“I LIKE THAT one.”
My computer almost flies off my lap as I jump at the sound of the voice behind me. “Damn it, Branch!”
Falling back against the lounge chair, I press one hand against my chest. My heart is pounding against my rib cage at an alarming rate. At first, it’s because I didn’t hear Branch come onto the patio. Then I see him. And smell him. And hear his sexy chuckle as he takes a seat on the chair beside me and then I know the tempo has nothing to do with being scared and everything to do with being Branched.
The more time I spend with him, the more I see that he’s not just the player I see in the media. I went to bed thinking about how he talked to Callum last night and what Callum must be thinking and the way Branch looked at me the rest of the night.
We had fun afterwards, staying up entirely too late talking and playing gin rummy. Through the laughter and jokes, Branch and I had a weird vibe between us, almost like we were both afraid to get quite too close to the other.
“I like the first one,” he says, touching my computer screen. His forearm extends above me, this close to hitting my breast but not quite. “I mean, if you’re wanting an opinion. You’ve wavered back and forth between the two images for ten minutes now.”
“How long exactly have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” he grins, stretching back again. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you make money doing that?”
I select the image he prefers, the one I was leaning towards anyway, hit save and then close my computer. Before I answer him, I take him in.
He’s stretched out beside me in a pair of purple shorts. His hair is wet like he just got out of the shower, the dark blond strands sticking together and up every which way. There’s a dose of stubble dotting his cheeks and chin that gives him a touch of scoundrel that appeals to every sexual organ in my body and most of the others.
Clenching my thighs together, I watch him watch me. He seems unhurried, like he has nowhere to go and the genuine curiosity laced in his question makes me give in.
“I get paid in different ways,” I admit. “There’s ad space on my blog and I have a newsletter that works the same way. I also write pieces for magazines and a few affiliates.” He still seems interested, so I continue. “I’ve also just started to sell online training courses about decorating, makeup, and blogging. You’d be surprised how many options are out there if you aren’t scared to work.”
“Maybe that’s what I can do when I retire. Do online training courses about actual training.”
“You could. Teach younger athletes how to work out like a champion.”
“That would be one course. I hear the big money is in porn.”
“I think that’s true, but only if you have the goods,” I sigh. “Big goods, big money. Little goods, little money.”
“By goods, do you mean cock?”
Laughing, I nod my head. “Yes. Sorry that wasn’t clear.”
“So I could just quit football now and work in porn? I don’t know what the concussion risk is like, but I’m guessing a lot lower.”
“I would think so. Does everything go back to sex with you?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Babe,” he grins, “if a guy ever tells you they don’t think about sex at least twenty times a day, they’re lying.”
“I just assume every time a guy opens their mouth they’re lying.”
His laugh makes me laugh, and before I know it, I’m completely lost in his grin. And eyes. And the start of a dimple in his right cheek that lends a slight adorableness to his overall charm.
“You were right,” he says finally, rubbing a hand down his thigh.
I try not to follow the movement and stay focused on language. “About what?”
“Every time I look at you or think about you I’m wondering why you had a sex therapy card in your purse.”
“Branch . . .” It’s more of a whine than I care to acknowledge, but a whine nonetheless.
For a split second, I wish Poppy and Finn hadn’t gone into Linton for lunch so I could excuse myself to see what they were doing. There’s no way out of this conversation.
I place my computer on the table next to my drink. “Can’t you just forget you saw that?”
“What on earth would a woman like you be doing at a sex therapy class? What even is that? Is it kinky? Should I sign up? Is it like a giant orgy? If you’re into that—”
“No, I’m not into orgies,” I chuckle, rolling my eyes.
“Such a shame.”
“A lot of thought went into that,” I note. “Does this mean you’ve thinking about me, Branch Best?”
“A hell of a lot more than I should be, Layla James Miller.”
A large lump takes residence in my throat as I try to play off his comeback as the trait of a player and not for face value. That would get me in trouble I know better than to get into.
