The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

  What the fuck?

  He punched a pillow into shape and stuffed it under his head. Goddamn it. He had a few things to say to Christy Gray, that was for damn sure. But he’d be a gibbering nutcase unless he finished himself off like a goddamned teenager first.

  Taking himself in hand, he crossed an arm over his eyes and summoned her tits.

  CHRIS CUPPED HER breasts and stroked her thumbs over the nipples.

  Nothing. As usual. Her breasts were dead zones. Nobody had ever gotten into her panties by way of her breasts.

  Except Kota. His palms conducted some kind of current that zapped life into her breasts and made her nipples stand at attention.

  Was it because his hands were rougher than a pampered movie star’s should be, as if he actually did something with them?

  No. Jason’s palms were calloused from years of baseball, but her breasts slept through their whole relationship.

  Whatever. It was irrelevant. What mattered was that she was out of control.

  Eyes on the prize, Christine. Keep your job, save your career, and do Emma proud. Even though she has no idea.

  Especially because she has no idea.

  That made it even more meaningful, didn’t it? More honorable. This wasn’t some lame attempt to win Emma’s approval. That ship had sailed.

  No, Chris would become a top-­notch journalist because Emma deserved a daughter who was a credit to her. One who’d carry her torch into the future, who her colleagues would say was a chip off the old block.

  Or maybe Chris would become a top-­notch journalist to silence the doubting voice in her head, the voice that said she didn’t have the drive to be the journalist her mother was.

  Or, for that matter, the serious singer her father was, although that was a whole different can of worms.

  One disappointed parent at a time, please. Take a number.

  Back to Emma. Reed. The Sentinel.

  Chris tried to focus her thoughts, but Kota kept ambling across her brainpan, distracting her with his arms, his chest. His package.

  “Leave me alone,” she muttered. Stepping into the shower, she braced one hand on the tile wall and turned on the cold water. Goose bumps shivered over her skin. She gritted her teeth.

  So it was uncomfortable, so what? It was no more than she deserved. She was a wanton woman. An old-­fashioned phrase, but it summed up her morning. Thank God Kota hadn’t had a condom, or she would have surrendered her last sliver of self-­respect right there on the sand.

  But at least sexual frustration wouldn’t be gnawing her alive.

  Disgusted with herself, she gave up on the shower, wrapped herself in a fluffy towel, and flopped on the bed. Tri tapped her ankle until she hoisted him up. He snuggled against her side.

  She watched the ceiling fan’s lazy sweep. Why, oh why, couldn’t Kota be the obnoxious idiot he was supposed to be?

  Thump thump thump. A fist shook the door.

  “Goddamn it, Christy, open up.”

  “And speaking of obnoxious idiots . . .” She strode to the door and yanked it open. “What’s your problem?”

  Barging in, he shot out one accusing finger at Tri. Then he swung around to point it at her. “You promised.”

  She let her eyebrows ask what the hell he was talking about.

  “You promised to take your shirt off as soon as Sasha left.”

  She looked down at her chest, then up at him. His eyes blazed blue flame. She fanned it for fun. “Do you see a shirt?”

  “No. And I don’t see your tits either. Which was the whole point.”

  “That may have been your point. My point was to get my shirt back before Sasha saw my tits.” The same traitorous tits that perked up the minute he charged through the door.

  He advanced on her until she had to look up to hold his gaze. “It was implied by the context.” He tucked a finger into the towel between her breasts. They seemed to swell of their own volition, forming cleavage just to snuggle up to his finger.

  “The context,” he went on, “was heavy foreplay, as in you were playing with my dick and I was playing with your tits. And the implication was that we’d get back to playing just as soon as we got rid of Sasha.”

  He tugged. The towel slithered to the floor.

  She stood perfectly still while his eyes devoured her breasts, then inched lower, and lower, as hot as a blowtorch.

  When he spoke, his drawl was ragged and deep. “God must’ve built you just for me.”

