Brayden

 

Seven months ago . . .

 

“This one is good.” Molly nudges the tasting glass back toward the bartender. “But I think it would be better if they toned down the hops a little.” She turns to me, her cheeks flushed from the beer samples, her eyes bright from a long but successful afternoon. She’s stunning, and every time she looks at me, I feel myself being tugged toward her, a magnetic pull that might be stronger than my own willpower.

“Agreed,” I say, nodding to my own sample. “There’s a lot of nice citrus, but it gets lost.”

“I like IPAs as much as the next girl, but sometimes it’s like the breweries are trying to outdo each other for the hoppy-est beer available.”

The bartender—my buddy Raine from college—grins at Molly like he’s a smitten schoolboy. She has that effect on guys. “These hipster assholes come in here trying to tell me the shit they brew in their basement is better because it has higher IBUs.”

Molly shrugs. “I mean, it’s possible. I’ve had some delicious homebrews, but homebrew IPAs are tough.”

“Sure,” Raine says, “me too. I’ve also had some that taste like the bottom of an unwashed gym sock.”

I grimace at the description. “I’ve had those too, unfortunately.”

Raine rocks back on his heels and surveys my newest employee, no doubt taking in Molly’s wide smile and blue eyes, and the killer curves under her professional attire. I resist the urge to move closer—to stake a claim I don’t have. Molly is my employee, and our day of training was a success. She has the perfect personality for sales. She’s bright without being too bubbly, and informed without being obnoxious. She’s got the face for it, too. She might punch me in the nuts if I admitted it out loud, but a pretty face is an important part of sales. I learned a long time ago that the purchasing managers for these pubs are far more receptive to a beautiful woman’s sales pitch than mine.

“I wondered if you’d ever get over Sara,” Raine says. “It’s good to see the evidence with my own eyes.”

Molly flashes me a questioning look, but I shake my head at my old friend. I’m not sure why he’s bringing up Sara now. “It’s been ten years.” I grab my next sample—a dark, rich porter—and sniff it before bringing the glass to my lips.

“Looks like things worked out for the best.” His gaze shifts to Molly then back to me. “So how long have you two been together?”

I choke on my beer.

Molly bites back a grin. “Do we look like a couple?”

Raine arches a brow. “Shit. Are you not?”

“No.” I cough the beer from my windpipe. “Not at all.” I could swear I see hurt flash across Molly’s face. Seriously? Surely she knows a guy like me would trip over himself to be with her. “I’m still in Jackson Harbor. Molly lives in Brooklyn.”

Raine folds his arms. “She loves beer and has the face of an angel, and you’re going to let a few hundred miles come between you?”

“Try eight hundred miles,” I mutter, not bothering to pretend I haven’t thought about it.

“I work for him,” Molly says quickly, but I don’t miss the way she directs her gaze at her beer now. The way she’s avoiding my eyes. This whole situation is embarrassing the shit out of her, and I feel like a dick for not making our relationship clear to Raine from the start.

“I see,” he says, though the look he’s giving me says he doesn’t see at all and thinks I should make my move now.

I wish I could. Hell, I’ve been thinking about it all day. She’s . . . tempting. With every laugh that passes her lips, and every flush of her cheeks at my praise, I think about it.

Molly points a thumb over her shoulder. “Does that old jukebox actually work?” she asks Raine.

Nodding, he reaches into a jar behind the counter then drops a fistful of quarters on the bar. “Knock yourself out.”

She takes the coins with a subdued smile then slides off her stool and weaves through the tables to the jukebox on the opposite side of the room. I watch every step.

“I’m sorry,” Raine says softly. “If I made things awkward, I mean . . .”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“She doesn’t look at you like you’re just her boss.”

I arch a brow, waiting for him to explain what he means by that, but he shrugs and moves down the bar to help another patron.

Molly’s staring at the musical offerings, her fingers digging into the back of her neck like she’s trying to work out a knot.

I drain my sample before heading across the room. Since Raine turned the conversation toward awkward, we might as well address the elephant in the room.

I stand beside her as she flips to the Purple Rain album and studies the songs. “Prince?”

