Have Me Read online

  Anne Marsh writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in North Carolina with her two kids and five cats.

  If you liked Have Me, why not try

  Bound to You by JC Harroway

  In the Dark by Jackie Ashenden

  Devoured by Cathryn Fox

  Also by Anne Marsh

  Ruled

  Inked

  Her Intern

  Hot Boss

  Hookup

  Discover more at Harlequin.com

  HAVE ME

  ANNE MARSH

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Excerpt from Devoured by Cathryn Fox

  PROLOGUE

  IGNITION

  Liam

  A NAKED COUPLE bangs enthusiastically behind the rhododendrons by the pool, ignoring the pile of people conducting an orgy on my front lawn. God bless California’s outstanding nighttime weather. I tend to skirt the group sex thing. Not because I’m prudish but because if I get too close, I’ll join in and I shouldn’t have sex tonight. Mostly because when I drink this much, I black out and then I do the filthiest, half-remembered things that I completely hate myself for. My Napa sex parties may be popular with the Silicon Valley elite who make the two-hour drive north from San Francisco, and my guest list may boast more start-up founders and CEOs than a venture capital fund, but certain people on a certain board don’t like them. I’ve been spanked and told to stop and apologize for past bad behavior—or else.

  I haven’t taken orders since earning my first billion dollars, and I’m definitely not apologizing for anything. Turning over a new, reformed leaf is also not part of my plans for tonight. Instead, I head for the music and lights of the nearby big top. The enormous tent wasn’t included with my purchase of the ten-thousand-square-foot château, although there’s more than enough room for it between the French-style formal gardens and the acres of grapevines. Tonight’s party theme is Fun Under the Big Top and I’ve imported an entire circus and midway, complete with a Ferris wheel, naughty arcade games and a three-ring show of sex acts. Waiters pass champagne and carnival food, but the snacks aren’t the focus of attention. That would be the acrobats building a complicated pyramid of naked bodies in a showy display of minuscule loincloths, sequins, muscles, tits and asses. I work up some applause and devote myself to draining the remainder of my bourbon.

  This is where the night starts to blur and jump thanks to what I’ve knocked back from the bottle of ridiculously expensive bourbon in my hand. Drunk me time-travels in tiny hops, skipping from one moment to the next so that I can gloss over the boring parts, like how I’ve got from a tent of naked people to the base of the Ferris wheel. I’m not blackout drunk, not yet, but I’m close. The ride spins in a dizzying circle, spokes flashing past me as the riders shriek.

  I’m thinking I do want sex. Dirty, filthy, anonymous sex. The kind that makes you hate yourself in the morning for what you were willing to do or let be done. The kind of sex that hurts and leaves a mark.

  So of course that’s when I spot the girl. Woman. She stands out, a quality about her, a hot, magnetic pull between us that gets my dick hard. Mostly, I want to fuck her, to drag her down to my level, but she has to say she wants this, too. That’s the one rule of my nasty game. You have to admit your secret wants out loud.

  She’s one of my few guests who hasn’t raided the adult aisle of the Halloween store for her costume. I mentally mark her up for that because she’s stunning anyhow, even all covered up. A black-and-white-striped dress bells out from the curve of her waist to mid-thigh, the hem decorated with a row of pom-poms. It’s more cute than sexy until I get to the red-and-white stockings in a naughty pair of red fuck-me heels. And as if she hasn’t hit all my hot buttons already, she wears fingerless gloves and carries a tiny black umbrella that she twirls as she tips her head back to watch first the Ferris wheel and then me.

  “Are you taken?” She grins at me, face still upside-down, her voice soft and irrepressibly mischievous. A black velvet mask conceals most of her features but strawberry-blond hair spills down her back in an unruly ponytail.

  “By you.” It’s cheesy, but entirely true. Right now, right here, I’m all hers and she’s welcome to do whatever she wants with me.

  She’s so completely covered up, I want to strip her bare, brush my mouth over the column of her throat and then move lower. I could fist her hair as I drive into her and make her scream with pleasure. Her eyes laugh at me, happy, pleased to be here.

  I really shouldn’t go near her.

  So of course I do.

  I stride right over until my shoulder is brushing hers when she straightens.

  As soon as I touch her, as soon as I pull on the ties of the mask until they sag in my hand, I realize that there’s an obstacle to my hookup plan. My little strawberry blonde isn’t a beautiful stranger. She’s a gate-crasher.

  Hana Valentine.

  My best friend’s sweetheart of a little sister. It’s too late to put her mask back on, so I shove it into my pocket.

  Twenty-three now, but still way too nice and far too innocent for my kind of game.

  “I didn’t invite you.” Drunk truth at its finest.

  She grins at me. “I borrowed Jax’s invitation.”

  “Felonies are frowned upon, Ms. Valentine.” I wait for her to look guilty, but she just stands there staring at me and my brain cells have clearly been replaced with bourbon because I stare right back. Sixteen-year-old A.H. Hirsch doesn’t lend itself to logical decision-making. So I give in and do what I want—I’ll feel bad about it in the morning, which was the plan all along, right?—rather than calling for security like I should. Her hair feels so soft beneath my fingers, and she doesn’t protest at all when I wrap its length around my fist and gently draw her backward. Instead, her eyes flare with excitement, making me think she has a hidden submissive side.

