Dirty Rich Cinderella Story: Ever After: Lori & Cole Read online

  DIRTY RICH CINDERELLA STORY: EVER AFTER

  LISA RENEE JONES

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the supplier and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at lisareneejones.com/contact

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.lisareneejones.com

  Table of Contents

  Dear Readers

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Dirty Rich Series

  Excerpt from Dirty Rich Obsession

  Excerpt from Dirty Rich Betrayal

  Also by Lisa Renee Jones

  About Lisa Renee Jones

  DEAR READERS:

  Dirty Rich Cinderella Story: Ever After is Cole and Lori’s second book. This is what happens on their honeymoon, and after! If you haven’t read their first book: Dirty Rich Cinderella Story, please be sure to read it first as that is where Cole and Lori’s story begins.

  Thank you so much for picking up your copy, and I hope you enjoy where Cole and Lori are about to take you!!

  xoxo,

  Lisa Renee Jones

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lori

  Honeymoon in Paris

  On our final day after a week in Paris for our honeymoon, Cole decides he wants to get us arrested. Not literally, but his actions say that’s exactly what he wants to do. After a day spent sightseeing, we dress up for an evening out with plans to visit our favorite little bakery for dessert and coffee. I wear a sexy red dress in a clingy material, with deeper cleavage than usual and a zipper that parts the dress top to bottom in the front. It’s a daring dress when I am not usually all that daring, but this is Paris and I’m with my husband. Cole personifies tall, dark and gorgeous in a blue button-down with dress slacks, and the way his eyes light on me as if he wants to gobble me up has heat rushing through my body.

  We enter the elevator of our hotel, and the minute the doors close, he pulls me to him. “You’re beautiful, wife,” he murmurs, his voice all rough-edged and sexy.

  My hand flattens on his chest, his heart thundering under my palm. “You’re not so bad yourself, husband.”

  I’ve barely spoken the words before his hand is at the back of my head and he’s crazy, hot, kissing me, his hands caressing a path up my back. I moan with the lick of his tongue, telling myself to stop this. We’re in a public place, but then his tongue is stroking mine again and I am lost, sinking into the hard lines of his body, only remotely aware of the ding of the elevator.

  Cole presses me into the corner of the car, and pulls his lips from my lips, his eyes burning into mine a moment before voices sound just behind him. A rush of people swarm the car and Cole settles against the wall, pulling my back to his front, the hard ridge of his erection nestling my backside. I am aroused, wet, aching all over for this man, and ready to go back upstairs. My hand closes down on his hand where it settles on my belly and the rest of the ride down is eternal until finally the car halts. Cole leans down and whispers in my ear, “I’m going to obsess over that zipper all night long.”

  My lips curve, a shiver racing down my spine as he nips my lobe. Yes. Please. Think about it. I love the Cole that wants and wants and wants more. That was the idea when I slipped into this dress. I am about to voice just that, but already he’s lacing his fingers with mine, leading me out of the car, and it’s only a few moments before we’re on the street, headed toward our dinner destination.

  A short walk from our hotel on Champs-Élysées, Ladurée is a cozy spot world-renowned for their macarons, which has caused me about a five-pound gain on this trip. They also serve dinner, and once we’re inside the bakery, we approach the hostess. Soon we are turning to the rooms on our right and headed up a staircase where we are seated at a tiny corner table. Everything is tiny in Paris, and while Cole’s leg is intimately pressed to mine, he’s forced to behave since I could practically lean and I’ll be touching the man next to me.

  Cole places our dinner orders for us with perfect, sexy French, a language that he apparently excelled at during school. I approve. Once the waitress leaves us alone again, we chat about our week and even our eventual caseload when we return home. I love that we are this connected. That we share so very much. I’ve never experienced this in my life, with anyone. Time flies by with us laughing, flirting and enjoying good food, as well as sweet, bubbly champagne. We’ve just finished off our dessert and coffee when Cole leans forward. “Look, sweetheart. Since we’re going home tomorrow, I need to fill you in on something.”

  My eyes go wide. “What something and why do I not know already?”

  “Because I wasn’t going to let you worry all week and before you panic, your mother is fine. I know that despite her recovery from her stroke, you worry, but it’s not about her. That said, you know that large trials can come with protestors, and you’re a protestor virgin no more. When you win a case, after the public prosecutes a client, like they did ours before we left for Paris, all hell breaks loose. We’ve had protestors at the office since we left, and that comes with random threats.”

  Again, my eyes go wide. “Threats?”

  His hands slide over mine where it rests on the table. “It happens. If I could keep you away from this stuff, I would, but it’s part of the job. And honestly, I didn’t think our win was one of those trigger cases. It was televised. It was pretty obvious that our client was innocent.”

