Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Read online

  Seven was the literal polar opposite, and something about him just…touched off weird, powerful little explosions inside me.

  At some point, after who knew how many drinks and hours, Seven consulted his watch. “It’s after one in the morning.”

  I fumbled my phone out of my purse and verified his statement. “Holy shit. I have a showing at nine thirty tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got filming myself.” He gazed down at me. “Drive you home?”

  “Sure.” I shouldn’t. Really, really, I knew I shouldn’t. But I wanted him to drive me home.

  He pulled a phone out of his back pocket, made a call. “Bruce, hey. Yeah, it’s Seven. I’m at Shank’s. Can you deliver my car to me? Cool…I mean, do you trust him with that car? If you do, then sure. Give him a shot. But Bruce, you know Freddy’ll have your ass for a lampshade if that kid fucks up my Venom. Warn him, okay? It’s a goddamn rocket ship. One wrong touch of the accelerator and you’re in a fuckin’ flat spin…Okay, but it’s your ass if he fucks it up. Okay. Give your kid a shot.”

  I listened, amused. “Perk of fame, huh?”

  “Perk of having worked out with Fredrick Lyons since he was a pimply dork with an Oedipus complex.”

  I snorted. “An Oedipus complex?”

  He laughed. “Not literally. His dad married a woman more than twenty years his junior when Freddy was fifteen. His new stepmother was twenty-four, and a fuckin’ smokeshow. All of Freddy’s friends had the hots for her, me included, and Freddy too. I mean, it was impossible not to. The woman hated clothes. That’s the only thing we could figure out, then, since she walked around all but naked pretty much all the time, and sometimes actually naked, and usually for no immediately apparent reason. Like, not even at the pool. Just in the kitchen eating, or in the den reading a magazine. Poor fuckin’ Freddy, man. The kid was hopelessly in lust with her, and couldn’t do a damn thing about it, just like the rest of us poor saps. But let me tell you, Freddy’s house was the place to be, while his dad was married to Candi.”

  “Her name was actually Candy?”

  “Candi, with an I,” he clarified, laughing. “And yes. I mean, as far as anyone knew.”

  “And it didn’t last, between Fredrick’s dad and Candi-with-an-I?”

  He snorted. “Nah. Lasted four years or so, but then she got a better offer from someone with more money or something. I’m assuming it was about money. The dude she hooked up with had a Maybach and a driver, whereas Freddy’s dad only had a Bentley he drove himself. Seems like Candi-with-an-I was upgrading sugar daddies. But far be it from me to judge. I slept many a night on that man’s couch, and ate a whole shitload of his food, so who he married and why is his business.”

  “It’s weird I know this about Fredrick Lyons when I’ve never met him. I mean, everyone who knows good restaurants in LA knows Fredrick Lyons. He’s one of the big up-and-coming restaurateurs.”

  Seven laughed. “He’d be thrilled to know that. He’s a foodie, my guy Freddy. It’s all about the food. He’s just gotten fancy about it, after inheriting his dad’s money.”

  His phone lit up in his hand, a text coming through. “Car’s here. You ready?”

  “Are you nervous about the car?”

  He shrugged. “It’s my baby, so a little, but Bruce is picky about who he hires, and he wouldn’t let just anyone drive my Venom, even to park it or bring it around front. I’m sure this kid is someone he’s grooming.”

  Once again, Seven paid with an exorbitant pile of cash, and then led me through the bar by the hand. His black-and-yellow mean machine hypercar was waiting outside the door, and as Seven exited the building, a short, stocky Hispanic kid no more than twenty carefully slid open the driver’s door and stood, clearly shaking in his boots. Whether from the drive or because of Seven, it wasn’t clear.

  “Not a scratch, Mr. St. John, I swear,” the kid said in clear, accented English. “I take the best care of your car.” He widened his eyes. “Very, very strong, the motor.”

  Seven made a slow circuit of his car, assessing. Peeked into the cockpit, nodded. “Good job. Clean, no smells, and the odometer shows you came right here.”

  “No joyrides, señor. Never. Mr. Bruce, he is very clear about this.”

