Shameless (Playboys in Love #1), Page 3

  My kryptonite chuckles. “Just thought you might want a sample of what’s to come.”

  There he goes again, using the word “come” all innocently, like he isn’t trying to put thoughts of orgasms in my head. Okay, he probably isn’t doing that in the least. But as he winks at me and ambles toward the bathroom, I have to wonder if maybe that wasn’t his intention after all. Oh, and I was right. His skin? Incredibly supple and touchable.

  I. Am so. Screwed.

  Chapter Four

  Chance

  Jane, Jane, Jane.

  I love her name. From the moment she opened the door, I knew it suited her better than Addison. Funny, but I’ve always thought of “Jane” as a sort of vanilla name. It sounds boring and plain, just like you’d expect the person who answered to it to be. I mean, the term Plain Jane has to come from somewhere, right? Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason.

  But this Jane is the fucking exception to that rule. And yet, I can’t put my finger on why. It’s not like she’s sexy in the vixen sort of way, with smoky makeup and clothing that fits like a second skin. She’s kind of a disaster, actually, and a geeky one at that. But underneath the glasses, messy hair, and stained college hoodie, she exudes a kind of sexual energy that defies the message her outward appearance gives off, and it’s killing me knowing it’s just beneath the surface.

  And that’s the very reason I pushed for the dance. Her mouth—or more accurately, her brain—is saying she doesn’t want me, doesn’t want to explore the heat sparking between us. But those big brown eyes of hers are saying the exact opposite. They were glassy and nearly black, and I know that if I stuck my hand down the front of her yoga pants, I’d find her wet and good to go. Now I have an insatiable need to peel back that layer of inhibition and see what she’s capable of when nothing’s holding her back. The best shot I have at doing that is dancing for her. Stripping is an art of seduction, and I’m damn good at it, so I’m going to use that to my advantage.

  I find the bathroom easily enough and take in the scene. She’s tried fixing it herself but obviously had no luck, since the sink is half-full with murky water. The cabinet doors of the vanity are both open, with a plastic bucket placed beneath the P-trap, and a shiny, new pipe wrench is on the counter. Her laptop is either off or in sleep mode on the lid of the closed toilet, and I’d bet a month’s income she has a “fixing clogged sinks” page pulled up on a how-to website.

  I smile. I like that she’s self-reliant…and that thought has me frowning. Because why the hell should I care if she’s self-reliant or a spoiled princess? I shouldn’t.

  I don’t. I’m not interested in her more than how she’ll feel squeezing my dick as I fuck us both into oblivion. She’s no different than any other woman I hook up with.

  Satisfied with that little reassurance, I kneel down in front of the vanity. It comes as no surprise that she hadn’t been successful. The building is old as hell, and the landlord apparently hasn’t put any money into updating the plumbing. Instead of the much easier to work with PVC, Jane’s sink still has the original steel pipes. The slip nuts are likely rusted to the point of nice-fucking-try, and it’ll take a hell of a lot of torque to get them moving. Something a little thing like Jane wouldn’t have, no matter how valiant her efforts, but hopefully I won’t have that same problem.

  Grabbing the wrench, I settle onto the floor and get into a position to throw my weight behind it. I clamp it on to the pipe and start pushing. Shit, it’s really on there good. The wrench moves a tiny bit, but it’s not because the nut loosens. The tool is turning on the nut itself, losing traction, and stripping the outside of it. I release the pipe and try it from the left side. Pulling it toward me, I try keeping the balance between torque and finesse so I won’t strip the nut.

  Slowly…so slowly…it gives way, loosening a hair more every few seconds. I hold my breath and grit my teeth, and though I’m not a praying kind of guy, I may even toss up a literal Hail Mary in hopes it’ll do some good.

  Finally, the nut comes free, and it’s as if the opposing team in a game of tug-of-war counted to three and let go all at once. I almost land flat on my back but manage to catch myself at the last second. I must’ve jostled her laptop because I hear it whir to life, and a second later the screen lights up on a webpage titled “Lose the Loser and Fix Your Own Sink: a How-To Guide for the Independent Woman.”

