Shameless (Playboys in Love #1), Page 5

  “Yes,” she says on a breathy moan.

  “Good answer.” With that, I line myself up and shove balls deep inside of her.

  I think my vision actually winks out for a couple of seconds. Jane’s so tight and hot. Her sweet cunt is gripping me like her life depends on it, and I’m not entirely sure that mine doesn’t. She rocks her hips, needing me to move, but I need her stone still or I’m going to blow like a kid with his first titty mag.

  That’s when her inner walls squeeze my cock. Fuck it. I withdraw almost completely before thrusting in to the hilt. I groan, but I doubt she hears it over the shout she lets out as she throws her head back. I get a firm grip on her hips, digging my fingers into her soft flesh, and hold her in place as I use my cock like a battering ram. She’s stretched around me—there isn’t a place in her I’m not filling. I can feel it.

  The musky scent of our arousal mixes with the sweat covering our bodies, and the floral scent of her shampoo invades my nose and turns me on that much more. Jane wraps her arms around my neck for support, and I press my forehead against hers. I hold her gaze as I fuck her brains out. It doesn’t matter that I’m the one in the dominant role here. This woman is fucking me like mad just by the way she looks at me; the way she begs me to go faster, deeper, harder.

  I clench my jaw and try to hold out, but the frisson of electricity shoots down my spine and settles in my balls.

  I slip one hand between our bodies. I press my fingers into her lower abdomen, just above her pubic bone, helping the friction from my cock stimulate her g-spot as my thumb flicks over her clit. She moans and tosses her head back as her legs start to tremble around my waist.

  “Look at me,” I rasp, my breath coming quick and harsh. She does, her face flushed and her pupils blown out in pleasure.

  “Oh, God, Chance, I can’t,” she whimpers. “It’s too much.”

  “Yes, you fucking can. Let go with me, Jane. I want you to come on my cock. Let me feel your sweet cunt milking me dry.” She’s close, so fucking close. All she needs is something to tip that scale…

  Maybe another small taste of humiliation. “Now, goddamn it, or I’ll drag you out into the hall for everyone to watch as I slap your pussy until you come, just like the little slut you are.”

  “Oh, fuuuuuuuck!” she screams as her orgasm washes over her, and mine is right on her heels.

  White-hot lightning shoots through my entire body as I empty myself inside her with every thrust. Her pussy is convulsing around me, trying to suck me back in each time I retreat. It doesn’t have to worry, though, because I can’t think of a place I’d rather be than buried inside Jane.

  After what seems like an eternity, and yet not long enough, I pull completely out and set her on the couch. She covers up with a throw blanket, and I make a quick pit stop in her bathroom to dispose of the condom, and I redress as I try to process the last hour.

  I’ve never had such dirty sex with such a clean girl before. And that’s what Jane is—a clean girl. I don’t mean in the hygienic sense, or that she’s naively innocent—her internet porn collection pretty much nixes that label. It’s gonna sound cheesy as hell, but it’s more like…her soul.

  There, I said it. Her soul is clean. Or maybe pure is a better word. Yeah, her soul is pure.

  Jane didn’t just let me fuck her. She gave herself over to me, no questions asked. She didn’t know me from Adam, yet she trusted me not to hurt her despite the entire setup being the kind of sex where the intention is to use her body and use it roughly.

  Goddamn it, she shouldn’t have trusted me. What the hell was she thinking? I could’ve been a sick fuck with a twisted agenda. We didn’t even discuss safe words. I’ve never used them before, but I’ve never before fucked anyone with that kind of power exchange. Sure, I’ve had a ton of rough sex—it’s my preferred brand—but the woman is usually just as rough, giving as much as she’s getting.

  What I did with Jane was different. She laid herself bare and made herself vulnerable to me. For me. And it’s fucking with my mind, because all I can think about is taking her into her bedroom for a marathon of sex followed by a mini-coma. That’s how I know my shit is scrambled. I’ve never spent the night at a client’s place, no matter how many bonus dances we had. When we were done, I always packed up and went home.

