Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (12 page)

Halfway through withstanding the same sweet torture to her other breast, impatience and need reached a critical point. She couldn’t keep her hands still, pulling and twisting to free them from the trap of her shirt. She couldn’t keep her legs still, either. Open thighs. Closed thighs. Nothing eased the pressure between them. Finally, she broke.

“I can’t,” she panted, and squeezed her eyes shut and parted her restless legs. “I need to feel you inside me.”

His palms slid up her thighs, parting them wider and holding them open. “What would you like? My fingers? My tongue?”

She couldn’t think. “Either. Both. Anything.”

“My cock?”

Was that an option? So soon? “Yes.” She fluttered her legs against his hands. “If you can. You don’t have to be super hard… Oh!”

He was inside her before she finished speaking, and hardness? Not an issue. Then he brought his face close to hers, and growled, “Yes. I do. Unlike what’s-his-name, I don’t use sex to jack off my ego. I wouldn’t waste your time, or the privilege of your body, with some weak, self-serving fuck. I give you my best whenever I’m inside you. Nothing but my best.” He emphasized each word with a deep thrust, and her eyes watered with gratitude. “Or I find another way to make you come. Are we clear?”

She struggled to find her voice, to say “Yes, sir!” or “Thank you,” or quite possibly, “Praise Jesus, hallelujah.” God only knew what would actually fly out of her mouth, but before she could speak, his moves got faster, and all she could do was loop her arms around his neck, wrap her legs around his hips, and hold on.

She might have had a shot at being more than a clinging ride-along if he’d stuck with a steady rhythm, but he kept her guessing, alternating between lightning-quick thrusts and slow, deep, breath-stealing plunges. Playing with her. Every time she thought she found the right pace, he changed it.

He put his mouth to work on her breasts, obviously not ready to abandon plan A completely, and she nearly levitated off the table. Maybe some part of her did, because although her eyes refused to open, she suddenly saw herself lying there, a sweaty, shaking mess with her hair spilled all over, and the rest of her clamped around Beau as if he anchored her world. Was this what people meant by an out-of-body experience?

Beyond the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears, she heard her own voice. Not polite, seductively encouraging requests like,
Oh baby, you’re so good. Do that again,
but raw, inarticulate pleas littered with moans and curses. Her pleas. Her moans. Her curses.

She really ought to get herself under control, but it was too late. Her body had shirked off whatever leash her mind had on it, and only obeyed its new master.

And sweet Jesus, the man knew his tricks. Big hands closed around her wrists and pulled her arms back until they rested on the table above her head. He levered himself up, unwrapped her legs from his waist, and for one moment of pure panic, she thought he’d finished and intended to leave. Relief washed through her when he hitched her legs over his shoulders. The new position put him deeper than ever, and wiped all lingering self-consciousness from her mind.

She’d cry, beg, sweat, and shake—whatever it took to ride this to completion and live. Calves draped over his shoulders, weight shifted to the center of her back, she offered him unrestricted access to everything.

He fully exploited the access, slamming hard against her quivering flesh with every thrust, then rolling his hips to give her a perfect grind while leaving her enough wiggle room to drive herself a little bit insane with every withdrawal.

“Look at me, Savannah.”

The husky directive tripped some self-preservation alarm she didn’t even realize she’d installed. Giving him free rein over her body was one thing, but staring into Beau Montgomery’s eyes while she surrendered every last bit of control to him suddenly struck her as dangerously intimate.

She kept her eyes closed and assumed her silent refusal would be the end of it. She assumed wrong.

A hand cupped her jaw and tipped her face up. His chest scraped her overstimulated nipples for a torturous moment before his pecs settled on her breasts. Determined lips covered hers, parted them wide while his tongue whipped hers into submission, and then stroked a hot, wandering path through every unprotected recess, persuasive and demanding at the same time. When he suddenly abandoned the kiss, shock forced her eyes open, and she promptly fell into his.

He shot her a tight-lipped grin. “I’m about to give you your third orgasm of the night. That calls for a little eye contact. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re going to say my name before it’s over.”

