The Wedding Favor (11 page)

Eventually the jiggling subsided and he noticed that she’d pushed her lip out. “I have been waiting for you, chéri.” She held out a tube of sunscreen. “You must do my back so I can turn over.”

It was the oldest trick in the book, but what was a red-blooded man to do? He sat down beside her on the chaise and squirted some into his palm.

With both hands, she lifted her hair, and he smeared his hands across her silky shoulders, down her back, all the way down, to where her hot pink thong disappeared into the crack of her firm, round ass. Then up, up, and over the top of her shoulders, not quite as far as her breasts. Then down her sides, fingertips barely skimming the swells.

She was built for sin, and in his mind he was already halfway to hell when she reached behind her back to untie her top. That brought him to his senses. He caught her hand.

“Whoa there, honey. Let’s keep it G-rated. Or PG, anyhow.”

“But the string will leave a line,” she pouted. “Men don’t want to see a white line when I’m dancing.”

“Believe me, sugar, when you’re dancing, all eyes’ll be up front.”

“Then you should do my breasts,” she said, and before he knew it, she’d pulled his greased-up hands around her and pushed them up underneath the Cheez-Its.

To his everlasting shame, he didn’t pull them out. Not right away. Instead, he let his mind go blank. Didn’t resist when her palms flattened over his and she slid them around, feeling herself up with his hands. Squeezing those jumbo jugs. Kneading them. Tweaking them.

And damned if they weren’t the real thing! His lips curved smugly. The golf course money had been on silicone, with Matt promising to pry the truth out of Isabelle. Well, now he knew.

Annemarie looked over her shoulder at him, eyes smoldering, lips curving invitingly.

He knew he had to turn her down. But then she touched her tongue to her lips and he gave himself another minute. Would have given himself a few more too, if laughter hadn’t drifted through the door. It jolted him like a shot of adrenaline. Whipping his hands out of Annemarie’s top, he jumped up like a schoolboy caught with his first
Penthouse
, sprinted for the farm table, and flung himself into a chair, pretending to read his iPad.

Lil came through the door first, followed by Vicky. No sign of Cruella. Thank God for small favors. They exchanged hellos with Annemarie, who was packing up her things in a huff. Then Lil pulled out the chair across from him and plopped down with a heavy sigh.

He tsked at her. “Don’t let Jack know you tired yourself out.”

She rolled her eyes. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs napping.”

“Isabelle?”

“In her room. With Matt.”

“Ah.” She pointed at his iPad. “Can I check my e-mail?”

“Sure.” He passed it to her.

“Eww. What’s on it?” She set it on the table. “It’s all greasy.”

He wiped his palms on his jeans. “Must be mayo. I had a sandwich.” The last part was true.

“Did you stick your hand in the jar? Because this thing is covered with it.” She dug out a tissue, swiped the screen.

“You’re smearing it around. Give it here.” He stuck his hand up inside his T-shirt, used it to clean the screen. “There, good as new.”

He eyed Vicky, strolling toward the fountain. She stumbled a step, and he said, “Guess you gals hit the wine at lunch.”

“
They
did,” Lil mumbled, scrolling through her messages. “Yours truly made do with bottled water.”

Vicky picked her way through the flowerbed that ringed the fountain, then sat down abruptly on the edge. Ty snorted. “Hell, I better go keep her from falling in.”

That brought Lil’s head up. “You be careful with her, Ty. She’s got enough to deal with right now.”

He put on a pained face. “Why does everyone assume I’m out to hurt her?”

“I don’t think you’d
deliberately
hurt her. You don’t have it in you to hurt anyone.”

Now he tried to look offended. “I’ll have you know, I’ve put my share of rednecks in the hospital.”

“You know what I mean. Winston did a number on her. I’d hate to see her heart get broken again this weekend.”

His offended look was sincere this time. “If it gets broken it won’t be by me.”

Leaving her with his iPad, he strolled across the grass and sat down beside Vicky, the narrow edge of the marble fountain digging into his butt. Behind them, water jetted from Cupid’s lips, splashing into the pool. Droplets bounced up, speckling Ty’s skin just above his jeans and dotting Vicky’s sundress.

“You’re getting wet,” he said, sitting on his hand so he wouldn’t brush the drops from her back.

