Chapter Three
Atlas
I’ve been thinking about that kiss all damn night. How soft and full Jen’s lips are, the way her hips felt in my grip, the way her breasts rested against my chest. My cock presses against my zipper just thinking about it, and I know I’m in trouble.
Jesus Christ, I can’t do this to myself!
I need to get a grip. I don’t do this shit.
She’s just a woman. I don’t spend my time pining for someone, jerk off to thoughts of her, wondering how the fuck she’s doing.
It’s hard enough to keep my shit together without that pressure.
The last thing I need is a fucking woman in my head complicating everything.
She is beautiful, though. That part’s hard to ignore.
Even now, as I watch her from the front seat of my truck out on the side deck hanging clothes on the line, it’s hard not to picture what she’d feel like in my arms on a quiet Friday night, or what she’d sound like bent over the rail taking my cock like a good girl.
I scrub my hand down over my face and readjust my jeans before hopping out of the truck.
For all intents and purposes, I’m a paid actor.
This is a job. I’m sure plenty of actors enjoy kissing the actresses they’re in movies with.
Hell, I’m sure plenty of them look forward to it.
That’s natural, and I’m human. It’s normal for a man to want a beautiful woman.
It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.
She’s hanging the last of the clothes on the line, her dark brown hair blowing back in the breeze before I lose sight of her and climb up onto the porch, ringing the doorbell to my own damn house.
The house my father built after my mother sketched it into existence.
The house I grew and learned about life in.
The house I was a teenager in before she was even born.
It’s a mind fuck, but the second she swings open the front door with a sweet smile, I forget about all that.
“I need a pet name for you,” I groan, stepping inside without invitation. “Something cute but not corny.”
“Pet names are all corny.” She closes the door behind me, the scent of blackberries and spice in the air.
“Not true.” I kick off my boots by the door. “Some are cute if they’re done right.”
“You think pet names are cute?” she laughs. “I don’t believe that.”
“I said they can be, when they’re done right.”
“And what does one sound like when it’s done right?” Her tone is sarcastic as I follow her round ass into the kitchen, my eyes watching it bounce.
“I like baby.”
“Get out of here! That’s the most basic of them all!”
“What? No, it’s not. It tells you and everyone else that you’re mine to take care of.”
“Yeah, but,” she shakes her head and leans forward to drop open the oven door and pull the steaming pie from the middle rack, “baby is overused, and it’s way too impersonal. We need something unique.”
“I could call you my sweet, little bandit.”
“What? Why is that personal?”
“Cause you’re stealing all my shit.”
Her eyes roll to the side, and she bites back a grin. “You’re stupid.”
“I’m funny.”
“You’re something,” she says, setting the pie in the east windowsill overlooking the berry patch. “What are these about?” She nods toward the initials carved into the corner of the window frame. “I saw them last night when I was cooling the first pie.”
I laugh under my breath as I glance toward the marks my father and I made years ago. “Surprised you haven’t torn the frame off the wall and burned it yet.”
“That’s my plan tonight. Figured I’d give you the chance to tell a sob story first.”
“In that case,” I grin and shake my head, “that window frame was the first thing I ever built with my dad. He handed me the hammer, told me to go to town, and then let me carve my name into the wood so we’d always remember who’d done it.”
She shakes her head and stalks back into the kitchen with purpose.
“At least your dad paid attention to you. I don’t know what I’m going to do with my ex.
He seems burdened by the weekends with Jackson.
” As she’s talking her foot tangles with the chicken shaped rug in front of the sink and she begins to topple forward.
Long silky hair, all those curves, tumbling over toward me.
On instinct, I reach forward and grab hold of her wherever I can. At least that’s what I tell myself as I hold her breast in my hand.
“Oh my God!” She shakes her head and stands herself back up using the edge of the countertop as leverage. “Really? You grab my tit? You couldn’t have grabbed me anywhere else?”
I shrug and bite back a smile. “That’s where my hand landed. Plus, this is what you wanted. Manhandling.”
“Dear Lord.” She rolls her eyes as her cheeks turn a dark shade of red. “At the wedding, not here. You know that too. Just like that kiss yesterday.”
“This is what you’re paying me for. I’m acting accordingly.”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she busies herself with the coffee as I try to think of anything but the kiss we shared yesterday and what she’d feel like in my arms.