  Her hair...her hair is something else, fresh-smelling, like cucumbers and herbs, summer and the outdoors. Or maybe those are just the memories of our Berkeley summers. She grew up in the house next door and I used to see her all the time. I shove those thoughts in a box and toss the box into my mental dumpster. It’s not as if I care about her hair. Or her. In my world, my ladies wear whichever scent I like best. The last thing I want to admit is that she could be special.

  I pull her tighter against me and she comes willingly, still sweetly submissive, her body melting into mine. Her back cradles my front and I’ve missed a few important memos about Hana Valentine. Firstly, she’s grown up since we met as kids in Berkeley. I wait a beat, absorbing the sexy, soft give of her body. I don’t want to feel this, not with her, but the longer I hold her, the less I can fight the feeling. Because secondly, something has shifted between us from when I spotted her and when drunk me decided it was okay to t
ouch her because it would feel good now and I’d thoroughly regret it later.

  Time skips again.

  Now she rides my thigh as I press it between hers, and I can barely register the searing heat of her because I’m back to trying to figure out when she grew up on me. She’s more pocket-sized than tall, although I’m a big bastard, so she shouldn’t have the upper hand. Bourbon. I blame the bourbon. I feel her gaze move over my face as she tilts her head against my shoulder, the better to watch me.

  I’m totally letting her do this.

  This is my choice to allow her to take control, to lead.

  I am such a liar.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Hana.”

  She shrugs, her dimples peeping up at me. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t move away. Instead, she bears down gently on my thigh, as if she’s making her pussy goddamned comfortable on me and it’s no big deal.

  “Does that make me a bad girl?” It’s cute, the way she tries to talk dirty. She blushes and then she laughs because she knows she sounds funny, too. It’s like one of those bad pun games that get funnier the drunker you get.

  “No.” I tuck her more tightly against me and push my thigh slowly up. She’s wet and I need to find out if it’s for me.

  “You’re looking at me.” She sounds breathless. It matches how I feel inside, which is really unacceptable.

  “Yes.” I run my finger down that smooth curve of skin, from her ear to her collarbone. “I am. You don’t belong here. I didn’t ask you.”

  “Sometimes I like to break the rules, Liam.”

  My dick throbs from its contact with her and my bastard side wants to shove her dress up and show her what happens to bad girls when they trespass in my kingdom. I’m just drunk enough that it seems like a good plan.

  Instead, I offer her the bourbon bottle. “Drink?”

  Her fingers close over mine, guiding the bottle to her mouth.

  “Are you corrupting me?” she asks when she comes up for air.

  “Don’t tell your brother.”

  Jax would kill me if I debauched his sister. Warm brown eyes assess me, as if she sees someone entirely different than I do when I look in the mirror. She’ll be disappointed when she learns the truth.

  “Are you okay?”

  Not really, but I don’t talk about it. Not ever.

  I press my lips against her throat instead. She’s mouthwatering, too sweet for a man like me. If I’d ever thought about this darling off-limits girl, I’d have imagined her doing it missionary style in a bed, on her back, her arms wrapped around her lover with candles or mood music to set the scene. Boring stuff.

  I let her go. Or try. My free hand slides down her arm, my fingers tangling with hers. The shock of pleasure is unexpected but addictive, as are the words that fly out of my mouth. “Ride with me.”

  Fuck, I’ll hate myself in the morning.

  She lets me pull her toward the Ferris wheel, but apprehension flashes across her pretty face for the first time. “Am I safe with you, Liam?”

  “Always.” Right then, I mean it. I won’t do anything to hurt her, not permanently, or so I think. I lie when I’m under the influence, too.

  Hana is just so very Hana. I haven’t spent all that much time with her because she’s Jax’s little sister, five years younger than me. I double-check mentally once more just to make sure. She’s old enough, although it’s probably alcohol math doing those sums. But I’ve always liked her, the way you like dogs and cats, distant family members, and the Starbucks barista who pretends to be interested in your life. She’s one of those super nice people who smiles a lot and never says shit about anyone. Frankly, she’s too nice for her own good and Jax worries about her.

  I would, too, if she were mine.

  Her gaze bounces from couple to couple, amusement and arousal crossing her expressive face as she realizes what they’ve been doing on the Ferris wheel. She’s smart. She immediately flashes ahead to thinking about what we could do to each other. I look at her big eyes and I know I’m going to show her more. I’m a bastard, but she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. Maybe she’ll blame the bourbon, too.

  When we board, she curls up on my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck as if I’m safety net enough. The carny running the ride shrugs and adjusts the safety bar, putting the belt around the two of us. I’m sure he’s seen it all tonight and I don’t feel like letting go anyhow.

  The wheel shoots into motion and Hana shrieks. She’s a curvy girl, sweet and hot on my lap, and I’ll fucking hold on to her to the moon and back so she doesn’t need to worry about falling off or getting hurt that way. I don’t deserve this chance, but consequences are for tomorrow and time skips faster and faster.