  Tonight would be no different. Jane Wendall isn’t special, and I need to make that known before she invites me to stay over and offers to make blueberry pancakes in the morning. Decision made, I stride back into the living room to find an equally clothed Jane, and berate myself for being disappointed I can’t see her naked one more time before I leave.

  Fucking get yourself together, Danvers.

  “Your membership to that site definitely paid off. You fuck like a porn star. I’d even go so far as to say you’ve made my Top Ten list. Congratulations,” I say, a smug smirk firmly in place.

  Jane blinks up at me, and her jaw falls slack. The look of hurt that flickers across her face makes me feel like a Grade A asshole, but I need to stick to my guns. This—like all my other “bonus dances”—is a one-off. It’s better if she feels the same way, and a sure bet of making that happen is to make it so she never wants to see me again.

  “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  She walks over to the door and pulls it open, staring at me expectantly. Mission accomplished. I gather my toolbox and head toward her. On my way out, I notice a royal blue IHOP apron draped over one of the dining chairs. With deduction skills that would make Sherlock envious, I figure she must work at one of the many breakfast restaurant locations. Though I tell it not to, my brain files that info away for another time.

  As I walk past her, she says stiffly, “Thank you for fixing my broken pipe.”

  I step into the hall and turn to face her. “If anything else needs fixing,” I say, making my quick perusal of her body obvious and driving that final nail into my coffin, “you have my number.”

  She huffs, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.” Then she slams the door in my face, which is exactly what I deserve.

  Chapter Eight

  Chance

  “Why the hell do you keep dragging us here, Chance? This shit’s gonna give me a spare tire.”

  I glance up from the menu I’m pretending to scan, and look at one of my best friends and business partners, Austin Massey. “Then stop ordering the pancakes, dumbass. Get an egg white omelet and quit your bitchin’.”

  Austin makes a face like I just suggested he eat plastic. “You can’t come to the International House of Pancakes and not get pancakes. It’s sacrilege, or at the very least, a universal law.”

  Looking for some help in giving our friend shit for worrying about his calorie intake, I turn my attention to the man sitting in the corner of the booth next to Austin. But as usual, Roman Reeves is typing furiously on his phone, probably sending an email or instructions to his assistant about some case or another. The term “off duty” doesn’t exist in his vocab. It’s five in the fucking morning, and Roman has already worked out, juiced his own breakfast, and dressed in a charcoal gray Armani suit. Dude runs his life on a tighter schedule than the president.

  Not for the first time, I muse at how different we’ve all become since our partying days at UW Madison.

  “Roman,” I say, slapping the table in front of him. “You gonna look up from that thing and weigh in on this conversation, or what?”

  He keeps his eyes on his phone and his fingers moving over the keyboard. “You mean the one where Massey is whining about ruining his girlish figure?” It always amazes me how he manages to do ten things at once like that. I do my best work when I focus intently on one task—or one woman—at a time. Then once I’m done, I move on to something else.

  Austin lowers his menu. “Hey, how ’bout you guys bite me.”

  “That’s the one, yeah,” I say, ignoring Austin.

  Finished with whatever he was doing, Roman locks his screen and sets his phone down where h
e can see if notifications come through. “I’d rather discuss the question you’ve evaded from the beginning. Why do you keep telling us to meet you at IHOP? Three times in one weekend and now this morning? What’s the deal, Danvers?”

  “You got a problem with IHOP all of a sudden? We haven’t seen a lot of each other lately. Excuse me for wanting to see my friends and get some food at the same time.”

  The lie tastes bitter, and I take a drink of my ice water to try and wash it down. I have no idea what I’m fucking doing. Correction. I know exactly what I’m doing. I just have no clue why I’m doing it, or why I’m not being straight with the guys. It’s not like they won’t see what’s up as soon as she comes over to the table.

  I’d gotten shit for sleep on Friday after leaving Jane’s place. I kept reliving the way she’d looked and felt and tasted. I don’t know what it is, but something makes her different from the countless women I’ve hooked up with before, and I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. After a sleepless night, I convinced myself that if the sex was that fucking good—and it was—then there’s nothing wrong with wanting a repeat performance.

