by Katy Evans
He lifts his hand. “I’m pretending I don’t know what it feels like to do this.” He eases his fingers under my hair and plays with it naturally, casually.
I close my eyes and feel relaxation spreading through me. I try not to moan. “Good. Focus on that.”
“I can’t. I need some self-control not remembering what it’s like to nibble your ears. Right here. Where it drives me crazy.”
Dizzy with anticipation and excitement, I shiver.
“You like having your fun, don’t you?” I mock him playfully.
“I like having fun with my girl.”
“With me, or making fun of me and my wish for a perfect wedding night?”
He’s hard and I’m wet and we’re panting.
“What makes it perfect is you and me. I could have you ten times tonight and want you as much tomorrow.”
“All the women in my life have advised otherwise.”
“As the only man in your life, I strongly disagree,” he says, but seems to put the matter aside in good humor.
“I bet you do.”
When he laughs, he sounds so boyish. His laugh breaks off, and his eyes start to smolder with something beyond lust, and more like need. We stare at each other: Every time our eyes lock, I want his taste in my mouth.
He’s looking at me hotly.
As if he wants more than to taste.
He reaches out and tugs the knot at the nape of my neck. “I miss the sight of you.”
My bikini top unravels.
I reach for it.
“Don’t,” he gruffly commands.
His eyes lazily rove over me, like a feather’s touch on my skin.
He brushes a finger over the back of my neck, touching my body as naturally as he breathes. “You’re blushing.” He runs a finger down my cheek. Gone in a second. His eyes flick up to mine, and then he’s looking at me with an intense and secret expression. “By the time you let me have you again, you’ll be blushing even deeper.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. The blushes. I can’t be a blushing old lady.”
“I rather hope you will be.”
“Nope. I need to be a composed old lady.”
“I’ll do my best to decompose my old lady as frequently as I can.”
God, I have a desperate urge to kiss his devil-sucks-my-dick-every-night smile.
Unable to resist, I kiss his lips, quickly, and feel him pat my ass as he gets up and we head for our rooms. “Decompose me after the wedding.”
“I’m planning to do much more than that.”
As we gather our towels, he looks at me and says, “Hey, I sent something to your room.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Why do you look so uncomfortable when I get you something?”
“I’m not used to it.”
He frowns. “I need to work on that.”
“Not you, I need to.”
“I plan to spoil you, Miss Saint . . . often.”
“I’m going to let you.”
He stares down at me with heated eyes. “Good.”
“And spoil you right back.”
“Have fun with it.”
“With what? Spoiling you?”
“That too.”
“Oh. My gift! What is it? A vibrator?”
He frowns. “Why would I want anything inside you other than me?” He tsks and taps a fingertip playfully to my temple. “This abstinence isn’t doing you good, Livingston.”
VISIT BEFORE THE WEDDING
In my room I find four dresses.
The Vera Wang, Reem Acra, Yumi Katsura, and Monique Lhuillier—two of them even include handwritten notes from the designers themselves.
From simple, to Regency style, to one covered in what looks like diamond dust, these are the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen—the finest for his girl. I feel warm just thinking about him having a hand in making sure they were ready for our day.
I touch the materials, then I spend the next hour trying them on.
They’re so spectacular, each one as pretty as the last. I wouldn’t even know which to pick!
But no.
I think I’ve set my fear aside. I’m getting married with his mother’s engagement ring and my mother’s dress.
As I take off the last dress, Gina, Wynn, and my mother are all oohing and aahing in my living room.
“He spoils you, girl!” Gina says laughing.
But Wynn and Mom are gushing.
I remember my mother reading about love languages. After my father died, she wanted to be sure that I felt loved as a child, so she read books, went to conferences, and explained to me that people express love in different ways. She said there were five basic ways, which include: touch, gifts, service to your loved ones, quality time together, and verbal feedback. Not everyone responds to, or uses, the same language, which can cause miscommunication in relationships.
