Hard Compromise (Compromise Me 2)

“Right after you scream my name as I give you your third orgasm of the night.”

The oxygen-starved feeling subsided. His reprieve, coupled with the cocky tone in his voice restored her equilibrium. “Third? I don’t know how you’re counting, Sheriff.”

He nudged her clit with the pad of his thumb, and sent warning flares shooting through her abdomen. “That’s a load of crap. This is your third. Three more and you owe me breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“You’re counting chickens before they hatch.” The tension was back, building between her legs, making her edgy.

“Am I?” He swept his thumb over her clit, again and again. She arched up as he increased the speed. His touch electrified her.

“Oh, God. Maybe not. Booker…don’t stop.” She started to tremble. “I’m going to come.”

“You owe me a week’s worth and I intend to collect every one of them.”

Then he dropped a long, slow kiss on her lips, and it felt like a pledge, or a vow, or something else she shouldn’t be so ready to hold onto. She wasn’t looking for promises, dammit. But another slick slide of his thumb, and he delivered on one anyway. She went flying, body spiraling out of control, yet somehow the storm of sensations calmed her chaotic thoughts—like the moment of clarity in the eye of a hurricane.

He’s promised you sex. Amazing sex. But still, just sex. Nothing you can’t handle.

Chapter Ten

Scents of aftershave and Tide pods filled her nose, and told Laurie the sheets she lay face down across didn’t belong to her. The pillow under her cheek? Also not hers. Likewise the blanket crumpled around her ankles. She cracked her eyes open and confirmed her worst suspicions. Despite her firm plan not to, she’d spent the night in Booker’s bed. How had it happened? Or, more to the point, why had she allowed it to happen?

He’d carted her to his bedroom after “taking care of her” in the hall, and she’d been too limp and satisfied to do anything except go along for the ride. Later, after he’d given her a thorough tour of his big, sturdy bed and a convincing demonstration of his ten minute rebound time, she’d feigned sleep, thinking she’d make her way home after he drifted off.

Only it had been she who drifted off, and woken up in the wee hours of the morning to find her wrists handcuffed together, and Booker sleeping beside her with a smile on his face. The cuffs made it impossible for her to dress, much less drive, but as those realizations were sinking in Booker woke up just enough to show her the shackles didn’t impair her ability to have a screaming orgasm. Not in the least. Afterward, as she’d floated on the fringes of sleep, he’d murmured, “You owe me breakfast.”

Her hands weren’t cuffed together anymore, but—she raised her head an inch off the pillow—sure enough, last night’s accessory still encircled one wrist.

And where the hell was the sheriff of O-town this morning? She usually didn’t out-sleep anyone—running a bakery made for early mornings—but today it seemed Booker had gotten the jump on her. The whole house was silent. She rolled over and pulled the sheet up to her chest. A folded, white piece of paper sat like a tiny tent on his nightstand, and a sick little twinge tugged her stomach. Was he giving her a dose of her own medicine? Teaching her what it felt like to wake up alone in someone else’s bed with a note saying See you around?

Early indications hinted it sucked. But she was a big girl, and she had it coming. With a sigh, she lifted the note and flipped it open.

Went to the store. Behave yourself while I’m gone and I’ll give you a chance to earn your clothes back by making me breakfast.

Yeah, right. Where was she supposed to go with a handcuff dangling from her wrist, and—she glanced at the empty spot on the dark blue rug where she last remembered seeing her dress—no clothes. Despite the sarcastic thoughts, a smile tugged at her lips.

She bounced off the bed and shrugged into the large, white terrycloth bathrobe he’d slung across the back of one of the two leather chairs in the sitting area of his spacious bedroom. Of course he hadn’t. Escape was her MO. It’s not like he had a crazy mother prone to show up at the worst possible moments and make his life hell.

Stop. Don’t let Denise spoil the best morning you’ve had in over a week.

Absolutely not. Her mother was two hundred miles away, and not likely to come around anytime soon, considering Laurie didn’t have anything left to leech away.

The thought offered bitter comfort. She cruised downstairs in search of something more inspiring—like coffee. As she passed the entryway, a thump on the other side of the front door slowed her down. Either Booker was back or he’d forgotten something.

She twisted the knob and swung the door open. “Kidnapping my clothes is…”

The rest of her sentence died on her tongue. Rebecca Booker stood on the threshold, tall and toned with her dark hair smoothed into her signature chin-length bob. She wore a coordinated yoga outfit and held a bag of produce from the farmer’s market. Her smile faded as she blinked at the stranger answering her son’s door. Then one dark, arched brow rose in a feminine version of an expression Laurie associated with Booker.

“Mrs. Booker…”

“Sorry.” The cool, slightly amused word conveyed many things, but sorrow wasn’t among them. “You

have the advantage. I was looking for my son.” She took a step back and gestured to the doorway. “This is definitely his house, and that”—she indicated the robe Laurie wore—“is definitely the present I got him for Christmas, but you I don’t recognize.”

“I’m Laurie. I’m just…” The maid? The plumber? Nope. There was no plausible way to end the sentence. “…a friend. Um, he’s not home right now, but he’ll be back shortly. Would you like to come in and wait? Here, let me take that.” She reached out for the bag of groceries. The movement sent the handcuffs sliding down her wrist, until the empty loop dangled from the sleeve of the robe. It swung there, hypnotically, while sunlight glinted on the metal.

Shit.

Now both of his mother’s eyebrows disappeared behind meticulously maintained bangs. Her lips twitched before she firmed them into a neutral line. “I’d better take a rain check. Here…sustenance.” She handed over the bag of groceries. “If I know my son, he doesn’t have a thing in his fridge except day old pizza and domestic beer.”