The Worst Man (Wedding Season Series)

by Rebecca Norinne

  We crossed the street and when we reached the sleek black car, Hank handed our luggage off to a driver he addressed by first name and then we slid into the back seat, the sound of the world around us fading to nothing as the heavy doors slammed shut. I buckled my seatbelt and then swiveled in my seat to face him at an angle. “I realize I don’t actually know where you live. I always assumed you had some sleek, shiny bachelor pad in one of those new expensive condos down by the waterfront.”

  “You’ve thought about where I live?” he asked, his tone somewhat surprised. But then he smirked, and instantly I knew I’d regret the admission. “You were picturing what my bed looked like, weren’t you? Don’t worry. It’s big enough for both of us.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and my cheeks flamed with mortification.

  I dropped my eyes down to my lap so he wouldn’t see the truth written in them. I would go to my grave before I admitted this to anyone—least of all Hank—but a couple of months ago I’d woken up from a dream hot and sweaty and my core pulsing. In it, I’d gone over to Hank’s place to yell at him for something. The dream wasn’t clear about what. In the midst of our back and forth, he’d pushed me up against the wall and kissed me roughly, his hands speared in my hair, his teeth nipping at my lips. “It’s the only way I could think to shut you up,” Dream Hank had said, his chest sawing in and out with labored breaths as he stared down at my lips with hunger flashing in his deep blue eyes. Dream me had thrown myself at him then, at which point he’d tossed me over his shoulder and marched us down the hallway to his bedroom. He threw me down onto his bed where I was surprised to find I was already naked. With no further words exchanged between us, he unzipped his jeans, climbed over me, and drove into me in one hard, punishing thrust. I’d come right then and there. That was when I’d woken up, and realizing what I’d been dreaming about, had vaulted out of bed and into the shower where I’d shamefully given myself another orgasm and then scrubbed the shame from my body with a brand new loofah.

  He took hold of my hand and laced our fingers together. “I can see from the look on your face that you have. It’s okay, I’ve jerked off to you more times than I can count.”

  My head shot up. “You have?” Now who was the surprised one?

  He nodded, and his gaze dropped to my lips. Without conscious thought, my tongue flicked out to wet the bottom one. I rolled it between my teeth, and Hank groaned and readjusted his seat. “A particular fantasy of mine involves us in my shower. You’re down on your knees with my cock in your mouth and your fingers between your legs.”

  My stomach clenched, but not with the response I expected. The last time a man had wanted me down on my knees blowing him, we’d ended up breaking up a few hours later. But the idea of prostrating myself in front of Hank didn’t sound horrible. In fact, I could picture the scenario he’d just painted quite vividly, and I was keen to give it a try. I couldn’t say for sure what the difference was, but I suspected it had something to do with the fact that Hank’s fantasy involved my pleasure as well as his own, whereas Samuel had wanted my hands tied behind my back, leaving me completely at his whims. Whatever it was, I felt myself growing hot, my blood warming with anticipation.

  I lifted my arm and reached behind my neck, looping my hair over one shoulder. I pulled a strand between my fingers and bent my face forward to smell it. As I did, I kept my gaze meaningfully locked on Hank. “The first thing I do after I fly is take a shower to wash the plane stink out of my hair.”

  Hank’s face split into a slow, wolfish grin. “My, my. Mrs. Talbot. You continue to surprise me.”

  “I continue to surprise myself as well,” I admitted. “Now tell me more about this shower of yours.”

  Eight

  ** Three weeks later **

  As it turned out, Hank’s walk-in steam shower was nearly the same size as the bedroom back at my place. With two shower heads at either end and one long bench lining the back wall, it reminded me of the elegant spa I’d treated myself to on my thirtieth birthday. Minus the orgasms, of course.

  The luxury didn’t stop there though.

  I’d been completely wrong about the type of place Hank had lived in. There wasn’t a speck of chrome or black lacquer to be found. Instead, everything about his house in Rocky Cove’s historic district dripped with understated class. Frankly, I was surprised by how warm and welcoming it all was. If a designer would have asked me to flip through home design magazines pointing out everything that I liked, it would have looked a lot like his place.

  Still, I had reservations about moving in.

  Hank made his way from the chef’s kitchen at the center of the house and out the double french doors onto his the deck carrying a tray that held a pitcher of sun tea, two glasses filled with ice and sprigs of fresh mint, and a couple of BLTs. Setting it all down on the patio table, he dropped a kiss to the top of my head and then took a seat in the chair next to me. “So what do you think? Have you given any more thought to moving in here with me?”

  While most facets of our relationship were going surprisingly well, we still hadn’t come to a consensus about our living arrangements. I didn’t consider myself a particularly jealous person, but I was intensely aware of the difference between Hank’s past and my own. I’d brought exactly zero men back to the apartment I rented, whereas the number of women he’d likely brought back here would make my head spin if I ever became brave enough to ask.

  I hated that this was even an issue for me, but we’d spent too long aiming barbs at one another about this exact thing. Hank liked to tease me about how boring my love life was, while I noted with much eye rolling and sarcasm how active his was. The stark difference between our sex lives was far too ingrained in my psyche for me to be able to ignore it with any measure of success. The fact of the matter was, it made me uncomfortable to imagine the ghosts of his past partners living here among us.

