The Wedding Favor (18 page)

His thumb brushed her cheek. “Your mama will recover, she’s no fainthearted virgin.” A slow smile crossed his lips. “And Winnie, well, Winnie’ll be lying awake tonight, jerking off and wishing he was me.”

That surprised a laugh out of her. “Gee, thanks for putting that picture in my head.”

Grinning now, he dropped a kiss on her smile. “Give me five minutes to find the men’s room and then I’ll carry you home.”

Ty was barely out of sight when Winston descended. Looming over her like a storm cloud, he hissed through clenched teeth. “Are you out of your mind, Victoria? Did you actually have sex with that jackass?”

Up came her chin. “Yes, Winston, I’m completely out of my mind. I lost it four hours ago during a quickie on my bedroom floor, and I expect to stay out of it
all night long
.”

His eyes narrowed with each word she uttered. “Your mother told me you wanted to start over! That’s why I’m here, Victoria. I’m a busy man and this trip has already inconvenienced me. So if this thing with Brown is some ploy to make me jealous, then you need to get it through your head that I don’t have time for your shenanigans.”

“My
shenanigans
?” She pushed back her chair, made room to stand up to him, even if only on one foot. “If it was any of your business, Winston, I’d tell you that having sex with Tyrell has nothing to do with
you
. It’s all about
me
!”

“
You?
” He laughed, incredulous. “Do you really think he cares about having sex with
you
? He’s doing it to get at
me
.”

“Oh, please.” She waved that off as egomaniacal claptrap.

His incredulity mutated to scorn. “Have you forgotten that you’re frigid, Victoria? Do you honestly think he won’t notice?”

His aim was true, a direct hit to the heart of her insecurities. She flattened her lips against the pain. And he went in for the kill.

“Do you have
any idea
how many women he’s fucked? Do you think any of
them
were frigid?” His laugh scraped her skin like nails. “You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t throw you out of bed and go looking for that stripper.” He leaned in closer, breath hot on her face. “That’s what men do when a woman disappoints them in bed. They go find another one.”

It hit her like a punch in the chest, knocking her back a step, stealing her breath. Her gumption ran out through her fingers like sand.

Humiliation this extreme had to be fatal, so like any wounded animal, she had no choice; it was flee or die.

Reaching behind her, she felt for her purse, knocking it on the floor in her distress. Cursing her clumsiness, she whirled away from him, then made it worse by jamming the table with her hip. Wineglasses upended, forks clattered against plates. And, last but not least, just as she bent over to grope for her purse, an empty carafe toppled onto its side and rolled off the edge of the table.

O
ccurring as it did during a break between songs, the explosion of glass drew every eye to the dais, all of them centering on Vicky’s bent-over ass . . . at the exact moment when her amateur sewing job ruptured.

From across the tent, Ty watched with the rest of them as the seam burst wide open, exposing her ass cheeks to the world and to Winston, with only the flimsy strip of yellow lace that was caught in her crack preserving the tiniest measure of modesty.

Naturally, she was the last to know. Intent on searching the floor, she cluelessly swung her ass like a compass, giving every person under the tent a full-moon view, until, finally, a breeze must have struck her, because she snapped upright, flattening both palms over her cheeks.

Ty’s heart wept for her as she spun toward the sea of upturned faces, mortification staining her face cherry red. She swooned back a step, bumping the table, setting off another crash.

And Winston, the asshole, didn’t even reach out to steady her.

Ty couldn’t take any more. He had to get to her. To get her away from that fuckhead Winston. Shouldering through the speechless crowd, he vowed to make the bastard pay. When he finished with him, he’d be nothing but a bloodstain on the floor.

But first he had to get Vicky out of here. Make her smile. Convince her, somehow, someway, that she’d look back on this and laugh.

It would require all of his powers of persuasion.

He leaped up on the dais, but her brother reached her first, leaving Ty flatfooted. His empty hands curled into fists. Damn it, this whole debacle was his fault. He’d provoked Winston, and then he’d left Vicky alone and vulnerable. And now he couldn’t even get his arms around her!