“My mom . . .” Swallowing, she shakes her head. “Before Mom and Nelson got together, Mom and I were obsessed with Prince. I’d get home from school, and she’d turn on Purple Rain, and we’d dance in the living room to every song on the album, laughing and playing air guitar.” She blinks back tears. “We didn’t have much back then. Music was my treat. My reward.” She drops quarters into the machine and punches a few buttons. “I Would Die 4 U” starts to play.

“Nice choice.”

She flashes me a smile before lowering her gaze back to the jukebox. “They’re all good choices.”

“We’ve never talked about it,” I say softly.

Judging by the way she tenses, I don’t have to define it. She knows what I’m referring to. That night, eight years ago, when she was just a kid and I found her at that party, blitzed out of her mind, and dragged her out before she could get in more trouble. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“Shouldn’t we clear the air?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’d probably rather box it up and put it in storage with all the other memories best left undisturbed.”

“I can do that. If that’s what you want.”

She brings her gaze up to meet mine. Those blue eyes sear into me, and I wonder what she sees. “I think I want . . .” Her pink lips curve into a sultry smile. “Dinner.”

“I can do that too.”

Molly

 

I was eighteen when I climbed into bed with Brayden Jackson. He was twenty-seven. It wasn’t the first time I’d offered my body to a man as a pathetic sort of gratitude, but it was the first time I was turned down. Now, eight years later, Brayden’s my new boss, and every time I look at him, I think of that night and my relief when he grabbed me by the wrists and stopped my hands from moving down his bare chest. I should have been mortified, but instead I was just grateful that one guy, one time, saw me as more than an easy lay. That on some level he understood I didn’t really want to give what I was offering.

“So, what do you think after today?” Brayden asks. He gives the waitress a polite nod as she clears our plates, then leans back in the booth. He looks like he should be in a magazine spread with those intense eyes, the stubble on his cheeks. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone.

“About the job?” It takes a force of will to take my mind off his sex appeal and onto a professional conversation. In truth, I’m dying to know what he made of that night eight years ago and if he still thinks I’m a foolish, reckless girl who needs to be rescued. “I think it’s fun.”

The day has been full and somehow simultaneously exhausting and exhilarating. We went to bars, liquor stores, even other breweries, and talked about Jackson Brews beer. After giving introductions, Brayden would let me lead the conversation, noting the gaps in the location’s offerings and suggesting Jackson Brews products that could allow them to have a better selection.

“You impressed me.” He settles his arms on the table and leans forward, his eyes bright. “I thought I’d have to step in with details about our less-popular selections or at least answer some questions, but I don’t think you needed me here at all.”

“Well, you gave me enough study materials that I should be able to write a dissertation on Jackson Brews at this point.” I grin. It was fun to show off a little—to prove to him and myself that I deserve this opportunity. I wouldn’t put it past the Jackson family to give a struggling single mom a job, even at a loss to the company. But if pity motivated them to put me on the payroll, I want to do such a good job that they never regret it.

His phone buzzes on the table beside him, and he puts his hand over it. “Do you mind if I check this?”

“Of course not.”

He picks it up and unlocks the screen. I take advantage of the opportunity to study the rugged lines of his face. “Jake’s just checking in,” he says, tapping out a reply.

I feel my smile falter at the mention of his brother. I used to have the biggest crush on Jake. I’ve never slept with a Jackson brother, but Brayden’s not the only one I’ve crawled into bed with.

What a slut. Such typical Molly behavior.

Brayden’s attention’s still on his phone, and he doesn’t seem to notice my mood slip. “And Ethan sent a video of my niece practicing her lines for Charlotte’s Web.” He chuckles, and little wrinkles crease at the corners of his eyes with his smile. “Come here. You have to see this.”

Swallowing, I climb out of my seat to take the spot beside him.

He tilts his screen toward me and turns up the volume so I can hear the little girl recite Fern’s lines with the dramatic flair of a Broadway hopeful. When I look back at Brayden, his expression has softened and his eyes are full of love.

“She’s precious,” I say. Then, because it’s so foreign and wonderful, I say, “Family is everything to you, isn’t it?”

