Sins, Lies & Naughty Games: A Blackwell-Lyon Security Collection Page 21

  “Oh. I get it.”

  “I never had it with Vivien. Not ever.”

  She nods, then looks up at me. “You had it with me,” she whispers, and the word is like a knife through my heart. Had.

  I drop down on my knees in front of her and take her hands in mine. “Can I get it back?”

  “I don’t want to lose you,” she says. “But I can’t live like that. I told you. And if that means I have to quit modeling, then—”

  “No.”

  “Hear me out. Off The Grid is doing well. I have plenty of work there. I’d be cutting back on my modeling hours anyway.”

  “No,” I repeat, then hold her chin so she has to look at me. “You can’t live waiting for the other shoe to drop. And I can’t live knowing that I took that away from you. Because you’re good at it and you enjoy it.”

  “But if it makes you crazy…” she says, and I burst out laughing.

  “It did, didn’t it?”

  “Did?” Her brows rise.

  “Will I ever like men staring at my girl? Probably not. But it’s some consolation that you’re my girl and not theirs. And it’s even more consolation knowing that it doesn’t matter to you.” I lift a shoulder. “You’re a Mona.”

  “No,” she says sliding off the couch and into my arms. “I’m a Gracie.”

  “But the real question is, are you mine?”

  “Yeah,” she says nodding. “Yeah, I really am.”

  And then, even though there’s more to say, I kiss her. Because right then I know that there will be plenty of time for talking.

  All the time in the world.

  Epilogue

  “Hey, Laura,” I say to the girl on the beanbag as I walk into Off The Grid.

  The teen raises a hand, but doesn’t take her nose out of her book. I chuckle. I’ve been coming here almost daily for over six months now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a paperback in her hand.

  “Frank,” I say, when the tall man looks over from where he’s rewiring a lamp with the help of his husband. “Gracie around?”

  He points vaguely toward the back. “Office. Paperwork. We’ve got a shot at a grant, so she’s got her nose in a legal pad making notes.”

  I find her back there, scowling, although it disappears when she looks up and sees me. “Hey, stranger.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Only the kind I made myself. All these grant forms are online. I don’t allow computers on the premises.” She sighs. “Guess who’s bringing home a ton of files and notes tonight?”

  “Frank?”

  “Ha. I wish.”

  “Home, huh? All that glorious traffic?”

  “You’re cruel.”

  My place sold within a month, and we’ve been living in her Travis Heights house ever since. She wants to rent it, though, and then we can move closer to Off The Grid. Close enough where she can run home if she needs to work on the computer. I’ll still get to commute downtown, but I consider that a small price to pay.

  “I’m not cruel at all. In fact, I think I found us the perfect place.”

  “Really?” She shoves back her chair and bolts to her feet. “Can we go see it?”

  I dangle the keys. “I’m friends with the agent. Let’s go.”

  It’s only a couple of miles away, and we don’t have to get on a highway. It’s a four-bedroom house with two living areas, a huge yard, and a pool. And when we pull into the driveway, Gracie gasps. “I love this place. I’ve always loved this place.”

  “I know. It went on the market last week.”

  “We can really go in?”

  “We can.”

  I lead her in, and she makes the kind of noises I hear during sex, which clues me in to how much she loves it.

  “It’s spectacular,” she says.

  “Wait until you see the bedroom.”

  A set of floating stairs rise from the foyer to this half of a split second story, which consists entirely of the master suite and bath, a small bedroom suite that could be a nursery, and a well-lit reading area.

  The doors to the master are closed, and she opens them and then gasps in wonder.

  I step up behind her, but I already know what I’m going to see. After all, I’m the one that set it up. A king size bed with a bookcase headboard. No books yet, but it’s topped with dozens of faux candles that flicker and glow, filling the room with golden light.

  A bluetooth speaker is playing Billie Holiday, and when Gracie turns around to look at me in wonder, I’m on one knee and holding a ring.