She’d been smiling up at the fair-weather clouds. Now she turned to look at him, still smiling her dreamy smile. The blue of her eyes matched the sky above them. He really was a sucker for blue eyes.

“I don’t mind,” was all she said. Her eyes wandered down. “What happened to your shirt?”

He glanced down at the greasy smear. “Got some mayo on my iPad.”

“Oh.” In her present state, that seemed to satisfy her.

“Have fun shopping?”

She lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Mother bought Isabelle some fuckwear.”

He snorted in surprise. “Fuckwear, huh? Get any for yourself?”

One corner of her mouth curved. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Perpetual Hard-On.”

He almost choked on that one. “How much did you have to drink, Victoria?” He sounded like Principal Danvers at the senior prom, but hell, she sounded like a drunken teenager. “Because if you’re trying to shock me, forget it. I’m shockproof. Your mother, on the other hand, will lie down and give birth to a calf if she hears you talk like that.”

She looked thoughtful. “Maybe that’s why she went straight to her room. Think we should call a vet?”

“That does it.” He hooked a hand under her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Time to go inside, honey. You need to sleep it off.”

“But I like it here.” Leaning over to drag a finger through the water, she would have toppled in if he hadn’t had a grip on her.

“It’s a pretty spot, all right,” he said agreeably, humoring the drunk, “but there’s nothing like a drowning to ruin a wedding.”

He headed for the house, alternately towing and prodding her along with him. “Bye, Lil!” she called, waving as they passed her. He wagged his head in despair. Unless he was mistaken, she was actually getting drunker.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he coaxed her up the stairs. “That’s right, honey, one foot in front of the other.” He maneuvered her down the hallway. “Here’s your room.”

She pointed at his door. “That’s your room,” she informed him.

“Don’t I know it, sugar. And it made for a real long night, knowing you were right across the hall.” He propelled her through her door.

“We could have a pajama party.”

“Don’t tempt me, honey.” He sat her on the bed. It was bigger than his, and the bedspread was ridiculously soft. She flopped back, one arm above her head, hair floating in a silky cloud around her.

She smiled up at him. He smiled back.

Time slowed to a crawl.

His eyes trailed down her body. The column of her throat. Her chest, rising and falling.

Her sundress had hiked halfway up her thighs. His gaze traveled down her long, lean legs. Dancer’s legs. Then wandered up to her face again.

She sure was a beauty, with her cheeks flushed pink and that come-hither look in her sleepy baby blues. He realized he was holding her hand, his thumb rubbing circles in the hollow of her palm. She blinked, slowly, her heavy-lidded eyes telling him she liked it.

They drew him in, those eyes. Next thing he knew, he was sitting on the edge of the bed. She gave his hand a little tug, almost imperceptible, but it brought him down on one elbow beside her. Her lips curved. She caught the bottom one between her teeth.

Releasing her hand, he drew his fingers lightly up her arm. Lingered on the pulse points, her wrist, the crook of her elbow. With one fingertip, he drew patterns on her shoulder. Her skin was softer than the bedspread, softer than kittens. He circled the shell of her ear, tapped her earring softly. Traced his finger along the line of her jaw.

Her eyes stayed on his. Her lips parted, glistening. She didn’t look so dangerous now, his bitch on wheels. She looked like a woman who liked what he was doing and wanted him to do more.

He could do more. He could do lots more.

Cupping her cheek, he stroked her bottom lip with his thumb. Her tongue poked out, licked the pad, and she might as well have licked his cock. He went hard as iron. His own lips parted, and with his eyes locked on hers, afloat in that deep blue sea, he dropped his head and kissed her.

His kiss was gentle, not demanding, and she kissed him back the same way, toying with his tongue, stroking it, sucking it lightly, while his thudding heart thumped harder. Her fingers curled around his biceps; they jumped and quivered in response. Her thumb swiped over the curve of the muscle, and primal male instinct made him flex it so it bulged.

Her palm slid up, up, inside his sleeve, curving over his shoulder, exploring. Jacking his pulse even higher. Her lips moved with his, soft, eager, letting him lead, driving him crazy with one gentle hand, one tame kiss.