  I gazed out onto the water directly beyond us, sailboats and yachts bobbing in the harbor. It was like a scene out of a movie, or a picture printed on a postcard. “Remind me again, how long you’ve owned this place?” I reached for the pitcher and filled up our glasses. I already knew the answer, but I was stalling for time.

  “I bought it five years ago and had it remodeled last summer,” he said, lifting the tea to his mouth. “And you didn’t answer the question.” His gaze found mine over the rim of his glass.

  I smiled slightly. “When did you get so perceptive?”

  He set his glass down on the table between us. “I’ve always been perceptive.”

  I leveled a dubious glare at him. “Says the man who routinely says the most inappropriate thing at the most inappropriate time.”

  He didn’t flinch under the weight of my condemnation. “You say that like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  That was … surprising. “Do you?”

  He scratched the coarse, dark hair lining his jaw. A clean shaven Hank was an exceedingly attractive man, but with his new, thick beard, he was far too sexy for his own good. If we weren’t having a very serious conversation, I’d be tempted to crawl into his lap and rub it against my nipples.

  “It’s a type of defense mechanism, I suppose,” he said, pulling me from my dirty fantasies.

  Later, I promised myself. “How so?”

  “If your parents think you’re an imbecile, they don’t place so many unreasonable expectations on you. It’s easier to go through life acting like a clown than it is to be perfect all the time.” His voice was low and guarded, and I could tell from the pinched look on his face that this wasn’t a comfortable topic of discussion.

  While I was a generally private person who kept most people at arm’s length, Hank surrounded himself with hangers-on and random acquaintances. Over the years, I’d gotten the impression that his friendships never moved beyond the superficial. It was one thing that annoyed me about him. I might only have a handful of friends, but they were ride or die. Meanwhile, all these people thought they knew him, but they truly didn�
��t.

  And apparently I’d been one of them. But I wanted that to change. It had to, if this relationship was going to work. Which meant being honest about my reservations about moving into his house.

  “I love this place, but—”

  “But you don’t want to live here.”

  “It’s beautiful, truly. Everything I could ever want in a house, but you have a history here. One that doesn’t include me,” I said pointedly.

  “Of course I do. Like I said, I’ve lived here for five years. But it’s not my history I’m concerned with. It’s the future I want to talk about. One I thought we were on the same page about.”

  “I knooooow,” I breathed out, feeling ridiculous and petty. “It’s just …” I trailed off, hating myself more and more by the second.

  “It’s just what?” he asked, bending over at the waist and resting his elbows on his thighs, his chin resting on his upturned thumbs and his fingers steepled in front of his nose.

  I looked away. “How many women have you brought here?” The words rushed from my lips in a quick, nearly indecipherable gust.

  Hank reached out and latched onto the arms of the chair. Spinning it around to face him, the legs bumping over the grooves in the decking, his gaze locked onto mine. “Is that what this is about?”

  I nodded slightly, my eyes dropping down to stare at the puddle of condensation circling the base of my glass.

  “Please look at me, Miranda.” Slowly—hesitantly—I raised my eyes back up to his. “Believe me when I say that none of those women mattered. You’re the one that I want.”

  “I believe you. I do. But it turns out that I’m insanely jealous of them. I know it’s ridiculous and it makes me look weak and insecure, but …” I blew out a frustrated breath. That was the extent of it. There was no but. I was insecure about Hank’s past and how it might impact the future he claimed to want with me, and that made me weak. Which made me feel even worse because I despised weak, simpering women who measured their worth by the stock men placed in them.

  “You think I enjoyed seeing how comfortable you were with Samuel in Vegas? We’ve been going to that conference for three years, and every year I’ve wondered why you are so much more relaxed around him than you’ve ever been with me.”

  “I’m relaxed around you now,” I countered.

  Hank smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “True. But finding out that you used to date was like a punch to the solar plexus. I like Samuel, truly I do, but when I saw the way he touched you and how he spoke of old times so fondly, I wanted to drown him in the fountains outside the Bellagio.”

  I lifted my lips in a rueful grin. “You don’t have anything be jealous of, I assure you. We are much better friends than lovers.” I left it there, unsure whether or not I should explain why. I didn’t know how open Samuel was about his kink, and besides, it wasn’t my secret to tell.

  Hank groaned and leaned back, slapping his palm over his eyes. “And now I’m picturing him fucking my wife.”

  Something about the way his voice sounded when he spoke pulled at a hidden place deep inside of me. Some strange, dormant emotion I’d never known existed. I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of it, but a part of me enjoyed being claimed by him in such a gruff, proprietary way. “Say that again.”

  His hand fell from his face and one eye shot open. “You want to talk about another man fucking my woman? Don’t tell me you’ve got some Indecent Proposal fetish I wasn’t aware of.”

