A Very Dirty Wedding (34 page)
Read A Very Dirty Wedding Online
Authors: Sabrina Paige
I groan as he works his way inside, reaching between my legs to fuck myself with the vibrator as he stretches my ass. When he's fully inside me, up to the hilt, I sigh loudly, the experience of being completely filled absolutely exquisite.
I want to turn up the vibrator. As he begins to fuck my ass slowly, his strokes gentle, I want to come more than anything. The waiting is torture, especially when he's caressing my breasts, then pinching my nipples, and telling me how tight I am and how much he loves fucking me.
He torments me with slow movements until I'm gripping handfuls of the bed sheets in agony, barely able to hold off. "I have to come," I beg.
"Are you close, Princess?" He fucks me with less restraint now, his balls pressing up against my ass cheeks, and the thought of him buried balls deep in me is too much.
"So close," I say.
"Not yet," he tells me, but I know he's close too. "Not until I say you can come."
I turn up the setting on the vibrator anyway, too far gone, and he slaps my ass for that. "Naughty girl," he says, his voice thick. "I'll make you pay for that. First, I'm going to come in this sweet little ass of yours, and then I'm going to take you to the shower, where I'm going to fuck you up against the shower wall, and then I'm going to drag you back out here, bend you over the bed, and come in that tight little pussy of yours."
He fucks me harder, and between his cock and the vibrator, every part of my body is on edge, arousal coursing through me as I hurtle toward orgasm.
"Would you like that, sweetheart?" he asks, thrusting into me. "Would you like me to fill your tight little pussy up with cum tonight? Would you like me to knock you up?"
"I'm pregnant," I blurt out, as I crash over the edge. But it sounds more like "I'm preggggggggggggnant!" as I scream my orgasm so loudly I grab a pillow to muffle my own mouth.
My words push Caulter over the edge, and I feel his cock throbbing as he lets go, coming into my ass.
I sigh heavily, exhausted from the intensity of the orgasm, and it's a few minutes before either of us say anything. The room is completely still, the only sounds our breathing and the blood pumping loudly in my ears.
Caulter sweeps my hair off of my neck, his hands running down my shoulders and over my arms until he reaches my hands, lacing his fingers with mine. "Did you say what I thought you said?"
"I'm pregnant," I repeat, breathless. "Happy anniversary."
"Holy shit," he says, jumping up. There is excitement in his voice, but he doesn't say anything else as he disappears into the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with a warm washcloth. When he comes back, he climbs up beside me on the bed, and kisses me long and hard.
"I didn't exactly mean to blurt it out that way," I say softly.
"You're pregnant again," he says.
"Are you happy about that?" I ask.
"Are you kidding? That's the best anniversary present ever," he says. "Other than Anne's birth, of course. It's absolutely perfect, Kate."
I lay my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
Talk about a merry effing Christmas Eve.
THE END
Continue on for Tool & Cannon, which include additional new bonus scenes!
TOOL
Sabrina Paige
I call him “Tool” because he’s a prick.
Gaige O’Neal is nicknamed “Tool” because of what he’s packing. Rumor is that he’s well equipped.
He’s a cocky, entitled, insufferable jerkwho’s as reckless with women as he is with that stupid motorcycle he races.
It's been four years since I've seen him. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence.
And my best friend, my biggest confidant, my first love.
My stepbrother.
It’s just my luck that the first time I see him in four years, he’s buried beneath three scantily clad blondes.
Now I’m stuck here under the same roof with him while he recovers from a racing injury. An injury that clearly hasn’t affected the use of his tool.
The problem is, as much as I despise him, I just can’t help myself. I want to find out what kind of tool he's working with.
TOOL TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
As always, to my husband who puts up with my antics. And to my daughter, who's inherited his.
To
Sara Bartlett
,
Joanna Blake
,
Cora Brent
,
Jordan Marie
, and
Jess Peterson
for all of your support and for reading my crappy first draft.
Thanks to
Breathless Book Promotions
for putting together a cover reveal and release day party, and to Terra Oenning for spreading word for me about
Tool
's cover reveal!
Many thanks to Sabrina's Sirens and to all the other fans to tell their friends about my books. I am so grateful for all you do!
And, last but certainly not least, for my readers. I hope you love Tool as much as I do. The innuendo is totally intended. Snicker.
CHAPTER ONE
Delaney
At least this day can't get any worse.