She rolled toward him, just a bit, just enough to encourage him, and he stroked his hand down her side, inch by slow inch, his thumb skimming the swell of her breast, his palm curving with the indent of her waist, then rising over the crest of her hip, sloping down to linger on her bare thigh, where the long, smooth muscles shivered at his touch.

Then back up he stroked, his thumb dipping under her hem, sliding her dress up, higher, until his palm covered her hip again, nothing between his skin and hers but a band of lace no wider than his finger.

Her hand coasted down his arm, nails lightly scraping along his triceps, following his forearm until her hand covered his. He stilled, waiting. But she didn’t pull it away, she scratched it instead, and his pulse skipped. From deep in her throat came a humming sound; it vibrated through his body like a tuning fork.

His fingers slid up under the strip of lace so his wide palm splayed on her hip, then he followed the curve of her ass until one round cheek filled his hand. She lifted her thigh, hooked her knee over his hip, and he used his handful of ass to tug her against him. His breath quickened, his kiss deepened. His cock strained against denim, trying to reach her.

Then his fingertips touched liquid heat, and he lost his head completely.

Rolling on top of her, he ground his cock to her mound, lifting her hip as she locked her leg around him. His other hand drove into her hair. He tangled his fingers in yellow silk, fisting it like a caveman. Dragged his lips across her cheek, scraped her jaw with his teeth as she threw back her head, opening her throat to his starving mouth.

His teeth snapped the strap of her dress, peeled back the cotton, and exposed her pale breast, the pink nipple hard as a nail. She arched her back, offering it up, and he released her hair to palm it, sucking the nipple into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. She rucked up his shirt, raked his back with her nails, moaning for more, more.

Yes, oh yes. He could give her more. He dropped his hand to his jeans, yanked open the button, dragged at the zipper.

And then Isabelle’s laughter rang out in the hallway.

His hand froze. His lips too.

Isabelle had warned him to be careful with Vicky. Her definition of “careful” absolutely would not include drunk sex. If she found him here now, she’d skin him.

With superhuman effort, he pushed up on his hands. Took one long last look into the sex-glazed eyes staring up at him. Let his gaze roam down to the perfect breast that fit his palm like it was cast from the mold.

Then he heaved himself to his feet. Zipped his zipper. Buttoned his button.

The dreamy eyes clouded. The perfect brow knotted. “What—” she began.

He did Principal Danvers again. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Victoria Westin, taking advantage of a man in my condition. Your brother must’ve told you I had some beers with lunch. You figured my defenses were down. That I’d lose my wits if you showed a little tit.”

Her jaw dropped. He forged ahead. “Well, that might work on your city boys, sugar, but my mama taught me to respect myself, even when I’ve had a few.”

He backed toward the door as he spun his bullshit. Reaching behind him, he found the knob. “Now you stay in here for a while, have yourself a time-out, and think about what kind of woman you want to be. The kind who shows compassion for a man who’s drunk a little more than he should, or a hussy who tries to get into his pants. Because, honey, we both know which one you’re acting like today.”

And with a last disgusted wag of his head, he closed the door behind him.

H
e was full of shit, and Vicky knew it. He wasn’t one bit drunk.

But then, neither was she.

Well, maybe she was a teeny bit buzzed. But what in the world had possessed her to pretend she was really drunk?

Probably his smug expression as he swaggered toward her in the garden, perfectly male and supremely coordinated, after she’d almost nose-dived into the fountain when the heels of her silly but adorable sandals sank into the flowerbed.

Better he think her drunk than clumsy.

Then, unexpectedly, instead of teasing her about it, he seemed concerned. Caring. It made her go all warm and fuzzy inside. So she played up the whole drunk thing. Let him into her bedroom. Lured him down on her bed.

And when warm and fuzzy turned into hot and horny, well, it was easy to keep on playing drunk. To have an excuse for kissing him. After all, what harm could it do to see how he tasted? If his lips were as soft as they looked. If he smelled as good, felt as good as she thought he would. And he had. Clean and fresh, like a shower; hard and muscled, like a man.

And he tasted, oh, he tasted like . . . more.

She flattened her palm on her stomach. She could still feel his weight, pinning her to the bed. With her other hand she cupped her bare breast. Stroked her thumb over the nipple, still damp from his mouth.