  Seven reached into his pocket again, pulled out his cash, counted some off, folded it, stowed the stash back in his pocket and handed what he’d counted to the young valet. So far, all the bills I’d seen Seven peel off had been hundreds, and he never asked for change, and always tipped to the point of absurdity. Judging by the way the kid’s eyes bugged out, I assumed Seven had just paid the kid several hundred dollars.

  “Key?” Seven asked.

  The valet gestured politely into the interior of the car. “In there, sir. Cupholder.”

  “Great. Thanks.” He smirked at the kid. “So now you have to walk back, or what?”

  The kid nodded, shrugging. “It is a good night for a walk. I do not mind. Thank you very much, sir. Good night.”

  “Night, kid.” He opened the passenger door, held my hand as I lowered myself in.

  I wasn’t quite as graceful getting in this time, nor as assiduous about making sure my skirt stayed pulled down—and I noticed Seven wasn’t at all shy about letting his gaze linger on the long expanse of thigh that my hiked-up skirt showed.

  He hesitated before lowering the door into place, his gaze raking up to my eyes, and then sliding slowly back down my body, lingering yet again on my thighs.

  I just watched him looking at me, feeling my nerves sing, my desires rage. I was tempted to let my thighs fall open. Show him a little more. I wasn’t like this, usually. I didn’t play hard to get, but I didn’t give it away, either. Let them work for it a little, that was my game. Show me you want me, show me you’re willing to put in some effort.

  Seven didn’t have to work, didn’t have to prove anything. With him, my needs were on fire, my desires at full boil. I wanted him.

  Finally, he shut the door, and as he rounded the hood, I could see his mouth moving as if he was muttering to himself, and he scrubbed at the back of his head as if frustrated with himself somehow.

  The drive back was much slower.

  “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable driving right now,” I said, by way of gauging his fitness to be behind the wheel.

  He grinned. “I switched to plain soda water when you went to the bathroom that last time.”

  I frowned at him. “And you didn’t tell me? I would’ve stopped then too.”

  He laughed, shook his head. “Nah. Why do you think I didn’t? You don’t have to drive, I do. It’s all good.” He glanced at me as we stopped at a light. “You’re a very fun date, Autumn.

  “I’m a fun date, huh?”

  He nodded, his attention turning back to the road. “That’s a big compliment, in my book. Most dates are boring. To be perfectly honest, most of the dates I go on are just…an assessment to figure out if I have enough chemistry to go beyond the date with her. Meaning, I’m usually just tolerating boring bullshit conversation until it’s time to take her to her place and fuck.”

  “But not me.”

  “I enjoyed every minute with you, Autumn. Talking to you is more fun than I’ve had with clothes on in a long, long time.”

  “You must not like rollercoasters, then.”

  He burst out laughing. “No, not really. I take this beast to the track sometimes, and I open it up. That’s my idea of a rollercoaster.” His laughter faded, and the grin turned from amused to heated and predatory. “Are you a screamer, Autumn?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “A screamer.” He held my gaze for a brief moment. “On rollercoasters. Do you scream?”

  I gulped. “Yeah, I am—I do. On good ones, at least. It’s not easy to make me scream, though.”

  “Challenge accepted.” He was focused on the road, ostensibly, but I felt his attention on me. “Making you scream is going to be a hell of a lot of fun.”

 
; “You’re going to take me to ride rollercoasters, next?”

  “I am the rollercoaster, Autumn. I can even make you go upside down.”

  Holy shit holy shit. That was very, very direct. Not even a pointed innuendo—that was a direct promise.

  We arrived at my condo building, and he pulled to a stop in front of the doors.

  I let out a soft breath. “You, uh, want to come up? For a nightcap, maybe?”

  He put the car in park, pressed the button to shut off the engine. “Sure. A nightcap sounds good.”

  Tommy, the doorman, had a smile for me, and a subtle assessing stare for Seven. “Have a good evening, Miss Scott?”

  “Sure did, Tommy, thank you.”

  He glanced again at Seven. “Ya’ll behave, now.”

  Seven just regarded him steadily, pressed a hand to my lower back possessively.

  The elevator ride was silent. I was feeling a thousand things. Nervous, eager…

  Dizzy.