“While we’re on the topic,” he continues, “is James your middle name or some kind of holdover from a previous marriage?”
“Holdover. I was married when I was eighteen to this world-renowned rock star that visited Chicago. When we divorced, right after he left me with our triplets, I decided to keep his last name as a middle name.”
His jaw drops.
“Of course it’s a middle name,” I laugh. “It was my mom’s maiden name.”
“I was wracking my brain for rock stars with the last name James,” he teases. “Okay. We can move on now.”
“No, no way. Now I want to know why your name is Branch. There must be story behind that.”
He shrugs. “Not really. My great-grandfather was a Baptist minister. When his wife had my grandfather, they named him Branch because he was a ‘branch,’” he says, using air quotes, “that would spread the word of God to the rest of the world.”
“That’s . . . fun,” I offer.
“Sure it is. I’m sure they’re super proud of their great-grandson who has only spread the word ‘God’ mid-orgasm.”
Bursting into laughter, I lean my head back to the perfectly clear sky. “You could always trade in your pads for one of those black outfits with the white collar,” I say, wiping tears away from my eyes. “I can only imagine those sermons.”
“I bet every seat would be taken.”
“Oh, I bet you’re right,” I agree. “I’d fight someone for a seat.”
“As long as I have a face, you have a seat.”
Oh.
My.
God.
His smile straddles the line between mischief and debauchery the way my legs want to be straddled over his face. It’s a wicked, taunting kind of gesture that puddles me.
“What has gotten into you today?” I ask.
“Sometimes I wake up a little spirited.”
“Spirited. Got it,” I say, settling into my chair.
“Sex therapy. Go,” he commands.
“I haven’t gone,” I say, unable to look away from him. “Poppy has a friend that goes because her husband had an affair and she wanted to feel sexy again.”
“So why did she give you the card?”
My cheeks burn, the sweat breaking out along the top of my breasts more from Branch’s scrutiny than the summer sun. “A joke?”
“Why did she give you the card?” he asks again, not buying my excuse.
When I don’t answer, his legs swing towards me and he sits upright. Elbows on knees, strong shoulders angled slightly my way, his brows tug together as he awaits my response.
I know he asked me a question, but I can’t remember what it is. There are too many stimuli to process to think of such trivial things. The way his body wash floats on the warm summer breeze, the way little beads of sweat form against his smooth, tanned skin. The way his teeth are so straight and white and his nose angled and that damn dimple that dips into his cheek as he watches my irises widen when he lays his palm on my bare thigh.
My body clenches at the contact, something I know he notices because his fingers lightly press into my skin a little harder. My lips fall apart as I drag oxygen into my lungs to help clear the fog.
“There’s no way you need a sex therapist. No way in hell.”
“Maybe I do. You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re sexy as fuck,” he says, the last syllable so enunciated that it feels like it bounces off me. “I also know you’re well-spoken and intelligent and you make me laugh every time I’m with you.”
“Which has been like four times in our lives, so it’s not like I’m setting records here.”
He smiles, but I think the fact that he does annoys him.
“You are seriously bothered by this, aren’t you?” I kid. “You aren’t going to let this go.”
Like a petulant child, he fires back immediately. “No, I’m not.”
“Tell me why it bothers you first and then I’ll tell you why I have it.”
“It bothers me,” he says, not missing a beat, “because I can’t imagine a woman like you not having complete confidence in herself. And if it was a man that you were talking to, it also makes me think I went into the wrong profession.”
“Oh, like you don’t have enough women to talk about sex with.”
“I don’t want to talk about sex,” he clarifies. “I want you to tell me all your sexual secrets.”
Despite the heat, a chill rips across my body. I actually shiver. His eyes train on my lips as my tongue brushes against them in an attempt to bring some moisture back to my mouth.
“Tell me something, Sunshine.”