Touch was my language. She was told to be tender, and she was. I responded well to her hugs. I simply respond well to physical contact.
I can’t explain, even on the evening before my wedding, how good and perfect it feels when Saint holds the back of my head in one hand and my entire back in the other and kisses me. I think Sin’s love language is touch too. But also gift giving—this man is relentless when it comes to showering me with amazing things!
While the girls and Mother help put each dress back into its protective cover, I head into the adjoining bedroom to change.
I slip into Saint’s large, white button shirt, a pair of leggings, and my socks, then I pull open the glass doors and step out to feel the breeze and get some fresh night air. Through the crashing of the waves, I hear the guys talking in the private patio. My skin crackles pleasurably as I hear Saint’s baritone.
“. . . reason both you and Gina didn’t bring dates to the wedding . . . ?” Malcolm’s tone is cool and quiet, but there’s an underlying threat of caution in his words.
A full-on silence that follows, broken only by Tahoe’s quiet “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Gina. Now there’s a lady who goes down as smoothly as an abrasive,” Callan says.
“Stay away, T. She’s Rachel’s best friend.” This from Saint. No nonsense, and kind of exasperated.
Tahoe stays quiet.
The silence stretches, and then comes the sound of what seems like ice cubes being pulled out of the chiller.
“When you saw Rachel for the first time, what did you feel?” Tahoe asks, low.
“Felt new. I felt like I saw a woman for the first time.”
Oh my god. I’m fluttering to my toes.
“Yeah. That’s not how I feel,” Tahoe says.
“You’re just irked that she hasn’t thrown her underwear at your head,” Callan lazily deduces.
“Fucking pissed.”
“Pissed that she’d rather have anyone else than you and your billions.” Callan keeps on expertly rubbing it.
“Absolutely ludicrous, but there you have it.”
“She’d rather be your friend than be in your bed.”
“Motherfuck me, yes,” Tahoe growls.
I get that little squeeze right in the center of my tummy when Saint’s voice floats up to me next. “She’s a good girl, T. The kind you play house with, not games.”
“Fucking relax, Saint. I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”
There’s a soft laugh. “Touché.”
I turn back to the living room and realize the girls are wide-eyed, especially Gina. Could she hear them, too, through the open doors? An amused smile touches my lips, and I grab my phone from the bed and text Malcolm:
We heard you
Just thought you should know
Gina looks like she just swallowed a little bit of wire
Shortly he replies:
Sorry
He’s had a bottle of Pinot
U going to sleep any time soon?
Me: Too excited to
Saint: You miss me?
Me: A
little
Saint: Text me when you miss me a little more
Me: Oh don’t wait up! Enjoy the booze and the boys. I know how HARDcore you are
Saint: How well you know me
I smile at the phone. And ache in all sorts of places. I write, I do miss you. Perfect wedding night seems more impossible by the second, but I’m determined
Saint: It’ll be perfect
Me: So don’t tempt me, SIN!
Saint: I want my girlfriend in my arms, our last night together
Oh, fuck him and the Saint Effect. My butterflies are flapping, so awake right now I can hardly stand steady enough to text: I want my boyfriend too. Tell him to come over before he goes to sleep. He’s been the best boyfriend I’ve ever had. He should get one last kiss.
He replies simply, I can taste you already.
The guys keep talking with lowered voices. Heading back to the living room to drop myself on a couch, I pop my phone into the stereo and play soft music so the girls don’t overhear anymore.
Gina’s super thoughtful, though.
She’s spread out, all her voluptuous curves hugged by the extra-long T-shirt she wears. She’s like Marilyn Monroe in brunette, and now very quiet. Wynn’s hair is spread out behind her on the other side of the couch. My friends are both pretty, young, and sprightly. But no match for Saint’s friends.
Callan and Tahoe are attractive and unscrupulous enough to take any woman without a thought.