  “Will they target my mother?”

  “Doubtful, but to be safe, I offered her and her new man a trip to the Hamptons to get out of the city for a while.”

  “And my mother refused,” I assume, reaching for my purse to retrieve my phone.

  “Easy, sweetheart,” he says, catching my hand again. “I convinced her to go. All is well and the only reason I’m telling you now, not in the morning, is that I knew you’d want to talk to her before we leave. With the time zone difference, that means tonight.”

  Tension rolls across my chest and down my spine. “Right. Okay.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “What are you thinking?”

  That I’m worried, I think but I say, “That I need to go to the bathroom.” I set my napkin down and stand up, barely avoiding the guy next to me as I hurry past our table an
d cut right toward a bathroom. I step inside the rather large room with no mirrors, two sinks, and four floor-to-ceiling doors, sealed shut. I’ve barely closed myself inside when Cole is joining me.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, and already his big hands are on my waist, and he is pressing me against the wall.

  “The bubble is not going to pop,” he says. “Nothing bad is happening. This is normal.”

  “I know,” I whisper, unsure how he’s just put what I feel into words when I haven’t even formed it into coherent thoughts until this moment.

  “You don’t know. You felt safe and then the rug was pulled out from under you when your father died. I’m not going to let that happen. You have me now. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  “I can,” he says, his voice deep, rich, his tone absolute. “I will.”

  “People die.”

  “Yes, but if I die, you’ll know how much I loved you. You’ll know I’m still with you.” He cups my face. “But you don’t get to get rid of me that easily. Whatever waits for us here, there, or anywhere, we’ll get through it together. That’s what husbands and wives do.”

  Warmth and calm wash over me. “Husband,” I whisper.

  “Wife,” he replies, his gaze raking over my lips, and lifting. “About that zipper.”

  “Take me to our hotel and I’ll show you how it works.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” he counters, reaching for said zipper.

  I catch his hand. “Cole,” I warn urgently. “You have to wait.”

  I’ve barely finished that reprimand before his mouth is crashing down on mine and he’s kissing me, his tongue stroking my tongue. One of his hands settles at the base of my spine, molding me close, all those hard, sinewy parts of him pressed to all the soft parts of me and I moan. Another second later, and my zipper is open, and he’s pressed my hands over my head, his fingers dragging over the thin lace of my barely-there bra, teasing my nipples.

  “We can’t do this here,” I whisper, and I mean it, despite the moan that rolls from my throat, as his fingers slide between my legs, heat pooling low in my belly and spreading to the touch of his fingers.

  “And yet we are,” he says.

  Voices sound just outside the door, and I panic. “Cole,” I hiss.

  He reacts, and in an instant, his arm is around my waist and he’s pulling me into a long, narrow stall, shutting the heavy door and locking it. Women, two I think, enter the bathroom, and Cole steps back in front of me, his cheek pressing to mine as he whispers. “I’m going to make you come with them standing right there.”

  My fingers curl on his chest. “No,” I silently whisper, but he swallows the protest with a deep lick of his tongue, and just like that, he’s grabbed my panties and yanked them away.

  And then he’s kneeling on one knee, his lips pressing to my belly, and the effect is an adrenaline rush up and down my body. My fingers tangle in his hair and I tell myself it’s to pull him away, but his tongue flicks my belly button and I bite my lip to silence my pleasure. I know where that tongue is headed and it’s almost too much.

  I manage to tug his hair after all, but it only seems to challenge him. He lifts my leg to his shoulder, his mouth closing down on me, and sensations spiral through me. I cave to the pleasure, my head falling back on the wall.

  Then he is licking and exploring, merciless in his attention, his thumb stroking my clit, tongue delving in and out of my sex—around and around and everywhere. And when it’s too much, just too much for this place, his fingers stretch me, pressing inside me, and I’m arching into him.

  My pulse thunders in my ears, and the women just keep talking. They won’t stop, but neither will Cole, but then again, I don’t want him to stop. Every spot he touches and licks is bliss, and I’m right there on the edge of that mountaintop, so very close to tumbling over.

  A ball of tension forms low in my belly and spreads, and then I’m there, my belly and sex clenching, and remotely I hear my breathing, a soft moan I cannot control escaping my throat. Pleasure overtakes me, stealing time, and then I go limp.

  Cole eases my leg down, re-connecting my zipper, and sliding it up my body until it’s back in place, and he’s standing in front of me, kissing me, the taste of champagne and me on his lips before he whispers, “That was so damn hot.”

  My eyes go wide at the idea that the women can hear us. “They left,” he promises. “Let’s go back to the room and fuck. Then we’ll call your mother and fuck again. Then we’ll pack and fuck again. And finally, we’ll go home. Because, sweetheart, as much as I love fucking you in Paris, I want you in my bed, which is now our bed.”