  The last few Titos and soda were hitting me hard, suddenly. Which was bad timing, on my metabolism’s part. I’d had other plans for my buzz, and they didn’t include the wobbly, one-and-a-half vision, or the subtle nausea.

  They included Seven, in my bed. Or maybe even my couch. Or the wall.

  I didn’t plan on being picky.

  I may not have wanted Zoe and the girls to put up that ad, and I had no intention of going through with the…deeper substance…of what the ad was about. But, it had brought a super sexy and intriguing man into my life, and at very least I could play that for what it was worth.

  Namely, an orgasm or three, brought to me by the sinful sexiness of Seven St. John.

  Now, if only I could get my inebriation level to cooperate.

  I breathed slowly, through my nose, closed one eye. Focused hard on feeling normal. Feeling buzzed and good, not drunk and icky.

  This is why I stuck with wine, also. I could drink red wine all damn day long, and as long as I put some water in with it now and then, I’d be buzzed but fine nearly indefinitely. Vodka? It was sneaking up on me in the worst way and at the worst possible time.

  The elevator doors opened, and I gestured to the left. “I’m this way.”

  I held on to his arm, inhaled his scent. There was something beneath the leather of his cuff and the cologne and the natural male scent. What was it? Vanilla? Cedar? Something, and it was delicious and I couldn’t identify it and it was, as I’d told him, making me unbearably horny.

  If was a man, I’d have a hard-on right now. Being a woman, however, all I had to show for it was serious pair of headlights and a slick, warm, juicy feeling between my thighs.

  I opened my purse and hunted for my keys, which had the unfortunate effect of making me stumble over my own feet. I felt Seven stiffen beside me, heard him sigh ever so slightly.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah,” I lied, “just had my heel catch.”

  At my door, I managed to unlock and get in without embarrassment. Fortunately, I kept things pretty neat in the kitchen and living room, but if things got as far as the bedroom, I’d have to go tornado to clean up the discarded outfits I’d tried on.

  I flicked on a few lights, set my purse on the counter. Was I moving more slowly than normal? I was focusing extra hard on walking in a straight line, and seeing only one of things.

  I had a chance, here, with Seven, and I didn’t want to mess it up by seeming like a lush.

  I put my backside to the island, one hand propped on the edge. Smiled at him. “Hey.”

  He smirked at me. “Hey.”

  I didn’t want another drink, but I’d invited him up for one. How did I get out of that?

  “I’m good with water,” he said, his smirk shifting to a wry grin. “Or coffee. Or whatever.”

  “I have an espresso machine,” I said gesturing at the sleek red machine on my counter. “I could make you a latte.”

  He chuckled. “I’m more of a straight espresso kind of guy.”

  “Coming up.”

  I managed to pull him a decent set of espresso shots on the first try, and pulled a can of sparkling water out of my fridge for myself.

  I was hoping he would make the first move, but I was willing to…nudge things along. I brought my water and stood in front of him, sipping now and then without taking my eyes off of him. It was a taut tableau, his eyes on mine as he sipped straight espresso like it was fine whiskey, his expression unreadable. Weird how quickly he could go from expressive and open to stone-faced.

  I sidled closer, then. He was just inside my kitchen, just standing there in the middle of the floor, which didn’t provide me with a wall or counter as a prop for posing…or helping with my vertical stability.

  I touched his knuckles. “I’ve been trying to read what’s on these all evening.”

  He set his empty espresso cup aside and clenched his fists loosely, pressed his index fingers of each hand together to present his knuckles all in a line: on his left hand, written to face the reader, LUST, and on the right, RAGE.

  “Lust and rage?”

  He nodded. “Reminders of my weakness. Also, mistakes of drunken youth.”

  I grinned. “Are you talking about the tattoo, or the vices?”

  “Both. I got the tattoos while young and drunk because I thought they looked and sounded badass. But lust and rage have both gotten me in a lot of trouble, so now I use the tattoos to remind me to be smart and calm, instead of indulgent and full of rage.” He smirked. “If I’d had more knuckles, I’d have gone with pride and wrath, two of the seven deadly sins, but that don’t fit on eight fingers.”

  I traced the letters, ornate old English lettering. I tapped his left hand. “I think I like this one best.”

