Sold Out (The Back-Up Series Book 5) Page 2

  “Bye,” he says, ending the call and not giving me a chance to say anything else in response.

  Leila laughs while shaking her head. “All your fault. You created a monster.” She’s referring to my brilliant idea to record the kids as they gave us a concert one night. Shane has taken to playing guitar beautifully, thanks to Trey’s tutelage. After all, Trey’s mad bass-playing skills are the very reason we just had to add him to Devil’s Lair.

  Madden and Siarra, however, are just going through the motions on their toy drum set and piano. I can’t lie, though. The thought of them actually becoming musicians brings a surge of pride that warms my heart.

  “Yeah, but the look on Madden’s face when minutes later I had the footage playing on our big-screen TV was priceless, and worth his new obsession.”

  “True.” She plucks another strawberry and with her eyes tethered to mine sucks on the tip seductively.

  “I know what you’re doing, Mrs. Lair.”

  “What?”

  “Fess up and admit you called them.” The look on her face gives her away. “You promised.”

  She tucks a finger inside the waistband of my boxer briefs and tugs me closer. “You weren’t here. I figured I’d get the call out of the way so I could focus on you without distraction.” I align myself over her body, and the rumble from her stomach that reverberates through her seems amplified.

  “On that note, first you eat… and then we play.”

  “As you can hear, I’m actually starving, so no argument there.” Her eyes sweep over the tray piled with eggs, toast, fruit, and juice. “But this isn’t all for me, is it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I respond, grabbing my cup of coffee off the tray to take a sip. “What I plan on eating involves burying my face between your legs. First, I’ll lick you as an appetizer, and then I’ll nibble on your clit as my meal.”

  On cue, her mouth hangs open, and her chest rises and falls with each breath she takes. I’m not sure if the gold flecks in her eyes shimmer from the sunlight streaming into the room or because of the visual that just popped into her head. But when she snatches the fork and begins eating her breakfast with gusto, my guess is that it’s the latter.

  CHAPTER 2

  The love I have for this man is so intense that at times it’s hard to breathe. It’s the kind of love that makes me scared of what would happen if it ever disappeared. Jack continues to steal my heart, which is ridiculous because he already owns every millimeter of it.

  It reminds me of a science experiment we once witnessed in middle school. Our teacher filled a jar with rocks and asked if there was any room left. A resounding no caused him to then pour a glass of sand into the jar. He repeated the question, and our response remained the same. He then poured water into the jar and smiled at our gaping mouths.

  With each day, my heart miraculously makes room for more love. It’s crazy.

  Having him to myself last night, sleeping naked without having to worry about little humans jumping into bed with us, was the perfect start to our romantic weekend.

  Delivering breakfast in bed was just Jack being Jack. So is, for that matter, the way he pounces on me the moment my fork hits the empty plate.

  “Done?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. I devoured every bite of his romantic feast that could feed a small army.

  “Stuffed.” I lean closer, kissing his firm, warm lips, the taste of coffee and Jack an intoxicating combination.

  He places his mug on the side table, and when he turns, through the look on his face, I now know it’s his time to feast. Without ceremony, he lifts his T-shirt off my body and tosses it to the ground. He then arranges me flat on the mattress, not bothering to conceal the lust consuming him.

  The tip of his finger traces my tattoo. “Fuck, I still love this tat,” he says, his voice rough with desire.

  My motive was silly, the tattoo prompted by my having heard that one of his fans had tattooed her ass with Mrs. Jack Lair. Screw that. So one night in Vegas, the girls and I did something impulsive, and my lower abdomen is now marked with The ONLY Mrs. J.H. Lair, otherwise known as Jackson Henry Lair. Jack loves it, especially since it’s located a few inches above my clit—and besides the tattoo artist and my gynecologist, no eyes but his have ever seen it.

