The Bride Means Business

by Anne Marie Winston

She swallowed, and forced herself not to cover her exposed body like some blushing Victorian virgin.

  Dax’s hand closed over the scrap of material he held, until the lace disappeared beneath his fisted fingers. His gaze left hers, devouring every inch of her naked body as blotches of deep, ruddy color stained his cheekbones. His chest rose and fell visibly.

  “Come here,” he said, so low it was only a guttural whisper.

  Come here. He was giving her the choice.

  She knew what he wanted from her. There was no love for her in his heart anymore. It would be strictly a sexual thing, albeit an exclusive one legally sanctioned by their recent vows.

  If she walked across the tiled floor and stepped into his arms, she would be committing herself to Dax in the most intimate way of all, knowing full well what he believed of her. And, although he would never know it, she would be unlocking her heart to him again, giving him her love even though it wouldn’t be returned.

  She had never stopped loving him.

  Never The admission lifted her feet, propelled her across the room step by slow step, until she was standing directly before him. Her nipples were taut with the tension she sensed in him, and there was a low throbbing between her thighs. Standing naked before him while he was fully clothed was erotic in itself, giving her a breathless vulnerability that quickened her breathing to match the air whistling in and out of his lungs.

  “Jillian,” he said hoarsely. “I want you.”

  Slowly, she raised her arms to his black-clad shoulders. “Then you can have me,” she said quietly.

  And that quickly, she was engulfed. His arms came around her as his mouth came down, one hand gripped the curve of her bottom, the other arm formed an inescapable bar of muscled strength beneath her back, clasping her tightly against him and bending her backward beneath his wild, demanding kiss. She speared the fingers of one hand through his hair, loving the perfect feel of his skull beneath her hand as his hot mouth ravaged hers, giving and taking in a sensual dance of passion promised.

  His lips traveled down her throat, unerringly seeking her breast and she jolted and cried out when he fastened his mouth on one sensitive tip, suckling so strongly that her knees buckled, and he took the full weight of her slender body. The fierce assault sent straight shafts of desire from her nipple to her womb, so overwhelming that she whimpered into his hair. Immediately, his mouth gentled, and he murmured against her tender skin, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You’re not. It’s just—just...”

  “I know.” His voice sounded incredibly tender and tears sprang to her eyes. This was the man who’d loved her once. The man her heart remembered.

  He was everywhere, suckling, licking, stroking, his hand sliding over the smooth flesh of her back and waist and hip with sweet surety. She arched under his petting, aching for more, and his hands grew even bolder, traveling unerringly down into her aching cleft of feminine need. His fingers were rough at first, abrading her most tender flesh, but soon they were bathed with the moisture that she felt flooding between her thighs.

  Dax groaned as his fingers explored her and he found the slick, moist heat waiting for him. Her thighs closed instinctively over his hand and she moaned at the feel of his flesh trapped in such an intimate manner. He spun her, backing her against the vanity counter, lifting her hips until her buttocks were supported on the counter and her legs were spread wide around him. His mouth came back to hers and he slanted his lips across hers, fusing their mouths in a long, sweet kiss that spoke of more than simply the pleasures of the flesh.

  Wanting, needing the ultimate intimacy they’d once shared, she slipped her hand between them and her palm stroked down over the fabric of his dress pants to cradle the long, full bulge of his arousal. He jerked, and groaned into her mouth and she pressed her palm firmly against him, moving her hand up and down over his tumescent flesh beneath the fabric.

  His breathing rasped loud and fast in the silence of the room, and she felt the sudden increase in his urgency. He held her head in one big palm, kissing her deeply and between her legs she felt his hand impatiently moving hers aside and jerking down his zipper, shoving aside rough layers of fabric that brushed her inner thighs, and suddenly, shockingly, she felt him, hot, bold and ready, pressing against her nest of dewed curls.