Frustrated beyond reason, furious beyond measure, and with a bubbling brew of jealousy and fury and guilt and shame all churning through his heart and his head, he did the only other thing he could think of.

He shoved Winston off the dais and onto the table below.

The explosion of glass and crockery made Vicky’s bursting carafe sound like a pin drop. The table collapsed like a movie prop with Winston splayed out in the center, a look of utter astonishment on his prep school face.

Now that was more like it.

Stripping off his jacket, Ty slung it around Vicky’s shoulders, then, grinning like a lunatic, he jumped down from the dais into the great big beautiful mess he’d made.

Winston, meanwhile, had scrambled to his feet. Picking his way from the ruins, he wiped the soles of his shoes on the tablecloth, leaving streaks of chocolate cake on the crisp white linen. Gobs of frosting studded his hair. His jacket and trousers were smeared with it.

“You’re a dead man, Brown,” he hissed through his teeth. And tossing his jacket aside, he lunged at Ty like a lineman.

Winston was strong and gutsy, but Ty had it all over him on speed and agility. Sidestepping lightly, he used Winston’s momentum against him, grabbing a handful of his expensive white shirt to help him further along on his trajectory. As he flew past Ty, his body got ahead of his feet and he pitched headfirst onto another table, bringing that one down too, pancaking at the feet of the gaping guests who’d risen to watch the spectacle.

Winston Churchill Banes face down in chocolate cake was a beautiful sight, and Ty laughed his glee out loud. Like a kid in a lunchroom food fight, he megaphoned his mouth and bugled like a ten-year-old, “Have a nice trip, Winnie, see you next fall!”

It had the expected juvenile effect.

Winston lurched to his feet, homicidal and adrenaline-fueled. With a blur of speed even Ty couldn’t match, he rammed his head into Ty’s gut, goring him like a bull and wiping the smile clean off his face.

Guests scattered like leaves as Winston drove him backward onto yet another table. Ty’s shoulders hit the table, the table hit the floor. And then Winston, the fucker, hit him in the jaw with a sledgehammer of a right cross. Stars spangled his vision, the ocean roared in his ears, and for a split second it occurred to him that he might have underestimated old Winnie.

In fact, he might just get his ass kicked.

Then, over the shouting and squealing and general cussing that surrounded him, he heard Jack’s drawl as plain as day. “Shit, Tyrell, this city boy’s spanking you.”

It was unthinkable. He’d never live it down.

Galvanized, he grabbed a fistful of Winston’s shirtfront and yanked, bringing the son of a bitch down onto his own chest like an anvil, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Undeterred, he wrapped both arms around Winston’s trunk, locked his wrists behind the asshole’s back, and squeezed.

Hard.

At first it barely slowed Winston at all. He boxed Ty’s ears, mashed his lips. But Ty kept squeezing, and when his arms tired, he juiced himself by picturing the misery on Vicky’s face as Winston loomed beside her, not deigning even to offer a hand when she could hardly stay on her feet. Well, a few broken ribs would teach the shithead some manners. Winnie’d cry like a girl before he was through with him.

It took longer than it should have, but at last Winston’s body seemed to go lax. Ty’s lips curled in a savage smile. Scenting victory, he relaxed his hold the slightest bit, just enough to let some blood flow to his hands.

And Winston threw himself sideways, taking Ty along with him.

Winston, it seemed, had been playing possum, and as he rolled onto his back, crushing Ty’s hands underneath him, Ty cursed himself for an amateur. Now Winston had the advantage, wriggling like a snake, deliberately grinding Ty’s knuckles into the tabletop until he had no choice but to let go. Then he shoved Ty off, sprang to his feet, and shot out a kick at his head.

Ty’s reflexes saved him by a bare inch. He rolled left, gained his own feet in a hurry, then faced Winston across the tabletop wreckage.

Damn it, this city boy should have been no match for him, but the fucker had lost his mind, and now he was powered by the strength of a madman. He seethed at Ty, pawing the earth like a bull, and Ty knew he had to get serious
right away
if he wanted to get out of this in one piece.

