Xander (Billionaire Racers Book 1) (7 page)

Have I mentioned I fucking love a good game?

“Permission to come aboard, captain.” She stands there in too-short denim cutoffs and a wicked little white tank top. No bra, I see and appreciate. Without waiting for my answer, she kicks off her flip-flops, hooking them on a finger, her bare toes curling into the sun-warmed boards of the dock.

I hold out my hand, palm up. “Welcome aboard.”

She lets me swing her over the safety line and onto the teak deck of the yacht. She lands off-balance for just a moment as her feet hit the deck, and the boat swells gently upward.

“I got you,” I promise, and she nods. We’re making progress.

We have forty-five minutes before the race begins. I am supposed to be above deck, taking pictures and talking up the race. Now that she is on board, she promptly puts more space between us under the guide of a little boat inspection. I steer her below deck because my team is busy and it is not as if I can fuck her out in public. There is a long list of people who would take issue with that.

“This is a real nice boat.” Her fingers touch the maple wood lightly. I designed every inch of the boat structurally but then brought in a designer to do up the insides. I am no good with paint and colors, but now, watching her face, I am pleased I made the effort. She likes what she sees.

She should. The
Koa
is custom-made because I always know exactly what I want. Also? I do not want what everyone else has. I make my own way, make my own decisions. So now I own one hundred thirty feet of custom-designed, sleek state-of-the-art racing yacht. The saloon is modern and elegant, a Canadian maple that lets in the light and plays with it. The result is a room as peaceful as the water and wind cradling the yacht can be just the opposite. It is not a retreat—because I never retreat—but a place to rest. To plan my next move. Instead of telling her any of that, however, I go with the obvious.

“She is built to be fast.”

Her fingers continue to stroke over the satiny grain of the maple. My dick promptly volunteers itself as a substitute.

“I’ll bet she was expensive,” she says.

Ten million dollars, but that is petty cash. It is too fucking bad my Lily’s immune to the siren call of cash. Money I can give her. Sex?
Da
, I am all over that. Emotions, however, are a currency I never deal in.

I cut to the chase. “Are you ready to be my wife?”

“Convince me,” she announces, sitting down on one of the plush seats lining the main cabin.

I would be happy to provide any convincing she needs. I yell up the hatch to my second-in-command on deck that I will be taking thirty minutes.

“Confident much?” She leans back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. This makes for some impressive cleavage in the vee of her tank top. I would enjoy just standing here watching, but the clock keeps ticking. When I showed Lily down here to the main galley, I thought I would keep her somewhere out of the way. Let her watch, but make sure she couldn’t get into any trouble. I cup her elbow with my hand, lifting and steering her toward my cabin. Nobody would come down here now that I have made my interest clear, but my angel will be happier with some privacy for what I intend.

She lets me lead her, and that is such a fucking turn-on. Lily is one of the strongest women I know, but she is not usually in your face about it. She simply gets her shit done and moves on.

She scowls at me. “I didn’t sign up for the tour.”

It is probably wrong that I do not care and that I enjoy her grumpiness. I shove open my cabin door. Her eyes widen as she takes it in. Yes, I have been accused of having pirate fantasies. The bed is as big as I can get it and covered in gold and white satin. A dark leather headboard stretches from the mountain of pillows up to the white ceiling. The walls are paneled in gold oak, and I have a walk-in shower through the glass door. Five-star hotels are less posh, and I must work under a serious space constraint here.

“I’m not having sex with you,” she snaps. “Hello. Annulment much?”

“Okay,” I agree. “Orgasms, yes. Penetration, no.”

She gapes at me and I shrug. The terms are hers.

“You have ten seconds to step inside,” I warn her.

“Or?” Her voice is
dulce de leche
sweet. She is pissed off, and not afraid to let me know it. She steps inside my room though, which is either a tactical error—or a very happy acceptance of my invitation. I decide to hope the answer is B.

