He deepened the kiss. His tongue touched the seam where her lips met. With a hungry cry, she slid her arms around his neck and let him in.
Oh, the sheer pleasure of it—the velvety roughness of his tongue as it stroked past her parted lips and found the slick, wet surfaces inside. Angie gasped, instinctively pressing her hips up to him, feeling him there for the first time, her body catching fire at the intimate contact.
His big hands splayed on her back and he pressed her ever tighter into him. She reveled in that, in how tightly he held her, in the strong thrusting of his tongue in her mouth, in the low, needful moan that rose from his throat.
A miracle.
She wanted him. Wanted Brett. Her lifelong friend, and now, so suddenly, her husband. She wanted him—and he wanted her.
He took the hem of her snug red T-shirt and yanked it upward. The kiss broke—just long enough that he could whip that shirt off and away—and his mouth covered hers again.
A groan of sheer delight escaped her as he cupped her breasts. He groaned, too. Even with the barrier of her lacy bra between his warm palms and her aching flesh, the sensation was electric.
She slid her hand down between them, to touch him, curling her fingers over the hard, thick length of him beneath his clothes, groaning again at the sheer wonder of it, of touching him, of having him touch her.
She couldn’t wait any longer.
She needed him, had to have him.
He must have felt the same, because all at once they were tearing at each other’s clothes. She undid his khakis and shoved them down, along with the boxers beneath. A flick of his clever fingers and her bra came undone. She wiggled it off and tossed it over her shoulder.
They let go of each other—long enough to step back and get out of their shoes, their socks, her jeans, his collared knit shirt. Within seconds, they were both naked, standing there in the middle of the great room, revealed to each other in the afternoon light….
Angie’s heart thrummed a hot tattoo under her breasts just to look at him.
If a man could be called beautiful, Brett was, with those broad shoulders and leanly muscled arms, his tapering waist, tight belly and hard thighs. Her breath all tangled in her throat, wet and yearning down below, she glanced up, into those gold-flecked dark eyes—and then down again, her gaze lingering on the thick, jutting evidence that he wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
She really, truly hadn’t expected this…this burning. This need. This feeling that she might die if she couldn’t have this man—her husband—inside her, right now.
“Oh, Brett…” Her throat clutched. She gulped to ease the sudden tightness, licked her lips in anticipation.
And faintly, from somewhere outside, she heard a woman’s voice calling, “Jimmy, come on home. It’s dinnertime…”
The windows…
Through the humid fog of overwhelming desire, it came to her that they were standing stark-naked in the middle of the great room, surrounded by windows with all the blinds wide open.
Anyone who happened to look in might see them….
Her lust-dazed mind skittered away from the thought. Really, it was still daylight and none of the lamps in the room were on. With the brighter light outside, the windows would be opaque to anyone strolling by on the street.
Wouldn’t they?
Brett realized the problem, too. But he didn’t agonize over it. He only said, low and roughly, “Angie. You’re beautiful. And I think we’d better shut the damn blinds….”
She laughed then, a giddy laugh that seemed to shimmer through her, warm as sunlight, bright as a new day. Had a woman ever been so happy as she was at this moment? So desperate for the touch of a certain special man—and yet, at the same time, so completely fulfilled?
Her whole body was aching for him. But in her heart, she’d never felt so light, so sure.
And he was right. They’d better get the blinds closed.
They raced around the big room in their birthday suits, pulling the cords on all the blinds, leaving them slanted just enough to give them light to see by.
Brett shut the last blind and turned to her. He held out his hand. “Come here.” Again, his voice was rough and low. Tempting her.
Commanding her…
Heat flooded her, a wash of yearning so powerful she felt weak with it. And somewhere far back in her mind, a warning bell sounded.
How could this be happening with Brett? It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not with Brett.
This feeling wasn’t…safe. The wild pulsing of her blood, the weakness in her knees, the heavy wetness between her legs, the overwhelming ache in every cell of her body—to touch him. To take him inside her…
This was stronger. More powerful. More consuming than anything she’d ever felt before.
This made all the hot times with Jody seem…what?
The word came to her. Shallow. Yes. Shallow and trivial—less than a pale imitation…of this.
This, which was turning out to be a lot more than she’d ever expected.
This, which was a far cry from what she and Brett had agreed on.
This, which was everything wild and crazy and out of control—all that stuff she and Brett had supposedly married to avoid.
Well, and so what?
She almost laughed again—for sheer joy. It appeared she was going to get more than she’d ever imagined in this marriage. It appeared she was going to have great sex—the best sex of her life. Tonight.
With her husband.
And really, did she have a problem with that?
She felt the slow, knowing smile as it curved her lips.
“Angie. Come here.” He started toward her, the fine muscles in his strong legs bunching with each step, his desire for her standing out proud.
She didn’t have to be told a third time. Head up and shoulders back, she crossed the wide room to meet him halfway.
When she stood before him, she put her hand in his.
He reeled her in.