Ignoring his injuries, he ripped open his cuffs, scattering cuff links. Then he raked his hair back, and with eyes glued to Winston, taunted him with a grin while he circled like a panther waiting to spring.

Winston didn’t like being stalked; impatience was written on his face. Instead of waiting for Ty to pounce, he charged instead.

But he only had one trick in his bag, and this time Ty was ready for it. When Winston dropped his shoulders for the head butt, Ty skipped aside, hooked an arm under his neck, and captured him in an upside-down headlock.

Winston roared his fury, windmilling his arms, trying to catch Ty’s legs. But Ty was on his game now, and lightning fast; Winston couldn’t get a grip. Around the floor they staggered, weaving and bobbing like drunks, while Ty gloated, knowing that whenever he wanted to, he could sweep Winnie’s legs out from under him, crack his head on the floor, and plant a sweet right hook on his kisser. He’d be down for the count.

The problem was, it was almost too easy. For the first time in months, Ty was living in the moment. Blood and sweat, pain and property damage; it was freaking fantastic, and he didn’t want it to end. So, like an idiot, he let Winnie rampage around, bent at the waist, head locked under Ty’s armpit, while he poked a few jabs to the son of a bitch’s ribs.

Yes sir, he had things well in hand. Until he broke the cardinal rule of fistfighting. He let himself be distracted.

Glancing up at the dais to see how Vicky was enjoying the show, he caught a glimpse of Isabelle. The wrath of God blazed in her eyes. Steam whistled out of her ears. And suddenly all the blood and sweat and property damage didn’t seem like such a good idea.

He glanced around. The few tables still standing had been knocked askew, either by the brawlers or the guests who’d fled them. Spilled wine stained white tablecloths and pooled on the floor around broken glass and shattered plates. Chocolate cake smeared napkins, tuxes, and satin chair covers. And the flowers, all those beautiful, expensive arrangements, hand-selected by Isabelle herself, lay trampled on the floor. Only the dais had escaped ruination.

He was in big, big trouble.

Winston must have sensed his distraction, because he gave a mighty heave that broke Ty’s grip. And then he lunged straight at Ty.

Ty managed to keep his feet, and for a moment they grappled awkwardly, sliding on tablecloths, skidding in frosting, until they ended up in a bear hug, each of them squeezing the other with all their might as they revolved like dancers around the floor.

Ty struggled to shut Isabelle out of his mind, but the more he tried not to think of her, the more stubbornly she appeared. He’d never seen such fury on her lovely face, much less directed toward him. And to make matters worse, to guarantee the complete and utter destruction of her entire wedding reception, it was becoming horribly clear that Winston’s gyrations were steering them ineluctably toward the dais.

Ty tried everything to change their trajectory. He hollered in Winston’s ear, stomped on his foot. But inexorably, inevitably, the pigheaded bastard circled, ignoring his pleas, disregarding even his last-ditch attempt at surrender.

It was no use. Ever closer they came, a juggernaut of muscle and sinew, stubbornness and stupidity. At the last minute, Matt leaped from the dais, hauling Vicky and Isabelle with him. Ty caught one final glimpse of Isabelle’s furious face. If he read her lips right, she was swearing to never, ever,
ever
forgive him.

Then he and Winston barreled into the dais, shoving it off its foundation. It collapsed into a pile of kindling.

Chapter Sixteen

V
icky pressed her ear to her door.

“
. . . happiest day of my . . .”
“
. . . brawling like a drunken . . .”
“
Do you have any idea . . .”

Even at full volume, Isabelle’s voice was softer than the average woman’s. Vicky could catch only snatches of her tirade. But Tyrell, trapped in his room with Isabelle, surely heard every word.

Imagining his woebegone expression, his abject contrition, she let out a bubble of laughter. He deserved Isabelle’s wrath, there was no question about that. The wreckage was epic. And though he’d promised to pay for everything, which would set him back a chunk, he could never truly compensate for trashing the wedding.