“You think you can call me some cute nickname and have me open up with all my dirty secrets? Does this work with other women?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“I haven’t tried it with other women.”
“Why?”
“Quite frankly, I don’t have to. Now, back to the dirty secrets you were getting ready to tell me.”
Emboldened by the ease of our banter, I lift my legs off the side of the chair and face him. Leaning forward, I whisper, “I wasn’t about to tell you anything.”
His nostrils flair at the proximity of our bodies, his legs capturing mine between them and holding them in place like a clamp. “Would you rather show me?”
“You aren’t a sex therapist.”
“Trust me—there are plenty of testimonials I could gather that would say sex with me is wholly therapeutic.”
Laughing, I try to sit back but his legs lock me in place. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I honestly have no dirty secrets. I was going to see the doctor on the card for some confidence boosting, if you must know. That’s the shameful reason. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not excusing you,” he says. “If you get up and walk away, I’ll feel sad.” He sticks his bottom lip out.
Looking at the unmistakable bump in the crotch of his shorts, I lift a brow. “I think the word you’re after is blue.”
“Well played.” He widens his stance so I can get up if I choose, but he doesn’t get out of my way. Not in the slightest. “If you don’t feel self-assured sexually, then you’ve never had great sex.”
“I’ve had plenty of great sex,” I counter. “I just feel a little . . . unsure about myself. That happens sometimes to regular people that don’t have the entire population throwing themselves at your feet.”
“If you’ve been having great sex, you wouldn’t be unsure about yourself,” he contends. “Great sex makes you feel good about yourself. It gives you way more than an orgasm. It gives you . . . pride. Confidence. It builds you up mentally as much as physically.”
“This is getting deep,” I laugh.
He rests his head against the cushion and looks at me. “You can’t have mind-blowing sex without involving the mind. It seems whoever you’ve been fucking doesn’t know the first thing about that.”
“I haven’t been fucking anyone.”
“Since Callum?”
“Since Callum,” I confirm.
“How long ago was that?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Seems like you’re prying, Mr. Best.”
I AM PRYING. I’m prying so damn hard it hurts.
Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I grab onto the slice of self-control I have left. It’s waning, dangling on a spinning string that gets more difficult to hold on to with every flutter of her long eyelashes.
“What’s wrong with a little getting-to-know-you?” I ask.
“Nothing . . . if you ask the right questions.”
It’s not the answer she gives, but the way she gives it that makes me want to scoop her up and carry her inside and lock ourselves in a bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. She’s sweet as honey and as sinful as the day is long.
Narrowing my eyes, I drag a fingertip across the top of her thigh. “Are you turned on right now?”
“I’m not answering that,” she breathes.
“You don’t have to. I already know the answer.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“It seems,” I say, trailing my finger up her torso, across her pebbled nipple, and up the side of her throat, “that your body is a little more honest than you are.”
“I didn’t say yes or no. I said I wasn’t answering.”
“Okay, you want to do a visual representation. I can do that. It’s like instead of discussing the formation of the play, we’re going to do a walk-through.”
She laughs, but lets me take her hand and pull her to her feet. We stand inches from one another, her head coming up right beneath my chin, as she looks up at me with her bright golden eyes sparkling.
“The question was,” I say, letting my hands go to her hips, “are you turned on right now?”
“I thought you already knew the answer?” She does that eyelash flutter thing again and I feel like I’m going to explode. “My turn.”
“For what?” I say as I lift the edges of her shirt up just enough so my hands can wrap around her waist. Her body is soft, her skin warm, and the way she moves under my touch has me breathing much harder than necessary.
“For me to ask the questions.”
The little vixen wrapped in an angel’s façade takes her hand and touches the side of my face. The back of her hand runs down my jawline, the scraping sound from my unshaven face zipping through the air.
Her eyes don’t leave mine as she traces a line down my throat, over my shoulder, and across my pecs before dropping down the ridges of my abs.
“Are you turned on?” she asks.
