Getting Naughty

“It’s nothing like the rings in our family vault!”

“Well, Kyle didn’t know that. And you have to admit it looks expensive. Because it was expensive.”

“And Matt bought it for you—even though he could have borrowed one from my actual family vault if he’d bothered to ask me.”

“But they thought... They never would have expected, um...”

“I get it. Believe me, I get it. I was not—not...”

“Not insane,” she said, because surely that was a compliment, but he blinked again, like it was some strange, startling, unwelcome news being broken to him. “And, anyway, the ring was a last-minute plot embellishment so there wouldn’t have been time to ask you for a ring, even if we’d dared, and...and...and what difference does it make? Matt was on the way to being seriously wealthy, and you know how generous he is and—”

“So why didn’t you keep it, if he could so easily spare the money?”

“Because I don’t do that. I don’t accept unearned gifts from men. Matt knows that. The plan was for him to sell it and donate the money to charity.”

“Charity.”

“Charity. But I guess... Well, it wasn’t important to him, the—the ring...after it served its purpose. So he—he forgot about it.”

“Forgot.”

“Forgot. Until...” She paused to take a deep breath. “Until a week ago, which is where things get tricky.”

“Tricky?”

“Or interesting, depending on your point of view.”

“Interesting.”

“The fact you keep repeating me makes me think you may need to pour yourself some more whiskey.”

“I don’t need any more whiskey.”

“Then pour it and put it in the middle of the table in case I need it.”

He said nothing, just grimly poured the whiskey then pushed the glass dead center.

“So,” she continued, “think about what happened a week ago.”

“Can we not play guessing games?”

“I need to do this gradually.”

“A week ago...” he prompted.

“Rose’s christening” she said. “Matt called to thank me for the gift I’d sent.”

“The silver rattle with the coral teething handle.”

“Oh!” she said, surprised. “You saw it?”

He shrugged, looking grumpily awkward, as though he’d been caught doing something embarrassing. “They showed me all the gifts.”

“Did you like it?”

Another awkward shrug. “It’s very...you. The vintage thing.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

“What? Yes. No. I mean—What? I liked it, okay? I do like it.”

“So you like me?”

“I, er... What?”

“You say the rattle is very me, and you like it, which has to mean you like me. Don’t look so freaked out! It’s not a crime to like me. Lots of people do.”

“Yes, all right, I like you. Now can we move on?”

“Okay, okay!” she said. “Sorry to discompose you.”

“I’m not discomposed.”

Except that he was, she could tell.

“I like you, too,” she said, just to push it.

“Frankie, for the love of—”

“Fine, fine, keep your shirt on...or not. Sorry! Okay, I’ll get on with it. The thing is, the fact the rattle is vintage reminded Matt he still had the ring, which is art deco, of course, and we—we did a deal and...” She stopped there, reaching for words. “Hmm. This is harder than I thought it’d be.”

He multitasked by giving her a what-the-fuck? look while shaking his head and throwing his hands in the air, and she had to fight hard to resist raising her hand to her hot cheek again. Blushing was so obvious—no wonder she never did it! But she had to continue, blush or not, because she could almost see her window of opportunity closing and she knew once it closed it wasn’t going to open again. It was now or never.

“In for a penny, right?” she said, and scraped her chair back from the table as though the extra foot she’d put between them would help her breathe. “The ring... I told you, I didn’t want it.”

He looked pointedly at her finger.

“Yes, I know, I’ve ended up with it anyway,” she said, and removed the ring, put it back in the pouch and tugged the zipper closed. “But what if I were to tell you the only reason I let Matt send it was because he promised me you’d bring it?”

“I’d say he and Romy could have told me over scones and tea anytime this past week instead of making me think there was some dark betrayal going on with all the cloak-and-dagger crap he went through at the airport.”

“You’re really not getting it, are you?” She covered her face with her hands. “Am I not making it obvious or does he just not want to know?” she said into them.

“If I’m the ‘he’ you’re talking about,” Teague said dryly, “I can assure you ‘he’ would love to know what’s going on!”