I close the door. I do not lock it—if she wants to leave, she can turn the handle and go. I cannot take what I want, not from her. She has to give it to me. Fortunately, I am a master fucking negotiator and Lily has never had a poker face.

“Ten minutes,” I promise her.

“Until what?” She glances toward the portholes as if she thinks I am still talking about the Billionaire Race.

“Until I make you scream my name.”

LILY

Xander pisses me off although the way he makes my naughty parts feel is almost compensation enough. Almost. God, the man’s arrogant. In the Xander-verse, he’s the king of everything he surveys—and he certainly believes that includes me. I should march out of his cabin on principle—but principle’s not what’s turning me on right now.

Xander is, damn it.

“Time me,” he whispers in my ear, his heated words making those reprehensible naughty parts melt more. He cradles my hips with his big, sexy hands, and yes, I notice he’s brushing his thumbs over my hip bones. How can I not? His legs press against mine, and even through all his clothes, I feel his enormous dick. If I could just make him stop talking, he’d be perfect.

“You’re setting the bar high.” I tug, and he lets me go, which is another disappointment. “Or low. I didn’t realize there was a time limit on your availability. Do most women lose interest after ten minutes?”

He laughs and tosses his helmet onto the bed. Okay then. “You want to know about the other women in my life?”

Do I? It’s sort of easier to ignore the inescapable fact that my husband’s freaking gorgeous, but that his enormous dick has made the rounds like the hors d’oeuvre tray at a party. A really
big
party. I turn around, buying time to think about this. It’s not my favorite mental image, to be honest. I’d rather stop thinking altogether and just enjoy the possibility of having Xander at my sexual beck and call.

His race jacket is black and hugs his shoulders and chest, the close fit emphasizing his muscled physique. Xander may have amassed a fortune investing in Wall Street and resort properties, but he does more than sit behind a desk all day, and the man just radiates danger. Or maybe that’s the combination of the body armor and personal safety knife he’s wearing strapped to his side. Who knew racing could be such a dangerous sport?

“I do want to know,” I decide.

“Why does it matter?” He prowls toward me, effortlessly closing the few feet of space I’ve managed to put between us, and then he walks us back toward his bed. The mattress bumps against the back of my knees.

“Because you’re offering me a used penis and I’d like to know where it’s been?” I don’t want to overact, but now that I’m thinking about it… yeah. I absolutely want to know.

“Nowhere,” he growls and slides his hands up my bare arms. The rough pads of his fingers teasing my skin feels so good that I have to fight to not lean into him like a cat.

“Excuse me?” I give up the fight and lean. In answer, his hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my head up. His fingers stroke my skin as he lowers his head.

“My dick has been nowhere,” he whispers roughly. “It was waiting for you,
da
?”

My brain short-circuits, which is only partly due to his lips brushing mine. His left hand moves south, skimming down my back to cup my butt. He makes me feel incredible.

“You haven’t had sex in six years?” My question trails off into a moan because holy shit, does the man have a talented tongue. He explores my ear with his mouth, licking and nipping and really? I don’t need to be talking now. I just want Xander. On me. In me. Underneath me.

“I have much to make up for,” he murmurs, and he’s making a great start. Callused fingers trace a path down my neck, and then his mouth follows. Thank God I’ve got the bed behind me and Xander in front because I’m pretty sure my knees are done holding me up. I wrap my arms around his waist and lean into his kisses. I can live with him holding me up for now.

“Tell me how I am doing,” he whispers roughly, and I nod.

So far, he’s a perfect ten in my book. The man’s confidence is
not
misplaced. I wrap my arms around his neck, sliding my legs around his hips as I pull his head down to mine. Why does this man turn me on so much—when every other man leaves me cold? He unbuttons my shorts, his palm pressing against my stomach as his fingers trace the lacy edge of my panties. I rock against him. He’s not even naked, and he’s driving me crazy.

