Bravo Unwrapped (19 page)

“Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“Well, then.” She slid her arm free of his grasp, grabbed the hem of her sweater and whipped it off over her head. “How's this?”

Heat flooded his groin. “I'd say it's a damn good start.”

“That bed?”

“What about it?”

“Single-spring?”

“That's right.”

“Those are squeaky.”

“'Fraid so. And you should take off your bra now. Please.”

She reached behind her and the bit of blue lace and black satin went loose. “Oops.” She caught it before it slipped off.

“B.J.”

“What?”

“Let it go.”

And, very slowly, she did.

T
he ancient bed did squeak. But neither of them really noticed.

And the old stove kept the cabin toasty-warm. Once they had their clothes off, they saw no reason to put them on again—except for the occasional trip out to the lean-to.

Outside, the snow continued to fall. They made love, and they got up and stoked the fire. And then they made love some more.

Around four in the afternoon, as they lay in bed, Buck asked lazily, “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

He hid his smile. Lately, she could always eat. But since she'd gotten past the frantic dashes to the bathroom every morning, she no longer seemed driven to gobble everything in sight later on in the day.

She threw back the covers and swung those long,
satiny legs over the edge of the squeaky old bed. Her back was to him, slender and shapely. Very fine. She sent him a teasing smile over the gorgeous curve of her shoulder. “Come on. Let's get ourselves a late lunch.”

So they got up and heated a can of soup. They split the soup between them and set out apple sections, cheese and some wheat crackers. They even dressed for the occasion—B.J. in one of Buck's sweaters and Buck in an old pair of sweatpants.

After they sat down and dug in, she asked, “Did your father ever come up here?”

He paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Not that I know of. But it's possible, I suppose. Pretty much anything's possible where Blake Bravo's concerned.”

She spooned up more soup. “I hear that.”

Buck ate a cracker and an apple section, cut himself a slice of cheese—and admired the view.

He liked looking at B.J. Liked the shine to her hair and the strong shape of her nose, the luster to her skin. B.J. wasn't beautiful, not in the classic sense. But she radiated such a fine self-confidence, a sure sense of command. She made a man wonder which way it would go with her—maybe he'd get to be on top.

And maybe she'd do the dominating.

Either way, it would be one hell of a ride.

And, as Buck was fortunate to have discovered, it always was.

In spite of his impatience with what she still hadn't told him, he found himself grinning, thinking,
I'm a lucky man.
And then he frowned.

She swallowed a spoonful of soup. “Okay. You're frowning. What?”

“It just occurred to me. I still don't know what your initials stand for.”

“That's right.” She reached for a cracker. “And you don't need to know.”

“Would you tell me if I guessed it?”

“What part of ‘You don't need to know' requires clarifying?”

“Let's see. Bianca Justine?”

She crunched her cracker. “Don't even go there.”

“Bessie Jo.”

“You are so asking for it.”

“Blythe Juliette?”

“Cut it the hell out.”

He tried to look pouty—in a very masculine way, of course. It was a challenge, with one eye swollen shut and half of his lip twice its usual size. “Come on. I've waited years to know what B.J. stands for. You always used to promise that someday you'd tell me.”

“That was only to get you off my back about it.”

He went for devastated. It was kind of a stretch. “Now I am truly crushed.” He looked at her sideways. “You never meant to tell me? Not ever?”

She fiddled with her paper napkin. “Buck. Come on. Cut the wounded act. I've never told anyone. Even L.T., who should have done something about preventing the problem in the first place, has the sense never to mention it.”

“Your name is that bad?”

“This is so stupid. We don't need to talk about it.”

“For some reason, you're ashamed of your name?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Consider this. I have my sources. I
could
have found out anytime, if I'd wanted to. But I never have.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“If you tell me, I'll never tell anyone. Plus, I'll let you tie me to the bed and have your way with me.” He
leaned closer to her, in order to better gauge her expression, then modified his offer. “Or I'll tie
you
up. Whichever. Your choice. Hell. Both. I could go for both.”

