Page 30 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

SEX MISCHIEF

Axel

But my thing will have to wait. At our compartment, Hazel grabs my shirt collar before the door has time to clang shut.

She yanks me to her in the dark and covers my lips with hers.

Hazel is a woman who knows her mind.

That is such a turn-on.

She’s rough and hungry. A tiger who wants her prey— me .

I happily let her devour my face. Yes, my face.

She’s kissing me hard, ruthlessly, and she’s not stopping at my lips.

She’s kissing along my jaw, running her cheek against my scruff.

“Mmm, stubble,” she murmurs, then she reaches my ear and nips on the lobe.

“Do that again and I’ll be bending you over the bed in no time,” I say in a rough growl.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she taunts, then pulls back and looks at me, those green eyes twinkling with utter mischief.

Sex mischief.

“The bedroom is no place for threats, so it’s a promise,” I say.

With flames in her eyes, she drags her hand down my chest. “Good, because I’ve been thinking all day about what happens to Lacey.”

“Have you now?”

“I think her hero fucks her against the window in the train as the French countryside speeds by.”

My sexy romance writer has a filthy mind, and I am here for it.

I turn the tables on her, clasping her gorgeous face and slamming my mouth to hers, tasting her, consuming her.

She wants real, raw, unfiltered passion, and I intend to give it to her that way. As I kiss her with a little hurt in it, I undo her jeans roughly, tug at her top harshly. Soon, I’ve stripped her to nothing.

She’s naked in front of me, the moonlight shining across her creamy skin. Her perky tits point right at me. The look in her eyes is both vulnerable and turned on.

She glances down at her chest. “Do you want my tits pressed against the window?” She asks it like it costs her something to say that. But like it frees her too. To have book sex.

“I fucking do,” I tell her. “Go stand there. Now .”

She practically sprints. Fine, it’s only ten feet away, maybe less, but what a sight, that peach of an ass wiggling as she scurries.

Then, she presses her hands on the glass, tits pressed, ass up. I stalk over to her, taking off my glasses and setting them on the table, tugging off my shirt and tossing it to the floor.

From my wallet, I grab a condom, and once that’s safely in hand, I undo my jeans, take out my eager cock, and smack her ass with it.

“Oh!” she yelps.

“Like that?”

I know she does. She’s already moaning. But I’m pretty sure she likes to talk in bed. She likes the chance to say the things she’s only ever written or read.

“Do it again,” she urges.

Gripping the base, I slap my dick against her sweet ass. One cheek, then another, then I rub my hard-on between her thighs, where she’s soaked. “Were you like this all day? Wet and needy for me?”

“I was a hot mess,” she says, bowing her back, her body saying take me now .

What a wild admission. Hazel Valentine walked around Barcelona while hot and horny for me.

I press my palm between her shoulder blades, gently but firmly pushing her forward so those fantastic tits smush against the cold glass. “You were writing this scene all day, weren’t you?”

“Yes. While you talked, I wrote sex in my head.” She shudders as if reveling in whatever wicked feelings are whooshing through her body right now.

“You dirty woman.” I praise her as I push against her, my cock sliding between her folds, gliding against her wetness.

I’m a live wire, sparking everywhere.

But I want tonight to be even better than last night—for her . It’s a tall order, but I’m up to the task, especially when she trembles, then turns her face to me. “Need you.”

Ah, hell. There she goes again with a direct plea that works on my heart and dick at the same damn time.

Quickly, I suit up, then I grab her hips, and I push against her entrance.

She gasps sharply, a high-pitched keen.

“Tits against the glass, baby,” I tell her.

She complies.

“You want all of France to see the romance writer getting fucked on a train,” I command as I ease in more.

“I do. I really do.”

I sink in, filling her completely.

She feels incredible.

She’s hungry, needy, and her sex drive matches mine.

I ease out, then back in, and soon, I’m finding just the right pace for the woman who’s been aching for me all day.

It’s such a privilege, a filthy, beautiful privilege, to be the man she craves. I don’t take it lightly. I treat it seriously, fucking her with purpose, with intent. “Want it harder? Deeper?”