  He drew back a fraction, finding her slick channel and moving himself into position, wrenching his mouth from hers to mutter, “I have to have you,” and then he lifted her hips in his grip and plunged into her.

  She was so wet and wanting that he slid into her very center with his first thrust. She screamed and bucked against him, and without giving her a second to relax or prepare, he took her on a fast, jolting journey of pleasure that tightened her body into a helpless vessel of need, arching her back as he pounded frantically against her most sensitive flesh. She cried out and he covered her mouth with his own again, drinking her cries, then leaving her mouth to throw his head back as he increased the speed of his thrusts. She pressed her mouth to his strong throat and savored the sensations bombarding her, feeling her body heating and boiling, pushing her higher and higher until the mounting coil within her sprang free and she shuddered into breathless convulsions that milked his hard flesh. He shouted then, an incoherent sound of satisfaction, and gripped her hips so that he could move even more surely within her, until his body tightened and his back arched, and with a final groan of overwhelming pleasure, he followed her into release.

  He poured himself into her again and again, his bursts of power decreasing until they both were gasping like winded racehorses, her forehead dropped against his chest, his chin resting on her hair. His arms were shaking and below their still-joined bodies, she could feel the long muscles in his legs quivering as well.

  She started to draw back, but he pulled her closer. “Stay here.” And wrapping his arms beneath her hips, he staggered with her to the pretty queen-sized bed. He pivoted so that he went down first, on his back, keeping her with him and around him.

  She kissed his throat above the starched collar he’d tugged open after the guests had gone. “That was pretty smooth.”

  “Um-hmm.” He sounded as content as a lion whose huntresses had just brought him his meal. “That’s me, smooth as silk.” He ran one hand from the ball of her shoulder down past the indentation of her waist and the swell of her hip. “You’re pretty smooth, yourself.”

  Feeling her strength returning, she slowly shoved herself into a sitting position and went to work on the studs of his shirt. “This has got to go.”

  He raised his head far enough to look down at himself, still fully dressed with her perched on his hips, and his chest rose and fell in silent amusement. “I agree.” Rolling to his side, he gently disengaged himself from her, giving a grunt of displeasure as they separated, surging to his feet in one lithe, graceful move.

  Lying where he’d left her, she watched as he removed his clothing, revealing the sheets of muscle his workouts created, the strong shoulders and the cloud of black hair that thinned to a dark, silky arrow as it reached his groin, only to blossom thick and curly around the masculine flesh that still displayed the full strength of his desire.

  In another minute, he reached for her, pulling back the covers and laying her on the sheet, joining her after turning out the lights. She sighed with a long-denied pleasure he echoed when their naked bodies slid against each other for the first time in seven long years, and he dragged her beneath him, pressing her knees wide and finding his niche between her thighs. “I think,” he told her, “I’m going to have to scratch this seven-year-itch again.”

  “It feels like you’re doing more than thinking about it,” she said, shifting her hips against him.

  She reached down between them and guided him into her, and he dropped his head and kissed her. This time, the kiss was long and sweet and slow, and she was writhing beneath him before he finished. When he raised his head, he said, “Why does it feel so right with you? You got into my head every
time I did this with another woman.”

  She closed her eyes, turning her head aside as shafts of pain splintered and sliced her heart. She’d had two lovers, far less than the world supposed, in the years since he’d left, both utterly forgettable. So she shouldn’t be so bent out of shape. But the thought of him...

  He took her chin in his hand, gently stroking her cheek and turning her back to face him again. “There’s never been anyone for me but you. I tried to forget you, but I always dreamed we’d be together again some day.”

  The words were a soothing balm, and she raised her hands to trace the strong lines of his face as he slowly began to move within her. “I know,” she said simply. “It was the same for me.”

  She fell asleep in his arms just before dawn.

  God, but she felt good in his arms. Right. She felt right. He was sorry he’d brought up other women. The warm satisfaction had drained from her eyes and he’d seen the hurt that was left.

  He knew how that felt.

