Best Laid Plans - Book 2: Best Laid Series, #2

By Robyn Kelly

Jillian isn't sure how the man sleeping next to her went from just a client to being both her boss and her Dom in less than a day. If he moves any faster, she might end up permanently collared before lunch!

Jackson has never had a sub-in-training quite like Jillian. Once he tames her temper and her smart mouth, he expects to have exactly the woman he's always wanted.
  
Lessons will be learned, secrets will be revealed, and the sex will get even hotter!
  
Best Laid Plans is a rom-Dom-com for readers who love alpha billionaires, steamy romance, and a good laugh. Each book has a happy-for-now ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robyn Kelly
• Release date: Feb 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393700524

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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Iwake up Sunday morning and squint at the alarm clock. I’m surprised to see it’s after eight. Jackson is curled up behind me, spooning me, with his arm still wrapped around my waist.

I remember waking up like this in the middle of the night. The comforter is the perfect weight for a single person, but when you have the body heat of a tall, broad man pressed against you, it is too hot. I sat up to roll the comforter down, and felt an iron grip around my waist pull me back into him. I tried prying his arm off, but he just tightened his hold and wrapped his legs around me. I heard him whisper, Mine. Was he awake? No, he was deep asleep. Talking in his sleep, repeating the word, Mine. I pulled the comforter off as best I could with my free arm, and settled in to the unmovable object beside me.

As I lay there, I didn’t feel all alone. Looking back over the last few years, I realize I have felt that. I’ve never said it, and I’ve never let myself think it, but I know I’ve felt alone. I know because it’s been a very long time since I’ve woken up with someone next to me, and I’ve missed it. I said a little gratitude prayer, matched my breathing to his, and fell asleep.

It’s been so long since I’ve been held, I’m probably enjoying this more than I should. Thinking is bad; feeling is good. What do I feel? I feel desired. I can’t remember the last time I felt that. Even our servers don’t hit on me, and they’re shameless womanizers.

But why Jackson? Granted, I’ve been attracted to him since I saw his hands all over Pippa. I’ve never had a physical pull to anyone as strong as this. But there’s something about his personality that’s even more fascinating. He’s not shy. The few men I’ve dated have wanted me to let them know I was interested. Jackson takes it for granted he can make me interested. Friday night he made me interested twice, despite the fact that I was hiding from him. I hated that attitude at first, but now I’m warming up to it.

He said he was going to give me the best fuck of my life, and he was true to his word. He takes sex as seriously as he takes work: he’s enthusiastic, communicates well, and is results oriented. I’ll be sure to mention that at review time.

He also told me he likes a woman to seduce him, and I can certainly see why. When I looked into Jackson’s eyes last night, I saw an intensity and a focus, and all of it directed at me. Knowing someone wants you that much is very arousing. I’ll have to return the favor.

How would I seduce Jackson? I’ll need to get that little black dress dry-cleaned again. He’ll probably rip it off me. As exciting as that sounds, I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

Jackson stirs behind me, and the arm around my waist tightens its grip as he pulls me closer. His chin scratches against my ear. You’re thinking again, aren’t you?

I’m thinking how good this feels. Is that allowed?

You like to play on the edge, don’t you? And I would so like to take you there, all day. Sadly, we used my one and only condom last night. I wasn’t sure I was even going to get the opportunity to use that.

You didn’t seem unsure of yourself last night. I was unsure enough for the both of us.

He kisses my shoulder blade. I wanted to get you so hot and bothered you’d do anything. I wanted to make you eager, and clingy, and very compliant. His hand reaches between my legs. I had to give you a little taste of how good it can be between us. Just me and clingy, compliant Jillian. A woman no one else sees. She only comes out for me. His other hand reaches underneath me and tugs at my nipple. I use my hands, and I use my tongue, and I use my teeth, and I use my voice. That’s how I coax her to come out and play.

He fingers my body like a musical instrument. I bend my neck, leaning my head back on him.

And there she is. His mouth nibbles at my ear. Lesson two. Beg me to fuck you.

What? We don’t have condoms.