“So what’s our story? How did we meet? I’m thinking we keep things simple and tell the truth. It’s cute and believable.”
“Okay,” she says, her eyes flashing me daggers, “and what do I say when people start Googling you and find out you’ve been in prison for an attempted bank heist?”
“You tell them I don’t take kindly to snoops, and I’ll flash them the pistol on my hip.”
“Wow.” She bites back a grin. “So, we’re intimidating people? That’s fun.”
“I’m offering it free with the manhandling package,” I groan, leaning forward slowly, and I swear I hear her moan back. It’s slight and soft, but I’d bet money I heard it.
A moment later, she whispers, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I’m losing my mind.”
“How so?” I stare toward her, watching as her full, pink lips open and close.
“I’ve only had two men kiss me in my life. My ex-husband and you. And that kiss yesterday was—” She blows out a breath and twists away from me. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don’t know what I’m doing,” she chides, her tone rising as she spins back. “I’m essentially paying you to go to this wedding with me, I’m horny as hell, and even though I know all of this is fake, I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.”
“So, I should do it again.” My cock grows hard against the inside leg of my jeans as I stare toward her.
She nods slightly, her lips dropped open. “What would that prove? No one is watching. We don’t have to pretend.”
I shrug and land my hand on the side of her soft face. “Maybe we just do it because it feels good.”
A slow moment passes as I lean into her lips, gentler than before.
Jesus Christ, this is a mistake. I know it the second I breathe in the sweet scent on her skin. I know it the second my chest tightens, and my cock grows hard. I know it the second my shoulders squeeze and the beast begins to claw.
Suddenly, and without thought, my hands are on her hips, in her hair, on her soft and creamy thighs.
Fuck.
It’s too soon. I shouldn’t be touching her. I shouldn’t sweep my hand across the cotton of her panties. I shouldn’t press my palm onto her sopping little crease. I shouldn’t groan low in her ear and lift her up onto the kitchen counter.
I shouldn’t do any of those things, but I can’t stop myself. She’s too ripe, too sweet, too soft.
I need her.
I need to touch her.
I need to hear the sounds she makes.
“Oh God,” she moans and leans into my touch, further giving me permission, and I let myself go.
I kiss her neck and press my palm against her clit, holding her close against me as she jumps and whines.
“Right there! Oh God!”
“That’s right, little bunny. You want me in that little pussy, don’t you? You want me to touch you and make you feel good.”
“Little bunny?” she whines breathlessly. “I like that.”
I scrape my teeth against her shoulder. “You want to be my little bunny rabbit?”
She hums under her breath as she bends her neck back. “Yeah. I’ll be your little bunny rabbit.”
Jesus Christ, what the fuck is happening?
I scrub my hand against her soaking panties, then slide behind them, sweeping my fingers against her soft, swollen core. I should stop! I need to fucking stop!
Instead, though, I scrape my teeth against her shoulder, breathing her in when I hear a heavy knock on the front door.
“No,” she sighs against my mouth. “I don’t want to stop. Let’s ignore it.”
I don’t have to be convinced. I lift her up into my arms and carry her up the stairs, one creaking step at a time, but whoever is at the door is intent on ruining this thing I’ve started.
We pause at the octagon window that sits just above the landing on the stairway, looking out onto the front porch where a scrawny man with a graying mustache stands, a child next to him.
“Oh my God!” Jen’s eyes widen. “That’s my ex and my son! You have to hide!”
I stare out the window again, studying the man closer. “That’s the guy that wasn’t sleeping with you?” I say it far too sarcastically, letting her know that I think she could do better. A lot better.
Head shaking, she wiggles down out of my arms, which only serves to make my cock harder.
“Maybe we should both hide. I don’t know why he’s here, but I should probably answer the door.
What if something’s wrong?” She glances up toward me in a panic.
“But he’d have called me if something was wrong, right? ”
I laugh. “We should definitely answer the door. It makes the whole ruse look even more believable.”
Her eyes widen as she glances up toward me for answers. “My son is out there. I don’t want him to think I’m—”
“That boy looks about,” I glance out the window again toward the kid in jeans and a video game T-shirt, “six years old. I’d bet he isn’t thinking much past what he’s having for dinner. You’re probably in the clear for one conversation.”