The Best Man's Bride

by Anne McAllister

  Fortunately it was no hardship.

  “Cel’.” He took her mouth with a groan, nipping and nibbling, kissing her with a desperation he had kept leashed until then. It was a studied assault on her senses – and then it was a bloody conflagration. He wanted to burn down her resistance. In the process she burned him down as well.

  Chapter Eight

  Celina tried to protest, to remind Jack – and herself – that they were going to be friends, that their marriage was over, that intimacy was a thing of the past.

  But her sense of self-preservation deserted her. There was only the hunger for this man, the familiarity of his touch, his murmurs, his lips, and the way her body responded to all of it.

  It was getting harder and harder – and there was a pun for you, Celina thought with the last vestiges of her working brain cells – to remember she was determined to be his friend and only his friend.

  It was obvious that Jack had other intentions in mind, and Celina was fast forgetting herself.

  “We should go,” she mumbled against his lips. There was no force in her words, no determination. All she wanted was the brush of his mouth against hers. She wanted more of the stubbled jaw rasping against her cheek, wanted his fingers threading through her hair. Even more she wanted to do things to him.

  He groaned. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “But –”

  “Not anywhere,” he insisted. “Remember the last night we had in San Michele?”

  She might have managed to say no if he hadn’t asked her that. The memories of the night they’d spent together in San Michele were some of the most precious, most wonderful of her life.

  “Don’t you want that, Celie?” he whispered. “Because God knows, I do.”

  And then without waiting for her reply, he tugged her blouse out from the waistband of her skirt and skimmed his hands up beneath the fabric, framing her ribs, The rough pads of his fingers played over her burning skin. He’d done that in San Michele. He’d done all of this in San Michele and she’d loved every second of it.

  She knew he was seducing her. And she knew she was letting him.

  Her brain was a tangled mass of conflicting thoughts. She wasn’t married to him any longer. She had a future that was going in an entirely different direction than his. But once ... once she’d had such dreams with him.

  And now he was reawakening those dreams.

  He was telling her he wanted a life together, a family. All the things she wanted. With him. She had always wanted it with him.

  You still want it with him, a traitorous little voice inside her said. Traitorous, yes. But also, unfortunately, the voice was honest.

  His fingers flicked over her nipples, making her tense, then suck in a breath. At her reaction, she felt Jack’s mouth curve into a smile as his lips pressed into her hair. His fingers slid around to stroke up and over her back, kneading, teasing, tempting.

  Oh, God, it was tempting.

  Now his fingers were playing with the hooks at the back of her bra. Celina tried to shift away, but his elbows caged her in.

  “You’re trying to seduce me,” she accused him shakily.

  A chuckle vibrated against her hands that were pressed against his chest. “Mmm. How’m I doing?” He wasn’t even going to deny it.

  She couldn’t answer. Not without lying. Because she didn’t want to tell him how good it felt, how badly she wanted it. How badly she still wanted him.

  He unhooked her bra. Then with a deftness she marveled at, he seemed to slip it off her shoulders at the same time he skimmed her top over her head and cupped her breasts in his palms. Bending his head he kissed the tops of her breasts, nibbled them, burrowed his face between them, pressed closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat and hardness of his erection through his jeans.

  She remembered all the times she had palmed him there, pressed her hand against him, stroked the bulge beneath his jeans. Her fingers itched to do it again. To feel his reaction.

  Just once, she told herself. One last time.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what she was doing. She knew. And she knew there was every chance she’d regret it. But he was offering. And she couldn’t say no.

  Slowly she eased her hands down his chest, stroking the heat of him through the soft cotton of his sweater til her hands rested against the top of the waistband of his jeans. The waistband sat low, below his waist, right above the flesh that strained toward her touch. She ran a finger just beneath the edge of his waistband and instinctively his hips canted toward her. She did it again.

  He groaned and pressed his forehead against hers. His breathing came hot and erratically against her lips, against her cheek. His fingers weren’t idle, either. They skated southward, tipping down her spine, then his hands settled on her hips, drawing her into the delta of his thighs. His thumbs teased her skin, dipped below her waistband, then his fingers did likewise.

  “Jack,” Celina murmured a protest. Or was it a protest? Was it, perhaps, a request? She wished she knew.

  “Tell me you don’t want this.” The words vibrated against her lips as his hands slid down into the back of her skirt, drawing her hard against him.

  But Celina had no words to tell him anything at all. All her senses were caught up in him – his touch, his smell, his taste, the rough brush of his stubbled jaw against her cheek, the nip of his teeth on her lower lip. And then his hands slipped out from against her skin, and his arms came around her, one wrapping around her back, the other scooping her up under her knees so that she was cradled against his chest and he was carrying her toward the stairs.

  And she let him. She let him carry her up the stairs and, ducking his head beneath the lintel, into a bedroom and settle her on the bed.

  She could have protested then. She wasn’t incapable of it. She was perfectly capable. But nothing in her wanted to do it. It was foolish – she knew that. There would be pain after – she knew that, too. She didn’t believe they were going to have a happily ever after no matter what Jack said.