  But with the spectacular way I left things between us, I’d known there was zero chance she’d give me the time of day if I showed up at her apartment, which had sparked the idea of showing up at her work. I figured she wouldn’t be able to outright dismiss me if I’m a paying customer, and the likelihood of her causing a scene will hopefully be low. She doesn’t strike me as the drama-queen type.

  Before I could think better of it, I started making calls to all the IHOP’s in the area, asking when Jane Wendall’s next shift was. The first two I called responded by saying no one by that name worked there. But the third one said they couldn’t give me that information. Bingo.

  After that, all I had to do was drop a couple hundred dollars taking my buddies to breakfast, dinner, lunch, and now breakfast again. It was only a matter of time before we visited during one of her shifts, and in this case, the fourth time is a charm.

  I flick my gaze over to the waitress station where Jane is entering in an order. Watching her, knowing she has no idea I’m here, is kind of a turn-on. Her long chestnut hair is in a ponytail, and it swings behind her, the ends brushing her shoulder blades, as she chats with another waitress. I want to wrap it around my hand and pull back so her neck is arched for me again. So I can suck on it and bite it and hear her gasps turn into moans, just like the other night.

  Christ, my cock reacts to her as easily as it did to a stiff wind when I was thirteen. If I don’t get myself under control, I’m going to need my menu to hide the pocket rocket straining against the fly of my jeans.

  Jane collects a coffee carafe and makes her way over to us while shoving a handful of straws in the front of her apron. She has yet to look up, navigating the aisles by heart, her strides quick and efficient, and yet my brain sees her naked and exaggerating the swing of her hips like a woman approaches her man in the bedroom. Fuck me. My mind and body have both gone rogue.

  When she reaches us, she sets the carafe on the table, pulls out her order pad, and makes eye contact with Austin and Roman first. She pushes her glasses up higher and smiles. “Good morning, gentlemen. What can I—” Her smile falters, and her eyes widen when they finally land on me. “You,” she whispers. “What are you doing here?”

  Her face flushes, and her gaze darts around like she’s suddenly worried the entire restaurant can tell what we did on Friday. That’s impossible, of course, but it won’t be long before my friends put two and two together and come up with “bonus dance.” Maybe I should have told them the truth, but I’m not even sure what the truth is. Either way, it’s too late now.

  I give her my best wicked grin and say, “Why, Jane, fancy meeting you here. I came in for some breakfast with my friends before we head off to work.”

  Her forehead furrows, putting the most adorable crinkle above her nose as she glances around the table once again, taking in my friends’ various wardrobe choices. Roman’s suit, Austin’s navy blue Dickies with a T-shirt proclaiming “I became a firefighter for the money and fame,” and my worn jeans with holes in the knees and my Danvers & Son Construction T-shirt. We’d make a great joke. So, a handyman, a businessman, and a fireman all walk into an IHOP…

  Jane is definitely confused. “You mean you’re just now getting off of work?”

  Roman arches a dark brow in my direction while Austin turns his pretty-boy charms on Jane, smiling at her like she’s the new toy in the playroom. If he’s not careful, he’ll be picking his teeth up from the faded blue carpet. “She thinks we just got done entertaining a group of ladies,” I explain. “Right, Jane?”

  “Yes. I mean, no…um…”

  Roman grins in her direction. “Not many parties happen on a Sunday night, beautiful. Besides,” he says, his grin turning sharkish, “we’d look a lot less put-together if we’d just come from getting mauled by a group of horny women, don’t you think?”

  That’s Roman for you. He’s the epitome of an upstanding gentleman…until he’s not. His nickname is Ruthless, and it applies in every aspect of his life, whether with work or with women.

  Austin, the smooth operator that he is, jumps in to save her. “You’ll have to forgive my friends. They’ve never known how to act when a lady’s present.” Austin lived the first fifteen years of his life in Texas before moving to Chicago. He lost most of his accent over the years, but likes to use the country boy act around women because that shit works.