Was that all he wanted? No problem. “My name.”

Chapter Twelve

Beau couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed while an orgasm bore down on him like the wrath of God. Then Savannah rocked her hips, grazing his balls with the underside of her ass, and annihilated all the restraint he had left. His laughter died in his throat. He thrust again, and again, racing toward relief with an urgency that left zero room for artful fucking. No more teasing shifts in tempo, no clit-thrilling flourishes, just a driving need to pound them both into oblivion as quickly as possible.

She bucked under him, tensed her legs, and arched up as the orgasm gripped her. Her whole body clamped around him, vibrating with the strain.

Every fiber in him screamed to move, to surge, to do whatever it took to feel her tight embrace along the length of his shaft.

Wait. Wait for it…

She arched higher, taking him infinitesimally deeper, and froze. Her voice cracked as she cried his name, and ended in a long, thankful moan. He reveled in the triumph for half a second, but then those fluttering muscles squeezed his cock and took him down, too. A steep, hard fall even longer and more brutal than the first.

“Sweet mercy, I can’t feel my limbs,” a breathless voice said from somewhere near his ear.

Him either, now that she mentioned it, but he put his weight on them anyway, because otherwise he was crushing her. He pried his eyelids open as he levered himself off, but stopped short at the sight of flushed, feminine satisfaction lying in boneless disarray on the table.

Her eyelids fluttered open. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“I am.” Because he couldn’t resist, he slowly lowered his chest to hers and placed a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. Then he reached down between their bodies to pinch the base of his cock and hold the condom in place while he…oh shit.

No condom. The oversight never entered his mind until now. He’d only had unprotected sex with one woman in his life, and they’d had a daughter together. Granted, they’d planned on conceiving and given the whole endeavor plenty of enthusiastic effort, but the point was, he wasn’t shooting blanks.

Fuck. He eased out and glanced at Savannah. She stretched, smiled, and then held out her tangled wrists to him. “Can you do the honors?”

As soon as he freed her hands and pointed out he’d jumped her without taking any precautions, she’d probably deck him. And he deserved it. He untwisted the bra straps from around her wrists, then the shirt, and offered them to her, along with a hand to help her sit up. “We”—he broke off and cleared his throat—“that is,
I
, neglected to use protection. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Her smile faded, and her glow dimmed a little. “I’m sure we’re okay. I’m on the pill for contraception, I’m healthy, and in the past I’ve always used a condom.”

Relief washed through him. He wallowed in it for a moment before his conscience reminded him to return the favor. “Me, too. Healthy, I mean. I’m not on the pill.”

She patted his hand. “I’ve got you covered.” Her words came easily, but she looked away and started pulling on her clothes. He tucked himself into his briefs, fastened his jeans, and crouched to pick up her jeans and underwear from the floor where he’d tossed them.

She gave him a perfunctory smile as she took the clothes, and then focused her attention on getting dressed. “To what do I owe the visit? Based on the lack of preparation, I have to assume you didn’t come here for this.” She hitched up her jeans and then waved a hand over her pelvis.

Her careless question didn’t fool him, and his reason for coming could wait. He stepped close, cupped her jaw, and kissed her pursed lips, sucking and nibbling until they softened. She let out a low sigh and brushed her fingertips along the short hair at the back of his neck. After a moment he drew away and rested his forehead on hers. “The apology was strictly for forgetting to use protection. If you need an apology for the rest of it, I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

She laughed. “No. You’re three-for-three. I’d be insulted if you apologized. I hope you’re not expecting one, either. I know we agreed not to complicate things.”

“And we haven’t. Not really,” he added when she would have interrupted, but a cynical voice in the back of his mind wondered which one of them he was trying to convince. “You’re leaving in a month. The mandatory expiration date eliminates any possible complications. We both know where this ends.”

“Venice. Italian prince. Half-dozen bambinos and happily ever after?” She tipped her head and shook out her hair.

“Right.” He picked up the UPS envelope from beneath the table where it had fallen and offered it to her, but for some idiotic reason a vision of her riding along the Amalfi Coast in a convertible with the wind in her hair and some slick Italian dude at her side made his gut clench.