  “Time for me to eat, my wife.” Before I can respond, his mouth is on me. At first, he pecks light kisses around my perimeter. The muscles in my thighs tremble with anticipation of what’s to come. My husband likes to make a production of cunnilingus. Yes, there are times he devours me, instigating an immediate orgasm. Then there are the times, like now, when he laps lazily… leisurely licks, sucks, and kisses me in the most sensual way. Each method results in the same build of heightened ecstasy before ending in a state of sated bliss.

  Sometimes I forget to breathe as he tortures me with his mouth… like now. I have to force myself to drag in a deep intake of air when he reaches for my hand and entwines our fingers. It’s his way of reminding me we are always emotionally connected, especially when he’s doing dirty things to my body.

  The tightening of my fingers around his means I’m getting close. Jack’s gray eyes land on mine just as he brings my clit into his mouth and sucks relentlessly.

  Words fail me… noises, moans, and sighs are all I’m capable of while I spin into a vortex of indescribable pleasure. Before I can crawl my way back up to reality, Jack shifts to his knees and in one swift thrust drives himself into my still-quivering channel.

  “Fuck,” he predictably says, claiming that the moment when my orgasm is still pulsing within me feels like heaven on earth around his cock.

  And just as predictably, my release takes on a life of its own as I begin to climb back up, bridging my first orgasm to my next.

  Where the first one delicately rolled through me, this next one rips me apart and sucks me dry. My belly prevents him from pressing our torsos together. So instead Jack hitches my leg around his hip, corkscrewing his way toward his own climax with every precise plunge. I watch in awe the way his gorgeous face tenses just as his body does. I revel in the love I see deep in those charcoal eyes as he rides it out before relaxing with a content smile.

  “Fucking perfection.” He kisses my lips softly and then grins with satisfaction. The dimples I love so very much force my lips to kiss one and then the other.

  “Always,” I concede, because making love to Jack is nothing less than perfection.

  It’s close to noon by the time Jack fills our tub with lavender-scented bubbles and deposits me into the warm water before saying he needs to run a quick errand.

  I have no idea what he’s up to, but this weekend I have a few surprises for him as well. And it’s that appetite to please each other that drives our relationship. Sure, we’ve had our share of fights and arguments, but I can count them on one hand and each made us that much stronger.

  The list of blessings that I’m grateful for in my idyllic life is a mile long. Like the love in my heart, gratitude is also abundant. I never take any of it for granted, and giving back is a priority.

  “Babe…” Jack calls out before entering the bathroom.

  “Hmm?”

  A deep chuckle forces my eyes open. “Don’t you look cozy? I thought you’d be out of there by now.” Although he left at least a half hour ago, I’m still submerged and pruning. He sits on the edge of the claw-foot tub, my favorite thing in this house, and dips his hand into the water, finding my knee. “It’s still warm.”

  “I kept adding more warm water. It felt too good to get out.”

  “You sure you’re not cold?” he asks, noticing the goose bumps that spread like wildfire across my skin. But the water temperature isn’t responsible for them. It’s the way his hand teasingly roams up my thigh that sparks every cell in my body from the inside out.

  “Nope, nice and toasty warm,” I quip.

  “Do you plan to stay in here all day?” His hand then slips between my legs, bringing his pointer finger to rest against my clit. But
that’s where it stays, as his gray eyes hold mine hostage in the process. My traitorous body immediately responds when my legs fall open and my back arches toward his touch, wanting more, causing a slow, smug smile to spread over his lips.

  “That depends on what awaits me outside of this deliciously relaxing bath.”

  He bends to kiss my lips, but just before I’m able to grab his arm or deepen the kiss, he pulls away and stands with a devious grin. “It’ll have to be later. Get dressed. We have guests. Meet me in the fourth bedroom.”

  “Guests?” His statement throws a bucket of ice water on my smoldering libido. “What guests?”

  “You’ll see. Chop-chop, Mrs. Lair,” he says before wiping his arm on a towel and winking.

  What the hell?

  He loves teasing me, making it part of his foreplay. Usually, I retaliate with torturous teasing of my own. I always get even.