Opening her door, Vicky stuck her head into the hallway, the better to hear Isabelle blast him. Jack and Lil were doing the same. Ricky too. They exchanged wincing smiles as Isabelle hit her stride.

“
Do you know, Tyrell Brown, that videos of your debacle are
already
up on YouTube? Matt heard from someone he works with! They’ll be watching them at his office on Monday! Laughing at him! Laughing at
me
!
” She got shriller by the second. “
And if anyone on either side of the Atlantic happens to miss it, half the guests were posting pictures to Facebook
in real time!”

Ty must have had the poor judgment to comment on guests who would do such a thing, because Isabelle dug down and found another decibel. “
Don’t you dare . . .”

Vicky couldn’t take any more. She closed her door and hopped into the bathroom, the only place where she couldn’t hear Isabelle shouting.

Two days earlier she would have reveled in Ty’s comeuppance, but at the moment she felt quite charitable toward him, because after the damage was done and the dais in pieces, he’d pulled himself together and given Winston a final thrashing.

Yes, indeed. Ty would be nursing some injuries of his own, but Winston was on his way to the hospital.

Still and all, she couldn’t wholly regret Isabelle’s tongue-lashing, because between that and his own injuries, Ty was unlikely to be interested in sex. And that was a huge relief. Not because of the appeal on his lawsuit. Oh no, that ship had sailed. By making love to him on this very rug, she’d already forsaken her professional integrity and virtually guaranteed that the firm would have to withdraw from the appeal. And she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

No, she was relieved because Winston had quite effectively reminded her what a disappointment she was between the sheets. Better that she and Ty part ways tomorrow without him discovering it for himself. And possibly rejecting her when he did.

She’d finished washing up when she heard a knock on her door. “It’s Tyrell, honey. Open up.”

Tying her robe, she pulled the door open a foot. He stood in the hallway, barefoot, shirt open, looking like he’d been run over by a truck. He swept one glance from her bare feet to her towel-wrapped head, then pushed the door wider and limped inside.

Shutting the door, she said, “What happened to you?”

He widened blackening eyes. “What
happened
to me? If you missed it, check YouTube. I hear the video’s gone viral.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” She tipped her head toward the door. “Isabelle was kind of loud.”

“That’s one word for it.” He plopped on her bed.

She didn’t hold his surliness against him. “What I meant was, why are you limping?”

“Because your stupid ex-boyfriend stomped on my ankle, that’s why. It’s so swelled up I probably won’t get my boots on tomorrow.” He tugged up the leg of his trousers.

Vicky eyed his ankle skeptically. It looked normal, but she said, “Let me put some clothes on and I’ll get you some ice.”

He reached out and caught her arm. “I don’t need ice, and you definitely don’t need clothes. Now come over here and pay your debt to society.”

Her heart thumped harder. She couldn’t have sex with him. She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. But she couldn’t.

She tried to make light of it. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough action for one day, cowboy?”

“The only action worth talking about was the quickie we had right here on this rug. As good as that was—and honey, it was real good—I didn’t nearly get my fill of you.” He tugged her down on his lap, hooked an arm around her waist to hold her in place. With his other hand, he cupped her cheek, stroked his thumb along her cheekbone.

She tried to turn her face away, afraid to meet his eyes, afraid of how much she wanted him, but the gentle pressure of his palm brought them face to face, his warm whiskey eyes just inches from hers.

“Now, sweetheart,” he said, his drawl deep and beguiling, “you promised me a long night of hot sex. And if ever a man needed one, I do. So these second thoughts you’re having, you need to put them out of your mind.”

His thumb moved lower, rubbing her lips, lingering at the corner, then slowly, gently, tracing the seam. Goosebumps shivered up her spine, prickling her neck. Her lips parted, an instinctive reaction that let his thumb in to stroke along the wetness inside her bottom lip. His nail clicked across her teeth, and before she could stop herself, she nipped him, holding on lightly.