He kisses me hard and fast, and then he’s setting me down, and yes that’s my whimper I hear.

“Tick tock,” he whispers and strips my shorts and panties off. “Ten minutes. I always keep my promises,
angel.
”

His mouth brushes my throat, his hands urging me down. Must be a bitch to race with that erection of his—he’s thick and aroused. The yacht rocks—we’re moving, easing away from the dock as the crew prepares to sail the
Koa
to the starting point. I stagger, off-balance, and Xander seizes his opportunity. We tumble onto the bed together, and he rolls me, coming up on top. I can’t breathe. Can’t move.

My life’s been turned upside down by men, and so he shouldn’t get what he wants either. I won’t be his plaything. Breathing harshly, I yank his head down to mine, my hands cradling his face. He groans something harsh and sibilant in Russian, and then his mouth covers mine. I thought his kiss would be hard. Fierce. Possessive. Instead, he kisses me as if he’s tasting me. As if he has all the time in the world and he simply wants to find out if I’m his flavor—or not. His tongue licks inside my mouth, learning me.

I grab him, yanking him closer. I don’t want gentle. I’m not some fairy-tale princess who needs to be wooed because she’s been locked up in her ivory tower for most of her life. As if he’s reading my mind, Xander deepens his kiss, stroking harder, deeper into my mouth until we’re so tangled up together I can feel his heart pounding in my own chest.

He thrusts his hips against mine, his hands pinning me to the bed, and the sensations make me whimper louder. God, he feels good. His dick presses against my pussy, making itself at home against my slit. When the
Koa
lunges forward, the thick, hard tip nudges my clit. Oh God.

“Xander—” He makes me feel so good it’s frightening.

“You want to say something, you say it now,” he states. “You want me to stop, the door is right there.”

I don’t want him to stop. Do I? Sure, this isn’t quite how I imagined our first time together—in the barely private cabin of a boat with a ten-minute deadline and fifteen people overhead—but it’s not bad either. In fact, it’s amazing. So amazing that I want more.

“Say something,” I plead. I’m not sure why I want more words from him. We’ve never talked, but part of me wants to hear that this means something to him. That I’m more than a convenient piece of ass he’s squeezing in before the start of his race.

“Ya vas lyubil: lyubov’ eshe byt’ mozhet.” He whispers the words roughly against my skin.
I loved you once and still could love you yet again.
The words are stolen, a line from a nineteenth-century poem by Alexander Pushkin, the kind of poem every Russian schoolchild learns by heart—and yet the borrowed words make me feel gorgeous and special, like maybe I am his princess.

He lets go of my hands and moves down my body so fast I don’t have time to protest. One minute he’s quoting me poetry and the next he’s spreading me wide, pushing my thighs apart with his shoulders. I’m bare from the waist down. My pussy glistens, and when I look down, I see the tiny white lines from the thong I wore while sunbathing. Pale, secret skin next to the golden brown from the sun.

“Goddamned fucking gorgeous,” he announces. Apparently, he’s out of poetry. Doesn’t matter because he covers me with his mouth, finding my clit with unerring accuracy. I don’t need Pushkin—I’ve got
Xander
. He works my clit with his tongue, pushing two fingers inside me and stroking those rough pads over my G-spot.

Oh God. Now I’m the one not speaking English. He’s better than the fantasy lover I’ve dreamed of for the past six years and way, way better than any toy I’ve purchased. I tighten beneath the expert lash of his tongue as he sucks me deep. His fingers fuck me, and I can feel my orgasm coming. It’s right there, waiting for me, and all I have to do is let go. I explode, shoving myself against his mouth as I buck off the bed. And yeah—I scream his name. I’d play goddamned fireworks and rent him a mariachi band too if I could. He’s that good.

“Told you,” he says, smiling with satisfaction when I surface from boneless happiness long minutes later. He taps the expensive TAG Heuer watch strapped to his wrist. “Eight minutes. You can thank me later.”