She took the envelope, tore the tab open, and pulled out an itinerary. “Looks like this ends at 11:30 a.m. on January first.”

He ignored the uptick in his heartbeat. “That gives you plenty of time.”

Dark blonde brows arched. “Plenty of time for what?”

“Plenty of time to test my average.”

…

Savannah balanced the fresh-baked apple pie in one hand, tightened her hold on the handle of her oversize shopping bag, and knocked on Beau’s door. He answered almost immediately, unreasonably handsome in an off-white fisherman’s sweater with the sleeves shoved up. Dark blue cords completed the ensemble.

“You’re early.” His slow smile sent all sorts of suggestions to her erogenous zones about how they could pass the extra time. “I forgive you, because that pie looks amazing.”

“Apple. I baked it this morning, in honor of my future in-laws’ visit. I figured we could come back here after dinner for dessert and coffee.”

“You’re making me look good.” Then he took in the bag, and his smile faltered. “What’s this?”

“Your parents will be here in less than an hour, and they’re going to expect an apartment full of commingled stuff.” She handed him the pie, hefted the bag, and told her sex drive to settle down. “Prepare to commingle.”

He eyed the tote like it contained a live hornet’s nest. “That’s a big-ass bag. You sure you’re leaving any room for me in this mingle?”

“Relax. I only selected essentials. Everything I brought serves a particular function in making this engagement look real.”

She walked to the kitchen and put the bag on the counter. He followed, placed the pie on the stove, and hovered as she took out a matching set of red-and-white hand towels decorated with snowflakes, folded them, and draped them over the handle to the freezer portion of his refrigerator. She Frisbee’d a matching pot holder onto the counter next to the stove.

“Turning my kitchen into a Bed Bath & Beyond is essential?”

“Consider this the bare minimum. I only wish I had time for curtains.”

She opened the fridge and placed a six-pack of diet soda, a bottle of chardonnay, and four Greek yogurts inside.

“Um, thanks, but I’m not a big yogurt and soda guy—”

“Of course you’re not. I am. When your mom or dad digs around in your fridge for water or whatever, they’ll see it’s stocked for two.”

She brushed past him, scooped the bag off the counter, and headed to the living area. Once there, she paused to put an e-reader in a hot-pink protective case on the end table, and a couple of bridal magazines on the coffee table next to her glass sculpture.

He picked up the magazines and handed them back to her. “Now you’re just cluttering up the place.”

She took them and returned them to the coffee table. “I’m setting a scene. All these things say,
Hey. I hang out here
. You don’t want your parents to think I just come over, have sex, and leave, do you?”

“Maybe we hang out at your place, so you don’t have to drag all your cra…stuff over here?”

“We hang out at your place. Your parents have already seen my bedroom, so they’re going to know we use yours.”

“Then they know more than I know.”

Men
. She took him by the hand, led him to the bedroom, and gestured. “What do you see?”

“My bedroom.”

“Dominated by what?”

Now he frowned. “My bed?”

“Exactly. Your big, roomy California king. I have a standard queen. You’re what, six three? Tell me, Beau, which bed do we use?”

“Mine.”

“Damn right we do.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a red silk nightie, and chucked it at the head of the bed. It spilled across the white pillowcases. Satisfied with the effect, she headed into the adjoining bathroom and began unloading the last remaining items in her bag. She placed a toothbrush in the glass holder next to Beau’s, lined up her face cleanser, moisturizer, and perfume on the counter, and then placed shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and a razor in the metal caddy hanging from the showerhead. When she opened the medicine cabinet, she caught a glimpse of Beau’s face in the reflection.

Her disk of birth control pills fit perfectly on the narrow shelf, between a bottle of Visine and a box of Band-Aids.

“Savannah, they’re not going to search the place in the time it takes to have a drink and then head out for an early dinner. Ditto for pie and coffee afterwards. They’ll be here an hour, tops.”

She shut the cabinet and faced him in the mirror. “Moms are nosy. Trust me, Cheryl checks your medicine cabinet every time she visits.”