She was almost smiling. “You are impossible.”

“Beverly Jan?”

“Buck…”

“Bobbie June?”

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Brenda Jane?”

She set down her spoon, folded her arms across the front of his sweater and tipped her head to the side, studying him. He waited. He couldn't believe it. After six long years, he was actually getting close to learning B. J. Carlyle's given name.

Finally, she spoke. “I'd have to know I could trust you. You'd have to swear never, under any circumstances, to reveal the truth to anyone else.”

“Damn. Is it that bad?”

“My middle name? Not so much.”

“But your first name?”

She nodded, a slow, severe dip of her head.

He put up a hand, like a witness at a swearing-in. “I do solemnly swear that I will never, under any circumstances, for any reason, reveal your given name to another soul.”

“And about my tying you to the bed…”

He tried to look noble, though, under the table, beneath the sweats, his cock gave a hungry twitch. “I'm willing to make the sacrifice.”

“I want more.”

“Name your price.”

“I want
you.
Out in the SUV. First,
before
I tie you to the bed.”

He winced, though beneath the table there was now more than twitching going on. “Did you notice there's a blizzard out there? It'll be freezing.”

“We'll turn on the heater.”

He pretended to have to consider, but not for long. It was just an act and they both knew it. “All right. In the SUV—and then you tie me to the bed. Hard to believe the sacrifices I have to make just to get you to tell me your name.”

She shifted in her chair. And he felt her foot between his legs. Her toes touched him—rubbing. He held back a groan and braced his elbows on the table.

He also spread his thighs wider apart.

She said, “Keep this in mind—are you listening?”

“Uh. You bet.”

“My name is B.J. What it stands for is not my fault.”

Her clever toes kept working their naughty magic down there. He sucked in a slow breath through his nose. “I'll remember that.”

“My mother chose the name. It was
her
mother's name. And my grandmother had died a couple of months before I was born…” Buck couldn't help it. A low groan escaped him. He shifted in his chair. “Keep your hands on the table,” she commanded in husky whisper.

“Whatever you say…continue. Please.”

“L.T. swears he tried to talk my mother out of it. But she wouldn't give in. And she named me…”

He couldn't take it. Before she could order him not to again, he whipped his hand beneath the table and caught her ankle in a firm grip. Her chair scraped the old floorboards as he pulled her closer. He held her foot, tight and warm, against his raging erection. “Okay.” He sucked in another breath. She wiggled those toes of hers. “Stop that. And tell me.”

She sat up a little straighter and she captured her lower lip between her teeth.

He squeezed her ankle tighter. “Now.”

And she whispered, “It's Bitsy. Bitsy Janine.”

 

“No,” B.J. said from behind the wheel. “Leave the rest on. That's the thrill, you just undo enough to, er, get the job done…”

At her command, he let his hand fall from the top button of his shirt. They'd already peeled off their heavy jackets, their wool hats and their down gloves and thrown them in the back. She'd taken off her boots and pants. She was naked from the waist down—well, except for those heavy wool socks of hers.

The SUV's heater blasted on high. He felt the warmth flowing out, against the front of him, and up from the floor vent.

In a very short time, she'd be sitting on his lap. He couldn't wait, though a part of the turn-on lay in trying not to look too eager.

She leaned across the console toward him. “Oh, for the days of bench seats.” She laid her hand on his fly.

He put serious effort into
not
moaning out loud, and reminded her, “We have to make the best of what we've got.”

“An excellent attitude.” She took his zipper down. It made a soft, snicking sound that sent a hot thrill of need bursting through him. He shut his eyes, threw back his head—and banged it on the seat rest.

“Careful,” she said. She slid those knowing fingers into the opening at the front of his boxers and her hand closed around him—cool. Firm. And tight.

He gasped. He couldn't help it. He opened his eyes and looked down as she guided him out of the nest of
his clothing. She bent her golden head. He felt the warmth of her sweet breath. And then she took him—slowly—into her soft, wet mouth.

