases the raw beauty of his body.

  I groan. “I’m going to have to fight them off with a stick.”

  “Them?”

&n
bsp; “The Liam Masterson fan club. I’ve heard it’s really popular.” I faux-waltz toward him, twirling in loopy circles like I’m Cinderella. The ridiculous heels make it hard, but I manage. Barely. “Wait. Will there be dancing?”

  “Yes.” He strides to meet me, catching my hands in his. His gaze focuses on me, hot and intense. “Will that be a problem?”

  “I have basic ballet and sexy club moves.” I shrug. “Will that be enough?”

  “Follow my lead,” he suggests.

  “That should probably be our theme song for when we’re getting grilled tonight. Maybe I should write it on my inner thigh with a Sharpie so I’m reminded every time I pee.” When the corner of his mouth quirks up, I nudge him. “I know you like to put everything in spreadsheets, but this will work way better for me. I don’t want to screw up your big night.”

  Liam has mentioned several times that tonight is a big deal for him and that he was specifically asked/told to bring his wife with him. Given his original pitch to me about us keeping up temporary appearances in the interest of image management and his strong dislike of being told what to do, I can only assume that we’ll have a very important audience tonight and that it will be awkward.

  Liam brushes a careful kiss over my mouth. “They’ll love you.”

  I mock-glare at him. “That’s like your mom saying you’re smart and talented. It’s highly suspicious.”

  Liam actually gives it serious thought for a moment. “What specifically do you think anyone at the event would dislike about you?”

  I don’t particularly want to point out my shortcomings in the social mingling department, but he waits me out and eventually I cave.

  “I haven’t done big, fancy social stuff before. The last party I went to where the guys wore tuxes was my high school prom. I don’t do social chitchat, I blurt stuff out, and if someone asks about our wedding, I may overshare. Plus, they’re all going to be super successful businesspeople, so while I’m proud of the farm and what I’ve accomplished there, I know how it looks to other people.”

  “You run a business and you’re smart. If you ask them about themselves, they’ll adore you. If they don’t, fuck them.” He reaches into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulls out a long blue box. “This is for you.”

  “The dress and the shoes were more than enough, but thank you.” I pop the box open. Thank God I already said something polite because Liam turns out to be a master present giver. There’s a bracelet cuff made of tiny diamond bees and a pair of super sparkly diamond earrings. They’re part me, part him. I love them.

  He fixes the bracelet onto my wrist, but it turns out the earrings are made for pierced ears and I never bothered to do that.

  “I can get my ears pierced?” I offer.

  He frowns. “Only if you want to.”

  * * *

  It takes twenty minutes for our car service to cover the last block to the hotel where the gala is being held. A long line of limousines and town cars wraps around the block. I fight the urge to roll the window down and stick my head out. Liam just laughs when I suggest we get out and walk the last hundred yards.

  When we finally pull up in front of the hotel, Liam gets out first. It’s his job to make sure I don’t flash anyone or step on my hem. He achieves this by reaching into the car and scooping me up off the seat as cameras go off like fireworks. When he sets me down on my feet, he brushes his mouth over my ear.

  “Beautiful.”

  His hand presses against the small of my back, steering me toward the red carpet. He’s coached me on what to expect, but I flinch when the cameras explode. As we step onto the carpet, the photographers yell for us to look left, right, our other right, over the shoulder. I stop when Liam stops, which seems to get me through the worst of it. People call for Mr. Masterson, over here. Mrs. Masterson.

  The energy is high and although it’s not my kind of scene, it’s hard not to get excited as the photographers snap photos of me as if I’m some kind of A-list celebrity. Other couples stand and pose on the red carpet behind us, but the paparazzi are all over Liam. Flashes go off as reporters unleash a volley of questions at him.

  “Did you elope...”

  “Any comment on Leda Swan...”

  “Is it true you bought a controlling interest in Leda’s company...”

  “Have you apologized...”

  “Raunchy pictures leaked...”

  My smile feels more and more forced and the gala’s minder moves purposefully toward us. I turn instinctively toward her, needing to get out of the spotlight. Somehow, I expected people to be nicer at a charity gala.

  “This beautiful woman is my wife.” Liam pulls me into his side. His grip is gentle and protective but I still move stiffly, my heels catching in the fabric of my dress, and I bump into his side with an audible oops. Shutters click, immortalizing my awkwardness.