  With a sigh, I pull my relaxed body out of the aquatic haven and make myself presentable for guests. My mind reels with who it could possibly be. All our friends know not to dare bother us, our parents are busy with the kids, and our agent was instructed we were not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

  Once dressed and coiffed, I make my way down the hall to where muffled voices filter out from one of our many guest rooms. I find two women and a man standing on one side of a long table that faces two chairs. The room is void of all the furniture it used to hold and now resembles an advertising firm’s conference room. Easels display presentation boards of different nursery themes, and on the table are stacks of what look like decorators’ books and catalogs. Lastly, in the corner sits a rolling rack filled with baby clothes.

  “What’s this?” I ask, confused as to what my husband is up to now.

  “We need to get ready for our son. And I don’t want you doing a thing,” Jack says, coming to stand beside me. “Meet Shelby, Rhetta, and Lance. They’re going to be decorating our nursery and filling it with everything the baby will need.”

  I offer a shy wave to our guests, quickly returning my focus to my overbearing husband. “But…”

  “No buts. All you need to do is sit your ass in that chair and pick out everything you want or like.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say with a formal salute. Knowing better than to argue, I follow his demand and plop in the chair, watching as he narrows his eyes at my sass.

  Jack pecks my cheek and whispers, “Have fun.”

  “Wait, you aren’t staying?”

  “No. This is your department. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.” He winks and saunters out of the room.

  “Well, let’s begin with fabrics,” Shelby says, presenting me with a book that’s at least five inches thick and making me wish I were back in the warm bubbles I had vacated for this daunting task.

  I begin picking out bedding options, choosing from paint samples, and ticking off from a printed list of items that we need for the baby. Thankfully, most of the big items aren’t required, since we still have them from when the twins were babies. Otherwise, it would’ve taken hours longer to decide on things like furniture, a car seat, a high chair, monitors, feeding systems, and all the dozens of other necessities every infant must have in this day and age.

  At some point, I completely lose track of time. We could have been in this room anywhere between one and eight hours. Once I get started, I don’t come up for air. Jack comes in a few times with drinks and snacks, but otherwise he stays clear.

  Yes, my husband did a very thoughtful thing today by allowing me to accomplish what I needed to this weekend in the comfort of my own home. But I also happen to know he selfishly did this to avoid running from showroom to store to mall until I was satisfied that our beach house was ready for the baby. Truth be told, all the places we needed to hit exhausted me, and I’m glad he thought of this instead.

  Just one more reason Jack Lair is a true rock star… even off the stage.

  “You making me dinner defeats the purpose of you relaxing, baby… but damn this is delicious.” Jack moans around a forkful of pasta. It’s one of his favorite dishes, and one I rarely have time to make in our everyday lives. I introduced him to it when we were friends failing miserably at denying we both wanted to be more than that. Along with my famous triple-chocolate brownies, it’s a meal I reserve for special occasions.

  “I know it’s been a while since I made it, and I know how much you like it.”

  “Correction… how much I love it.” He slowly chews his mouthful. “Maybe more than I love you.” Pushing away his empty plate, he nods with a satisfied groan.

  “Gee, thanks,” I quip. “I’ll be sure to include the recipe in the divorce settlement so your next wife can make it for you.”

  The smile falls and, in a flash, he grabs my wrist to pull me onto his lap. His fingers assume optimum tickling position on my sides as he growls, “Take that back.”

  He barely has to move his fingers for me to give in: “I take it back!”

  “That’s my girl. You can get me to do anything you want by feeding me penne alla vodka, and I can do the same with some mild tickling.”

  “Does that include agreeing to my baby name?” I suggest nonchalantly. “I’ll let you tickle me all you want. Actually, I’ll even let you… you know, the thing you love to do that we rarely do.”

  Jack’s eyes dilate at the mention of his favorite crude sexual act as he releases a dramatic sigh. “That’s playing dirty.”