“Four dresses, that’s . . . unheard-of,” I hear Wynn say as her eyes drift back to the four designer dresses hanging in their plastic coverings. “What’s your language, Rache?” Wynn asks.
My attention snaps back to the group, and it takes me only a second to catch on to what she means. “Words for sure.” Dibs! “Touch, too.”
“I am so touch. In fact if we go an hour together and Emmett hasn’t held my hand, I’m convinced he’s stopped loving me.”
Gina shakes her head and curls her legs beneath her. “I don’t trust words. Touch makes me uncomfortable. But I’ll take the gifts.”
I wag my head no. “That’s not your love language, Gina. You service others. You put food in the fridge. You look out for them.”
“If a guy does that for you, and speaks to you in your looooove language,” Wynn warns, “you’ll be toast. Buttery hot toast.”
“No problem, since most guys are selfish. They want to be serviced, not the other way around.”
“They’re like us, Gina,” Wynn counters. “Except with a lot of sexy testosterone. Which, thanks to the abstinence, will have skyrocketed by the time Rachel reaches the honeymoon. I can feel Saint; he’s just a tad pissy with Tahoe. He’s sexually frustrated. He wants you, Rachel.”
I think I feel it too and I’m speeding a thousand miles an hour on the highway to heaven.
“What you can feel is our girl’s pre-wedding hormones gone crazy.”
I hug my pillow and grin so hard, pressing the pillow against my body and all the aching places, my nipples, between my legs, even my stomach, which is whirling. “I shall not apologize for lusting after my fiancé. Everybody else does it, and I get to do it for the rest of my life, which is pretty damn fine to me.”
The heat of our bodies. The pull is so strong between us, even in silence we seem to communicate.
I can’t wait to melt into the protectiveness of his arms.
How I feel wistful and relaxed when close to him. This comfort of being close—his presence so male, strong. Every fiber of my being aches. I let my mind drift off to our wedding night. The almond oil, sweet smelling and glistening, that I plan to wear on my skin. The La Perla bra and panties, perfect lace, perfectly see-through, that I plan to wear on my sexy parts . . .
I realize then that Gina is really withdrawn and unusually quiet. “What’s happened with Tahoe, Gina?” I ask softly.
“Nothing. We’re friends. We . . . I guess we talk. A lot.”
“What about?”
“Things.”
“Paul?”
“I told him about Paul.”
Disbelief widens my eyes. “You did! Babe, that’s huge for you! To open up like that to a guy.”
“He’s a friend. He’s a great listener, actually. But I don’t really want to talk about that now.” She spreads out my veil a little more. “How did you choose your wedding dress?” Gina then asks. “And the veil?”
“It’s as hard as choosing the groom, I bet,” Wynn says.
“Actually no. They both chose me. I was afraid of both . . . a little. But I’m sure he’s the one.” I point at my mom’s dress and my mother’s eyes instantly widen. “And that’s the one.”
“Really?” Mother asks.
“Really. I’m sure.”
“It’s a sexy dress, Mama,” Wynn gushes. “I wish my mom had that cleavage. Your Saint is going to think all devil thoughts while in church. Another benefit to . . . abstinence!”
“Abstinence!” they all cheer.
“Easy for you to say, but revenge will be sweet. I’ll be the one wrapping the chastity belts around you two before your wedding days.”
“Gina’s chastity belt is her mouth, she opens it and the guys run. Except Tahoe.”
Gina shoots Wynn a withering look. “He’s my bud. You two don’t get to talk evil about him.”
“Well, Gina, one day . . .” my always-optimistic mother says.
“It’s nice to imagine it, that it’s out there. Doing more is hard, though. I can imagine it, I can see it, and I like seeing it. I just don’t want to pull back the curtain with my name on it and find out I’m the one who picked the losing card. I’d rather . . . imagine there was something wonderful in store.”
“There could be,” Mother insists.
“Maybe. But right now, it’s enough to think that there could be. I’m not ready to find out that there isn’t.”