  I laughed out loud at his response, which loosened some of the tension that had taken root in my soul. “No, Hank. I don’t have an Indecent Proposal fetish. Besides, even if I did, Samuel’s no Robert Redford, and he certainly doesn’t have a million dollars laying around to spend on one night with me,” I joked, recalling the synopsis of the 1993 movie starring Redford, Demi Moore, and Woody Harrelson. Incidentally, it too had taken place in Las Vegas.

  “Can we please stop talking about what it would take for Samuel to be able to fuck you again?”

  I clamped my mouth shut and leaned back in my seat, bringing my bare heels up onto the edge and bracing my chin against my knees. I stared at Hank, who stared back at me. We sat that way for several long seconds until he blew out a breath and ran his hands through his hair, sliding them backward until he linked his fingers together behind his neck. “Okay, I get what you’re saying now.”

  “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I hate learning this about myself.”

  “It doesn’t, and it’s okay,” he said, his eyes finding the harbor again. “We’ll start looking for a new place tomorrow.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “No, I’m not mad. I see what you’re saying. It feels terrible, picturing him laying in your bed, your body curled around his.”

  In one quick, fluid movement, hefted me up and out of the chair and into his arms.

  I yelped in surprise as he carried me like a bride over the threshold, past the kitchen, and straight up the stairs.

  “Where are you taking me?” I gasped, anticipation pooling in my belly … and lower.

  I’d learned a few things about myself since we’d gotten married. Chief among them that when Hank got all growly on dominant with me, I was putty in his supremely talented hands.

  “Where does it look like I’m taking you?” He turned down the hall toward his bedroom. Kicking open the door, he strode to the bed and set me down on the edge of his mattress.

  In one quick move, he had my blouse off over my head and my skirt and underwear in a pile at my feet. His own shirt swiftly followed, and then he was kicking his way out of his designer denim. Setting his hand to my sternum, he pressed me down onto the mattress until I was flat on my back, his lean, hard body looming over me. Taking his cock in hand, he rubbed himself through my arousal. He paused. “Yes?”

  I nodded my assent. “Oh my god, y—”

  Before I could even get the words out, he entered me in one hard, driving thrust, and just like in my dream, I came apart, screaming his name in a voice that didn’t sound like me. He linked our hands together above my head, his hips pumping into me as he chased his own release. “I’m yours. No one but yours,” he said, squeezing my hands tightly. “Let me hear you say it.”

  “You’re mine,” I repeated, feeling the ghost of another orgasm creeping up on me as my back bowed up off the mattress.

  “And you’re mine,” he bit out, sweat glistening on his brow in the hot July afternoon as he filled me up with his love.

  “And I’m yours,” I agreed when he collapsed down next to me. “Always.”

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the first book in the Rocky Cove Series, where you’ll meet Hank’s best friend David Carstairs and find out how he found love with the most unlikely partner you can imagine.

  One perfect night with a man I just met ... what could possibly go wrong?

  Last night I met the most perfect man. With his crystalline blue eyes and sexy five o’clock shadow, David Carstairs was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Add in his dry wit and easy charm, and I was hooked.

  What started as a conversation about our favorite books led to the most romantic night of my life. And by the time he dropped me off at my hotel this morning, I was already halfway in love with the man.

  But everything came crashing down three hours later when my mom introduced me to her fiancé and his son—the same man I’d just spent eighteen amazing hours with.

  David was supposed to be my boyfriend—not my stepbrother! All I know is family dinners just got a whole lot more complicated.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Victoria

  I stepped onto the ferry, my overnight bag bumping along behind me, and dropped into a seat toward the rear of the boat. I fluttered my sticky shirt against my overheated skin—if there was anything I hated more than going to my mother’s sixth wedding, it was the thought of doing it in temperatures that had soared to ninety-plus degrees with no break in sig
ht.

  But that was a problem for tomorrow.

  Tonight, I had to avoid running into my older brother Theo. Difficult, since my brothers and I were all staying at the same inn. Silently, I cursed the bet we’d made the month before. How Theo had known our mom was close to walking down the aisle again was beyond me. But he had, and he’d used that knowledge to swindle Drew, Alex, and me out of a few hundred dollars each. As far as I was concerned, he’d cheated, and I had no intention of paying up.

  Hence, the avoiding.

  What I couldn’t avoid, however, was the fact that my book club was meeting on Tuesday evening and I still hadn’t read this month’s selection. Why we’d decided to enrich our minds instead of our libidos, I’d never know. Oh right. Something about how being able to confidently discuss the classics would make us better people.

  Cringing, I reached into my purse and pulled out an old, battered copy of The Sound and the Fury. Of all the great American novels the discussion leader could have picked, she’d chosen the one I’d hated the most when I’d studied it in college.

  My eyes scanned the weathered pages, taking in the notes I’d scribbled in the margins. Normally, I didn’t defile books in such a way, but following Faulkner’s stream-of-conscious narrative had been nearly impossible at eight o’clock in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays during my junior year.

  I liked to think I was older and wiser now, but as I flipped through the pages, skimming the text, I still had trouble following the disconnected timeline. I shook my head when I reached the end of the first chapter. No doubt about it, my understanding of the story hadn’t improved with age or wisdom.