Bending his head to hers, he covered her mouth in a hard, potent kiss, his tongue pushing in, sweeping over her teeth, flicking the roof of her mouth, until she moaned and rubbed her breasts against his chest, so her nipples drew up all the tighter.
He brought his hands between them and cupped her breasts, catching the nipples and rolling them, making them ache deliciously, causing her blood to thicken in her veins and her breath to snag high in her chest.
Below, she felt herself opening, wetter than ever, aching for the feel of him…
He cradled her face in cherishing hands and he went on kissing her in that demanding, arousing way, his fingers easing up under her hair and then combing down through the loose strands. He trailed a finger along her spine, tracing each bump, moving lower, until he cupped her bottom and pulled her to him—tighter.
Harder.
He let one hand trail upward, as, with the other, he held her firmly in place, pressing her against his raging erection. He traced a squiggly pattern on her flesh, one that left hot little flares of intense sensation as that taunting finger moved up, into the curve of her lower back and over, down the side of her hip…
And inward.
She cried out, into his mouth. He thrust his tongue deeper, moaning. She drank that sound.
And he had loosened his hold on her bottom just enough that he could slip that wandering hand of his between them. He found the thatch of moist curls, the slickness beneath. Angie shuddered.
He caught her lower lip between his teeth, worried it gently, murmured into her mouth, “So hot, so wet…for me…”
She moaned in response. “Yes. Oh, yes…”
And he delved in, stroking her, slipping a finger deep inside, and then two, sliding them, in and out, in a rhythm so slow and sweet it drove her wild.
Wild…
Oh, yeah.
She wasn’t supposed to be wild for her husband. That wasn’t the plan.
But too bad for the plan.
S
he was wild for Brett—in a purely sexual way.
Not love, she promised herself. She wasn’t in love. But in lust? Oh, yeah.
And it felt fine. Better than fine. A thousand times better. She moved her hips in time to the strokes of his knowing hand and felt her body readying, rising toward the finish….
And then, just before she went shimmering on over the edge of the universe, he stopped—but only long enough to take both her hips in his big hands and lift her.
She let out a moan that went on forever as she locked her legs around him and she felt him—nudging her slickness, inching inside, stretching her in the most perfect, thrilling way.
Oh, he felt so good, better than anything she’d ever felt before.
He groaned. “Hold on…”
And she did, with a pleasured little whimper, as he carried her, wrapped tight around him, to a section of wall by the door to the master suite.
He backed her up to it, so she could brace herself. She let her head drop back against that wall and opened her eyes to lazy slits.
“Feels…so good. So good. Oh, Brett…” She reached out, traced the shape of his ear, touched his thick, close-cropped hair. The ends were blunt against her stroking fingers. She pulled him close, whispered again, “Oh, Brett…”
And that was when he began to move. Cradling her hips, holding her in place, he retreated and then slowly entered once more….
She canted back from him, using the wall for balance, wrapping her legs more firmly around him, hooking her feet together, so she could better aid him. Her body took its cues from his, lifting when he retreated, settling as he came into her again.
“Beautiful,” he muttered, the word deep and raw, elemental, stripped down to its purest form. “Beautiful…” His fingers, curving to hold her from below, stroked her, opening her, from underneath, touching her most secret places as he pushed in and withdrew. “Watch,” he whispered, bending his head to hers, catching her earlobe between his teeth, licking it as he whispered again, “Watch…”
So she watched, her body heating to fever pitch at the sight of him, thick and hard, roped with blue veins and slick with her wetness—thrusting in, gliding out, sliding in again, until her mound pressed tight against his lower belly, so close, so…connected.
Oh, she had truly never, ever felt like this before.
And she was rising again, her body tightening around him, every nerve singing, the blood rushing to her center. Her legs shook with the force of it and she drew him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding tight so she wouldn’t fall.
The sweet contractions started, her body milking its pleasure from his. He moaned low and she felt him, going over with her, thrusting so deep, pinning her hard against the wall.
They were completely still on the outside, exploding within, holding each other so tight, their bodies straining and slick with sweat. He groaned, a sound dredged up from the depths of him, and he buried his head in her shoulder, nipping her flesh, drawing the tender spot against his teeth, licking as he sucked.
“Yes,” she moaned, and, “Yes,” again. “Like that. Oh, Brett. Like that…”
He kissed the spot he’d sucked. “Angie…” He made her name sound like a prayer.
The pulsing went on and on—his. Hers.
It was all one—they were one. She contracted around him and he spilled into her. The achingly beautiful sensation rippled out along every nerve, until, clutching him close, she tossed her head against the wall, crying out her completion—and finally, so softly, whispering his name.
Chapter Six
After that first time, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
Brett wondered at the whole situation—a little.
But not a lot. What red-blooded man would?
On the spur of the moment, he’d headed for Reno and married his best friend, his sidekick, the girl next door—and discovered that she also just happened to be his sexual dream girl. How often did that happen?
Brett didn’t know. Hell, he didn’t especially care. Angie wanted him and he damn well wanted her. It was a nice extra bonus to what was clearly the best choice he’d ever made in his life—spur of the moment or otherwise.
