Not the Marrying Kind

by Nicola Marsh

  “Talented and acrobatic. I like,” she said, staring up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

  “If that impressed you, wait ‘til you see what’s coming up.” He knelt on the floor, slid his hands behind her knees, and tugged her toward him. He splayed her legs, opening her to him. He tongued her, savoring her small sighs and soft yelps as he eased a finger into her wetness.

  It nearly killed him, taking it slow, but she was so responsive, so beautiful. When her hands delved into his hair and held him to her, only then did he pick up the pace, and she shattered on the third swirl of his tongue, screaming his name.

  Then she raised her head. Their gazes locked. And he experienced something he’d never had in all his past sexual encounters.

  A connection.

  A connection that went beyond the physical, the type of unspoken link that needed no words yet spoke volumes.

  A connection that scared the shit out of him.

  This had to be about sex. It had to. He couldn’t handle getting emotionally involved. It wouldn’t end well.

  “You were right. You’re beyond talented.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Eager to dispel the intimacy that could prove to be his undoing, he snagged his wallet out of his pants and slipped a condom out. He sheathed himself in record time, eager to be inside her, desperate to lose himself in the physical and obliterate any semblance of intimacy.

  She opened her arms to him and he rejoined her on the bed, entering her in one swift thrust that made her cry out in pleasure.

  Heaven. Tight, slick, heaven. Surrounding him. Clenching him.

  He’d wanted to prolong this.

  Not now.

  Later.

  And then she started moving beneath him, lifting her legs to lock around his waist, taking him in deeper.

  That’s when he lost it.

  He drove into her like a man possessed, loving how she met him thrust for thrust.

  His abs cramped with the force of it and as the blood roared in his ears and his brain effectively blanked, she bit into his shoulder.

  He came in a cataclysmic explosion that shook him to his core, unable to think, unable to register anything beyond…fuck.

  What they’d just done? Had blown his mind.

  He’d just had the best sex of his life.

  With his wife.

  …

  Poppy liked dating and she enjoyed sex, but she’d never been a fan of the one-night stand.

  Which made her decidedly grumpy when she woke the next morning to find her husband gone and a crappy note propped on the bedside table.

  Thanks for yesterday.

  Duty calls. In meetings all day.

  Red Rock Canyon departure changed. Need to attend several functions before you leave in a few days.

  Beck.

  She stared at the note in disbelief before crumpling it and flinging it halfway across the room.

  Arrogant, smug bastard.

  Thanks for yesterday. What was that? Forced, polite appreciation for marrying his conceited hide? Or for the most amazing, wanton night of her life?

  And way to go with the organizing when her departure would occur and lack of a signoff. No “Love.” No xx.

  Beck.

  She could wring his neck.

  She paced the monstrous bedroom, scuffing wilted poppies along the way. Kicking the flowers didn’t make her feel a whole lot better, but it did succeed in working off some of her anger. By the time she’d made her sixth circuit of the room, she felt calm enough to take a good look around.

  Ebony carpets. Chrome-edged furniture. High-tech blackout blinds. While its modernity was appealing, the starkness of the bedroom reinforced what she already knew. Beck Blackwood didn’t do fuss. He didn’t like clutter or stuff. He liked orderly and precise and well controlled—as long as he was doing the controlling.

  Even last night had been about control. He’d planned the seduction; the poppies were evidence of that. He’d pleasured her repeatedly with his hands and mouth—not that she could complain—but hadn’t given her time to return the favor, taking her every which way, inventing positions she hazarded to guess the Kama Sutra hadn’t depicted yet.

  Exiling her to Red Rock Canyon? Yeah, further signs of a control freak.

  She wanted to rebel. She wanted to barge into his office, lay across his desk, and dare him to deny what they both felt last night. Very real proof that this marriage went beyond convenient.

  A second after the thought registered in her sleep-deprived brain, she fell back on the bed and pulled the covers over her head.

  What was she thinking?

  She didn’t want to acknowledge there was anything in this marriage beyond money. And sex, thanks to how she’d foolishly given in to him last night. Thinking along the lines of more…nope, crazy.

  Being banished to the desert after his precious bloody functions was a good thing. She’d have loads of time to plan Lou’s divorce party and do some online marketing for Divorce Diva Daily. With the bonus of getting some distance and perspective between her and him.

