Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

But this was not just that.

Every physical sensation had an emotional trigger point. He felt every thrust into her body like it was happening all over. In his chest, behind his trachea, deep in some unknown part of his gut. He couldn’t get close enough to Josephine, couldn’t keep his mouth off her delicious skin, trying to afford her as much pleasure as she was giving him, as if that were possible. He licked her neck, bit into the slopes of her shoulders, bruised her mouth with kisses, all while rocking into her body with a ferociousness he would have been ashamed of if she didn’t have her nails dug into his ass, screaming at him to go faster.

He framed her jaw firmly in his hand, tilting her face up. “All right, baby. Just keep your legs open and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

They fucked like Armageddon was right around the corner.

And they looked right into each other’s eyes while it happened.

Wells was on the verge of coming the entire time, because sweet hell, what she’d done to him in the shower would live forever in his spank bank, but he refused to let himself finish because then it would be over. And he never, ever wanted his time inside Josephine to be over. This full-body event that was shaking him, inside and out.

But then she started arching her back and making hiccupping sounds, her hands flying from his ass to the bedspread, twisting it in twin grips. He felt her pussy start to pulse with more insistence and there was no way he could hold off any longer.

Christ. He was done for.

She was the most beautiful goddamn thing he’d ever seen and so fucking tight, he was plagued with the urgency to fill her up. Mentally pleading with his balls to wait just a little longer, Wells reached down and used his middle and ring finger to play with her clit, shouting a curse when he felt exactly how soaked she’d gotten while he fucked her so unbelievably hard. She moaned at his touch, hands twisting and back arching, showing her bouncing tits off to him like a fucking meal—and thank God she hit her peak at that moment, because he went off like a bomb.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he dragged out, rubbing her clit as long as possible before he had to find his own anchor, planting a fist on the bed so he could get those final, deep strokes that were made a million times more incredible by her clenching flesh, her husky cries of his name. “Fuck taking breaks from each other, Josephine,” he rasped in her ear, raking his mouth over it from side to side. “You feel how done I am with breaks from you, baby?”

“Yes.”

He gave her one last, rough drive, making her gasp, the final dregs of hunger and pressure and misery leaving his body. “Say you’re done, too,” he demanded.

“I’m done. I’m done!”

“Damn right you are,” he growled, licking the sweat from her throat like a certified wild animal freed from its cage for the first time. Wells collapsed onto Josephine, perspiration and water cooling on their skin for long, heavy minutes, before he tucked her into his side, wrapped them in the comforter, and finally, finally, got to hold his caddie in a bed.

They were asleep in seconds.





Chapter Twenty-Seven




Josephine opened her eyes and stared at the outstretched man hand resting on her pillow. Perhaps it was her vigorously satisfied libido talking, but my goodness, that was the most beautiful hand she’d ever laid eyes on. Had it been sculpted by Bernini? Blunt fingernails and calluses and color from the sun. It was attached to the firm biceps beneath her cheek and she had the urge to sit up and study the rest of him, but that would require moving and that wasn’t happening. Not yet.

The steady in and out of Wells’s breath sifted through her hair and warmed the nape of her neck, every inch of his contoured chest rising and falling against her back. Their legs were tangled together, her bare butt tucked into his lap—and while the rest of Wells was asleep, there was a certain part of him that was wide awake.

Josephine was torn between the urge to rub her backside against him, to tempt him into a replay of what they’d done last night—and never moving again. Ever. Why wouldn’t she lie there in the hazy dawn light as long as possible with someone she’d fallen for? If missing him horribly for a week hadn’t been enough to convince her that Wells had wiggled his way under her skin, yesterday would have done it.

You have no idea what it’s like to miss you, baby.

This human being had kicked down her door, both literally and metaphorically.

She’d never seen him coming. Not like this. Perhaps because she’d known him first as a celebrity, not a real person, the way she did now. How could she have known he would balance her like he’d been born for the job? Respect, challenge, arouse, and protect her, all at once. Make her feel passionate enough to fight and laugh in the same breath.

What was she going to do about him?

The screen of Josephine’s phone lit up on the nightstand. Probably an alert from her glucose monitor, but she reached out anyway, careful not to move from her position against a sleeping Wells. Her breath caught when she looked at the screen, however, because it was not her monitor going off, it was an alert from her checking account.

The sponsorship money from Under Armour had landed.

The high five-figure amount was substantial, but not quite enough to cover the dream renovation. She’d reluctantly spoken with her parents about fronting the rest of the cost until their disaster relief funds came in—or Wells won big, and she received her cut. Whichever came first. Which meant that she could give the contractor the green light to make all of the improvements to the Golden Tee, effective immediately. He’d given her a two-week timeline and then the shop would be ready to stock with inventory. Shortly after that, it would be up and running again. But where would that leave her and Wells? Would she just . . . pass off her responsibilities to another caddie and go back to watching him on television?

They’d entered into this arrangement knowing it was temporary, but that was before . . . well, before. The former number one golfer in the world was asleep in her bed and he’d made it very clear he didn’t want to take any more breaks. If Josephine was being honest with herself, she didn’t relish the idea of spending long periods away from Wells, either. But her lifeblood, her family legacy, her heart, was here in Palm Beach and she couldn’t ignore the Golden Tee forever. Furthermore, she didn’t want to.

Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Josephine made the painful decision to disentangle herself from Wells and slide out of bed, releasing a breath when he grumbled in his throat. But he just rolled over in a bare-chested sprawl and went back to snoring quietly, his morning wood very prominently tenting the sheet.

The fluttering sensation in her rib cage was so intense, she had to turn away from the big, gorgeous sight of him and his sleep-mussed hair or she would never do what needed to be done. After putting on her robe and closing the bedroom door without a sound, Josephine made a cup of coffee, fortified herself with a few sips, and called the contractor.

Ignoring the dread in her belly, she gave him the thumbs-up to begin the work, effectively starting the countdown clock on her time caddying for Wells.

What other choice did she have? They had to pay rent to the club. A course needed a shop. Sure, they understood that the Golden Tee needed to rebuild after the hurricane, but they would eventually begin expecting monthly payments. Life moved on and it moved fast.

The coffee cup was halfway to Josephine’s lips when a very familiar sound greeted her ears—the back and forth of her parents’ bickering. And that sound was moving down the hallway toward her apartment door.