  But still she held her peace because, God help her, she wanted him. She had missed him so much. His warmth, his voice, his lips, his touch. And when he dropped her lightly on the bed and stood over her for a long moment, she could only say his name: “Jack.”

  It wasn’t even close to a protest now, not unless you counted her protesting that he was still standing there, not lying beside her. And when he still didn’t move, when all she could see was his silhouette outlined in the light that came up the stairs from the parlor below, she held out a hand to him.

  “Jack.” Now it was more request, more invitation than anything else.

  “Yeah.” His voice was husky, a bare whisper, and he yanked his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, moved to toe off his shoes, and finally dropped down beside her.

  It was a wholly unexpected scrumptiously comfortable bed with smooth sheets and a fluffy duvet over a mattress as heavenly as a cloud. But the best part about the bed was that Jack was in it beside her.

  Apparently he thought so, too, because he murmured, “At last.” Then he rolled onto his back and unceremoniously hauled her up over him so that she lay on top of him, touching him from the top of her head, which was tucked under his chin, to the tips of her sandal-clad toes, which tangled with Jack’s feet.

  For a long moment, neither moved.

  Beneath her ear she could hear the beat of his heart, quick and urgent, like a drum picking out an insistent primal beat. Her own matched it, and grew even faster when she felt him lift his head so he could press his lips against the top of hers.

  The night they’d met, the night he’d rescued her, then taken her back to his place and given her a stiff shot of whiskey, then had followed it up with hot cocoa, and soft melodies on his guitar, he’d dropped just such a kiss on her head when he’d left her outside the door of her apartment.

  Was he remembering that now, the way she remembered it? She felt her throat tighten, aching with love for th
is man – unable to stop loving him, even when she wanted to.

  She wanted to lie there in his arms and soak in the touch of his lips so she could take out the memory when the night was over and Jack was gone.

  But a second after she thought it, he was rolling her off onto the duvet cloud again, saying, “Too many clothes.” He raised himself up on an elbow and began working loose the buttons on the pinstriped blouse she wore, swearing when his fingers fumbled them.

  “I can do it,” Celina offered because there was no use pretending where this was going.

  But Jack shook his head. “I’ll do it. I’ve been waiting to do it for too damn long.”

  Stubborn man. She could just make out the way he bit his lip in concentration as he started over, grinding his teeth until the last button came undone and she saw a white flash of teeth as he grinned his satisfaction.

  He peeled it and her bra off in a single deft maneuver. His grin vanished as he shaped her breasts with his hands, then leaned in to touch his lips to them.

  Oh, God, it had been so long. Celina tensed at the feel of his lips, of his tongue on her, the moisture and the cool night air making her nipples bead. She moved, restless under the onslaught of his mouth. Her fingers tightened in the duvet, clutching as if she could save herself from drowning in sensation.

  He moved from one breast to the other, his soft hair brushing against her sensitive skin, tickling, teasing as he moved. The pressure of her own desire grew, heating her from within, making her shift impatiently.

  “You’re right,” she muttered, putting her hands on him. “Too many clothes.”

  He lifted his head. It was so nearly dark that she couldn’t see his expression, but she could feel his gaze on her, stirring her blood the way it always had, fanning her desire. Then he sat back and picked up one of her feet, unbuckled the sandal and tossed it aside, then did the same with the other. His fingers played with her toes, making her squirm.

  “Ah, yeah, ticklish,” he murmured with a wicked grin.

  “So are you,” she reminded him pointedly.

  He gave a half-laugh. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  Celina felt her skin flush. “A threat,” she said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to her own ears. “Just wait,” she murmured.

  Jack nodded. “Looking forward to it.”

  Shoes disposed of, he slid his hands up her calves, murmuring appreciatively. “Stockings?”

  Celina grimaced. “Pantyhose.”

  “You never –” He pulled back and looked surprised.

  “I was never a personal assistant to royalty before,” she told him. “Needs must.”

  He laughed softly, and then proved he was as adept at skirts and pantyhose as he was at the jeans and T-shirts she’d worn in the past.

  And when he’d cast aside both her skirt and pantyhose, he settled down to trace his fingers lightly over the soft skin behind her knees, then let them roam up the insides of her thighs.

  “Jack,” she said, unsure what she was asking for this time. More? Less? Oh no, not less.

  He got the point. Shifting her legs apart, he knelt between them, then his thumbs skated over her abdomen and hooked into the elastic of her underwear as he drew both down and off, then dropped them heedlessly to the floor. Then he sat back on his haunches and let his gaze rove over her in the faint light from downstairs.

  “Perfect.” She could hear a smile in his voice.

  “Not perfect at all,” she felt compelled to say. She was passable. Ordinary. Nothing special at all.

  “Don’t argue,” Jack ordered gruffly.

  “It’s true,” she persisted.

  “Guess I’ll just have to shut you up.” Then he braced his hands on either side of her and leaned forward until his lips were on hers. Then he did indeed shut her up.

  She was his.

  Jack felt a surge of satisfaction as her resistance melted. Her lips softened and parted, and she opened to him, kissing him back.