  Bull’s-eye. I chuckle and shake my head. I’d been dead-on, and having it confirmed is an entertaining pat on the back. One thing that being a stripper has taught me is how to read women. Put me in a room of two dozen women, and just by watching them for five minutes, I can point out things about each of them that typically only their friends and acquaintances will know—their personalities, their likes and dislikes, and sometimes even their habits. It’s a talent that’s come in handy more times than I can count.

  I grab the top of the laptop to shut it, but the screen switches from helpful guide to a frozen image of a naked man fisting a woman’s hair as he gags her with his cock.

  What. The. Fuck.

  How the hell did that even happen? At first I think I might’ve clicked an ad that opened up the popular site, Porn Hub, but the only thing I touched was the very top with my thumb—

  Oh, no way. Testing my theory that her laptop is the kind with a touchscreen, I poke at the center, and the video comes to life, thankfully with the sound muted.

  Holy shit, I was right. Which means I’d accidentally opened up one of the tabs in Jane’s browser.

  And that means one very important thing: Jane watches porn.

  And not just any kind of porn, I realize as I scroll through her browsing history. She watches the rough-as-fuck, choke-me-with-your-cock, call-me-your-slut kind of porn.

  Someone alert the media that Hell has officially frozen over. Because I think I’m in love.

  Chapter Five

  Jane

  I’m on my second glass of Cabernet when Chance walks—no, struts—into the room, his eyes pinning me to my place in the corner of the couch. As he passes the switch on the wall that controls the overhead lights in both my living and dining areas, he flicks them off. Now the only light is coming from the small table lamp next to me, and I suddenly realize I should’ve made rules or stipulations for this portion of our deal. Like, all lights on, with at least two feet between us, and for the duration of one song, not to exceed three and a half minutes. Then maybe I’d actually have a decent chance at resisting Chance.

  “It’s fixed?” I ask as he stops in front of me. “Just like that?”

  “Yep. Just like that. It was one hell of a clog, but everything’s running free and clear now. You can go check it if you want.”

  I know I should, but I can’t seem to make my limbs move. Besides, I’d heard the water running, so it’s pretty safe to assume he’d flushed the pipe after clearing whatever had been blocking it. But even if he didn’t really fix it, what was I going to do? It’s not like he was a real handyman I’d hired to do the job, and I’d be no worse off than I was before Addie came up with this harebrained scheme.

  I suppose I’d be able to call off the dance portion of the deal if he hadn’t held up his end by fixing my sink, but the wine has loosened me up enough that my inner horndog now rules, and no way in hell am I turning down the opportunity to have this man as my private dancer, if only for one song.

  He’s tied the sleeves of his coveralls into a knot at his lower abdomen, I guess so they won’t fall off, because God forbid he puts them back on and covers up all that yummy goodness. I raise the glass to my lips and then drain the rest of the robust red wine as he comes to a stop in front of me. He holds my gaze, takes the glass from my hands, and sets it on the end table next to the stack of Cosmo magazines.

  “Twenty ways to make him beg for it, huh?”

  I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

  He picks up the top magazine and holds it out for me to see. Sure enough, the lead story of that issue touts untold secrets of
how to bring a man to his knees. “So, tell me, Jane,” he says with a cocky smirk. “How do you make a guy beg for it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I answer, my pulse kicking up a notch. “I don’t actually read them.”

  I snatch it from his grasp and place it back where it belongs, cover side down. Not so that he can’t see the articles advertised, but because the sexy model in her mini-dress with her hair blowing in “the wind” and the do me expression on her flawless face makes me look like a hobo in comparison.

  “Then what’s with the mountain on the table?”

  “I like looking at the fashion pages.”

  A wicked grin slides over his too-handsome face. “You like looking at a lot of things.”

  My stomach quivers in trepidation, like I’m slowly climbing toward that first drop of a roller coaster and it knows it’s about to be left behind as the rest of my body plummets to the earth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing yet.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and thumbs over the screen a few times, then music starts playing through the small but powerful speaker he’d brought. Trey Songz’s “Neighbors Know My Name”—a slow, sexy song about fucking his girl so well she can’t stop screaming his name (I swear, the man is trying to kill me with innuendo)—fills the space of my little apartment. “Keep your eyes on me, Jane. I’m gonna give you a lot more to look at.”