  He touched her breasts, the barest drift of fingertips over the outer swells. He trailed them down her sides, tickling her waist, skimming her hips. Then moved them up again, lighter than a breeze, raising goose bumps in their wake.

  It was so erotic she could’ve climbed out of her skin.

  He dug a handful of condoms from his pocket and tossed them on the bed. “Baby, we’re gonna do everything two ­people can do. And we’re gonna start right now.”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow.

  He stepped in.

  She stepped back, guided by her last working brain cell. “I-­I can’t.”

  “You can.” He closed the distance.

  “No.” Firmer now. “I just met you. I don’t have casual sex.” That was the truth, even if not the whole truth.

  “Sweetheart, there’s nothing casual about this.” Conviction burned in his eyes.

  “I’m serious, Kota. Two days together might make us old cronies to you. But not to me. I don’t make friends easily, and no matter how tempted I am, I don’t have sex with a man until I’m comfortable with him.”

  That stopped him short. His brow creased in confusion. “You’re not comfortable with me?”

  “All evidence to the contrary”—­she gestured to her own nakedness—­“no, I’m not. But if it’s any consolation to your ego, no man’s ever seen my breasts after forty-­eight hours—­or had my hand down his pants, for that matter—­so you’re in a class by yourself.”

  “And you want me, right?”

  She made a “duh” face.

  He seemed slightly mollified, but his gaze was sharp. “So when you get to know me, we can do it?”

  A loaded question, but she’d walked into it. And she couldn’t fault his logic, based on the facts as she’d stated them. The problem was, she’d left out a few things she was in no position to reveal.

  So she hedged. “When I get to know you, I might not like you.”

  “Damn, you’re making this complicated.”

  You have no idea.

  He got a crafty look in his eye. “Temptation might get the best of you.”

  He tempted her just by breathing. “We’ll see about that.” She squatted to scoop up her towel. When she rose, he was grinning. “What’s so funny?”

  He pointed behind her. She turned.

  A full-­length mirror.

  CHRISTY’S FACE WENT up in flames. Wrapping up like a burrito, she said, “That’s cheating—­”

  He lifted a hand to cut her off. “All’s fair, darlin’, and just so you know, I aim to cheat every way I can think of. And I can think of lots of ways.”

  He rubbed his jaw contemplatively, and the scrape of knuckles over stubble put stars in her eyes. He bit back a grin. The poor thing thought she could hold out until she “got to know him,” whatever that meant. Not that he didn’t respect her for it. It was a nice change of pace.

  But her admirable morals were mighty inconvenient. Even after taking the edge off back in his room, he was hornier than a seventeen-­year-­old, and not fucking her right this minute was harder than anything—­anything—­he’d ever done in his life.

  Well, if she was into torture, two could play at that game. Tempting her to bend her rules was really just another brand of foreplay. The higher he stoked the fire, the hotter the main event would be.<
br />
  With one last, slow scratch of bristles that left her wanting more, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets, drawing her eyes to his crotch. He tapped his fingers as he rocked back on his heels.

  She played with the ends of her towel, trying not to stare.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I could eat.”

  “Meet me in the kitchen”—­a last tap of fingers on denim—­“and I’ll feed you.”

  She showed up ten minutes later with the grape sundress covering too damned much skin.

  Enjoy the pursuit, he reminded himself. The endgame is inevitable, and it’ll be all the sweeter.

  “Pasta okay?” A rhetorical question if ever there was one. He dusted the countertop with flour. “Want to help?”

  She looked dubious. “I’ve never made pasta.”

  “And you’re not starting today. Amateurs get chopping duty.” He set two fat red tomatoes in front of her.

  She eyed them like they might bite. “Um, there’s a reason I eat out a lot.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Anyone could chop tomatoes.

  “I spent my childhood on the road with one parent or other. Nary a Verna in sight.”