  He used his right hand to touch my chin, my cheekbone, soft gentle touches, spider silk soft. “Same. Lust is by far my favorite sin.”

  I touched his chest just above the buttons of his shirt. “It’s not a sin if it’s not wrong.”

  He was close, towering over me. Staring down at me. His chest rose and fell heavily. He captured my hand in his, while his other hand, RAGE, tickled and teased over my shoulder, down my spine, to my lower back, coming to rest just above my butt.

  “True,” he murmured.

  He had one of my hands imprisoned within his, but I had another, and I used that one to unbutton his shirt a little more, and then a little more, until it was hanging open.

  “Autumn,” he breathed.

  I didn’t want to know what he was about to say. I could feel it. Maybe if I didn’t let him say it, this could keep going.

  I lifted up on my toes, let my lips brush the stubble of his jawline. “Seven,” I breathed back.

  RAGE drifted lower, molding over the upper swell of my ass. His touch was soft, gentle, almost hesitant. “Right and wrong are subjective, though,” he murmured.

  “Maybe we could have the philosophical discussion another time,” I suggested. “I had something in mind for your mouth other than talking.”

  I nipped at his lower lip. Freed my hand from his and ran both over his chest, feeling hard muscle and warm flesh. Lower, to his waist. The rim of denim just below his waistline. His navel. The cold metal button of his fly.

  Pop.

  Zip.

  “Autumn.” His voice was a deep, dark, frustrated growl. “Wait.”

  I pulled back, lowering to flat feet—and swayed in place. “I don’t want to.” I stared up at him, willing myself to see only one of him.

  “Me either.” He caught at one of my hands, stopping it from delving under the elastic of his underwear. “But we should—I have to.”

  “Why? I’m fully in possession of my faculties, Seven. I’m fine.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  I used my one free hand this time to reach up behind my back and tug down the zipper of my dress. Wiggled. Shimmied. Felt the straps slide off, down to my elbows, and then the slippery green material was pooled on the floor at my feet, leaving me in pale g
ray lingerie, lacy bra over my breasts and a barely-there thong.

  “Autumn. Goddammit.” He let me go and stepped back. LUST dragged across his lips, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched and flexing. Shirt open, revealing a broad hard chest, hard slab abdomen rippling with shredded power. “Fuck, woman.”

  “Fuck woman—that’s the general idea, yes.” I swayed on my feet again, and mentally cursed myself. “I’m a little tipsy, but that’s it, okay? I know what I’m doing. I know what I want.”

  He growled, a rumbling sigh of primal frustration. “You got no fuckin’ clue how bad I want to take you at your word, Autumn Scott.”

  “So take me at my word, then, Seven St. John.” I moved toward him. “I am sober enough to know I want this. I’m saying yes, with informed consent, Seven. I want you.”

  Jeans open, black underwear bulging out of the V, evidence of his desire for what I was offering pressing against the cotton prison, chest heaving, jaw flexing, Seven was all man, pure sensual power. Masculine sexuality embodied.

  I reached for him.

  His hands yet again imprisoned my wrists. Both of them, now. “If you were some random I picked up at a bar, I’d already be inside you, Autumn. I’d have fucked you up against this island, bent you over it, and had you on your hands and knees beside it already.”

  I quivered. There’s no other word for what my body did at the dirty words, the heated promise, the rough grumble of his voice. “Yes please, god yes, please.”

  “You’re not some random girl from the bar.”

  “I’m some random girl you saw an ad for on Instagram. Even more random, one could argue.”

  “My dick wants to agree with you.”

  “Listen to your dick, Seven.” I laughed. “I, a woman, am telling you to listen to your dick.”

  “Problem is, Autumn, you don’t feel like a random, to me.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  He rolled his heavy, blocky shoulders, half in a shrug, half to loosen tension; he kept hold of my wrist. “It means…shit. You’re making this so fuckin’ difficult, you know that? Those legs, that ass, those tits? You know how thin my control is? I’m this fuckin’ close to ripping that lace off you with my teeth and fucking you into next week.” He pinned both wrists in one hand. Touched my chin with the other. “But I’m not gonna. I won’t. Not yet.”