Okay, in that first, hot, incredible weekend of their marriage, they weren’t as careful as they should have been, given their agreement to hold off on kids for a while.
But he did have condoms and they did use them. Just not quite all the time.
That first evening, as daylight faded beyond the bathroom’s glass-block windows, they took a bath together. He turned on the air jets so she could have bubbles—and the massaging jets, too, just for the hell of it. They floated around in the high, white, pulsing froth, laughing, kissing, pausing to indulge in a lingering touch.
She wrapped her soft fingers around him. He groaned as the pleasure sliced through him, hot and sweet. She kissed him, with the steam rising around them, her soft brown hair, which she’d pinned up loosely, tumbling in little corkscrew curls around her moist cheeks. The taste of her was like no woman he’d ever known. He lay back in the foaming water and let those fingers of hers have their way with him.
Later—much later—they turned on the lights in the great room and headed for the kitchen to whip up a little midnight snack. In an unnecessary nod to modesty, she’d pulled on his knit shirt. He’d put on his boxers.
Five minutes later the shirt was dangling off the back of a chair and the boxers were hanging from the refrigerator. Angie, gorgeously naked, sat on the granite peninsula with her long, slim legs around his waist and her slender arms braced on his shoulders.
She amazed him, astounded him, stole his breath right clean away.
He bent over her, there on the counter, and he took one hard, dusky-pink nipple in his mouth. She groaned low and ground her hips against him, lifting her torso, so he could have more.
Amazing. Oh, yeah. That was the word for her.
Once he let her down off the counter, she put his shirt back on, washed her hands and whipped them up a couple of omelets. He made the toast.
They ate. Then came the best part: they went to bed.
They lay under the covers, with the light of the almost full moon shining silver in the windows and they whispered to each other, of hopes.
Of dreams.
Of what might come to be.
Of what they absolutely would make happen.
He kissed her slowly, caressing her, exploring all her sleek, soft hollows, her rounded, inviting curves. He pushed the covers down and he looked at her, silvered in moonlight. Never had he seen such a beautiful sight. He told her so. She reached up her arms to him.
“Not yet,” he whispered. He put his mouth to the hollow between her breasts, that vulnerable spot just beneath the place where her ribs met. He stuck out his tongue and he tasted her—the sweet and the salt of her. He laid his head there, in that warm, smooth hollow. Her arms came around him, holding him, and he listened to the rhythm of her heart.
But not for long. Soon, he was kissing her again, trailing his tongue downward, dipping into her navel, sliding over, to trace wet circles on the jut of a hipbone, to track the tender line where her thigh met her body.
He made her moan. He really liked that: hearing Angie moan. He nuzzled the dark curls that covered her sex and then he parted them—first with a teasing finger. Then with his mouth.
She gave herself up to him, crying out and clutching the sheets, her body bowing up, her smooth thighs spread wide for him. When she reached her peak, he slid up her body. She was open for him, ready—and so wet, she took him in one easy, deep glide.
He looked down into her wide, soft brown eyes as they moved together. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
She held up her mouth to him. He kissed her, spearing his tongue in, groaning as he came.
In the morning she spoke of going to see Glory. But somehow she never quite got out the door.
A look, or a brushing touch. That was all it seemed to take with t
hem. He would look at her. She would let out a soft sigh.
And he’d have to reach for her, have to press his lips to hers and pull that gorgeous body close.
They joked that there wasn’t a surface they couldn’t make love on. No counter or piece of furniture was too small or too uncomfortable: the sofas, the chairs, the kitchen and bathroom counters, the washer in the laundry room downstairs—the dryer, too.
Sunday night, late, as they were settling into their bed, he got an emergency call. Angie volunteered to go with him. But he cupped her sweet face in his hands and kissed her. “Stay here. No reason for both of us to go.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Keep the bed warm. I’ll be home before you know it….”
Not exactly.
It was after three when he eased into bed beside his sleeping wife. She sighed as he gathered her close. He kissed the satiny crown of her head and stared at the moon out the window and thought that he was the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
Monday morning, Angie stole a moment from the rush to get ready for work and gave her baby sister a call. Since Glory was still at their mother’s, Angie had to get past whoever answered the phone first. That turned out to be Great-Grandpa Tony.
“Angie!” the old man crowed. “How you doin’ in that fine, new house of yours?”
“I love it here, Grandpa.”
“How’s married life treatin’ you?”
“It’s great. Is Glory there?”
The old man made a snorting, disapproving sound. “Now, where else would she be—since she refuses to marry the father of her baby? I tell you, Angie. It ain’t right. That little baby deserves—”
“Grandpa?”
“Eh?” More snorting and grunting. “What?”
“Could you just put Glory on?”
“Young people. Always in such a big damn rush.” Judging by the clattering sound that came next, Old Tony had dropped the phone—probably in disgust. “Glory!” Angie heard him shout. “Glory, it’s the phone!”
Married in Haste Page 7