A smile curved one corner of his mouth, spreading like sunrise across his lips. “That’s right,” he murmured, “show me some teeth. Do your bitchy lawyer thing for me.”

“I’m not a bitchy lawyer,” she said around his thumb.

His eyes crinkled as his smile deepened. “Oh yeah you are. All buttoned up in your suit of armor, hair twisted up in a don’t-fuck-with-me bun. And those lips, mmm, those lips. Bloodred, like you just sucked some poor bastard dry.”

She had to smile at the picture he painted. “You don’t like red lipstick?”

“Oh, I love red lipstick, sugar.” He brought his chin down, came in for a bite, tugging her lower lip with his teeth. She hissed a breath, surprised, aroused. Then he sucked on her lip, and every cell in her body lit up.

Winston’s poison forgotten, she released his thumb and kissed him, pushing her tongue inside, tasting his, tangling them up. Her hands dove under his shirt, raced over his back, so broad and deep. He wrapped one hand around her head, splayed the other on her back to plaster her breasts to his chest. She squirmed against him, stiff nipples scraping hard muscles through the silky fabric of her robe.

He dragged his lips across her cheek, breathing hard. “Tell me how you want it.” His tongue licked her ear, and she let her head fall back, offering her throat, begging him to take it. “I can strip you down.” His fingers hooked her neckline, pulled it down over her shoulders. “Tie you up. Lay you out.”

“Whatever you want,” she gasped, hardly recognizing her own voice. Desire made it raspy, and when his tongue swept along her throat, his teeth fastening on the tender spot where it curved to her shoulder, such a wave of liquid heat gushed through her, igniting her blood, melting her bones, that she hardly recognized herself at all.

“This one’s your call, sugar.” His breath came ragged now, his lips moving under her chin, along her jaw, devouring her like chocolate. “I can take you on the bed. On the floor. Up against the wall with your legs wrapped around me. I’ll fuck you any way you want, and I won’t stop until you’re screaming my name, coming on my cock while I’m coming inside you.”

His words were dynamite, blowing apart every inhibition. She shook like a leaf. Nothing, no one, had ever made her feel like this, like she owned her body, every sinew, every cell, and could make demands with it. Demands that wouldn’t be denied.

Shoving her hands against his chest, she pushed him back, raking him with greedy eyes. “I want . . .” Her voice shook. “I want
all of it
.”

His body twitched when she said it. His eyes glazed. The heat of his skin blazed through his shirt, scorching her palms. God, he was as turned on as she was.

Already, she’d soaked through her panties, a scrap of black lace she’d put on in case he showed up. And she was glad she had, because his hand slid up her thigh. When his fingers touched lace, he sucked a breath. Flicking her robe aside, he dragged his gaze away from hers, fixing his eyes on the tiny triangle. “Jesus,” he breathed, “there’s nothing to them.”

Slipping a finger under the edge, he ran his knuckle along the crease of her thigh. “Soft,” he whispered. “Soft and pretty.” Then he dipped it down, letting out a groan when he hit the slickness between her thighs. “You’re so wet for me,” he got out on a rasp.

“You’re so hard for me,” she murmured, wriggling on the iron rod beneath her. His breath hitched. He ground up against her and, too lost in lust to wonder at her wantonness, she let her legs fall open in invitation.

Never before had she felt this way; gorgeous as a supermodel, lust-worthy as a porn star.

Heady with the power of her own sexuality, she drove her fingers into his hair, pulled his head down to take his mouth, and kissed him with pure abandon.

T
y was coming unglued. The woman in his arms was on fire. And so was he, hanging on by a thread, dangerously close to throwing her down and taking her hard, harder even than he had six hours ago when at least he’d still had some control over himself. Now she was in his head, under his skin, wrapped around his lungs, squeezing the air out so he could hardly breathe for wanting her.

So many nights in the last seven years he’d tried to forget Lissa by burying himself in another woman’s body. He used them, but he seldom felt guilty about it. He always showed them a good time and, with a few notable exceptions, managed to leave them with a smile.