Famous last words, I know. Except I can't help but think it, even as I'm limping down the walkway, headed toward the guesthouse and dragging my suitcase behind me.
The suitcase makes a sound that's only slightly less grating than nails on a chalkboard as I drag it over the concrete. It's held together with twine, clothes poking out of the sides every which way, and a giant sticker peeling at the edges that reads, "Notice of Inspection." I'm holding one of the wheels in my hand, because of course as soon as I picked it up at baggage claim, a wheel went rolling off.
The suitcase looks better than I do, actually. You know those romantic comedies where the heroine falls in a fountain or gets caught in a downpour and is supposed to appear bedraggled but instead is breathtakingly gorgeous in spite of her dripping hair and clothes? Yeah, that's pretty much exactly the opposite of what I look like.
I look like I walked off the set of a horror movie. Outside of the airport, I caught my heel in a grate while I was walking and ripped it clean off my brand new designer shoe, crashing onto the sidewalk and skinning my knee. While I was hailing a cab, my umbrella had some kind of seizure, so my hair is plastered to my head; my clothes are soaked; and my black bra is completely visible through my white t-shirt. I know my shirt is transparent, because the cab driver was helpful enough to point it out for me.
I'm hoping I can make it to the guesthouse without any further catastrophe. I didn't even stop at the main house – I want to clean up before seeing anyone I know, and as soon as I glimpsed the cars in the driveway, I knew I had to avoid that place.
I've just flown back to Dallas to start my new job, working in my father's company, Marlowe Oil -- my first professional job out of college. The last thing I need is to show up at the door looking like a hot mess in front of whatever business associates my family is likely entertaining.
Sneaking around to the guesthouse is a much smarter choice in my condition.
Besides, I don't think I even have the mental capacity to make coherent conversation with anyone. All I want is a shower. Actually, make that a bath. I want a bath and a stiff drink.
At least it's not raining anymore. That has to count for something, right?
I push open the door to the guesthouse with my shoulder, trying to wrangle my suitcase through the doorway. I'm making such a commotion that it's only when I turn around, I realize I'm not alone.
In fact,
not alone
is the understatement of the year.
There are probably twenty people staring at me. I scan the room, taking in their faces, trying to process the scene in my brain. It's some kind of photo shoot, models and makeup artists and clothing hung on racks in the corner of the room. Strategically placed lighting illuminates the set, and a photographer is turned toward the door, paused with his camera in hand, staring at me.
I'm standing here, barefoot and looking like a drowned rat, my gaze coming to rest on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room, where three tall, thin, beautiful blondes with perfectly coiffed hair and flawless makeup and expensive lace lingerie pose around
him
. The boy I used to know. The boy I last saw four years ago, when we were eighteen.
He's sure as hell not a boy anymore.
He looks right in my eyes, and I swear he can see through me. Then he gives me that cocky, shit-sure of himself, nothing-ever-surprises-me grin, and I'm not certain whether the heat that rushes through me is anger or lust.
Gaige O'Neal.
Motorcycle racer, womanizer, asshole extraordinaire. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my confidant, my first love.
My stepbrother.
Crap. This day just got a hell of a lot worse.
CHAPTER TWO
Delaney
"Well, now, as I live and breathe." Gaige's voice reverberates through the room. I've spent four years trying to get that sound out of my head. His voice is low and gravely, with a hint of a drawl, the product of spending his formative years at a boarding school in South Carolina -- the boarding school was prestigious and pretentious, but Gaige is anything but.
"Gaige O'Neal." The words leave my mouth in one breath, heavy like an exhale. For a split second, seeing him there is almost enough to make everything else in here fade to black, as if I'm looking at him with tunnel vision. It's the same Gaige I used to know, with that arrogant smile that made me so angry and a body made for sin. Even back when we were teenagers.
Now, though…hell, I don't know that I've ever seen anyone that looks as holy-shit-hot as Gaige does with his shirt off. When I last saw him, he had one tattoo on his shoulder, but now they snake around his forearms and biceps and cover his chest.
His very broad, very defined chest.
Gaige used to be hot, but he's transformed into something else entirely. I've made a concerted effort to forget Gaige O'Neal over the past four years, which is honestly pretty difficult when your stepbrother is a media darling, a sports figure the tabloids love. It involves going to extreme lengths: no looking at photo spreads in the sports magazines, shutting off the television interviews, ignoring the tabloid articles about Gaige and whoever his girl-of-the-moment is, shrugging and changing the subject when friends want to know what Gaige is like.
