His Secret Love by Ava Ryan
12
Skye
If you’ve ever wonderedwhat it might be like to be trapped in a refrigerator box with a charm of hummingbirds flitting back and forth, then you have some idea of what’s going on inside my brain late that evening when I emerge from the relative safety of my hotel room and loiter in the hallway outside Jake’s suite. Having worked up the courage to come this far, I have none left to knock on his door. A shameful part of me hopes that security in this snooty luxury hotel will intercept and arrest me before I make any irrevocable mistakes, but luck is not running in my favor tonight.
It’s just me and my churning thoughts. And the two of us are heartily sick of each other.
After the quick flight, a driver whisked us to the hotel, where the bellman whisked us up to our rooms. I said my formal good night to the Quinn family, doing my best to ignore the kids’ noisy pleas for me to stay for bath time and a movie and the pointed intensity of Jake’s smoldering gaze. I retreated to my own room and unpacked. Showered and threw on the spa robe waiting for me in the closet because, hey, that’s what it’s there for, right? I sat on my bed. Tried to watch TV. Scrolled through my email. Debated ordering room service. Seriously considered draining my little wet bar dry.
And when I ran out of other things to do, I finally did the one thing I pretended not to know I’d do: I walked to Jake’s room.
Now here I am. Sort of.
It’s one thing to think that maybe there’s something real between us when he’s holding my hand and hypnotizing me with those eyes of his. Something else again when I’m by myself and all my doubts and anxieties have the floor.
But the thing is…
The thing is, I’m not going to let my fears make my decisions for me. I’m just not. I’ve decided. Jake and I want each other. We’ll enjoy our time together and be discreet about it. Marlene will never know. And when the end of the year comes, Jake and I will both resume our regularly scheduled lives, and I will treasure the memories of my time with him and his adorable kids.
The thing I will not do—the thing I must never do—is allow myself to think that Jake sees anything special in me or that he’ll ever want anything more. He won’t. We both know that. A newly divorced guy with two young children isn’t looking to share his toothpaste holder with anyone new, much less start up a relationship of any significance.
It is what it is. I’ve made my peace with it. What other choice do I have? Forgetting my feelings for Jake is clearly not an option. If it was, it would have worked by now. That being the case, my plan is to remember these few simple parameters and indulge myself. Just this once.
And if all this sounds like a pipe dream destined to crash and burn and leave my foolish heart broken and battered when the end of the year rolls around, I’m not going to think about that now.
There’s no room in my head tonight to think about anything but Jake.
Right on cue, his door swings open before I can knock. And there he is, sporting summery striped pajama bottoms, wet hair and nothing else that I can see.
I’m unprepared.
For one thing, he’s all stillness and latent power, but that’s only temporary, and I know it. A sleeping leopard is still a leopard, and no one ever forgets that.
For another, this is my first time getting an unimpeded view of that torso, and what a torso it is. Arms and shoulders, too. He’s got the kind of honeyed skin and rippling muscles that make me think of ads for men’s cologne that I could never afford even if I wanted to. A golden dusting of corn-silk hair tapers as it heads south, drawing my attention to the unmistakable tent at the top of his thighs.
Most of all, I’m completely unprepared for the way he levels all that concentrated attention on my face. He seems clear-eyed and resolute. Absolutely unyielding. As much of a force to be reckoned with in my life as gravity. And I have the wild thought that I can continue to try to block this thing between the two of us just like I can pretend that gravity won’t send me careening to my death if I jump off the ledge on my overpriced hotel room’s balcony.
I’m free to try if I want. If I must.
As long as I understand that I’ll never succeed.
“Come inside,” he says, his voice quiet and husky. “That’s enough thinking out here.”
I almost smile at that. Jake Quinn is a sexy but mild-mannered doctor and dad by day and a raging alpha male by night. One of the many intriguing things about him.
“I know,” I say. “I’m done thinking.”
Something gleams brighter in his eyes as he extends his hand and steps back to let me inside his bedroom, where the only light comes from the nightstand lamp. Riveted by that something, I take his hand and let him pull me closer as he shuts and locks the door behind me.
Then he leans in, skimming his nose along my neck, and takes his time about inhaling my scent, a maneuver that makes my breath catch and my nipples tighten.
“You know what’s been keeping me up nights?” he murmurs, his hands going straight to the belt of my robe, which he undoes with unhurried efficiency.
“My dazzling smile?”
He straightens enough for me to catch a glimpse of his fleeting smile. A pirate’s smile.