Vicky, though, she had him by the balls. At the moment, he wanted her so bad he’d have done anything to get inside her. Scaled the Eiffel Tower, naked. Sold his ranch for a dollar. Let Winston Churchill Banes take a free shot at his head. Anything.

But, thank God, drastic measures weren’t called for. Her panties were drenched, she’d spread her legs to let his hand in, and she was kissing him like her life depended on driving him out of his ever-loving mind.

Her hands were everywhere. Fisting his hair, raking his shoulders, scratching his arms. Then they moved lower, pushing the cummerbund aside, working his zipper. Wiggling into his trousers and freeing his cock. Jesus, her palm felt like satin, like she was stroking him with a pair of those incredible panties. He pushed his fingers inside her and her moan was so deep, so hot, that he almost came in her hand.

He couldn’t take any more. He broke the kiss. “Call it, honey.” He could barely form words. “Bed, floor, wall. Now.”

“Wall,” she mumbled, and brought her lips down on his again. He could have eaten her alive. Her lips were delicious. He had big plans for those lips. They’d be swollen when he was done.

He stood them both up without breaking the kiss. Turned her toward him and caught her thighs, hoisting her up to his waist so her long legs clamped around him. Three quick steps put her back to the wall, and then, by God, all that wetness did what nature intended, easing his entry into one very tight pussy. He slid in to the root, drawing another moan from her, long and low.

That moan undid him. Just yesterday he’d still believed she was a bitch on wheels. Now he knew she was just the opposite, sweeter and more innocent than he’d ever dreamed. He wouldn’t hurt her for the world. Fighting down the primal instinct to take her without mercy, to mark her as his own, he broke their kiss once more and turned his face into her throat, hiding his grimace, compelling sinews that were strung like wire to hold perfectly still while she adjusted to him.

When her muscles released, just a little, just enough, he lifted his head. Her eyes were passion-glazed, her lips puffy, cheeks pink. “Go ahead,” she breathed, “fuck me.”

God, yes. For hours, he’d craved this. Now he went at her with all that pent-up desire, taking her hard and fast, long and deep, while she met every thrust, her head back against the wall, her nails drawing blood. When his legs threatened to fold at last, he slipped his hand down between them, touched the place that drove her wild. Her eyes rolled back, she shouted “Yes!” And together they came, gasping for God, bodies quaking, a fucking amazing climax that he would never forget if he lived to be a hundred.

“T
hat was nice,” Vicky murmured.

“
Nice?
” Ty lifted his forehead from her shoulder. “Honey, you just got fucked against a wall. If it was
nice
, I wasn’t doing it right.”

She smiled lazily. It was so easy to get under his skin, she didn’t even have to try.

He walked to the bed and tossed her into the middle, then crawled forward on top of her, propping himself on his elbows. His face was flushed with exertion. He grinned down at her smugly. “Tuckered out?”

“Not a bit,” she replied. A drop of sweat trickled from his temple. She licked it off. “You did the hard part. No pun intended.”

He laughed. “You’re right, I did. And I promise to keep doing the
hard
part for the rest of the night. But, honey, I’m an injured man. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to do some of the work.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Like they say in the song, save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

He chuckled, and her smile widened. She, Victoria Westin, was engaging in sexual banter.

It occurred to her, suddenly, that sex and fun could, possibly, coexist. After all, Ty made sex seem like play, not work. She felt comfortably sexy, not miserably self-conscious. And if that was true, well, maybe her sexual problems weren’t hers at all. Maybe she wasn’t frigid.

Maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t been with the right man until now.

Ty pushed up on his hands, kicked off his trousers. Then with one hand, he opened her robe. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Now
that’s
nice.” Appreciation glowed in his eyes, warming her skin, tickling the hairs on her nape.

His hand closed over her breast, his palm lightly callused, rougher than her own. The abrasion brought her skin to life. She liked knowing that his hand did more than shuffle papers and tap a keyboard. It turned barbwire, roped steers, branded calves. Or at least she imagined it did, based on the Westerns she’d seen.