He reached past her, opened the cabinet, and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen. In the time it took her to turn around he dry-swallowed two. “Headache?”

“Call me crazy, but something about the idea of my mom snooping through my medicine cabinet hurts my brain.”

“You look a little pale.” Concerned, she reached up and touched his forehead. “Do you think you’re coming down with something?”

“No. It’s…” He trailed off and his eyes drifted to the counter, then the shower, then back to her. “It’s been a while since I shared space with things like this.” He touched her perfume. “Brings back memories.”

Shit. She’d been so intent on setting the scene to make the proper impact on his parents, she hadn’t stopped to consider the impact on him. “You know what? This is overkill.” She reached for the bottles on the counter, but he caught her hand.

“Leave them.” He glanced around again and nodded. “You’re right—every detail. It just took me by surprise. I never envisioned what this place would look like if I were involved with someone.”

“Because you never envisioned getting involved again?” Now wasn’t the time, and his bathroom wasn’t the place for this conversation, but she couldn’t hold back the question.

He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and let out a long, tired breath. “Not really, no.”

“That’s crazy. You’re not even thirty. Would your wife have expected you to live like a monk for the rest of your life?”

“You can take the halo off my head, Savannah. I haven’t lived like a monk. But no, Kelli would have expected me to mourn for a decent amount of time, and then move on and let some new woman enjoy all the hard work she sank into training me to put the toilet seat down.”

A glance at the toilet confirmed Kelli had trained him well. “So why haven’t you?” She asked the question quietly.

“Because I can’t go all-in again.”

“I don’t understand.” But she wanted to. She touched his forearm and felt a muscle jump.

“Losing Kelli left a scar—a bad one—but losing our daughter…” He looked down, and took a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t really have the words to describe the loss, but it’s true what they say. A parent should never have to bury a child. Losing Abbey hurtled me down a very deep, very dark rabbit hole, and hitting bottom broke something inside me. I can’t fix it.”

“That’s a father grieving, but, Beau, you’re still a father. All those paternal instincts? All the love? They’re there, waiting for—”

“No.” He jerked his head up, and she almost backed away from the desolation in his eyes. “I can’t. I don’t have the capacity to withstand that kind of loss a second time. Maybe other people do, but I don’t.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to,” she pointed out as gently as possible. “Maybe the next time around is its own unique, completely different experience?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t get past the ‘maybe’ risk.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I see the wrong side of ‘maybe’ all the time on the job. Nobody’s immune. And just in case I started to forget that little fact, my mom got hit with a cancer diagnosis.”

She smoothed his hair off his forehead and wished she could smooth away his worry as easily. “Beau, your mom’s going to be okay.”

He captured her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I hope so. Her doctors say things like good probability of a surgical cure, and low likelihood of recurrence, but words like ‘probability’ and ‘likelihood’ basically amount to different versions of ‘maybe’.”

She took the hand holding hers and turned it palm up. “Did you know in addition to my Master of Fine Arts, I’m also a master of the ancient science of palm reading?”

“You’re a woman of many talents. I didn’t realize the University of Georgia offered the degree.”

“This one’s courtesy of the University of YouTube, but a lot of people would argue it’s more valuable than the MFA.” She ran her index finger over his palm, letting her nail trace the long, measured curve bracketing his thumb. “This is your lifeline.”

“Do that again and some things are definitely going to spring to life.”

“Keep it in your pants, Montgomery. I’m working here. See these tiny lines intersecting the lifeline?”

He leaned in, bringing his face close to hers, and her mind took an unauthorized trip back to last night, to the heat of his mouth on her skin and the slide of his tongue.

“Yes,” he answered, but she got the feeling his reply addressed the all-too-clear invitation her hormones issued rather than her question.

“Focus, please. These little lines signify points where a guardian angel entered your life. You’ve got one way down here, when you were small—four or five. Maybe a grandparent or family friend passed?”

Narrowed eyes found hers. “My grandfather died when I was five.”

“There you go.”

“Someone mentioned it to you recently, or you remember from back then—”