  His hips start to sway from side to side, mesmerizing me like he’s a snake charmer and I’m the idiot snake who can’t tear my gaze away. Large hands skate over the front of his body, from his chest all the way down to where the hem of his white, ribbed tank is bunched at his waist. One thumb hooks under the shirt and slowly lifts it up as the other hooks into the band of his underwear and tugs the front down low.

  Chance pulls the bottom of his shirt over and behind his head, anchoring it at the back of his neck so it looks like one of those gun harnesses you see cops wear. I find it oddly sexy that he doesn’t take it completely off. Don’t ask me why. It’s not like it’s covering anything up or leaving parts of him to the imagination.

  Everything his torso has to offer is now on full display for my viewing pleasure. Things like his eight-pack of abs (ten, if you count the two obliques that slash into that delicious V) and the short, dark blond hair that flows over his pecs to meet in the middle, then continues as a thin trail that bisects the aforementioned glorious abs and picks back up beneath his naval to lead straight to the promised land. Halle-fricking-lujah.

  His body continues to undulate and move in ways much too fluid for someone with as much muscle mass as he has. It’s sexy and erotic, like he’s making love to the air, and for the first time in my life, I know what it’s like to be struck dumb. I couldn’t answer the simplest of questions right now if my life depended on it, so it’s a damn good thing that it doesn’t.

  “Touch me, Jane.”

  His words snap me out of my stupor, and I close my mouth, which I only now realize has been hanging open like a boy seeing his first pair of tits. Could I be more pathetic? Come on, Janey, toughen up! I meet his gaze and attempt to appear bored. I arch a brow and say, “No thanks, I’m good.”

  “Mmmm,” he hums while dragging his bottom lip through his teeth. “I’m betting you’re better than good, Jane.” Grabbing my hips, he drags me out of my corner to the center of the couch then braces his hands on the back of it, on either side of my head. He bends his arms like he’s doing a pushup, bringing his upper body in close, and speaks directly into my ear. “I’m betting you’re actually very, very bad.”

  All the air is pushed from my lungs. I let my head drop to rest on the back of the couch as he nuzzles my neck, bathing my skin with his warm breath. My breasts grow heavy, and my nipples tighten. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I almost sound drunk, but two glasses of wine aren’t enough for that. No, it’s not the fermented grapes making my speech lazy and slow. I’ve got a full-on buzz from too much Stripper Pale Ale.

  He chuckles and pulls back far enough to look me in the eyes as he yanks my ass to the edge of the couch and spreads my legs apart. “Oh, I think you do, Jane. That’s okay, though. You hold on to your facade as long as you can. It’ll make it all the sweeter when I bare the real you.”

  “You’re delusional.” Except that he’s not. He’s actually dead-fucking-on and I don’t know how it’s possible. It’s one thing to be able to read people—and I have no doubt that in his profession he’s gotten quite good at it—but it’s quite another for him to look into my eyes like he can see all my filthy secrets. “I’m not baring anything to you. This is only a dance, remember?”

  “It is,” he says, “until you tell me it isn’t.”

  “Cryptic much?”

  His only response is a smug grin as he places his hands on either side of me, shoots his feet back, and drops on a downbeat in the music. I gasp when he buries his face against my sex, then undulates his body rhythmically with the bass as he slowly works his way back up. He makes sure to drag every part of his body through my legs, just barely grazing me—and yet it’s like he’s pressing me into the cushions as intimate as it feels.

  Once again, he’s back in his power position, hovering above me and grinding his pelvis against mine, mimicking the act of fucking me right here in my living room. The thin material of his coveralls might as well be gauze from the way I can feel what they’re covering, and Sweet Mother of God, the man is hard as a rock.

  I don’t even know how to process that. My limited knowledge about strippers is that they never get even remotely stiff. Something about being sexually desensitized in their work environment—like how gynecologists aren’t sporting raging boners from looking at a dozen vaginas every day. But for whatever reason, Chance’s “sensitivity” is off the charts.