He nods. “Everything.”

I shift my gaze back to the screen as another text comes through from Ethan.

 

Ethan: Hope it’s going well tonight. Do yourself a favor and make your move. You deserve a little fun in

 

I don’t get to read the rest before Brayden curses under his breath and pulls the phone away. “Sorry.”

“Make your move?” I ask. “On me?”

Red creeps up his neck and into his cheeks, and if he weren’t so fucking sexy, I might call it adorable. “Ethan’s just . . . It doesn’t mean anything.”

I lick my lips. “Liar.”

He swallows and studies my face, then his gaze drops to my mouth. “I wish you didn’t work for me so I could be honest.” He turns away and studies the photograph hanging by our table. “I’ve obviously had too much to drink, or I wouldn’t have even said that much.”

My heart pounds harder. Faster. I’ve had a couple of beers with dinner and a few samples throughout the afternoon before that. My skin is warm, my body relaxed. Maybe that’s why I slide closer. Or maybe it’s just because I love the way he was looking at me before he turned away.

I lift my hand to his face, relishing the brush of stubble beneath my fingertips. With a gentle nudge of my hand, I turn his face back to mine. “Be honest. Pretend I don’t work for you for a minute. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

His gaze drops to my mouth and his tongue darts out to touch his bottom lip. The sight sends pleasure bolting through me. “You want to know how much I want you?”

I cup the back of his neck and lean forward, brushing my lips across his. Just once. “I offered myself to you before, Brayden.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “You were a kid.”

“I was eighteen. Totally legal.”

“You were drunk.”

I thread my fingers through his hair and keep my eyes on his. “That never stopped anyone else.”

When he rescued me from the party that night, I’d seen him as the cold and hard eldest Jackson brother. All the Jackson boys were and still are gorgeous, but where his brothers were full of laughter, smiles, and jokes, Brayden was always too serious. Too hard. But that night, after he pulled me out of that party and away from those boys who were plying me with shots of cheap vodka and circling me like turkey vultures, there was tenderness in his eyes. I begged him not to take me home. I hadn’t expected compassion from a man like him. I’ve lived a life where I’ve learned not to expect that tenderness or compassion from anyone, and especially not from men.

I swallow hard, thinking of the text Brayden’s brother sent him. “Do you want me?”

He huffs out a dry laugh and searches my face. “More than you can imagine.”

I lean closer. “Then do something about it.”

His hand is hot, his fingertips searing as they find my thigh beneath the table and inch upward under the hem of my dress. “Are you drunk now, Molly?”

My mouth brushes his ear as I whisper, “I’ve had enough to be brave, but not so much that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

One hand grips my thigh and the other plunges into my hair. He turns my mouth to his and kisses me. His lips are soft, coaxing, and I think I moan when his tongue touches mine. He’s heat and hunger, and his kiss lights a fire in me I haven’t felt in years.

I ignore the voice in my head that chants, Slut, easy, whore, the one that whispers all the cruel words they flung at me in Jackson Harbor. I lock that voice away and press into Brayden, loving the feel of his calloused hand inching up my thigh and aching for more, for everything he’ll give me.

Tonight, I’m going to pretend I’m worthy of a man like him, because tomorrow he’ll fly home, and it won’t matter that he deserves better than me. It won’t matter that I can never be more than a one-night stand.

Brayden

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Molly whispers against my mouth. She’s so damn sweet. I can hardly think straight.

I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, and she shudders. “Where do you want to go?”

“To your room,” she says. I stroke my thumb higher, and her breath hitches. “Is it close?”

“A few blocks.” God, I’ve never done anything like this. I’m not the kind of guy who puts his hand up a woman’s skirt in public, but her skin is so soft and I love the sounds she makes with each brush of my thumb. I’m dying to feel the heat between her legs and taste her moans against my mouth. I’ve never been so undone. I don’t give a shit where we are. “Are you sure?”

She laughs. “So sure.”

“You’re not drunk?” I asked before, but it matters.

She sucks my earlobe between her teeth, and blood rushes to my cock. “I know what I’m doing.”