  It was everything he wanted – and her response, while it was exactly what he wanted, set off warning bells as well.

  He wanted this to be perfect. But he was too hot, too hungry, and too desperate – and Celie was far too tempting for him to pace himself, take his time, give her the experience she deserved.

  He wanted to stoke the fire that had been building between them, wanted to recapture the times they had teased and tasted and had driven each other crazy all night long.

  He wanted to make her as hungry for him as he was for her.

  And at the rate he was going, he might last half a minute. At best.

  Right now he had less control than a high school kid. The mere taste of Celie’s lips made him groan.

  And that, heaven help him, made her part those lips and touch his with her tongue, then dart inside, tease, taste, sample, stroke.

  Oh, God, bring it on.

  And she did. Her lips still locked to his, the fingers of one hand began to work on his belt. The other hand slid beneath the waistband of his jeans and – his hips jerked at the touch of her fingers even though they were where he wanted them most.

  “Cel’!” His voice was strangled. God, yes, he might as well be back in high school again. He caught her hands.

  “Have mercy, woman, or this is going to be over before it even gets started.”

  She cocked her head. “You didn’t used to be this ... touchy?” she ventured.

  “I didn’t used to wait two years and five months to get laid!”

  Her eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Two years and ...”

  Jack could almost hear wheels turning in her head as she did the math.

  “You haven’t – Not since we –” She sounded stunned. “Jack?”

  “What?” he growled, annoyed that he felt so exposed. His whole body was burning with self-consciousness. “I wasn’t in the mood, all right? I didn’t want anybody else!” It was a truth that was wrung out of him.

  Their gazes met. It was hard to read her in the darkness until she smiled.

  He couldn’t see it actually. But the contour of her face changed, softened, and she let out a sigh.

  “Ah, Jack.”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Just ... Jack.” It was a bare whisper. It had an odd sort of ache to it that he didn’t quite understand, but under the circumstances, he’d take it – and her smile.

  Slowly she pulled her hands out of his, but only so she could press against his bare abdomen, then slide up across his chest to his cheeks, where she framed his face, her gaze never leaving his. She leaned closer, her breath ghosting over his jaw, and then she kissed him.

  It began as a kiss like the first one they’d shared – gentle, tender, tentative, grateful. He had saved her – or so she insisted. And he’d damned well wanted to, that was certain. And while he’d understood that night that he couldn’t take what he desperately wanted, he’d at least had the sense to let her lead, to let her take from him what she would.

  She was the one who’d had the bad experience. So when he’d walked her home and on her porch, she had looked up, then touched her lips to his, he had held himself still, barely breathing as she gained confidence and deepened the kiss.

  He couldn’t do that tonight. He tried. But he’d missed her too much, wanted her too badly, had been without her too long. He had to have her.

  And Celie met him with an eagerness of her own.

  When her fingers fumbled with his belt, he made quick work of it himself, then shucked his jeans and bore her down on the bed, his fingers trembling as he skimmed them over her smooth skin, her soft curves.

  He wanted to touch her everywhere, wanted to learn her secrets all over again. And so he did. There wasn’t much finesse involved, only desire mixed with desperation.

  But Celie welcomed him. She wrapped her legs around him and drew him in.

  “Cel’! Oh, God, Cel’!” He was shuddering almost before he could begin to move. He tried to hold back, to make it
good for her. And maybe he did, because she seemed just as eager, just as desperate as he was, and he felt her body pulsing around him, her fingernails digging into his back even as he shattered.

  “Cel’.” Her name on his breath was all he could manage. He was shaking, spent, broken – and yet somehow more whole than he had been in a long, long time.

  Her fingers were smoothing down his sweat-slick back as if she were comforting him. And he felt oddly comforted.

  “I love you.” His voice was raspier than ever. He lifted himself up, bracing himself on his forearms, and kissed her gently.

  Her cheeks were wet.

  Did she dare dream?

  Did she dare trust?

  Could she possibly hope?

  Celina made love with Jack the first time that night, because she was desperate for him and she was stunned by his revelation that he hadn’t slept with anyone since they’d last been together after Christmas two and a half years ago.

  Jack? Celibate?

  Did that mean ...? Could it possibly mean he loved her? Really loved her? That she wasn’t just some obligation he’d taken on in a weak moment? That what he felt was something more?

  Yes, there it was again, that niggling little bit of hope.

  And she’d made love with him a second time because he told her shakily that he had a lot to make up for.

  “I want it good for you, Celie,” he said.

  “It was good.” Scarily good. She’d been shattered by his need, his urgency, the desperation she could feel in his trembling hands, his tense body, his clenched jaw.

  “Then I want better for you.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “It can be better. You know it can.”

  Celina wasn’t sure about that. But when he came to her again, the edgy urgency was gone, replaced by something akin to tenderness. His hands touched her with a reverence she relished. She felt cherished. She’d not expected that.

  The feeling made her throat oddly tight.

  His loving made her ache, then it made her squirm, then made her soar.

  And this time when she shattered it wasn’t from Jack’s need, but from her own.