  He takes one of her hands and kisses the back of it. It’s everything I have not to kick him in the balls under the table for daring to touch her. Which makes no fucking sense. I’ve shared plenty of women with these guys. It’s hot as fuck, and we all enjoy it. I should be encouraging his usual seduction, seeing how she responds, and gauging our odds of tag-teaming her later.

  So why do I want to rip her hand from Massey’s and growl mine like a goddamn caveman?

  “To alleviate your confusion, darlin’, we all have day jobs.” Austin winks and leans a little closer before whispering, “We do the strippin’ for fun.”

  “Oh,” she says, finally pulling her hand away. She blinks as though waking up from a spell, which if you ask him, is exactly what Austin calls his Southern charm.

  “Um…” Jane shakes her head and poises her pen over the order pad. “What can I get you this morning?”

  She avoids me, giving her attention to the guys, and I can’t decide whether it pisses me off or amuses me. Since the jig is up, and my buddies now know why we’ve been coming here for going on three days, they look at me. Roman says, “You wanted something specific, didn’t you, Chance?”

  “Yeah,” I say, picking up the menu. “But I don’t see it on here.”

  Jane moves closer to look at the plastic pages with me. “Oh, we just got new menus. What is it you want?”

  I turn my head, my mouth inches away from her face. “You.”

  She freezes for a moment then abruptly straightens. The guys are chuckling under their breath. I don’t go quite that far, instead giving her a sly grin as I undress her with my eyes. That blue polo doesn’t do a damn thing to show off her slight figure, but I don’t need it to because I know exactly what her pert tits look like.

  Color flags her cheekbones. She looks around to make sure no one is listening, then she braces her hands on the table and leans in, speaking softly. “Be serious. Do you want something to eat or not?”

  I fold my arms over my forgotten menu and lean over to meet her the rest of the way. I don’t give a shit who hears me, but she’s like a planet to my moon, drawing me to her. I find myself wanting to be in her personal space as much as possible. To inhale her mouth-watering strawberry scent and make her nervous, set her on edge. “I’m being very serious. I’m hungry for you, Jane. So tell me what I have to do to get you on my menu.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jane

  I can’t do this. I can’t be near him without my body b
etraying me. I need to get a grip, get some air, get some fucking perspective. “Excuse me,” I say to the three ridiculously gorgeous men at table nine, and make a beeline for the ladies’ bathroom, bursting through the door as though the hounds of hell are nipping at my heels.

  I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection. My face is flushed from the things Chance said to me. I was so rattled that I didn’t even remember to take my apron off, which violates the health code. Up until now, I’ve never forgotten to remove it before entering the restroom. My reaction pisses me off, which doesn’t help matters. He shouldn’t affect me like this. I mean, yeah, okay, the man is the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even with a faded green T-shirt, holey jeans, and his hair pulled back into a short ponytail at his nape, he still manages to look Hollywood beautiful. And, apparently, his deep voice was now the trigger for my libido because as soon as he spoke, my panties became damp. I don’t think it would matter if he innocently recited the entire menu. Everything he said would sound like a sexual innuendo.

  Sure, he gave me the best sex of my life—better than I ever thought possible—but he’d ruined it by acting like a dick.

  I’m not an idiot. I wasn’t expecting, nor wanting, expressions of adoration or devotion. I wasn’t planning to cling to his leg and beg him to stay. But it wouldn’t have killed him to be a mature adult about it, either.

  Top Ten list? Ha! As if I care.

  It’s not like I obsessed all weekend about where on that list I might be, or what the other girls who made the list were like, or how many girls he’d been with total (a hundred…two hundred…five hundred?) in his man-whorish life. Nope. Absolutely zero obsessing happened since he left my apartment Friday night.

  I’ve also recently taken up the hobby of lying to myself profusely. Ugh.

  “Maybe if I stay in here long enough,” I say to myself in the mirror, “they’ll just go away.”