I throw money on the table, and we scramble out of the booth and out of the restaurant. The streets are wet, and rain pounds down on the sidewalk, so we stop short under the awning.

“I’ll get us a cab,” I say, holding her by my side.

“I won’t melt.”

“Fair warning?” My voice is husky with desire. “If you come back to my room, I plan to make you melt completely.” Part of my brain warns that this is too fast, that I’ll scare her off if I don’t slow down, but for the first time in my life, I ignore that voice of reason and focus on the woman in front of me.

“That sounds like a promise.”

I drag my gaze over her, lingering on her legs and the hem of her dress, remembering the heat of that skin, thinking about how close my fingers were to the apex of her thighs. “Oh, it’s absolutely a promise, Molly.”

She takes my hand and threads her fingers through mine, all smiles and giggles as we race down the street to my hotel.

The whole way to my room, I can’t stop touching her. A hand on her elbow as we cross the street, an arm around her waist as we push into the hotel, a quick kiss on the back of her hand as we wait for the elevator, and then a slower, open-mouthed kiss on her neck as we ride to my suite.

After using my key card to get us into my room, I open the door for her and follow her in. The door has barely clicked closed behind me when she peels off her soaked sweater and unzips her dress, letting it fall from her shoulders and to the floor at her feet.

When she steps forward, she’s in nothing but a black satin bra, matching lace panties, and pink heels I imagine hooked over my shoulders. “Christ, you’re beautiful.” My heart’s racing so fast and my blood roars in my ears. “Every time you’ve come back to Jackson Harbor the last few years, I’ve wanted to tell you that.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I grin and step forward, closing the distance between us and settling a hand on her hip. “You barely gave me a chance. You’re rarely in town, and when you are, you only stick around a day or two.”

Something flashes in her eyes that I don’t understand—a secret—but she blinks and it’s gone. “And to think I’ve spent the last eight years believing you just didn’t like me.”

“Why on earth would you think such a thing?”

“I crawled into your bed that night. You wouldn’t even let me touch you.”

I took her back to my place because she’d begged me not to take her home. I assumed she was afraid she’d be in trouble for drinking, so I agreed to let her stay with me and set her up with a blanket and a pillow on my couch. She was still drunk when she woke me up an hour later, her hands on my chest, her mouth on my neck. “My reaction had nothing to do with what I wanted.”

“Hmm.” Her fingers go to the buttons on my shirt, undoing them one by one. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too noble for your own good?”

I wrap a hand around each wrist and still her hands. “I don’t regret it. You were beautiful, and I was . . . tempted.” I don’t even want to admit how tempted I was. She was so sexy but too damn young. Legal, sure, but it wasn’t about the law. It was about being able to look at myself in the mirror the next morning. But I never forgot that night, or the way she melted into me when I wrapped my arms around her and whispered, “Just sleep, Molly.”

Her gaze flicks up to meet mine then drops down to my throat. Can she see the thrum of my pulse there? “Tempted enough that you’ve thought about it?” I’m still holding her wrists as she rises onto her toes and flicks her tongue at the pulse point in my neck. “Because I have. I went home that day and touched myself in the bath while I imagined your hands on me.”

Lust surges through my blood at that image, and I release her hands. “I thought about it then and after, but . . . it was different in my fantasies.”

“You wanted me sober.”

“For starters.” I dip my head and run my nose down the side of her neck. She hisses at the contact and arches into me as she unbuttons my jeans. “This is so much better.”

She swallows, then steps out of my grasp. “On the bed.” Her blue eyes rake over me, dark with lust. “I need a chance to redeem myself.”

Chuckling, I pull off my shirt and climb onto the bed. I prop myself up on the headboard and put my hands behind my head, watching as she steps out of her shoes and reaches for the clasp on her bra.

The satin straps slip down her shoulders and to the floor. She saunters toward the bed, all feminine grace and sexual confidence. She straddles my hips. “Is this okay?”

“You think there’s a chance in hell I’m going to stop you this time?”

She arches her back and shifts her hips, rubbing herself against the aching length of my shaft. “I hope not.”