She took in a deep breath, then removed her hands. “A dark betrayal—that’s exactly what was going on. Nothing to do with him and me, nothing to do with you and Romy. To do with you and me.”

“Yes, with me as your unwitting fiancé, I got that.”

“Not that.” She licked her lips. She’d always prided herself on her straightforwardness but God, this was difficult. “The thing is, I’ve thought about you... I mean, you’re so... It’s just that—” She broke off with an inarticulate exclamation of disgust. “Okay, I’m just going to say it.”

“Well, thank God for that!”

“It wasn’t the ring Matt was sending me. He was sending me...you.”

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

And then he frowned like he really did not get it!

“Teague!” she cried. “Seriously!”

He looked behind him, as though he thought she must be talking to someone else even though she’d just addressed him by his damn name.

“Teague!” Trying again. “I’m talking about you having a fling while you’re here.”

“I don’t have flings.”

“Oh, I know that, Teague! I tried hard enough to get you to have a fling with me the whole time I was in DC! But now... Well, now you’re here, and I never thought you would be, so I’m making one more attempt. And you can say no, but I hope you don’t, because I think I can help you not be miserable, or at least give you a respite from it while—while you’re here. In Sydney. So. That’s all.”

Silence. Stillness.

A rush of heartbeats later, with her words hanging in the air, he shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Well!” She blushed again, brought both hands up to her face. “This is embarrassing.”

“No, I mean—” He made a sound—like a cross between a sigh and a huff. “You said something about meeting your friends, so I thought you must mean I should have fling with one of... But—” Slight head shake. “Do you mean a fling with you? No. You can’t mean that.”

“That’s funny, Teague, because I’m pretty sure what I’m doing right at this moment, sitting here at some godawful hour of the morning when I’m far from at my best, is offering myself to you straight up, since you’ve never been able to take a fucking hint.”

He looked over his shoulder again. God, did he really have no idea how insanely hot he was? He was frowning as he brought his eyes back to her. “But... I don’t... Huh?”

“I see I need to spell it out, so here goes—I want you, Teague Ingram Spencer Hamilton. I want every perfect inch of you, and I have since the moment I saw you. Which would make you the man Kyle was jealous of and therefore the perfect fake fiancé. But I can see we need to take baby steps here, so I propose that I come over there and kiss you. If you like that, we can talk about going further. If you don’t...? Well, I guess we’re no worse off, are we, since it’s just a kiss between consenting adults?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” she asked, cautious now, because that seemed way too easy a capitulation after the agony she’d just been through.

“Why not, right?” he said, and bit at his top lip. “That’s the catchphrase? Why not?”

Why not? Not exactly enthusiastic consent, but her somersaulting heart urged her to go for it anyway, so she was already bracing to get up out of the chair... But, no. No, dammit. Because it was him, she needed it spelled out. “You mean I can kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the whiskey talking?”

He shook his head. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh.”

He nodded then. “I mean no.”

“Er...”

“I mean it’s not the whiskey. I mean yes, I want you to kiss me.”

Done. Frankie got to her feet, no more dancing around, no more fencing. She was going to kiss him until his toes curled and his hair caught on fire. And if it came to nothing, she’d be glad she’d been given the chance to know what it was like to be with a man like him, a man who did nothing without care and thought and respect and decency, even if it only lasted for a kiss.

Slowly, she came around to stand beside him, every move cautious, like she was stalking skittish prey. “So...” she said, gesturing to his lap. “May I?”

He nodded, opening his arms to unfetter the access, and she lowered herself carefully onto his lap. His arms closed then, coming around her. She drew a shaky breath because it felt so good to be held by him. She looked into his eyes and lost herself for a moment in the bright, clear blue of them. A blue so pure she could almost believe he belonged nowhere else, only here, under a cloudless Sydney sky.

How long did they stare at each other? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know she’d laid her palm against his cheek until she felt a twitch beneath it—just a tiny tic.