I can hear that busy little mind of yours. I’m not going to fuck you. You said you don’t trust yourself. So trust me. I won’t do anything that puts you in harm, but I want to hear you beg. Beg for something you can’t have. Beg for my hard cock inside you.

His hands continue their relentless assault. You’re already wet. You want it. Tell me how much. You know it’s wrong but you don’t care. Beg me. Let everything go but this need.

His words tempt me, coaxing me into this dark, dangerous place. He slides two fingers inside me and they twist and turn. Beg for me inside you. Beg for nothing between us.

It is so tempting that the scared little voice in the back of my mind roars to life. Red! The word is out before I realize I said it.

Jackson stops, and withdraws his hands before he moves away from me. I broke the connection. I used the word that ends everything. He moves on top of the sheet and crouches over me. I can feel his warmth through the sheet, but not his skin.

Good girl. Now look at me. I’m not angry and I’m not disappointed. There are no repercussions. We were playing on the edge and you used your safe word. And I stopped. Remember that. Learn to trust me. Learn to trust me and let go.

My heartbeat returns to normal. Can I trust him? It would be one thing if sex with this man was just overwhelming my senses, but it’s also overwhelming my mind. So this was another lesson in letting go of control?

"No, that was the first lesson. All the other lessons are about giving me control." He stretches out next to me, still on top of the sheet. The barrier between us helps me relax. It may only be a thin piece of fabric, but when he glides his hand over my body, it feels like affection rather than foreplay.

I think I’m going to have to change the lesson plan. You’re not like the women I usually play with.

What do you mean?

Do you really want to know?

Do I? Don’t make me think about it—just tell me.

Usually the women I have…dated…have approached me. Because of the things I like, it’s easier to go with what’s in front of me. They have some experience in the scene, so I don’t have to explain things.

They don’t need the lessons.

Oh, there are always lessons. And last night’s lesson is always the first.

Oh, I say disappointedly. I thought it was something he planned just for me.

No, you’re not allowed to give me those sad puppy eyes. You asked me to tell you.

He’s right. I can’t complain now. And how am I not like the other women? What did I do wrong is the subtext.

They seem to think the first lesson is a test of wills. That they need to hold out for as long as possible. You’re the only one who got it. Who got that it’s not about what I do to you. It’s about what thinking does to you. And last night, watching you struggle and fight to hold on, and then surrendering….I get hard just thinking about it.

To emphasize his point, he presses himself against me.

You seem to get hard from just about anything.

Anything about you. Maybe a cold shower will help. He gets up off the bed, and I assume that was Jackson asking to use my shower.

Let me get you a towel. I realize I’m going to have to stand naked in front of this man in the daylight. I don’t know why that bothers me more than the things we did last night.

I rummage through the hall closet for the bath sheet and check to see whether it’s too threadbare. When I enter the bathroom, I hear the water running and stop to enjoy the view of Jackson, in all his glorious nakedness, stepping into the shower.

Good-bye compliant Jillian, and hello clingy Jillian. I lay his towel by the sink, and follow him. He raises an eyebrow when I hold my hand out to test the water. Just checking the temperature. It doesn’t feel that cold to me.

Next to a hot woman like you, it’s freezing. Would you like to lather me up?

I keep a collection of body washes on a rack. Bill used to call them my mood soaps. He claimed he could tell if I was happy, or mad, or frisky by which scent I chose. I wish I could have known how he felt.

Jillian, am I losing you?

I realize I have my sad face on, and shift it into a smile before I look up at him. I was thinking that all of my soaps may smell too girly for you.

I’m confident enough in my masculinity—bring on the girly soap.

I spy a small bottle of peppermint soap tucked in the corner. That’s perfect. I lather some into my hands and rub it over his enticing chest. I style his chest hair, and then spread the soap over his arms, before working my way down his mid-section. There’s a scar—probably from a boyhood appendix operation—but it’s the only less-than-perfect thing about the man.

I squeeze a little more soap into my hands and pretend I don’t notice him staring at me. My sudsy hands move onto his…manhood. (Why is it so embarrassing to call it what it is? I’m thinking of putting it in my mouth—so let’s get real—it’s a dick.)