What Gaige is like…
The memory of my last night alone with him sticks in my head. It never leaves me. I've revisited it God knows how many times over the last few years, replaying it like some kind of movie.
Gaige's lips are so close to mine that if I move even a millimeter, we'll be touching. And there's nothing more that I want on this green earth than to feel Gaige's lips against mine. I want him more than anything…and that is exactly why I can't have him.
"Say it, Delaney."
"We can't."
"We can do whatever we want. Tell me you're mine."
Returning to Dallas is
not
supposed to mean coming back to Gaige. Gaige is the last person I wanted to ever see again. Out of sight, out of mind, right? But now, standing here…it feels like no time at all has passed between us.
"Delaney Marlowe." He stands up and walks over to me.
Limps
over to me, to be more accurate. He has a boot on his foot, one of those things you wear after you've had surgery. I wonder what the hell happened. Knowing Gaige, it'll be because he did something reckless on that motorcycle he races. He never was able to just race that thing, even when he was a teenager – it was always stunts, crazy shit, chasing the next adrenaline rush. And to Gaige, a rush wasn’t a rush unless it was death-defying.
I'm distracted from asking what happened by the fact that, aside from the boot, he's wearing not much else. Boxer briefs made of some kind of material that hugs his ass and his
whole package
, like it's a second skin. I force my eyes upward toward his face. It's hard not to look at…
it.
What he's packing. His Tool. That's what people call it. I used to call
him
the same thing, but for a different reason – because he frequently acted like such a dick.
His Tool is apparently legendary. I never got the chance to see it. The night I was supposed to meet him – the night
it
was supposed to happen between us – never happened. What can I say? Things were complicated between us from the first moment we met.
When Gaige gets to me, he pauses, standing so close I can hear his breath, and reaches out to push a tendril of wet hair away from my forehead.
Oh my God. My hair. My clothes.
My face flushes warm, and I know it must be bright red. For a split second, I'd forgotten I was standing here looking the way I look in the middle of this.
And now Gaige is standing in front of me, looking the way he does – with a perfect body, being photographed next to equally perfect-looking models.
I want to sink into the ground, melt into a puddle of humiliation.
"You're wet," he says. His voice is low and deep and honeyed. The way the words roll off his tongue, long and languid, make them sound more sexual than if he'd told me to take off my panties right now. Electricity courses through my body, down to my fingertips, as the pad of his finger grazes my skin.
I can't tear my eyes away from his. I swear I'd forgotten what his eyes looked like. They're this deep chocolate brown, flecked with gold and framed with lashes so thick they would make any woman envious. His lids are hooded, giving him this perpetually seductive look, like he wants nothing more than to lounge around in bed all day.
He looks deeply into my eyes, and for a second I think we're the only two people in the room. For a moment, this is like a scene in a movie, the kind where the hero scoops up the heroine, bedraggled and soaking wet from the rainstorm, and kisses her in slow motion.
But my life is definitely not something out of a movie. I'm opening my mouth to respond to Gaige, when I'm cut off by the photographer, who's dressed head to toe in black and waving his camera behind Gaige from across the room. "We have shots we need to get, please," he says, motioning impatiently toward the models.
Whatever moment was happening between Gaige and I evaporates, so quickly I might have imagined it. "You should finish your shoot," I say.
Gaige grins. "You look like you'd like a hot bath."
Why does everything that comes out of his mouth sound like an invitation for more?
I put that thought out of my head. Thinking about Gaige – my stepbrother, for goodness' sake – that way is not good. It's not appropriate.
I look down at my wet clothes. "Yes. I need to clean up."
One of the blonde models appears by Gaige's side and places her hand on his bicep, jutting out her hip as she poses beside him. I recognize her from something – an ad, maybe – but I can't place it. She's tall and thin, with perky boobs and the kind of flat stomach I didn't think existed in real life. She wrinkles her nose as she looks at me, her expression unbridled disdain. That expression changes when she turns her focus back to Gaige. "Gaige," she says sweetly, "Is this your girlfriend?"
It's more than just an innocent question. I know that by the way she touches him. She wants him; she's marking her territory.
Gaige's eyes never leave mine, but with his other hand he pats the hand that rests on his arm. "No, Brooke," he says. "This is just my sister, Delaney."
Just my sister.
"Yes," I say, looking at Gaige. "I'm just his stepsister. And I'm just leaving."