  Her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes are wide.

  “Gracie Harmon,” I say, “I’m madly in love with you. Do me the honor of being my wife, the mother of my children, my best friend forever?”

  She doesn’t say yes right away, but that’s okay. I can see that her throat is clogged from the tears. Then she nods and says yes and tells me she loves me, all while tugging me to my feet, sliding on the ring, and then wrapping her arms around me.

  “If you want the house,” I say through laughter, “we close on Monday. Otherwise—”

  “I want it,” she says eagerly, her voice full of joy. “And do you know what else I want?”

  “Tell me,” I say as she tugs me into the room, then tumbles me onto the bed.

  “You,” she whispers, then straddles me, her fingers dancing over the buttons of my shirt.

  And there, in the house that will become our home, I make love to the woman who is my heart, and will very soon be my wife.

  Sexy Little Sinner

  Chapter One

  I’m so completely screwed.

  The thought rattles around in my head, and I try to shove it away. Smother it. Silence it. Because that really isn’t the kind of thought a guy wants screaming at him while his tongue is in a woman’s mouth. Or when her hot, little body is writhing against him. Or when his cock is harder than he thought possible and all he can think about is sliding his hands up her thighs and under her skirt, then ripping off her panties and letting her ride him until they both see stars.

  But, dammit, the thought looms: Screwed. Totally, completely, one-hundred-percent screwed.

  Because this woman is off-limits to me. Big time. No excuses. Hands-off territory.

  Not that you could tell from a snapshot of the moment, because now I’ve got my hand on her breast, and she’s arching back as I use my thumb and forefinger to tease her nipple while she bites her lower lip and makes that sexy little whimpering sound that used to drive me wild.

  Apparently it still does.

  Did I mention that I’m screwed?

  I break the kiss, knowing we both need to take a few deep breaths, otherwise I’ll end up fucking her right here against the washing machine, the smell of fabric softener mixing with the scent of sex and desire as I claim her fast and hard, just the way I want to. The way I know she wants me to.

  “Connor, please.”

  My name on her lips is a demand, and so help me I give in, claiming her mouth with my own. Anything to sneak in a few more moments of stolen bliss.

  “Oh, hell, yes,” she murmurs as she tightens her fingers in my hair. Then she practically crawls up my body, releasing her grip only long enough to settle her ass on the washer lid so that she can wrap her legs around my waist.

  One of my hands cups the back of her neck, but the other is on the smooth skin of her thigh, and as I briefly open my eyes, I see that her skirt has ridden up high enough to reveal a swatch of pink panties, a dark spot revealing just how wet she is.

  I groan—could the woman torture me any more?—and force myself not to slide my finger up her thigh even though all I can think about is the way she’d feel naked and beneath me, her pussy hot and slick and tight as I thrust inside her.

  I recall the way she bites her lower lip when she’s about to come. The way her body would tighten around me, as if she could pop me like an overripe cherry.

  I remember the way it feels to explode inside her, and then pul
l her close and breathe in the fresh, clean scent of her hair as we both drift off to sleep, her skin warm and soft against mine.

  Oh, holy hell…

  I’m not just screwed. I’m fucked. Completely and totally fucked.

  Because this woman is my best friend’s little sister.

  More than that, she’s the office manager of the business I own with Pierce and my brother. And won’t this make for an awkward Monday morning?

  But the real cherry on my screwed up sundae is that she’s my ex. The woman I broke up with. The girl I said goodbye to for a litany of excellent reasons, not the least of which being a fourteen year age difference that couldn’t be bridged simply by mind-blowing sex.

  We’d admitted there was still an attraction, but we’d agreed it was over. And ever since, we’ve been pretty damn mature about the whole thing.

  And then I’d gone and let two martinis, celebratory champagne, and a generous pour of bourbon on the rocks lead me straight into this utility room, and right into my own personal hell, all the more so because it feels so much like heaven.

  I guess that’s the point of forbidden fruit.