Hmmm. I smell like chewing gum.

You smell like a candy cane. I lather it up. I still can’t believe I fit all of this inside me.

His eyes darken. Do you like candy canes?

Who doesn’t? I kneel, and let the water rinse him off. I place my hands around the base, before wrapping my lips over the top. I suck the air out of my cheeks and slide my tongue under the head. He moans in appreciation.

I should stop. I should stop every time he makes a sound. Give him a taste of his own lessons, but I enjoy hearing him moan. I want it—I want to drive him wild. I want to show him that I care as much about his pleasure as he cares for mine. My hands and mouth find a tempo that seems to turn him on the most. His breathing is shallow and his hips thrust, trying to encourage my pace.

I’m going to come, he growls.

I take him as deep in my throat as I can and slowly pull back, as my hands massage and manipulate the length of him that wouldn’t fit. I sit on my calves and watch as he shoots like a Fourth of July bottle rocket. My hands slow their pace until he reaches down and lifts me into his arms.

Let me catch my breath, and then I’ll return the favor.

It’s 68, remember? I do you and you owe me one.

I step out of his reach as quickly as possible. I poked the bear and need to get some distance. His laughter echoes in the shower stall as I dry off.

I look through the closet, searching for something that looks good and I won’t mind getting ripped to shreds. I’m not willing to sacrifice any of my jeans, so I grab the dark jade dress. The black diagonal lines are flattering, but the seams are scratchy. If it doesn’t survive the day, that’s fine with me.

I’m dressed by the time Jackson comes into the bedroom, totally naked and smelling like peppermint. I go through the motions of making the bed, but I’m actually just enjoying the view of him getting dressed. His could even make a wrinkled Walk of Shame look good.

I’d offer you breakfast, but my refrigerator went on the fritz Thursday, and building management hasn’t replaced it yet.

"Then please allow building management to take you to breakfast as compensation for the inconvenience." He’s turned on the sweet voice, and now I know why Mrs. Johnson gushed like a schoolgirl over a couple of yogurts.

We take the elevator down, and I’m surprised to find Ron waiting at the curb. Do these two have a psychic connection? I don’t remember Jackson calling him this morning. Ron opens the car door and we climb in. Before long, we stop at a familiar address.

I need to change. I won’t be long.

I try to hide my disappointment that he isn’t inviting me inside. That leaves me with nothing to do but talk to Ron. I’ve always found that when I’m at a loss for a topic of conversation with a man, I ask about their favorite toy.

What are you driving?

A Mercedes S600.

He’s a man of few words, but at least he’s responding. Did Jackson let you pick the car?

He asked me to suggest three models.

Was this your first choice?

No. Mr. Hunter pointed out my decisions were based on what was under the hood, and what was in the driver’s seat, but it was the person in the backseat who was paying for it.

Ouch.

He turns to me. Mr. Hunter can be very blunt, but he doesn’t hold a grudge. It’s best to always be honest and don’t make the same mistake twice.

That’s the most words I’ve ever heard him speak. Why does everyone want to give me dating advice lately?

Jackson returns in jeans and a black t-shirt under a gray hoodie. Wow is the only word that comes to mind. I see the appeal of ripping clothing off, but I’m afraid I don’t have his strength. I certainly don’t have his hands.

He smiles at me as he closes his door. How about Sears?

Sears Fine Foods, on Powell Street, is another San Francisco tradition. They’re famous for their Swedish pancakes, but I’m not in the mood to go downtown.

I believe it’s my turn to decide. Let’s go to West Portal Avenue. Manor Coffee Shop.

I’ve been going to the Manor for years. It’s an old-fashioned diner, with a counter and swivel chairs on one side, and red vinyl padded booths on the other. The walls are covered with ceramic Elvis statues, kitschy cookie jars, and other bric-a-brac. The Brunch Fairy is on our side, and our arrival is perfectly timed to get my favorite booth.

As we walk through the restaurant, the waitresses wave hello. They all know me and I start to hear: Jillian has a man.