She lowered her eyes to his mouth and found that its perfection was marred by a small white scar at the outer right edge of his top lip. Scars. Everyone had them, but she, of all people, knew you sometimes had to look close, or deep, or even all the way through a person, to see them. He’d bitten at that mark, when he’d agreed to let her kiss him, and that already told her something: that being not quite perfect bothered him. And because of that, the almost undetectable scar made him more perfect to her, more perfect for her.

The rest of him was immaculate. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, symmetrical features. His hair was expertly cut, thick and neat, dark blond streaked with wheat. His eyebrows and lashes were a burnished deep gold. He was delicious summer to her—the beach colors of him, the heady promise of warmth and sun-touched skin and luminous light. So dazzlingly handsome, she was slow to become aware of other things about his body that had nothing to do with bright days, but everything of urgent nights. The leashed power in his arms, the rock-hard strength of his tensed thighs beneath her bottom, the implacable erection against her hip...

She’d never been more conscious of her near-nakedness—which was saying something since she danced in her underwear for an audience four nights a week—and the thought of him touching her skin made her more excited than she could ever remember being. She had to do this right. Had to. She didn’t care what it was that had wedged open a chink in his armor—rebound, jealousy, pique, a need to prove something or to be someone else—but she knew this moment was vital. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” he breathed out, and she slowly, slowly brought her face close and rested her mouth on his. She closed her eyes, waiting through the first thrill, savoring the moment—not just the feel of his firm lips but the way his arms tightened around her. She tried to catalog all the sensations swirling inside her, wanting the memory to be embedded deep. The air still with the heavy warmth that foretold a slide from pleasantness to heat within the next few hours. The faint green scent of her plant border mingling with the tang of salt in the air and his understated vetiver aftershave—earthy, grassy, smoky. The occasional squawk of a seagull and faint whooshing of waves hitting the sand at nearby Bondi Beach. His heart, beating fast like hers. His cock, straining in his jeans, the presence of it getting her from damp to wet with astonishing ease.

Oh, Teague, she said in her head, because she needed to hear his name somewhere in this moment and she dared not say it aloud in case he came to his senses, and his lips parted as though accepting it from her.

She tasted whiskey as he licked at her lips, and the world swung like a flickering lantern in a storm. Men liked her mouth—the shape, the pout—but from Teague she wanted more. Teague she needed to actively lust for it, so although she wanted to take her own pleasure, she forced herself to stay pliant for him, letting him take and test and do what he wanted.

His arms were tightening, then loosening, then tightening as he shifted beneath her, like he was searching for control. She knew what he was going through—but she also knew the cure was to be found in going further than a kiss. His hands went to her hair, gripping tight to hold her still as he moved from licking to sucking at her mouth, even as he continued to move restlessly beneath her. She wished she could take him inside her right that second, because she could feel how good it would be.

And then suddenly, she was straddling him, but she had no idea how he’d repositioned her without disconnecting his mouth from hers. Magic again. A magic that spoke of experience as unexpected as the size of his cock, which was obvious now her legs were on either side of him. She could feel herself swelling for him, her clitoris pulsing so insistently she wanted to put her fingers there to relieve the pressure. She loved the restraint that kept him from rushing onward, craved it, even...and yet the challenge was there: to make him lose it. But hadn’t that always been the lure of Teague?

Slowly, she opened her mouth—an invitation to enter. He neither hesitated nor plunged, simply fitted his mouth to hers and let himself take what she offered. Thrilling, to both control the action and be with someone who had such control over himself. Even as one of his hands left her hair to slide the robe off one of her shoulders, he moved slowly and deliberately, kissing more deeply. She felt her breast come free of the silk, and then his hand was cupping her, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her hard nipple. God, how did he know the exact level of pressure to make the pleasure so wickedly intense?

Lick me there, she begged, but only in her head because this was no time for spoken words, only for what he would do unasked. Please, Teague, please.

Again, he seemed to hear that silent plea, because his mouth left hers and he trailed his lips, his tongue, over her chin, down her neck, across to her breast, all the way to the tip, where he licked...and kept licking.