  The aftermath of my orgasm mixed with all the male perfection of this man, who is my husband, and best friend, fills me. It’s then that it hits me that as perfect a Cinderella story our wedding and Paris honeymoon were, the real fairy tale is knowing that he’s no fair-weather Prince. It’s knowing that in an imperfect world, Cole can still make everything perfect. That I am not alone, and never will be again.

  “I love you, Cole.”

  He strokes my cheek. “I love you too, sweetheart.” And with that, he leads me out of the bathroom, past several gaping women, and right back to our table, where we eat more chocolate, pay the bill, and leave. Together. The way we will face whatever waits on us in New York City, now and always.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cole

  Every time I think that I have never wanted to be inside Lori more, I want more—sooner, faster, harder—just more. And with her by my side, walking toward our Paris hotel room, the taste of her on my lips, I can say I have never wanted to be inside her more than right this moment. And it’s not just about sex or how much I fucking love this woman. It’s about how much I want to wash away her fears; ease her need for control, because that control is rooted in tragedy; in her father’s death and her mother’s stroke. Not that I don’t get the need for control, not that I want to take hers away. It’s the reason she needs it that I want to tear away; her fears and her past that have cut deeply, perhaps more so than she realizes. But I realize. I see what she does not. Every moment to Lori is the moment before someone pulls the rug out from under her and us. Every moment is the moment she dared to just be happy when she believes she should have been thinking about how to protect her mother, or me, or us or everyone around her. So, yeah. I want to be inside her. I want to be next to her. I want and want and want, because then she has no room to do anything but feel, moan, and want right along with me. That’s her sanity. That’s our sanity. It’s the place we can go to escape her fears until I drive them all away. And I will. Nothing that awaits us in New York City is unusual, but with her mother there and us here, the next twenty-four hours will be hell for her.

  A crazy possessive need that I can’t even explain—she’s my damn wife, it’s not supposed to get much more possessive—overcomes me and I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer, our legs and hips aligned. No one is taking her from me. A silly protest is not taking her from me. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I guide us across the street and to the hotel and a doorman opens the door for us. I actually have to force myself to let her go to allow her to enter the building first, but I’m right there, just behind her, quickly settling my arm back around her shoulders. She tilts that delicate chin up and gives me a soft, aroused look that tells me she feels the energy I’m radiating. I lean down and kiss her, keeping us in motion. The sooner we’re in the room, the better. The sooner I’m fucking her, and loving her—I can’t do the previous without the latter anymore—the better.

  I manage to keep our pace quick but steady, and we’re now at the elevator. I punch the button, but I don’t look at Lori. If she tilts her mouth to mine again, I’m going to forget what a private person I am and devour her right here and now. For a high-end hotel, the doors open with such creeping slow-ass speed that I want to shove th
em open. I drag Lori into the elevator and against my body, all her soft perfect curves pressed to mine and she punches in our floor.

  She tilts her chin, offering me her mouth, and I quickly turn her to face forward, resting her cute little backside against me, and holy hell, she’s now nuzzled up against the ridge of my pulsing erection. Holy hell again. I think that pretty little backside needs a spanking. Her punishment for driving me this crazy without even trying. No woman should have that kind of control over a man, even his wife, and yet, I fucking love it. The floors tick by and I lean in, inhaling that sweet floral scent of her. “No woman should leave Paris without being spanked.”

  She sucks in a breath and tries to turn in my arms, but I catch her waist, a low laugh escaping my throat. There it is. The way to take her mind off the protestors and her mother. One of the few things that I haven’t done since that first night we met. “Cole,” she whispers, her hands going to mine, and my name is a rasp of desperation that is both need and panic.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I murmur, nipping her earlobe. “I’ll make it hurt so good.”

  She pants out a breath as if my mouth and hands are already all the places we both know they will be. The elevator dings and I push off the wall, my body cradling hers as I walk her forward, placing her between me and the yet-to-part doors. Adrenaline radiates off her, into me, and I can almost feel the pulse of her heartbeat as she wills the doors to open. Slowly, they creep left and right until they are wide enough for her to try to step forward, but I don’t let her. I make her wait. I make me wait.

  Only when the doors are fully open do I find her ear again and say, “Are you thinking about my hand?”

  “Cole, damn it,” she hisses, and I release her, laughing as she darts forward, with nowhere to go but our room, but she does what I expect. In true control freak mode, she stops at the door and turns, leaning against it to watch my every slow step toward her, as if she’s in control when she knows that, right now, she’s not, and we both like it that way. Later, she’ll kick my ass if I act like a barbarian, but right now is not later.