  “Kerrie—” Gently, I push her away, a fresh round of desire rising when I see her kiss-swollen lips and the flush of sensual heat on her cheeks.

  “Just this once,” she whispers. “Then we walk away and never mention it again.” She takes my hand, then slides it under her skirt until my fingertips are rubbing her pussy. “Please, Connor,” she whispers. “For old time’s sake? I’m so damn horny.”

  “We said we wouldn’t—”

  I don’t get the rest of the thought out, because she puts her hand over mine and tugs aside her panties. So now it’s just my fingers on her core, her clit swollen and sensitive beneath my finger. “Don’t think about us. Just think of it as a public service. And I’m your adoring public.”

  “They’ll know,” I say, because I know damn well she’ll cry out when she comes, and our friends are just one room away, gathered in the living room to celebrate my brother Cayden’s engagement.

  But the protest is only for show. Hell, I’m just a guy. A guy who maybe could hold his own against the flood of alcohol that has washed away my better judgment, but who is absolutely no match for this hot little spitfire of a woman. And she damn well knows it.

  My thumb is already busy on her clit, and my fingers are thrusting rhythmically inside her. If she screams, she’s just going to have to stifle the sound herself, because, oh, Christ, I have to taste her. Have to see if she’s as sweet as I remember, though I know she will be. How could she not? After all, she’s goddamned forbidden fruit, and as I start to lower myself to my knees, all I can think is how much I crave one more bite of that apple.

  “We shouldn’t,” I whisper. One last, lonely, futile protest.

  “I know.” Her voice is tight. Desperate. “I know,” she repeats. “We’ll think of it as another ending. The final nail in the coffin. I know you said it’s over, and I get that. But for right now, let’s pretend it’s not.”

  I don’t know if I should embrace those words or run from them. All I know is Kerrie. All I know is this deep, violent need.

  And so as my twin brother and his fiancée play host and hostess to a houseful of their closest friends, I slide my palms along Kerrie’s inner thighs, then ease her legs further apart. Then, for what is absolutely, positively going to be the very last time, I bury my face between the legs of the woman who once upon a time belonged entirely to me.

  Chapter Two

  One month later

  “Leo called,” my brother Cayden says, referring to an Army buddy we’re hoping to entice into signing on as the newest employee at Blackwell-Lyon Security. Cayden and I are the Lyon part of the equation, and our buddy Pierce is the Blackwell part. “He’s running about fifteen minutes late.”

  “Not a problem. I just updated the client list and the calendar. That’ll give me time to run a clean set of copies before the meeting.”

  “Hmm,” he says, as I head toward the file room where we keep the monster of a copy machine that does everything except make espresso and warm your croissant.

  I pause, glancing back at my scowling brother, who looks all the more intense with his pirate-style eyepatch, a souvenir of an injury in Afghanistan. “Problem?” I ask, though I know I shouldn’t. Because that one question will undoubtedly open the can of worms that I’ve been doing my best to avoid for the last four weeks.

  “I didn’t say a thing,” he assures me.

  “True, you didn’t. But you were thinking pretty damn loud.”

  He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I've got a big ass brain, brother. Can I help it if my thoughts can move mountains?”

  I flip him the bird, consider myself lucky for avoiding a conversation I really don’t want to have, and take a step toward the file room.

  “Just wondering why you don’t ask Kerrie to make the copies for the meeting.” His words follow me. “Seems like a better use of your time, what with her being the office manager, and you needing to log last night’s surveillance report.”

  I ignore him—and his suggestion that I’m avoiding Kerrie. I’m not.

  Okay, that’s a lie.

  I am avoiding her, but with good reason. Because after you drink a little too much, then go down on your ex-girlfriend/co-worker/best friend’s sister while hiding in a laundry room during your brother’s engagement party, things tend to get a little uncomfortable. Or so I’m told.