“I’ve been turned on since you stepped out of the car yesterday.”
She grins as I run my hands up her sides, feeling the soft, round curve of her body.
“What do you propose we do about this state we’re in?” she asks.
“I think we have a couple of options. One, we can take ten giant steps back and then you go inside and I’ll go down by the lake and we stay apart until your brother gets home.”
“I don’t think that’ll work,” she says. “I’ll just watch you from my window while I touch myself and I—”
My mouth captures hers before she can finish her sentence. Her lips part, her hands go to my hair, not at all fazed by my sudden ferocity. I can’t take it. There’s no way I can handle tiptoeing around this woman that makes me crazy any longer.
I cup her face in both hands, holding her face still so I can kiss the hell out of her. She tastes of tea and summertime, of heat and arousal, and the longer our mouths move against each other, the more I want—of her kisses, of her body, of her.
Fuck. Me.
Stroking her cheeks with the pads of my thumbs, I plant my lips in the center of hers and then pull away.
Holding my breath, unsure of what I’m going to see in her eyes, I relax when she smiles.
“Now that,” she says, a little breathless, “is a little more what I expected you to be like.”
“Is that so?”
“I mean, not one hundred percent, but closer.”
Taking her hand, I pull her to the foot of the chaise lounge. Positioning her so she’s facing me, I lift the hem of her shirt and drag the cotton material off her body. She’s braless, her tear-drop breasts, heavy with the weight of the C-cups, hanging perfectly off her frame.
“I’m about to get you nine inches closer if you don’t tell me no,” I growl.
“Let me think about it,” she says, tapping her pursed lips.
“Can you think about it while we get you out of these shorts?” I hook my thumbs in the elastic waistband and drag them down her toned legs. She shivers as my palms hit the back of her thighs, skimming her smooth skin as I reach her ankles.
Stepping out of the shorts, she looks up at me and grins. “My turn.”
With a sway of her hips, she reaches for me. I don’t have to be told twice. I cut the distance between us with a step and hold my breath as her hands dip below the top of my shorts. Instead of just yanking them down, she runs her hands from the front around to the side, letting the backs of her hands run along my skin.
My blood sings in my veins, my cock throbbing so damn hard I think I might pass out. As she finally drops my shorts, the mesh fabric not needing any direction once it’s over my hips, she steps back and stares at just how much I want her.
“Damn,” she mutters, her eyes widening.
Although her reaction is something I’d love to watch over and over again, my need for physical action is much stronger.
I reach for her and she surprises me by taking my hand and allowing me to pull her naked body against mine. Her tits smash against my chest, her back arching as I place a hand in the curve just above her bubbled ass. The other cradles the back of her head as I move my mouth to the shell of her ear. “You. Are. Gorgeous.”
Crashing my lips to hers again, I draw the hand twisted in her hair down her back and around her side. As my tongue enters her mouth and she moans into mine, my palm cups her breast and savors the weight and the feel of her in my hand.
Her head falls back and I guide her body closer to mine again. My senses are filled with everything Layla and the more I get, the more I want. Need. Crave.
An urge overtakes me, one I haven’t felt in a long damn time. It’s a desire to not just get off, something that usually finds me about now when I’m with a woman, but a wish to enjoy it.
Twisting a beaded nipple in between two fingers, I roll it around and feel her muscles loosen against me. She pants against my mouth, pressing her pussy against my thick, more-than-ready cock. The friction is almost too much to bear.
In a move she’s not expecting—and without breaking our kiss—I sweep her up in my arms and lay her on the chaise lounge a few steps away. Her eyes are open, watching me, teasing me, in a way, as I straddle her in the chair.
Pulling away, we’re both breathless, panting in a desperate attempt to get precious oxygen into our bodies. She grips my shoulders, her dainty hands not close to covering the width of my arms.
“I want you, Best. Now.”
“It’s a good thing I’m ready to give it to you. Now.”