I thread a hand through her hair and bring her mouth down to mine, kissing her hard and telling her with my lips and tongue that I’m not going anywhere. This is exactly where I want to be.

She rocks into me, and pleasure bolts down my spine, building too fast. I need more. I need her closer. Need to feel her heat.

I reach between us to rid myself of my jeans, and she’s there too. We become a mess of hands and limbs as we work in tandem to pull them off. By the time we throw them to the floor, she’s on her knees beside me, and we’re both laughing. She straddles me again. “Next time, remind me to make you get naked before you get on the bed.”

“Next time, I’m going to strip you naked.” I dip my head and flick my tongue over her nipple.

“I’m not naked yet,” she says, breathless.

“But I like you like this.” I grip her waist and run my thumbs along the scrap of lace at each hip. “I could make you come like this.”

She gasps, hands in my hair, and I suck the tight peak of her breast into my mouth. This time when she moves against my cock, I can feel her heat, feel how slick she is even through my boxers and her panties.

I pull her closer, and she picks up the pace, and when her nails dig into my shoulders, I know I could come like this too—from nothing but the friction of our bodies’ instinctive dance.

I flip her over on the mattress and kiss my way down her body.

“Brayden.” She reaches for me, but I just look up at her from between her legs and smile.

“This was worth the wait,” I murmur. I lower my face and suck her clit through the lace. She moans and grips fistfuls of the duvet as she arches into my mouth.

She’s so fucking beautiful sprawled out before me like this, but I want to taste her, to feel her and only her under my tongue, so I peel away that last piece of her clothing and toss it to the floor.

“What happened to making me come through those?” she murmurs.

“Next time.” I hook an arm under each leg and draw up her knees, opening her. I lower my mouth to her inner thighs and sweep across that tender skin with my lips, then my tongue, then my teeth. When I finally bring my mouth between her legs, I hover above her and just . . . look. “You’re beautiful everywhere.”

She trembles, and I lower my lips to her clit. Her hips jerk, and she cries my name. Hands on her thighs, I pin her open and taste every inch, dragging my tongue along her before circling her opening. I’m drunk on her. On this night. On the whimpers and moans and pleas as she falls apart under my tongue.

“Please,” she murmurs. “God, Brayden . . .”

I slide two fingers into her then and feel her body clench violently and the release of her orgasm rocking through her.

I stay between her legs and stroke her gently as she floats back down.

“Come here.” She grabs my wrist and guides me up her body.

I settle over her, between her thighs, and frame her face with my hands. She’s flushed, and her hair is a wild mess against the pillow. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m not. I—”

I press my mouth to hers and kiss away her protest. She opens under me, and my blood heats further when she licks her own taste from my lips. When her hips lift to meet mine again and she’s moaning into my mouth, I pull away to shed my boxers and grab the condom from my jeans.

She watches me roll it on, and a surge of masculine pride jolts through me at the combination of satisfaction and anticipation on her face. She keeps her eyes on me as I climb over her, and doesn’t break my gaze as I slowly slide inside.

“You feel . . .” I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to come yet, but I feel my release threatening to surge down my spine. “So good,” I murmur. I move deeper and deeper with each pass, until her body adjusts to me and I thrust in fully.

“Brayden,” she whispers in my ear. “Brayden, how can . . .? How can this feel . . .?”

I nuzzle her neck. “So good. Me too.”

We find our rhythm easily, and I get lost in her. She smells like strawberries and something intoxicating. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and she squeezes around me, orgasm building again.

“Come for me.” I thrust deeper, clinging to the scraps of self-control even as my own release threatens. “I want to feel you come like this.”

The words push her over the edge, and she does, arching her neck and crying out. When her release locks her body tight around me, I follow right behind.

As we come down from our pleasure, I run kisses along her neck, her jaw, her lips.

I take care of the condom, and when I come back to bed, she’s half-asleep. I pull her into my arms, loving the way our bodies fit together.

Next time, I want her in my bed, not in a sterile hotel made for strangers and secret lovers. Next time, I’ll take it slow and show her just how much I’ve thought about this. Next time, and the time after that. “When can I see you again?” I whisper against her ear.

She hums, nestles into me, and falls asleep.