She looked down, wanting to see his hand holding her breast, his head where she’d imagined it so many times, his tongue rasping over her. A whimper escaped, then another. She couldn’t seem to stop her hips from moving back and forth, urging him on. Not that she wanted to divert him from what he was doing—she wanted whatever was happening to unravel at whatever pace he set. She’d been waiting for this man for so, so long, and he was so good at this, at making her wild and keeping her leashed.

She felt a tug at her robe again, the other shoulder, and then her robe slid down in a silken fall around her waist, held in place by a ribbon tie she wished would spontaneously break so he could see all of her.

But he was wholly preoccupied with touch and taste as he cradled her breasts in his hands, alternating his licking tongue with one tapping fingertip over her nipples. So methodical—the soft tap, the steady lap. Better than she’d dreamed. Because of what he was doing or because it was him doing it? She didn’t know. And she didn’t care, as long as he kept going.

She pulled her arms free of the robe, raising her hands to his head, his hair, not to pull him closer but to just...touch. She imagined removing his clothes with the same patience he was lavishing on her breasts. Unbuttoning his shirt, sliding down the zipper of his jeans, stringing out the reveal. The thought of seeing him naked, of touching his skin, of tasting him, made her want to beg him to let her at him. His name trembled on her lips, but just as she would have said it, he changed the pressure of his tongue and her breath caught hard.

Oh, God! Dear God! Everything inside her was going haywire, crackling and surging. Her breathing was suddenly chaotic. Shallow pants and gasps. She was trembling, her hands tightening in his hair, and—Oh! Oh, oh, oh! She wanted to catch it, whatever it was that was spiraling inside her. But she couldn’t. It was fast, like quicksilver, elusive, but building, expanding. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. But it was, the spiral expanding to a whirlwind, faster, faster, stronger, God, God, God.

“Ahhhh!” The sound burst out of her as the vibration of her orgasm rocked her from her nipples all the way down to the core of her jammed over his cock. “Teague!” she cried, and it was somehow shocking to hear her voice, his name vibrating in the air, and realize that everything that had happened since she’d sat on his lap had happened in silence. Shocking...and so sexy.

His hands tightened on her breasts—the only sign that he’d heard that impassioned plea of hers—but the pressure of his tongue remained constant, over, over, over, feasting on her as she rocked on his lap and keened out his name again, and at last she slumped, her limbs loose, her head flung back, her hands slipping from his hair.

Did he realize what he’d just done to her? It had never, ever happened like this before. She wouldn’t have believed it was possible to orgasm from a man doing nothing more than using his fingers and tongue on her nipples while she sat on his lap. And now she wanted more, because if he could do that to her so effortlessly, what would happen when he brought that exquisite patience into play between her legs? When he eased into her, when he took her? Oh, God, how she wanted him to take her.

She let out a little groan and pushed herself hard against his cock—take a hint, Teague. And he took the hint, all right—he stopped dead.

Hold, hold, hold, as his breaths huffed out of his nostrils, and then his hands released her to grip the tabletop on either side of her.

The next second he was turning his head, averting then closing his eyes, closing her out, closing himself in.

Oh, no. No!

A darting look down displayed Teague’s impressive erection—surely this wasn’t over?

But try as she did to convince herself he wasn’t rejecting her, she knew that he was. And the fact that it was a conscious decision, an intellectual decision—because it sure as hell wasn’t a physical one—cut deep. He might want her—he clearly did want her—but he didn’t want to want her.

And that just wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s runner-up gift certificate, the consolation prize you accepted half-heartedly when you didn’t win—she was the first-place trophy, goddammit, or nothing!

She dragged her robe up, thrust her arms through the sleeves. “Safe to look now,” she said, aiming for amusement, not quite hitting it.

He brought his eyes back to her, and she cocked her head at one of those lean, strong arms of his that were still caging her in.

He dropped his arms—release—and she eased herself off his lap and stood, tightening the sash of her robe. She took a step back, readying a condescending do-you-really-think-I-care? eye roll for the gentlemanly apology she felt sure was about to come. Would it be for what he’d done to her? Or for not wanting her after all?