  “It can be. Just say yes,” I suggest before kissing the spot on his jaw that drives him nuts. Naming our daughter was easy. But just like how we disagreed over name choices for Siarra’s twin brother, we are once again on two sides of the fence.

  Miraculously, we finally stumbled on Madden, and I insisted on Jackson, Jack’s full name, as his middle. For our next son, I really would like to use our fathers’ names. Peter Anthony Lair. Jack says it sounds more like a cardinal in the making than a future rock star. No surprise, Jack’s options are all weird, and I hate most of them.

  “You did like Drexel,” he argues. “And I was thinking that would work nicely with Evan as a middle name, for your brother.”

  “Now who’s playing dirty, sweetening the deal by using my brother’s name as a middle?” My husband shrugs, but he doesn’t deny my claim. “I really can’t convince you on Peter Anthony?”

  “Baby, I really think our kids should have their own identities. Being named after his grandfathers is a lot of pressure to put on a kid.”

  “We named Siarra after my mother.”

  “That was different. We reversed your mother’s names, Marie Siarra, and by doing that it’s different and unique. I love our dads, but Peter Anthony? How boring.”

  He’s right. When I had suggested naming our baby girl after my mother, only using her last as a first name, Jack loved how different it was. “Okay, I get it. So Drexel Evan Lair is what you’re sticking with?” I mull over the one suggestion I hated the least.

  “Yes. Even shortened, Drex is very cool and unique. It goes well with his siblings’ names.”

  Not convinced, I shake my head. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Well, that’s not the firm no I’m used to getting from you.” He attaches his lips to the column of my throat and sucks, making me wonder if this is a way to weaken my resolve. When he pulls my earlobe between his teeth, a bolt of lust consumes me. “Maybe we can name our next son Peter Anthony.”

  A devious grin spreads over his face when I pull away and scowl. “No way. This is our last, rock star.”

  Undeterred, he gives me another shrug as a sexy smile curves his lips. “We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Home sweet home,” Leila says with an electric smile. As much as my wife loves the beach house, she also loves being in our Manhattan place with our kids. Facing Central Park, it’s the perfect location to raise a family in the city.

  Originally, we were looking at a smaller apartment in the building, but when the penthouse became avail
able, I knew it was meant to be. Of course, she argued it was too much. My wife doesn’t have a pretentious bone in her body, and neither do I. But damn, the place was huge with its sprawling square footage, rooftop terrace, and floor-to-ceiling windows in almost every room. Still, it was hard to sell her on the idea. I vividly remember the night I shamefully used my oral-sex techniques to finally convince her.

  The moment we walk through our door, all three kids eagerly vie for our attention before we even have our coats off. Like little puppy dogs, they follow us into the den and surround us as we sit side by side on the couch.

  Shane begins babbling a mile a minute, providing a play-by-play of their weekend activities. Siarra climbs onto my lap with her newly diapered baby doll compliments of my mother-in-law, along with a toy diaper bag stuffed to the brim, compliments of my mother. And then there is Madden, drumsticks in hand, immediately reminding me that I had promised to record their performance once I got home, as well as bring them presents if they were good.

  “Did you guys have a lovely weekend?” my mom asks from the doorway with raised brows.

  “We did,” Leila says, missing the insinuation. “The nursery is being painted tomorrow and all the décor has been decided on.”

  “Lei, I think Mom means romantically,” I tease.

  My wife glances at me quickly. “Oh. That too,” she says as her cheeks tinge a lovely pink. “It was very romantic.”

  “Good. You kids needed it. I know when Jack and Lizzy were little, Peter and I needed to be creative.” She giggles at her thought before continuing. “We would…”

  “Mom.” Her eyes cut to me, annoyed at the interruption. “Too much info.”

  “You don’t know what I was going to say,” she pouts defensively.

  Before I could argue that I knew exactly what she was about to say, my father saunters into the den. “Hey, guys. Welcome home.”

  “Hi, Dad. They behaved?”

  “Angels,” my mother responds for him.