“That.” He uses both hands to edge the halves of my robe apart, exposing me to the night air and his heavy-lidded gaze as it glides over my bare skin. “And the fact that I’ve never seen these perfect pink nipples. And everything else you keep hidden under your clothes all day.”
“That’s on you,” I say, savoring the feel of his hands as they slip beneath the robe and trail down my sides, generating shivers and an eruption of goosebumps. “You had the chance the night we were together. You blew it, didn’t you?”
“I did blow it.” His hands make their way around to my ass, where they clamp down, exert enough pressure to lift me off my feet and settle in for an extended stay on each cheek. I loop my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, enjoying the view of his determined face as he swings me around and heads for the bed. “I plan to make up for that tonight.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” I say, dipping my head for a kiss.
There’s a time and a place for taking your time with tender nuzzles and slow burns. This ain’t it. This is a time for checking my inhibitions at the door and for raw urgency.
So I happily surrender to my body’s needs.
I can’t quite kiss him hard or deep enough. Can’t quite get the angles right with our lips because I want to try them all at the same time. There are things I feel like I should be saying to him—they want to pour out of me even if I’m not entirely sure what they are—but it’s hard to talk, moan and kiss all at the same time. Especially when every part of the rest of my body is also activated and eager to do its own thing. The throbbing cleft between my legs commands my hips to writhe against him. My aching breasts direct me to rub against the hard slabs of his pecs. My curled fingers scratch their way across his back up onto his scalp.
He answers everything I do with growing rumbles, gasps and groans of encouragement, of approval. His flesh feels hot and vibrant, almost as though it shivers against mine. His hands crisscross my body, taking brief forays away from squeezing my ass to filter through my hair, sweep my robe off and caress my thighs.
I’m not sure how long we linger there next to the bed, vertically ravaging each other. But at some point, when I have my hands on either side of his face, his tongue in my mouth and his skilled fingers delving along the slick cleft between my legs, all the gathering sensations overwhelm me. I cry out and break the kiss as one clear thought crystallizes inside my overwrought brain.
For one helpless second, I stare down at his flushed face and those blazing eyes.
“I missed you,” I say. “I really missed you.”
His lips, swollen now from my rough kisses, curl into a half-smile of unmistakable satisfaction. With maybe a little self-deprecation thrown in.
“Not as much as I missed you. Trust me.”
With that, he amps up some of his rippling muscle power and swiftly uses it to untangle my arms from around his shoulders. I’m not a fan of this move, but he doesn’t care and doesn’t let my resistance slow him down. Once my hands have released their death grip, he grabs my waist and tosses me onto the bed.
Let me reiterate:
He tosses me up and over the same way I’m sure he tosses the kids when he takes them to the pool. There’s something thrilling about being handled and controlled like this, something that leaves me breathless while also highlighting both his masculinity and my femininity.
Something that makes me want to fuck his brains out.
I land on my back and quickly lever up on my elbows, eager to see what I can do to make that happen right now, but he has other plans. His downturned face is shadowed as he looms over me and grabs my hips. Then he yanks me to the edge of the bed, nimbly drops to his knees and uses those broad shoulders to nudge my thighs apart. The next thing I know, his head is between my legs, my knees are propped with my heels on his back and the moist heat from his breath sends anticipatory shivers across my skin.
“It’s been killing me that I didn’t taste this pussy that first night.” He shoots a look of illicit intent up the length of my body. “Killing me.”
With that, he ducks his head and gets to work.
His mouth feels lush and warm. Persistent. He immediately latches on to the hard nub that craves his attention and goes about the business of making me insane. I don’t even know how to describe what he does. Some combination of his tongue and the rhythmic suction he uses makes my back arch and my lungs heave for air. I squirm, trying to escape from the intensifying sensations while also slowly drowning in them. I’m sure I look and sound ridiculous, not that I care. And the most surreal thing about the whole interlude, believe it or not, is his reaction. His guttural noises. His relentless patience and enthusiasm, as though this sex act is for him.
I start out holding the sides of his head, but then my neglected breasts demand their piece of the action. I squeeze them together, zeroing in on my hard nipples and making myself moan even louder. He quickly joins in with his big hands and rougher touch, as responsive a lover as anyone ever dreamed of.
That’s all I need.
There’s one suspended moment as I hurtle over the edge, one dark second when I feel my orgasm rushing toward me, but it’s not there yet. And then it runs me down and overtakes me, a piercing pleasure that begins as tiny ripples and crescendos into spasms hard enough to make my hips jackknife while I shout something high-pitched and incoherent.