We’re tired enough to run out of talk but too wired to sleep. The girls propose watching a wedding movie. “My Best Friend’s Wedding?” I ask as I scroll through the offerings on the hotel pay-per-view.
“You’ve seen that one a gazillion times. Let’s watch Steve Martin. This one is fun. Fun, Rachel. Really,” says Wynn.
“I don’t know. Father of the Bride . . . Mom?” I ask my mother uncertainly.
It’s a movie I’ve always shied away from simply because . . . well, my father isn’t here.
My mother wavers a little bit, an instant of worry on her face, but then she looks at my friends’ faces and the hopeful look I wear—a look that might say I want her to tell me I am strong enough to watch it. I’m happy, I’m older, I’m good.
“It’s a beautiful movie,” my mom finally says before she heads off to her room, to bed.
Pacified, I click the purchase button, cross the room, close the open windows, and settle in bed to watch it with my friends.
It starts perfect. Proposal. Funny, jealous dad. The parts where he is acting a little nutty and protective make the corners of my eyes start to leak. Soon, the dam breaks. And I’m a waterfall.
“Oh no!” Wynn pauses the movie. “Gina, look for My Best Friend’s Wedding.”
Before she can hug me and I start getting truly emotional, I leap to my feet and hide in the bathroom, washing my face for a long time.
Wynn knocks. “You okay? Saint’s at the door.”
I look at my face, and thank goodness my eyes haven’t swelled up. Thanks, three minutes of cold water. I tie my hair in a bun and realize, with a little kick of adrenaline—he wants his kiss ! So I quickly wash my mouth with Scope.
All the things that happen to me physically when I see him are already poised to take over when I swing open the door, bend down to set the door stopper so I’m not shut out, and step outside.
His strong, deliciously unique energy envelops me like a cloak.
“The guys aren’t letting up anytime soon,” he explains to me softly when I just stand there and drink in the sight of him like a junkie.
He’s in
lounge pants and a soft V-neck T-shirt, the fabric draping over his hard body and delineating every muscle. Between his lashes, his eyes are resting hungrily on me. As if he misses the sight of me.
“Neither are the girls.” I wipe my cheek again to make sure no tears remain.
He smiles wryly and props a shoulder on the wall, and then he studies me curiously, as if he can see the tears still on my cheeks. “Thought I’d claim my kiss before it felt like a good-morning one,” he says softly.
“It’s already morning anyway.” I grin up at him. “But I’ll give you a day kiss tomorrow in my wedding dress.”
His fingers curve under my chin. “So . . . which are you wearing?”
God, my heart is swooning inside. His bold, handsome face smiles warmly down at me. I can’t wait for him to see me in white. Walking up to him, ready and eager to become his wife.
“Do you want to picture me?” I probe, smiling happily as the look in his eyes tells me that he does. I’m smiling fully now, happiness spreading inside me. “You haven’t seen the one I’ll be wearing.”
His warm fingers curl around my jaw and he turns my head as if he means to kiss me, but instead, he just keeps smiling. “I can’t wait to make you my lady. Your smiles drive me crazy.”
“I missed you.”
His lips curl even higher, tenderly so. “Are you nervous?”
I nod. “But . . . excited.”
His chiseled face is still softened by his smile as he strokes his thumb from one edge of my smile to the other. “I overestimated myself thinking I could wait longer to marry you.”
I nod and stay quiet, feeling the weight of his gaze on me, which suddenly makes me feel like my heart just burst open. “We were watching Father of the Bride and I was bawling like a baby.” I duck my head into his shirt and start bawling again.
“Come here.” He presses me against the flat of his chest, and I fist a handful of shirt and speak into the fabric that smells clean and deliciously like him.
“I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s a funny movie. I was laughing.”
He grabs his phone and shoots off a text. “Come here.” He wraps an arm around my waist and I struggle to stop crying as he leads me to the elevators.
“Where are we . . . ?”
“They’re getting us a room.”