  With a long-­suffering sigh, he took up the knife. After all, she had other attributes that couldn’t be taught.

  “Like this.” He diced a tomato in slow motion.

  “Huh. They do it so much faster on the Food Network.”

  He chopped the other at full speed.

  She slid a cheek onto a stool, gave a Cheshire cat smile. “How will I learn if you do everything for me?”

  “Smart-­ass.” He went back to his dough. “Don’t put your feet up yet, you’re not done. There’s an herb garden around the south side of the porch.” He pointed, for the directionally challenged. “Think you can handle snipping some basil?”

  “It’s green, right?”

  “Right. Just like all the other herbs.” Picking up the scissors, he stared at her until she slid off the stool, reluctantly.

  “You’re supposed to be tempting me,” she groused as he shuffled her toward the door. “Making me work isn’t the key to my heart.”

  He paused in the doorway. “You could sing for your supper.”

  She smirked a little smile and plucked the scissors from his hand. “Never mind. I’ll figure out which one’s basil.”

  She brought back an armful that made his eyes pop. “Pesto it is,” he said, and got busy washing and chopping.

  Christy picked up the pepper mill to use as a mic. “Welcome, all you horny ladies at home. It’s Man Candy Monday on Cooking with Kota. Today he’ll demonstrate the proper use of pectorals when slicing basil.”

  KOTA GLANCED UP, and the blue of his eyes stole Chris’s breath. Then he flexed, and she lost her voice too.

  “You asked for it,” he said.

  She set the pepper mill on the counter. What was she thinking? She was playing with fire. She should go to her room. She even turned to flee.

  And—­“Whoa”—­a white cat prowled into the room, skinny as a toothpick.

  “There you are, Bumble.” Kota squatted and made kissy noises. “You must be hungry.”

  “Hungry? He should be dead.” Chris squatted down next to Kota. “What’s wrong with him?’

  The scrawny thing rubbed between Kota’s knees. Kota tipped its pointy face toward Chris and pulled back its lips.

  No teeth.

  “I’m not even gonna ask,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t tell you if you did.” Kota opened a can and set a bowl of soft food on the floor, aiming a get-­back finger at Van Gogh.

  Bumble crept up on the bowl and commenced gumming.

  “Why Bumble?” Chris asked.

  “Because Bumbles bounce.”

  It took her a minute, then she laughed, muffling it when Bumble cast a nervous glance over his shoulder.

  “He’s shy,” Kota said, sitting cross-­legged next to Chris. He skimmed a hand down the cat’s knobby spine. “He never shows himself to anybody but me.”

  “I guess I have a way with the halt and the lame,” she said, surprised to realize it was true.

  “Yeah, you do.” Kota stroked his other hand down her hair. “I like that about you.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but a rush of emotion left her speechless.

  Kota and his animals were wrapping around her heart.

  His hand slid under her hair and cupped her nape. “I can help with these knots,” he murmured, squeezing gently.

  A moan slipped through her lips, acquiescence, a plea, and he shifted around behind her, legs splayed so she fit snugly in the V.

  Using both hands, he worked the steel cables that tied her head to her shoulders. “Baby, it’s a good thing you came to the island. You need a vacation.”

  She laughed weakly. If only. If only it was really a vacation. If only her whole presence wasn’t a lie.

  But she’d think about that later. For now, she swallowed her drool. “God, that’s good.”

  He nuzzled her ear, his breath warm on her skin. “I can do better.”

  “Better might kill me.”

  “I haven’t lost anyone yet.” His teeth scraped her lobe as his thumbs broke up knots, turning her shoulders to jelly. “I can take every bit of this tension away.” A seductive whisper. “Let me get you off. You’ll relax. I promise.”

  Talk about tempting. It would be so easy to lean back against him. To give in to his magic hands.

  “You’re cheating again,” she got out, holding herself upright by will.

  “It’s working, isn’t it?”