  Jeez. Had he said that bit about the others to punish her? He hadn’t done it consciously. But suddenly he doubted himself. He’d carried so much bitterness around for so long that maybe he couldn’t judge his words or actions fairly.

  Angling his head down, he pressed a kiss to the side of her cheek. The caress made her stir in his arms and he ran his palm over her back, pulling her more closely against him. She was lying against his left side, breasts pressed against him with her left leg drawn up and over his hip. He pulled her leg higher, mildly amazed at the renewed stirring in his loins as her warm flesh skimmed over him.

  Men were supposed to be at their sexual peak a good decade or more younger than he was. But other women had never made him react this way. He’d forgotten just how potent her effect on him was. He’d never had such an insatiable need to sink himself into another woman, to stamp her with his brand and make her his completely. Sex without her was only sex, usually a one-time, “How-soon-can-I-politely-leave?” deal.

  So what was sex with Jillian?

  Chemistry, he decided. Simple chemistry. For whatever reason, she was the only woman who tripped all the right switches. Always had been, always would be.

  He might as well face it, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life without her warm, soft presence in his bed every night.

  No matter what she’d done.

  But suddenly, the image he hated, the image that had chased him through the years and back here to his brother’s funeral, came into full focus. Jillian and Charles. He couldn’t help it—the mental picture that sprang onto his internal movie screen made him want to shake her awake and shout at her.

  So you can piss her off and have her leave again? Not smart, Dax. If you can’t have it all, at least you can have her body. Which is all you really want any more, anyway.

  Wasn’t it? He pushed away the memory of a tender embrace in the kitchen, an embrace that had spoken little of passion and much of other emotions.

  She stretched and stirred again, shoving her tousled blond hair out of her face and lifting her head from the crook of his arm. Her blue eyes were like a sleepy cat’s, blinking as if to protest being awakened from a good nap, and she raised a hand to caress his cheek. “Can’t sleep?”

  “Nope.” He pulled her up to rest on his body and she smiled against his shoulder, automatically parting her legs for him as she felt the evidence of his body’s reaction trapped between them. “I think I need something to help me nod off.”

  “I’ve never met a man who needed so much help to get to sleep.” Her voice was teasing.

  Oh, yeah? How about my brother? “You never did tell me why you were in bed with Charles.”

  The words came out of nowhere, surprising him as much as they did her. Dax made his voice as casual as possible, but it was liked he’d zapped her with a cattle prod.

  Her body went rigid for an instant, and before he could catch her, Jillian slipped through his hands and practically leaped from the bed. She walked to her closet and grabbed a robe, stuffing her sleeves into the arms and tying the silk belt with a vicious tug.

  He sat up, ignoring his nudity, and then got up to stand on the opposite side of the bed as she walked back, staring at him with hot, angry eyes.

  “Was this supposed to soften me up so I’d confess my sins?” She jerked her head toward the bed.

  He spoke slowly, trying to keep his voice from betraying any emotion. “Of course not. But I think I deserve an answer. I’ve always wondered why you agreed to marry me if you wanted him.”

  Slowly, she crossed her arms and rubbed her palms up and down her upper arms. “You’ve never been interested in hearing my side of the story before, Dax. Why bother after all this time?”

  “You know why.” He pitched his voice low and seductive.

  “You mean because we just had sex?” In contrast, her tone was flat. “I’m not stupid enough to think that changes anything.”

  A disquieting flash of fear snagged and caught on her words. “It changes things for me,” he said. He hadn’t intended to open this can of worms, had planned to be content with what he had. But something within him desperately needed closure.

  She raised her eyebrows, then bit her lip and looked away and he could see she was silently doubting him. Sadness flooded her eyes and he could hardly bear the pain seared into them, though her face was a smooth marble mask. “There was a time when I would have told you everything...a time when I waited and waited and waited for you to come home so I could tell you. But you never came, Dax.”