  But this isn’t about that. It’s about logistics. I passed the open door to Kerrie’s office not two minutes ago, and she wasn’t at her desk. Which means it’s just plain easier for me to run off the five copies before returning to my office to write up my reports.

  I’m not avoiding shit. And despite what you might have read in Popular Psychology, just because he’s my twin, Cayden can’t actually read my mind.

  All of which I tell myself as I turn the knob on the file room door, step inside, and register two salient facts. First, the room is filled with the mechanical whirrrr of the machine. And second, Kerrie is the one operating it.

  Her back is to me, and she’s leaning forward to staple some papers, which is giving me the kind of view I really don’t need at the moment. Nothing X-rated. Not even NC-17. But PG is enough to get my blood pumping. The erotic silhouette of her ankles and calves, both accentuated by four-inch heels. The soft skin behind her knees—which I happen to know is one of her most erogenous zones. Her lean, strong thighs courtesy of a daily routine of yoga or biking or swimming. And, of course, the curve of that perfect, heart-shaped ass.

  How many sunrises had I greeted, morning wood nestled against that perfect rear? How many times have I cupped those round cheeks on a dance floor or held on tight as she straddled my cock, riding me all the way to heaven?

  Dammit.

  I’m getting hard just from the memories, and since that is definitely not the direction my thoughts need to be going at the moment, I take a step backward, intending to slip out through the still-open door before she notices me.

  “Connor. Oh. Hey.”

  Too late.

  I freeze, then gesture stupidly at the copy machine. “I needed to make some copies. It can wait.”

  “It’s okay, I’m almost—”

  But I don’t hear the rest of it because I’ve already backed out of the room. I’m five steps down the hall when I feel her hand on my back. I’m a big guy, former Special Forces, and I hit the gym every morning, run at least two miles daily, and treat myself to a forty or fifty mile bicycle ride in the Hill Country most weekends. Even so, it only takes her one hard and fast shove to land me in one of our three empty offices. She follows me inside, slams the door behind her, then stands there glowering.

  “What the hell, Kerrie?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and stays silent. Kerrie is stunning—and I’m not just saying that because she used to be mine. She is a one-hundred percent looker who even went underco
ver for us not that long ago as a model. Now, those huge brown eyes are soaking me up, and damned if it doesn’t feel like I’m melting.

  I move to the desk and lean against it, not saying a word. Maybe we’re having it out and maybe we’re not. But I’m not going to be the one who pushes the launch button.

  There’s an electrical tension in the room that both disturbs and excites me. Excites, because that’s the way it is between the two of us. Always has been. And that, of course, is the disturbing part. Because how the hell are we supposed to get over each other and slide back into being just friends if the air crackles every time we’re in close proximity?

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says, which really isn’t what I expected.

  “Wait. What?”

  “You heard me. I screwed up.” She runs her fingers through her dark blond hair, the color of local honey, then simply sighs. Kerrie has a gorgeous mouth, with full, pouty lips, and I can remember only to well how delicious they taste. Right now, though, her mouth is a thin line, the corners tugging down into a frown.

  I take a step toward her. I want to reach out, to touch her. But with all the electricity zinging around the room, I can’t risk the explosion.

  “It’s okay,” I assure her, wondering if she somehow gave a client wrong information or messed up one of our corporate filings. Considering she works full time, is pursuing an MBA, and barely has time to sleep, I’m amazed she doesn’t drop the ball more often. “Whatever it is, we can fix it.”

  “Can we? Because honestly, if I’d known you’d be like this, I would have escaped through the garage that night at the party. I would never have kissed you, much less—well, you know. No matter how much I wanted it or how amazing it felt.”

  Everything inside me sags with her words. “Kerrie, you know we can’t—”

  “Dammit, I know.” She moves toward me, and now we’re less than an arms-length away from each other. “I know we can’t be together. Believe me, Connor, you’ve made that more than clear. We had just shy of a year, and then we moved on. No strings, no drama. When you told me you wanted to break up, that was the deal we made, right? We swore we’d still be friends.”