I sit down at the booth, and he slides in next to me. He puts his arm around my shoulder and moves his mouth close to my ear.

Is that why you picked this place? So you can show everyone you have a date? Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something very public in front of all these people?

I hadn’t thought of that. He’s always a perfect gentleman when we’re not behind closed doors. But no one knows him here, so he might feel less inhibited.

I picked this place because you seem to like your restaurants from the 1950s, and this is my favorite. Do you see those counter stools with the little clips on the back of them? Do you know what they’re for?

He gets up from the booth, and suddenly it feels so empty. As he inspects the device, the woman sitting in the chair turns around. She has an annoyed expression until she sees his face, and then she gushes and blushes. It’s ridiculous, his effect on people. He slides back into our booth and presses me into the wall.

Enlighten me.

It’s to hang your hat on. They’re all original.

Well, next time we come here, we’ll wear hats and sit at the counter. Like a couple of hipsters.

We each order a traditional bacon and eggs breakfast and Jackson orders a short stack of pancakes. I’ve seen the man naked, and I can’t imagine him eating any carbs.

He asks me about my family. I tell him my mom died when I was fifteen. The only living relatives I have are my dad in Baltimore and my Aunt Celia in Wyoming.

And your husband? he asks casually. Too casually, I suspect, but I’m never comfortable with the question so I could be overreacting.

We were married right after college. He died in a car accident about five years ago. He may want to know more, but my clipped answer, and the fact that I shove food in my mouth, should let him know I’m done talking about it.

What are your plans today?

I hadn’t thought about it. Now that I’m going to be working for Jackson, I’d better update my wardrobe. I might do some clothes shopping.

I would love to help you with that. Shall we tear through Neiman Marcus?

Who knew the man had a sense of humor? Ross is more my speed.

I told you, I’m happy to replace anything, or supply you with anything you need.

Actually, I was thinking of ‘tearing through’ what’s in my closet. It’s time for new clothes, since I recently received an offer from Hunter Enterprises.

So practical, Ms. Whitkins. But we’ll need a few new things. I have a particular distaste for hand-me-downs.

Well, I don’t want to spend too much of your money, since I haven’t gotten the official offer yet.

I gave you the offer. Isn’t my word good enough?

I turn and look him in the eyes. I will need it in writing. I don’t want anyone to think I’m a bad businesswoman.

He stills. You’re not the kind to hold a grudge, are you?

Only with ghosts, but I put on a smile. No, I’m not. And you aren’t the kind who can’t take a little teasing, are you?

That’s exactly what I am. And that’s a very important thing for you to remember. Or we could have a lesson…

Uh-oh. I’ve poked the bear.

We could start the lesson here. His right arm, casually draped over my shoulder, slides down around my waist and tugs me tight against his side. His voice is low, and dangerously seductive. Women who tease me are usually trying to get some reaction out of me. What reaction are you trying to get? Aren’t I paying enough attention to you? Or do you like making me angry? Does it make you feel in control? What are you trying to do?

I’m trying to make you laugh. That stops him in his tracks. It’s nice to know I can befuddle the man. You’ve got three laughs I’ve heard so far. There’s the bark. It’s just a short burst—more like a burp—and you always look surprised when it happens. Then there was that low chuckle I heard last night. Kind of like an evil genius. For some reason, that turns me on. Then there’s my favorite. It starts right here. I place one hand on his chest. And just rumbles around in there for a few seconds, like a caged animal, before it moves up, and I let my fingers glide up toward his throat, and up, and up, and erupts here. I give him a quick kiss on the lips. I call that one the laugh orgasm.

He stares at me. He’s no longer trying to dominate me, but he’s giving me the lie detector gaze, searching for any deception. I just stare back at him. I’ve been honest and have nothing to hide.