As I melt into the void, I’m dimly aware of his soft laughter as he rises over me. He sounds as triumphant as I feel. There’s some additional activity. Maybe the rattle of a drawer. It’s all a blur. Until he eases into the cradle of my hips, his body big and hard. Living marble with warmth and vibrancy.
Thrilling.
I catch a glimpse of his glittering eyes, high color and unforgiving jaw line as he settles most of his weight on his elbows. There’s a nudge, quickly followed by a sharp thrust and the satisfying fullness of knowing that big dick is once again buried to the hilt inside me.
Right where it belongs.
“Fuck,” he says, a shudder working its way through him.
This time I laugh, because that about sums it up.
His mouth finds mine again as we begin to move together. There’s nothing gentle about it. There’s far too much unleashed urgency for that. This is a hard and relentless fucking, on both sides. The kind that makes you earthy and slick with sweat. The kind that wrecks the sheets and leaves them in a twisted heap at the end of the bed.
And then there’s the mindless chanting. I have no idea what I’m saying, but I think it’s some nonsensical combination of his name, right there and don’t stop. He answers with fuck, shit and guttural attempts at my name.
I’m teetering on the edge of another cataclysm tempered by hip dysplasia when he abruptly pulls free, stands, drags me further down the bed toward him and flips me to my stomach with no more effort than the cooks use on the pancakes at IHOP.
“Look at that ass,” he says, punctuating his appreciation with a sharp smack.
The sweet pain makes me cry out with unabashed delight.
“You like that?” he says, his voice throaty. “How about this?”
And he bites my other butt cheek.
Not nips. Bites.
I laugh, giddy with the feel of it. Turns out I like a little pain with my pleasure, I guess.
“On all fours,” he says in my ear. “Now.”
Far be it from me to disobey a direct command given by Jake Quinn in the heat of passion. Unfortunately, all the ecstasy has made my body a little sluggish, and I don’t move fast enough for him. He assists by taking my hips and hauling me up into position in front of him.
“How do you feel about doggy style?” he asks, delving between my thighs again.
He needs to ask? “I feel great.”
We both laugh up until the moment he plunges inside me again. Once that happens, all bets are off. He grips my waist and throws thrust after powerful thrust into me, setting a merciless pace that has my loud cries vying with our slapping bodies as the noisiest sound in the room. We go at it long and hard, with my breasts jiggling and my hair swinging in my face. Exhausted as I am, I could do this all night because I can’t get enough of him. He’s got some innate sense about what my body needs from him at any particular moment, and he gives it to me before I need to ask for it. The inevitable result is more spiraling sensation that fans out into the brightest and most intense orgasm of my life.
His rough shout quickly follows, thank God. My hips, arms and thighs are not used to this kind of workout. Not that I plan to let that stop me the next time Jake looks at me with a twinkle in his eye. He stiffens, riding it out while I descend into the void again.
A period of blissful emptiness follows. Three seconds? Four hours? I couldn’t say. But my mind slowly returns to my body when I feel him move away from me and disappear into the bathroom, at which point I realize that a) I’m flat on my belly with a growing crick in my neck; and b) the air conditioning in this fancy Miami hotel is wicked powerful.
I experience one of those oh shit moments where your entire body tenses and you snap fully awake. I roll over and ease up on my elbows as I survey the scene and try to decide what the hell just happened and what I should do about it now.
I’ve never been fucked like that before. Never felt my body sing like this before. Never been embroiled in a domestic or employment situation like this before. Clichéd as it sounds, I’ve never met a man like Jake before. Never responded like that to anyone’s touch.
I have absolutely no idea what I should do now.
I’m semi-lying there, dazed and confused and desperately trying to formulate some sort of plan of action (should I stay? Leave? Stay but pretend to be asleep?), when Jake returns.
Naked. Still aroused. His expression impenetrable in the dim lighting.
“What are you doing?” he asks quietly.
Here it is. The moment of truth.
“We don’t want the kids to know I’m here. I was thinking I should go back to my room,” I say.
“You were?” He comes closer, his slow perusal touching me from head to toe. I know what he sees. My tousled hair and flushed face. My tingling lips. My sweaty torso. My heaving chest and swollen breasts with nipples engorged like berries. My flat belly and bare pussy, still glistening with the juices he generated. My legs with one knee bent. My toes with their bright coral polish. “I was thinking you’re not going anywhere. How about that?”
This additional command issued in that silky tone is my undoing.
“Since you asked so nicely,” I say with wary excitement as he climbs back onto the bed and crawls toward me.
“Oh, I insist,” he says, his arms closing around me as he pulls me beneath him again.