He opened his mouth—but before he could enlighten her, the cry of a baby drew his startled attention.

Frankie knew the source of the cry: there was a new baby in apartment 3B. She also knew, as Teague’s eyes fixated on the back of the apartment building, that it wasn’t the baby per se that was making the blood drain out of Teague’s face. The problem was all those windows—five stories of them—looking down on her courtyard. Putting on a sex show probably ranked somewhere after two trillion on Teague Hamilton’s bucket list—right after getting a lap dance at a gentleman’s club.

She felt the dumbass blush start up and did her best to battle it back. Fact was, she hadn’t intended a peep show for the neighbors, but Teague would probably think it was all in a day’s work for her. He probably also thought it was normal for her to go from a kiss to an orgasm in...what? Three minutes flat? Hell, he probably thought she had an orgasm every time she gave a guy a lap dance.

“I guess I’d better go,” he said, standing as he brought his eyes back to her.

She got the eye roll in after all. “Guess you’d better.”

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t say it,” she said, cutting him off. “I already know.”

“That’s not... It’s just... I mean, it’s not you, it’s m—”

“Jesus,” she said, cutting him off again. “Definitely don’t say that!” She produced a laugh from some hidden well of pride. “I’m not the kind of girl to resent a quick orgasm on a Sunday morning, so let’s just leave it at that. I’m fine, you’re fine, I’m pretty sure the baby wasn’t watching, and if anyone else in those apartments saw us, at least they don’t know who you are, and since I won’t breathe a word to anyone you know, your reputation will remain stain-free.”

She stepped back from him. “So, moving on. I’ll go throw on a dress while you call yourself a taxi. If you like, you can call Joe, my regular driver—his number’s on the fridge. He works the godforsaken hours between two and nine in the morning, so if you’re lucky you’ll scrape in as one of his last jobs. And he knows to come all the way up the driveway, almost to the door, so no need to do the walk of shame down to the street with who-knows-who watching.” She stretched her mouth into a no-hard-feelings smile. “By the time Joe’s here, I’ll be ready to say goodbye like any old friend and wish you happy holidays or whatever you Yanks call the season to be jolly.”

She swiped her almost-full mug off the table, and as she walked toward the house, tried not to care that it was still warm to the touch.

“Frankie!” he said, just as she stepped inside.

She stopped but didn’t turn around.

“I don’t want...to be miserable,” he said. “Just—just so you know.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be, but you are, aren’t you? I’m sorry I’m not the one to help you with that after all.”

And then she forced herself to walk unhurriedly to her bedroom, as though she was perfectly, absolutely fine, thank you, because she wasn’t miserable, even if she’d just thrown herself at a guy who did not want her for the three-thousandth time!

She closed her bedroom door supersoftly, then leaned against it and slapped a hand over her mouth to trap the moan that was fighting to get out.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Failure. Utter, abject failure.

Well, what had she expected? A half-naked lap dancer who had the indecency to come faster than a speeding bullet wasn’t exactly the woman Prince Charming would set his sights on. And all before the clock ticked over to 9:00 a.m.—giving new meaning to the question “will he still respect me in the morning?”

Well, fuck that. She respected herself.

If Teague wanted to be hung up on a woman with whom he’d never had sex and never would, he was welcome to go on being miserable for the rest of his fucking life. Ha! As if Romy was being all princessy and virginal, anyway, married to Matt, of all men. Maybe Teague needed to think about that before he sloughed off an offer of hot, dirty sex with a woman who actually wanted him!

Well, not her problem. She had plenty of clients at King’s Castle who didn’t judge her for a damn thing! They’d cry with joy if she let them touch her the way she’d let Teague Hamilton touch her! She had one regular who was a billionaire, just like Teague, and he’d begged her a hundred times just for a kiss.

Okay, truthfully, Banjo Snow was a billionaire but he was not “just like Teague.” Banjo was...sleazy. Married, with a mistress on the side, as well as propositioning Frankie every chance he got.