  He holds my gaze with those fuck-me eyes, and it’s getting harder and harder not to tear the rest of his clothes off and do exactly as those deep blue pools are suggesting. Without warning, he hooks his arms under my thighs and stands, lifting me up in one smooth motion so I’m on sitting on his shoulders. Normally a very innocent position to be in—I’ve played many a round of chicken fights in my parents’ pool growing up—except I’m facing the wrong damn way. I let out a surprised squeal and grab on to his head, since it’s buried between my legs and the only thing I have within reach at this height.

  I don’t hear his growl as much as I feel it penetrate my yoga pants and panties and vibrate over my sex. A tiny moan escapes me before I can stop it, and my fingers clench in his long hair. Chance does an about-face and carefully slides me down his body, but as soon as my feet touch the floor, he spins me around and presses a hand between my shoulder blades.

  “That’s it, baby,” he says, pushing me down until my hands are braced on the coffee table. “Bend over and let me get at this ass.”

  My stomach quivers in delicious anticipation despite a tiny voice in my head telling me to put a stop to this madness. I open my mouth to voice a weak protest, but he drives his fingers beneath the loose bun at the back of my head and kneads my scalp. Tingles race down my spine as my eyelids drift closed on a groan. Suddenly his hand closes, grabbing on to a hank of my hair, and pulls. I draw in a swift breath as my neck and back arch, sticking my butt higher into the air.

  I barely have enough time to process the jolt of apprehension that spears through me. I hear the crack a split second before stinging heat registers on my right ass cheek, and I cry out in utter shock.

  Oh my God, he spanked me.

  This is where Public Jane becomes outraged and asks him who the hell he thinks he is, smacking my ass like he owns it. Except she’s being bound and gagged and tossed in a closet by Secret Jane, whose system is flooded with endorphins and whose panties are now soaked from the rough handling. And the traitorous bitch wants more.

  “You liked that,” he says as he starts to dry-hump me doggy style to the beat of the song. If it weren’t for our clothes, his dick wo
uld be sliding in and out of me with the strength of his gyrations. As it is, his hard length is rubbing along my crease, creating fresh waves of wet heat from the friction and pressure. It’s so distracting I almost forget to deny his claim.

  “N-no, I didn’t.” Yes, I did.

  Chance yanks back on my head until my body is flush with his, and he speaks directly against my ear. “You can’t lie to me, Jane. I know your secret.”

  Panic seizes my chest. “What secret?”

  He licks the outer shell of my ear. His breath fans the side of my face, and I break out in goose bumps. Then he whispers, “I saw the porn videos on your laptop.”

  I gasp, indignation bubbling to the surface at the invasion of my privacy. I try to turn around to distance myself from him and maybe even give him a slap for good measure, but he holds me to him with one arm banded over my ribs, and claps his free hand over my mouth. “Shhhhhh,” he says, soothing my ruffled feathers with his voice and the brush of his fingers over a cotton-clad nipple. “Turn your brain off, sweetness. Listen to what your body is telling you it wants.”

  He moves his hands lower as he rolls our bodies side to side with the music like a scene out of Dirty Dancing. My head falls back on his shoulder. I inhale slowly and take in his scent, a combination of soap and hot pavement that reminds me of summertime in the city. I feel fingers graze over my sex, making it throb in time with my quickening pulse.

  Little by little, the tension leaves my body, and I give in to the snake charmer once more.

  “That’s it, baby, feel the music,” he says, encouragingly. “I wanna fuck you, Jane.” A hand comes up to encircle my throat possessively as his other one cups my pussy and squeezes. A whimper escapes my lips, and I’m wracked with a shudder of pure need that takes me by surprise. “I wanna fuck you rough and hard like I know you want. Just like in your videos. I can do that for you, Jane. Would you like that?”

  I imagine him doing the nasty things I’ve fantasized about but could never voice aloud. Things that even now I’m ashamed to admit in my own mind. A tremor of lust rolls through me, and I mewl into his palm as my hips instinctively push back against his hard cock. Chance growls and grinds against my ass, matching my enthusiasm.