Merry with a Brewmaster (The Love Beach Holiday Collection)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

VIENNA

AUGUST

“ O h fuck, just like that. God, you take me so good.”

“Why do you always act surprised by that?”

Wells grips my hips and drives up into me, our skin slapping together as I brace my hands on his chest and grind down to meet his every thrust.

“Not surprised,” he says as his palm spanks me once and makes me gasp, “just pissed we can’t keep doing this after tonight.”

“I told you not to fall in love with me.” The words are a half moan, half growl as my orgasm builds, my walls fluttering the slightest bit.

“Not fucking yet.”

“You don’t get to tell me?—”

Wells spanks me again, his other hand digging into my hip as he pistons up into me. “Tonight I do; tonight I get to own your body and then tomorrow you can take your attitude and find someone else to put up with your crazy.”

“You can’t get enough of my crazy.”

“Stop talking and come all over me.” The bed scrapes against the floor, the frame squeaking under us as Wells fucks me harder, until I’m screaming his name and he’s cursing mine.

It’s explosive and raw—just like us—every minute we’re together.

And I hate that I’m going to miss him.

A chance encounter at a bar one of my first weekends in Love Beach became an all-out summer affair. We’d agreed it would be all fun—no strings—and mostly it had been. The way my body melts against his wasn’t part of the deal, but damn if I can stop it.

Collapsing on his chest, I feel his fingers tangle in my hair and rake along my scalp as his chest heaves under me. These moments are the only times we’re silent—the sass and snark a cover for the feelings I refuse to give voice to.

Because in a different world, in a different life, things between Wells and me would probably work. But I know myself, and I’m terrible at long-distance relationships, and he’s made it clear that he’s only here temporarily while I’m trying to build a life in Love Beach.

Hell, I wasn’t supposed to be here this long either. My best friend and I had only returned to her hometown for the summer to work and plan her parents’ anniversary party. And we’d done all of it—but we hadn’t returned to our teaching jobs in North Carolina.

A spark of inspiration had blossomed inside me, and I couldn’t let go—I didn’t want to. Teaching had been amazing, but it paled in comparison to my love of flowers, and suddenly an idea had snowballed into being able to leave my mark on the community I’d grown to love.

Every day, I’m one step closer to making The Greene House, my dream floral shop, a reality, and I won’t let anything stand in my way.

Not even the sexy, older man currently trailing his fingers up and down my spine.

“I’m taking the shirt,” I murmur into his chest, making him chuckle as he wraps his arms around my back.

“Absolutely not. That’s my favorite shirt.”

“It’s my favorite,” I defend because it is my favorite shirt—on him at least. For whatever reason, the sea-green color really makes his eyes pop, and it’s deliciously soft and stretches perfectly over his chest and shoulders.

It’s the shirt he was wearing the night we met, and while I’ve never been sentimental, something about this shirt just does it for me.

“It’s my lucky shirt.”

“It is not.” I laugh as I press a kiss to his lips.

“Sure it is. I scored you in it, didn’t I?”

“I am a catch,” I muse as his hands slide down under the sheet to cup my ass.

“Yeah, like one of those monster swordfish that takes three guys to try and reel it in but the line ends up snapping because the fish is like, ‘ nice try, y’all.’ ”

“I can’t tell how I feel about you sayin’ y’all. ”

“That was the problem in my analogy?”

“I found it quite flattering.”

“I bet you did,” he rumbles, the words teasing and gravelly. I can’t help rocking my hips, his cock starting to harden with him still inside me. Wells grunts and grips my ass harder to hold me still. “As much as I’d like to think I could go again right now, I’m gonna need a little recovery time.”

“Ugh,” I scoff, “it’s a good thing this is our last time together. I don’t know how people manage dating old guys.”

His eyes widen and his mouth drops open, and I can’t hold back my giggle at the absolute indignation written all over his face. “I’ll show you old,” he growls, rolling me onto my back and pulling out. Grabbing a tissue from the nightstand, he wraps the condom up and discards it, his chest heaving as he throws my legs over his shoulders and buries his face between my thighs.

I cry out, his tongue absolutely relentless as he punishes me for calling him old and undoubtedly for this being our last night. Because I feel it too.

This thing between us is something special.

But it can’t last.

The good things never do.