He thought he would lose it.

But somehow, he didn't. He dug his hands into her hair and surged up toward her.

She took him all the way in, mouth sliding down. He moaned as he bumped the back of her throat—and then she lifted, so slowly, her suction strong, her tongue working, around the crown, against the sensitive slit….

He hit his head against the headrest again. Not that it mattered: the headrest was padded—and he couldn't feel anything but her mouth on him, anyway, working with such slow, sensual deliberation.

He bore the sweet agony as long as he could. Then he took her head in both his hands and made her look up at him. “You,” he said. “All of you. Now…”

She touched his face, a breath of a touch against the cut on his cheekbone. He turned his head and brushed his bruised lips against her fingers, at the same time lifting his right hip enough to slide the condom from his pocket, thinking how stupid it was to go on with the charade that they needed protection.

But he went on with it anyway. He fumbled with the wrapper. She took it from him, swiftly got it free and smoothly rolled it down on him.

Then she rose up, all softness and sweet-scented woman.
His
woman, whether she admitted it or not. She slid over the console, one bare, glorious leg flung across him, shifting into place, rising up on her knees, reaching down to position him….

All logical thought flew away as she wrapped those soft, strong fingers around him and she lowered herself slowly, in a delicious agony of tiny degrees. When she
had all of him, she began to rock, back and forth—and then up and down.

He threw his head back, groaning, again and again, beating against the headrest in time to her sure, knowing strokes.

“Good,” he whispered, “so good…”

“Yes. Oh, Buck. Yes…”

She slowed and she kissed him. A long, deep, wet play of sliding tongues and nipping teeth. He insinuated a hand between them. She cried out as she felt his fingers, parting her, touching the swollen bud at the top of her cleft.

She lost control then and she rode him wildly. He stroked her with his finger as she shattered. Her contractions sent him over, too. He wrapped both arms hard around her and he buried his head in her fragrant hair as his own climax ripped him wide open and turned him inside out.

 

Back in the cabin, they bathed. Sponge baths. It took a while.

He found some cord in a drawer, cut four lengths of it, and handed it over. She met his eyes and they shared a smile.

“Later,” she said. The word was both a promise—and an erotic threat.

She set the lengths of cord on the empty explosives box that served as a nightstand and they got under the covers together.

She snuggled in close and whispered, “Tomorrow, before we go…”

“
If
we go,” he corrected her.

She clucked her tongue. “Are you saying we could be snowed in?”

Outside, the snow was still coming down. “If it keeps up like this, it's possible.”

“For how long?”

“Probably not more than a day or two.”

She stiffened a little in his embrace. “Probably? Buck, I do have to go back to New York on Friday. I promised L.T. As much as he makes me crazy, I always try to keep my promises.”

He smoothed her hair back from her brow and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Don't worry. The snow is supposed to stop tomorrow. And then, after that, there's a warming trend predicted. One way or another, we'll get down off this mountain by Thursday.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am.” He spoke with more assurance than he felt.

In the earthen basement/pantry beneath the floor, his brothers had enough food stored up to last them a week, maybe two. And they'd brought plenty with them. They had two full cords of wood neatly stacked in a shed about ten feet from the back door.

They'd be okay, whatever tricks the weather pulled on them. Maybe she wouldn't be able to keep her promise to L.T.

If not, so be it.

There was a hell of a lot more at stake here than her word to L.T. Life would go on, even if she didn't hustle back to Manhattan Friday in order to press her pretty nose to the grindstone known as
Alpha.

She would get back eventually. And before they left this cabin, she would tell him about his baby—and he would have her promise that she would be his wife.

 

“Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Will I get to see the gold mine?”

Her hand rested on his chest. He took it, raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, one by one. “Ah, Bitsy. Anything for you.”

She yanked her hand away. “If you
ever
tell another soul about that name…”

“I won't. I swear. Not ever.” He caught her hand again. “But let me call you Bitsy, now and then, okay? Just, you know, between us.”