  He could see the devastation that still haunted her lurking behind her stoic facade.

  “You never came.”

  “I couldn’t.” He offered the only defense he had. “I was so angry I’d have killed you and Charles both if I’d come home. It took me years to get past it. Hell, I still get mad.”

  But she was shaking her head. “That doesn’t convince me. You and I both know your undying love for me washed away in the first big storm we had. You didn’t trust me enough to believe in me. You didn’t come home because you were too busy seducing other women and making a baby.” Her voice shook and she stopped abruptly, biting her lower lip.

  The truth rose like the inexorable advance of the tide, sweeping away all the excuses, all the pretenses he’d clung to all these years, and he found he couldn’t let her go on thinking the worst of him.

  “I stayed away,” he said quietly, “Because you had torn my heart out and ripped it apart. It took me a long time to patch it back together and it hasn’t worked right since.” His voice was hoarse and he walked around the bed and took her hand, needing to hold it, to hold her. “We can’t change the past. But we can forget it.”

  “We can’t ignore the past, Dax. We have to face it.”

  “No, we don’t.” He drew her to him and put his index finger beneath her chin, celebrating silently when she didn’t pull away. “Let’s start fresh here and now. Pretend we just met.”

  She was silent, her eyes cast down so that he couldn’t guess at her thoughts. As if she truly was shaking off the past, she gave a convulsive shiver. But then she looked up, and a teasing sparkle dropped down to mask the shadows in her eyes.

  She put out her hand and wrapped small, soft fingers around his still-erect flesh, and he closed his eyes on a groan. “For two people who just met, we seem to have gotten to know each other awfully well.”

  Eight

  The next Thursday was Christine’s seventh birthday. Jillian had planned the party to take place right after school, and as she placed the cake with its frosting decorated in the figure of a popular doll on the dining room table, she glanced at her watch.

  “Eek! It’ll soon be three-thirty. I think we’re almost ready. Run upstairs and get the gifts, will you?” She eyed Dax’s efforts as he stepped down from the chair on which he’d been standing. The dining room had been transformed into a pink-and-lavender crepe-paper-and-balloons party room, and finally, she thought she was satisfied with the num
ber of twists she’d had to give that last streamer to make it drape the right way.

  As Dax left the room, she allowed herself a single wistful glance at his broad-shouldered form. She’d slept in his bed for the past five nights now, and if all she cared about was physical gratification, she’d be a deliriously happy woman.

  Dax was a superb lover. He knew exactly where to touch her and when. In their years apart he’d acquired polish and control, and the result was that she was beginning to get circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. They matched the ones beneath his.

  But as shattering as their sexual relationship was, there was still an ache around her heart that refused to leave.

  They had talked about a million things in the past few days. He wanted her help planning a surprise trip to Disney World for Christine, he had asked her opinion on a complete renovation of the house’s dated kitchen, and they’d discussed cost-saving strategies for the company. He’d even asked her to be present when he interviewed for a new office manager to replace the person who had quit when all the changes in her routine proved to be too much.

  The one thing they hadn’t talked about, though, was the one thing that mattered most to her. And because they hadn’t, she was very careful to make no plans for a future with him. Day to day, that’s all she could expect, and she wasn’t going to let herself forget it.

  He’d never allowed her to talk about their past, about what had really happened the night he left. And despite the tenderness and care with which he showered her, she knew they never could grow as close as she wanted, could never share a future, without exorcising that past.

  He still didn’t believe her. He’d told her he was willing to forget, to forgive. Her first instinct had been to kick him where it would count, her second to leave. But her love for him had held her fast.

  She’d known life without him once, and she simply couldn’t do it again. But this time, she promised herself, she wasn’t going to expect anything. This was her choice. Even though he didn’t love her, even though she knew he didn’t trust her, she chose to stay. The key was expectation, she assured herself. She didn’t expect him to love her. She would leave at the end of six months with memories to sustain her for the rest of her life.