“Yes. Please. Both,” she says.

I’ve learned a thing or two about Hazel over the years. She’s never let a heroine come magically. No man in her stories possesses a magical cock. The hero always makes sure he’s taking care of his woman right where she needs him.

I slide a hand to her clit, stroke her faster and faster still.

Like that, I give her the train fuck she’s craved, harder, deeper, and designed to make her come.

There’s nothing magical about my dick.

My ears and eyes deserve the credit. I’ve paid attention to her, and I’ve read both the lines and between them.

As she gasps and pants and I fuck and stroke, I take her over the cliff, with her tits pancaked against the reflection and her whole body trembling as the towns of France watch her come.

She cries out y es, yes, oh god, yes, and I’m right there with her, her sounds pulling me over the edge. I join her in bliss, wishing I could do it again tomorrow and the next day and the next.

But we can’t. I don’t need ground rules to know the game with Hazel has already changed. It changed in the bar car when we agreed to write together again.

There’s even more at stake now. We can’t disappoint our readers twice.

And if we fall into anything more than a brief train-trip fling, the two of us will blow up again. We just will.

After we clean up, and get into bed, I draw a deep breath, and begin another confession. “You know that photo of Max and that woman at the nightclub?”

The picture that broke them up.

She knows the pic. Knows I was in it, toasting with my writer bud, Vince Caine.

“Yeah?”

“I told Vince to take it. Then I told him to post it. I wanted you to see what Max had been doing, and I couldn’t stand it anymore, the way he was cheating. I couldn’t tell you face-to-face, so I engineered that picture.”

She props her head in her hand, looking perplexed. “You did?”

“Yeah,” I say, wincing. It felt noble at the time. Now it just sounds manipulative. But she deserves the truth. “I probably sound like a bigger prick now.”

Shaking her head, she smiles softly, then presses a hand to my chest. “No. You don’t. You sound like you were looking out for me. Like you were still my friend.”

She’s right. “I cared about you. I did, and I do, Hazel.”

No sarcasm, no teasing. Just the truth I’ve always owed her. Night by night, I peel back a little more. But I still keep my fountain wish in a cage. That won’t ever come free.

Hazel leans in and presses the most gentle kiss to my lips. It’s too tender, it’s too sweet.

It’s too dangerous because it nearly unlocks me.

But I can’t serve up the rest of my heart.

She’s told me time and time again that she missed me as a friend.

As a writer. As a creative partner. She’s made it crystal clear she likes my dick.

But she’s never once even hinted she suffers from terrible things like feelings .

I’ll just keep these wretched things to myself.

Don’t want to lose her again now that I’ve got her back.

We need to be friends for a long time. The corollary is we can’t be lovers beyond this trip. It’ll fuck up everything. Most of all, me . “So this is the get-it-out-of-our-system trope? The trip-only trope, right? Those are the ground rules?” Someone has to say it.

For a few seconds, she’s quiet. Pensive. But a touch sad too. Then her expression shifts. She’s resolute. Or, as she’d say, resolute-ish . “Yes. Don’t you think?”

I think I want all of you . But I also know we could damage our careers now that we’ve publicly committed to finishing the final book in Ten Park Avenue. We have unfinished business at the computer, and that means we’ll have to finish our business in bed after a few more nights.

“I do,” I answer. Then I give her space to not cuddle.

Turns out she told another lie. Soon after she falls asleep, she wraps her lithe body around mine and stays like that, koalaing me all night long.

I don’t care for cuddling, but I will miss this.

I will miss her.

I wake in the morning to a text from my agent.

Mason: Normally, I’d give you a hard time for not telling me first, but when it’s news this good, even I can’t give hard times.

He links to the Book Besties’ posts from last night. The comments go on forever. Wow. I park a hand behind my head as I read them. It’s humbling. I still can’t quite believe anyone wants to read my words—or in this case, our words—let alone all these people.

But there it is. In black and white on the Internet.

And for one of the first times in a long time, I don’t have to picture anyone naked to navigate past this putting-myself-out-there feeling.

That’s a welcome change.