Page 95 of Nothing Less Than Everything

TATUM

Wren sauntered along the stone path to our private cabana, and I voiced my approval with a low whistle. Two triangles of red fabric barely covered her pretty nipples. They were strung together with the equivalent of dental floss. A sheer-white sarong fluttered in the ocean breeze, tied low around her curvy hips. The transparent fabric teased a bikini bottom skimpy enough to match the top.

“Miss February,” I said and raked my eyes up and down her long, slender body.

Wren’s cheeks turned as red as her swimsuit. “Please tell me you don’t have a copy of the calendar.” She pulled back the rattan flap and dipped inside.

I tugged her closer to me by the string holding her bikini top together. “You bet I do.”

She dropped her face into her hands and groaned.

Her blonde hair blazed white under the midday sun. She wore it in a loose bun piled on top of her head like a spindle of cotton candy. It was the kind intentionally unkempt bun women spent an hour perfecting. I wanted to mess it up. Mess her up.

I wanted to see the bun lopsided by her ear from the force of how hard I was going to fuck her.

I pushed the oversized bag she had strapped onto her shoulder to the sand. “If my woman is in a swimsuit calendar, you’d better believe I’m gonna buy every fucking copy.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration.

She pressed her palms against the tattoos on my chest and eyed me warily. “You didn’t.”

“Don’t look in my spare bedroom.”

“You know they’ll just print more until next year’s calendar comes out, right?”

I growled. “Do you know how much that turns me into a possessive bastard?” I tipped my head and trailed my lips along the column of her throat. “How much I want to have you all to myself?” I nipped at her skin and sucked, leaving a deep purple mark at the place where her pulse raced.

Wren was fastidious about making sure I didn’t leave visible marks on her body. The cheerleading uniforms left little to the imagination. She didn’t want game-day reporters guessing about who gave a hickey to the Reds’ most notorious cheerleader.

But she had nearly two weeks before she’d hit our home field for game day again. We were playing away when we got back from bye week. I planned to use my time off to mark every inch of her skin.

I tugged the knotted sarong from her hips and skated my palm around her ass. The back of her bikini bottoms was merely a thin strip of crimson that disappeared between the cleft of her cheeks.

I threaded my fingers into the back of her hair and gave it a firm tug, yanking her head back to look up at me. “Do you know how much I get off on knowing that millions of people watch you dance like a goddamn siren? Knowing that they fantasize about what I have?” I cupped her breast and squeezed.

Wren’s mouth gaped and her toes curled in the sand.

“Did you make yourself come when I left you to get dressed?” I asked sternly.

She shook her head.

I pinched her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Are you telling me the truth?”

Wren nodded.

“Do you want to come?”

Her blue eyes shot back and forth, searching for prying eyes outside the cabana. The lowered sides shielded us from the sun and offered some privacy, but the ocean breeze lifted them open every so often.

“We shouldn’t … not out here.”

“Sit down.” I pointed to the chaise that was laid flat for sunbathing. “Straddle it.”

“Tatum—”

“You promised to be a good girl. Now do as I say, Little Bird.”

She dropped onto the white cushion and planted a foot in the sand on either side. Her swells of cleavage rose and fell with each heavy breath. The cabana entrance fluttered open, and Wren tensed. “We could get caught.”

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