  He feels tense. There’s a brief pause as the reporters digest his bombshell and then there’s a roar of sound as the reporters spring back into action, barking out follow-up questions.

  Liam holds up a hand. “I have no comment on Leda.”

  One of the reporters launches a new question despite Liam’s embargo. “Do you feel like you have something to apologize for?”

  Liam pauses. For a moment, I think he’ll ignore this question like he has the others. “I don’t apologize.”

  The minder tugs urgently on my arm, motioning for me to move along. We can all tell this interview has headed south. The reporters continue to pepper Liam with questions.

  One of them waves a tablet at us. “Have you seen the photos?”

  There’s a good ten feet between us, but that’s not enough distance to blur all of the details. Naked Liam, for instance, is perfectly clear. As is his very flexible, extremely creative partner. She’s wearing just a pair of thigh-high leather boots with dizzyingly high heels. I blink because I really don’t want to know what they’re doing in that picture. That’s Liam’s past, not his present. I think.

  Because the next pictures that flash across the screen of the tablet are familiar. That’s me and Liam kissing—and more—on the Ferris wheel. I stare at my bare ass and wonder if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

  And then the reporters turn on me. It’s clear they knew who I was before I stepped foot on the red carpet. It’s even clearer that they’ve dug into my past and have drawn their own conclusions.

  “...true that you met your husband at a sex party...”

  “Financially troubled farm that Mr. Masterson bailed out...”

  “Prenup...”

  “Public sex kink...exhibitionist...”

  Liam ignores the reporters, steering us single-mindedly toward the entrance. As soon as we’re inside, I let my smile drop.

  I don’t know what to think. My ears still ring from the roar outside and light spots dance before my eyes. I want to go home. I want to yell at Liam. This isn’t a fairy-tale evening out and he hasn’t been honest with me. Has everyone here seen me riding Liam’s fingers in public?

  I don’t have to do this. “I’m leaving.”

  Liam tugs me over to an alcove, waving off the guests drifting toward him. They look like sharks scenting chum. “Stay.”

  He stands in front of me, blocking me from sight. I want to tell him to move, but I need to catch my breath. I’m pissed, too. “They have pictures of my ass.”

  “Not for long.” Liam whips out his phone, firing off a series of texts. Or maybe he’s inputting missile launch codes. Nothing about his world makes any sense. How can normal people live this way?

  “Why are they bringing up my farm?”

  He rests his forehead against mine, his hands cupping the side of my face.

  “I need you to stay.” He hesitates. “Let’s talk about the farm later.”

  “What did you do?” I’m
so pissed.

  “I have to give the keynote,” he says, which is not the answer to my question. In fact, it’s not an answer at all. “And if you leave now, people will believe that everything that was said out there is true.”

  “Of course they will! You didn’t deny it!”

  I turn, trying to slip under his arm, and he groans. His mouth finds mine in a brief, sweet kiss.

  “Stay for my keynote. Then we can go. My PR firm will handle this. No one will bother you again.”

  He doesn’t remind me that I agreed to do this. That attending tonight’s gala was a promise I made to him. That he never actually said helping him with his image problem would be easy or pleasant. I hate that I’ve been so focused on what I want from our relationship that I haven’t considered what he needs. And right now that’s someone to stand by his side—and airbrush him with respectability.

  “We do your keynote. Then we leave. I’m expecting an explanation, in case that’s not clear.” I may not sound happy—I’m not a freaking saint.

  He nods.

  “Okay.” I brush my mouth over his. “Then let’s do this.”

  People are still circulating as if there’s nothing wrong. There’s a long line at the bar, a string quartet plays something classical, and no one’s screaming at me. Although I guess the night is young.

  I don’t recognize anyone, which is hardly surprising. Farmers’ market circles are very different. I do meet several state politicians, two mayors, most of the city council and a large number of executives. A number of B-list celebrities mingle with the other guests, taking more photos. I explain repeatedly that I’m a small-business owner with a bee farm; other than the guy who owns a restaurant, no one seems to be able to grasp the concept of a business model that doesn’t involve either widgets or bytes and preferably both.

  We’re seated at a table in the front. Liam will be giving the keynote, so more men in tuxedos and women in fancy ball gowns make a point of stopping by to introduce themselves. Although the waiters start bringing out the salad course, not many people seem to eat. I try my salad and it’s excellent.