  “Not yet, but keep trying. You never know.”

  He laughed, a deep rumble that tightened her belly and her nipples, drawing everything up with anticipation. Sapping her resistance.

  Then his hands stilled. “Well hell,” he said, reverently.

  “What? Wait. Don’t stop.” She opened her eyes. She was cross-­legged, her dress hiked up way too high, and Bumble stepped cautiously into the open space between her thighs.

  “Bumble’s never sat on anyone’s lap but mine.”

  “So we should keep the karma flowing.” She shrugged to give him a hint.

  His hands went back to work. She stroked a finger along Bumble’s throat, drawing out a thready purr. Nice kitty. Useful kitty. He took sex off the table. Kota wouldn’t disturb Bumble, even to get laid.

  Or so she thought until he unzipped her dress.

  “Better access,” he said before she could object.

  “To what?”

  “Your shoulders, what else?”

  He brushed fabric aside, and she couldn’t deny that skin-­on-­skin gave him better purchase. Knots fell like timber before the awesome power of his thumbs.

  She arched, eyes rolling back as he moved lower, his long fingers circling her waist as his thumbs worked her low back.

  “Yoga,” he said. “I’ll show you some poses.”

  Ugh. Yoga wasn’t her thing. But at least he wasn’t talking about sex anymore.

  “Orgasm first,” he said on cue, “to loosen you up. Then yoga to keep you flexible.” He leaned in, bare chest to bare shoulders, and scraped his scruff along her cheek. “I got you covered on both ends. So to speak.”

  She laughed, because he was funny and she liked him, and because she had to break the spell he was weaving before his thumbs inched any lower.

  It was time to stop the madness. And she would.

  But first she took one long, last moment to soak up the sexiest man alive. His chest, his stubble, his almighty hands. The warm, hot happiness spreading through her limbs.

  Then, like ripping off a Band-­Aid, she pulled away. She set Bumble on his feet and climbed to her own. And made the mistake of looking down at K
ota, a sexy mess with his jeans unbuttoned and his hard-­on bulging along his thigh.

  He forked his fingers through tumbled blond silk and squinted disgruntled blue eyes.

  “You know we’re gonna do it,” he grumbled. “Why make it so hard?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  CHRISTY SMILED, A slow curve of luscious lips punctuated by a pointed look at his boner. “You’re blaming me for making it hard?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” He got to his feet and menaced her with a look that had zero effect. Then he twirled his finger.

  She menaced him with a look of her own, but she let him zip her up. He managed to cop a feel while he was at it. She danced away, but not as fast as she could have.

  Hornier than ever but satisfied he’d made progress, he went back to the pasta while Christy took her usual seat with Tri on her lap. Cy snored like a chain saw. Bumble stink-­eyed Van Gogh as the earless cat slunk over to sniff the empty bowl.

  It made a uniquely domestic tableau, and warmth bloomed unexpectedly in his chest. An overwhelming desire to protect and defend. A surge of affection not just for the animals but for Christy as well.

  What the hell?

  Lust, he understood. It was a daily event, prompted in different degrees by all kinds of women. True, Christy had blazed new ground. But the bottom line was that she was a woman he wanted to have sex with. That made it familiar, if uncharted, territory.

  On the other hand, this warm, fuzzy fullness curling around his heart was reserved for family, a few close friends, and all four-­footed creatures.

  So what was she doing in the middle of it? Why did he have to fight down the urge to wrap her up in his arms?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, giving him a funny look.

  Everything, that’s what.

  “Nothing. Let’s have some wine.” And get drunk.

  “I shouldn’t. I just recovered from the mimosas.”

  “Then the timing’s perfect.” He whipped a Prosecco out of the chiller, popped the cork, and poured.

  She gave in without a fight, nose twitching at the fizz as she sipped. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I could get used to drinking with every meal.” Her gaze flickered over his chest, and her cheeks flushed a guilty pink.