Moving so my body is on one side of the chair, I dip my head and draw in her peaked nipple. She lifts off the chair, her head pressed into the cushion, as I lick and suck the globes of her breasts.
Reaching down between her legs, I glide two fingers between her legs. Her slit is so wet, so hot, I think my cock is going to go off from the imagery alone.
She bends her knees and lets them splay to the sides, giving me more access to her pussy. I take what’s offered.
Moving around to the bottom of the chair, I nestle against the cushions between her legs. Looking at her from this vantage point—eyes wild, hair mussed, lips parted and swollen from my kisses—I grin. Keeping my eyes on hers, I insert one finger, then two, feeling her muscles tighten around me as I work them slowly back and forth.
“Branch,” she moans, reaching for me.
Dipping my head, I use the pad of my tongue to lick a long, thick streak up her pussy. She pulls her legs back farther, burying her hands in my hair, shoving my face farther into her body.
She bucks against my fingers, working herself against what I’m willing to give her at the moment. Her lashes, the ones she bats my way, are lying flat against her rosy cheeks as I swirl my tongue around her swollen bud.
My body aches, every sound she makes pulling my libido another rung higher. I suck her flesh, lap up the juices she’s releasing for me, feeling her flex and push against me.
It’s goddamn heaven.
I press a kiss to her clit before pulling back. Stretching her tight hole open with three fingers, I bury them inside her before removing them altogether, a move that gets me a dirty look. I laugh.
“What’s that look for?” I say, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I shuffle my body so I’m hovered over her, the tip of my cock sitting at the opening of her body. “You look pissed.”
Her hands find my ass and press down, urging me to fill her. “Stop playing, Branch.”
“And you weren’t sure you were turned on.”
“No, I was sure,” she says through gritted teeth. “I wasn’t sure if you were.”
“Oh, right,” I chuckle.
Swirling my hips so my head teases her opening, I press barely—just barely—so the tip begins to part her. She gasps, locking her heels around my waist, her thighs tensing as she waits for me to move.
Eyes locked on hers, I slip against her. She’s so slick, so warm, I groan like a teenage boy ready to fire the entire fucking thing because I have no control.
Her hips tilt, and whether I mean to or not, I slide so easily into her tight channel, and with every inch I go, I want to go another. And another. And another until I’m hitting the back of her pussy and watching her eyes roll to the back of her head. She sucks in a breath at the same time I do, my cock throbbing against the tensing muscles of her vagina.
I still as her eyes fly open and we both realize our error.
“I need to get a condom,” I whisper.
“Ugh,” she whines, her legs dropping to the side. “I mean, yeah, you do, but . . .” She lifts her hips with me still buried balls-deep inside her. “But this feels too good.”
“I have one in the pocket of my shorts,” I say, summoning every bit of adult I can find to do the right thing. The only thing. “It’ll take ten seconds.”
“Which is nine too long.”
“I think you’ll like nine just fine.”
“Asshole,” she laughs. “You seriously have one in your pocket? Were you that sure of yourself?”
“No,” I say, pushing away before I say fuck it. “But a man can hope, can’t he?”
My length glistens, coated with her wetness, a pool of pre-cum dotting the tip. I find my shorts, rip open the condom, and roll it down my shaft in record time.
I hover over her in a half push-up and feel her fingers lightly draw a line across my clavicle. “There are boaters on the lake,” she whispers. “Think they can see us?”
“Maybe.”
“Should we go in?”
Knowing she’s already ready for me, I rest the head of my cock against her and thrust until I’m fully seated inside her body. She moans my name, her nails digging into my shoulder blades.
“You want to stop and go in?” I ask, retracting until I’m almost out before laying it to her again.
“Branch!” she calls, sweat glazing her skin as she gives her entire body to me.
“Was that a stop?”
“No,” she whimpers, skimming her hands to my hips. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
Watching her full tits bounce with every slam of my body against hers, I chuckle. “If you say so.”