  Skip.

  Hana squeals as the wheel reaches its zenith and then plummets downward. Her arms tighten around my neck, her thighs gripping my waist. This was the best worst idea ever.

  Skip.

  Skip.

  We skim over the ground, my circus, the carnies, the whole party a drunken blur of lights and watchers. Hana’s fingers dig into my hair, pulling my face toward hers, and I kiss her. I’ve never been so aroused, so turned on for another person’s touch before. My thumbs trace her cheeks and those damned dimples, holding her in place for my kiss.

  She trembles in my arms, all heat and need, and of course I’m lost. This is bad, even for me. This is the ultimate line and I’m throwing myself across it. I open my mouth and cover hers, erasing the distance between us. Her lips are softly submissive, parting when my tongue presses for entry. I make a rough sound and she sighs, her tongue stroking gently against mine. Too soft, too easy. I kiss her harder, deeper, angling her head so I can take all of her. She lets me, her hands pulling at my hair as she meets each slide of my tongue with hers, answering my groans with needy sounds of her own.

  Skip.

  Skip skip...

  I’ve pushed her skirt up around her waist and lean back to see panties. They’re pink and lacy and I can’t look away as I touch between her legs for the first time. Her surprised gasps and greedy moans drive me crazy. She’s all I can think about as I shove her panties to the side and push a finger into her. She’s hot and tight, then hot and yielding as she makes room for me inside her.

  “Is this what you want, Hana?”

  “Yes.” Her hands pull at my shoulders as she licks and bites at my throat for punctuation.

  “Good girl.” I add a second finger, testing her reaction, and she moans louder. This is what I love, the feeling of being in control, of pushing her body higher, faster, tighter. I circle her clit slowly, teasing her, and am rewarded with another moan.

  How drunk is she? Probably too drunk. It feels like we’re flying, so I hold her extra tight as we swoop down from the top and the ground soars up to meet us. It’s not free fall, but it’s close.

  Hana murmurs something, startled. I nip her bottom lip, tasting the alcohol on her mouth. I’m drunk-slow or maybe that’s just the Ferris wheel gliding to a halt.

  “Get me down now.” She buries her face in my throat, which means I can’t kiss her anymore. “God, I’d marry you if you just got me down.”

  “Deal,” I growl, my voice bourbon-rough.

  I shouldn’t, but I’m going to. I’ll add Hana to the list of things I’ve touched and made dirty.

  Skip.

  We’re back in the big top, but this time I’m in the ring rather than the stands and the tent has mostly emptied out. Outside the sky has that not-dark, not-quite-light quality it gets when dawn and regrets are coming fast. The bourbon is long gone. The ringmaster looks at me, and my beautiful girl giggles. I don’t remember how we got here, but it was my idea. I’m pretty sure I remember that.

  “It’s your turn.”

  So I say it. “I do.”

  Skip.

  Skip.

>   ...

  CHAPTER ONE

  WE’RE A NO GO

  Liam

  MY EYES ARE CLOSED, but the morning sun turns my vision red. My bones—along with my head and my morning wood—decide this is the perfect moment to start aching like a motherfucker. It’s my first clue that I did it again. I bite the inside of my cheek while I take stock.

  I end up in places I shouldn’t when I drink.

  I also do things I shouldn’t. Admittedly on purpose, to make myself feel bad, but still.

  Mentally, I review what I know, which turns out to be absolutely nothing.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Breathe in.

  See? I recognize the panic. It’s what I deserve. I don’t know what I did last night because I was out of control. Blackout drunk like my asshole dad when he’d finally come home after weeks or months away and then get into it with my mother.

  Mission thoroughly accomplished.

  Picking my way along the road of last night’s memories yields nothing helpful. The memories’ disappearance correlates with the decreasing level in my bourbon bottle. I’d been drunk. I’d partied. I’d...

  Done something.

  No.

  Someone.

  This last guess is cheating because I’m not alone in the bed. My arms clutch a curvy, naked body close. The last thing I want is company. And particularly not the female kind. Mornings after come with more expectations than Christmas does presents.

  I disappoint when it comes to relationships. My sexual repertoire doesn’t include explanations, apologies, commitments or anything other than straight-up dirty sex. It works better for all parties involved if I put out and then get out before expectations are engendered. I turn my face into the hair of my sleepover companion. She smells clean and sweet, like fruit and something herbal.

  I like it.

  I need to figure out who I screwed. Then I’ll reach out to my lawyer and he’ll draft an NDA with the appropriate legal names and financial incentives. I spend a moment trying to blind guess who my companion is but last night is fuzzy, the details blurred other than some truly spectacular sex, and even that is more highlights reel than full-length documentary. I’ll have to ask. Or at least open my eyes. I’ve seen too many acquaintances burned badly to let a random hookup escape without signing. If I intend to start sleeping with random unknown girls on a regular basis, I should institute a name tag policy. Hello, My Name Is... stickers to make everything easier. The benefits of being the party host.