His expression softens and I can tell he’s going to speak. He’s going to say something, and why do I feel it’s going to change everything? Three little words? It’s too soon, I know, but I keep thinking he’s a man who knows, just knows when something is too precious to pass by, and…oh my God, what am I doing? I had sex with this man and now I’m fantasizing we’re deeply in love. Is that the mindfucking that Minerva warned me about? I realize I’m thinking too much and he can always tell when I’m thinking, and I don’t want him to know I’m thinking all these crazy thoughts, but it’s his fault because he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen and he needs to say something, anything, but he needs to speak before I go crazy, and his lips start to move and—

Let’s go shopping.

Well, they are three words. Then I hear his laugh.

Was that the bark laugh? I nod. Well, I couldn’t help it. You’re the only woman I know who looks disappointed when I say ‘Let’s go shopping.’ What were you hoping to hear?

I honestly don’t know. But the thought of you around women’s clothing makes me nervous.

I can’t imagine why.

CHAPTER TWO

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When we get to the car, I have my emotions firmly in check. I make sure to always smile, nod when Jackson talks to me, and reply in short sentences. I don’t think he notices, but I can’t be sure, because I won’t look him in the eyes. I don’t trust myself to look him in the eyes.

The committee in my head is beginning to ask questions. How did I go from hating this man to this in less than forty-eight hours? How much of what I believe about him is just fantasy? Why do I think he would ever say those three little words to me? He didn’t even know how to say please until Saturday.

I just need to redefine our relationship. Jackson is not my lover. He’s a Boss with Benefits. Naming it helps me relax a little, and when I look back at Jackson, I am surprised to find him watching me. I can look him in the eyes now, and I smile. He doesn’t smile back. He just keeps staring. Maybe he’s trying to redefine our relationship, too.

We end up at Neiman Marcus (I can’t imagine Jackson in Ross, but I had to try). He knows where the elevator is, he knows what floor to go to, and most annoying of all, the saleswoman knows him.

She makes a beeline for us. Mr. Hunter. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I would guess she is in her late forties. Her nametag says Susan. She is fit and trim, and her eyes are glued on Jackson.

I’m here to get some things for Ms. Whitkins. He presses into the small of my back and pushes me between the two of them like a barricade. She needs everything.

Everything? Is that what the prince said to the milliner the day he woke Snow White with a kiss? Then I realize I’m comparing Jackson to a fairy-tale prince, and remind myself he’s my Boss with Benefits.

Susan’s chipper voice pierces my eardrums. Shall we start with undergarments? She heads away from Jackson, and I reluctantly follow. He did rip some clothing off me last night. I’ll let him replace what he tore, and then we’ll be even.

Susan holds out a pair of panties. Mr. Hunter has bought these in the past.

These are the ones Pippa wore at the party. The ones I kept trying to cover up. Now, in the light of day, I can see why Mr. Hunter likes them. They are a bikini panty. Skimpy and sexy—and so flimsy that they could almost tear themselves. The thought of wearing the standard issue panty doesn’t sit well with me.

Does he buy them in bulk? I ask peevishly.

The saleswoman smiles. She doesn’t join in bashing the man who pays the bill, but there is no judgment on her face either. They certainly train their staff well here.

We just received a new line. It’s still in the back. You’d be the first customer to see it.

I don’t have a poker face. I must remember that. She disappears and comes back with The One. They are more Victoria Secret than businesswoman, but the thing that appeals to me is that they look sturdier, and if Jackson is going to rip them off me, I think my Boss with Benefits should work a little harder at it. That attitude might not win me employee of the month, but I don’t care right now. I’ll take these.

How many would you like?

We’ll take a dozen. Jackson glides up beside me. I glower at him and he raises his eyebrow. Make that two dozen.

I’m not sure we have that quantity in stock, Susan says nervously. Or maybe sexily. I’m not sure. I’m lost in my own drama, and can’t deal with Susan right now.

Give us what you have and deliver the rest when they arrive. And obviously we’ll need some bras. 34 C. You know what I like. Two dozen.

Jackson knows my cup size? Well, he did spend an extraordinary amount of time on them. You have experience with this?

I read your labels. I was going to order all of these and have them delivered to you. Then I thought you would enjoy picking out your own. It seems I was mistaken.

Having a man buy me underwear isn’t quite as—Don’t say romantic—"fun as I had imagined.