  Yeah, that’s exactly what she’d do.

  Beck Blackwood could go about his business and she’d go about hers.

  Far away from mesmerizing green eyes and sexy stubble and a mouth made for sin.

  …

  Beck had planned on taking a twenty-four hour vacation the day after his wedding. People would expect it, would think he’d be holed up in his penthouse with his new wife.

  That had been the plan. Until last night.

  Last night had changed everything.

  He was no longer under any illusions that marriage to Poppy would be a simple business affair. She had something about her, something with the capacity to reach down to his soul and tweak, hard. He didn’t let anyone get close, least of all a woman who was mercenary enough to marry for money.

  Never mind that he was being harsh in judging her, considering he’d left her little choice in the matter. In fact, he respected her for doing what she did to save her sister’s business. Not many women would go to those lengths, marry a virtual stranger, for family.

  But he couldn’t afford to admire her. Admiration led to liking, and liking led to…genuine feelings.

  And last night he’d come pretty close to doing just that. Feeling. The foreign sensation had driven him straight to the office this morning, scuttling his plans for a leisurely breakfast in bed followed by a day of decadent sex.

  He couldn’t afford to lounge around with Poppy all day, being cozy and intimate. Who knew what the outcome would be? No, it was much safer keeping his distance, interacting at the obligatory functions that had landed in his inbox late last night, and then bundling her off to Red Rock Canyon while he concentrated on nailing this deal.

  Only one problem. Despite working his ass off for the last three hours, setting up another meeting with Stan Walkerville’s PA, going over his last pitch and refining it, ensuring he’d dotted his Is and crossed his Ts, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  She invaded his thoughts constantly. The tilt of her lips when she touched him. The tiny sigh of wonder she made when he entered her. The sheen of perspiration highlighting her post-coital glow.

  It was all he could think about.

  The pen he was holding skewed off the page and ripped a hole in it, and he threw it on the desk in disgust. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not now, when he was one step closer to achieving the ultimate goal. So what the hell was he going to do about shutting his wife out of his mind?

  The door edged open and Lou stuck his head around it. “Got a minute?”

  “Yeah.” Wasn’t like he’d get any more work done now he’d allowed himself to fantasize about Poppy for more than a few seconds. “Come in.”

  Lou strolled into the office, shoulders squared, hands in pockets, looking a hundred times better than he had the last month.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Got an email from that party planner.”
Lou pulled his smartphone out of his pocket and brandished it. “She sent some epic ideas through for my divorce party.”

  “Good.” That’s all he needed, another reminder of his wife.

  “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve finished compiling the hotel profit margins and want to dazzle me?”

  “You know we’re making a killing.” Lou slid into the seat on the other side of his desk. “I’m not here to talk work.”

  “Oh?”

  “You and Poppy.” Lou crossed his fingers. “Like that.”

  “And your point?”

  “How come you never mentioned her? Especially that night I was blind and raving on about you finding a quickie wife.” Lou puffed out his chest. “I’m your best bud.”

  “Since when have we traded girlie stories?”

  “Pre-Julie days, a long frigging time ago.” Lou slumped in his chair.

  “Exactly. You haven’t exactly been with it since the separation and I’ve been working my ass off trying to seal the nationwide deal. Not much time left for…” Beck lifted an imaginary Scotch glass to his mouth. “We’ve had different priorities. You’ve been getting over Julie, I’ve been handling work and a long-distance relationship.”

  Beck hated lying to Lou, one of the few people in this world he could trust, but Lou was a loose cannon at the moment. His reliable bud had been drunk too often for his liking since Julie left, and while it hadn’t affected his work, Beck had seen how alcohol loosened lips. And he had no intention of Lou inadvertently sinking his ship before it had sailed.

  “You still could’ve told me.” Lou frowned. “Especially when she has super powers.”

  “Huh?”

  “Any woman who can get you to the altar, let alone slip a ring on your finger, must have mystical powers.”

  “Poppy’s special.” Beck shrugged, trying to act casual as his chest twanged, an instant reminder that maybe his aim to deceive Lou held a grain of truth. She was special. He’d known it from the moment she’d stood up to him and refused his offer.

  As for last night…great, there he went again, focusing on the incredible sex.

  “You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” Lou said, gesturing around the room. “I used to envy you all this, but now? You’ve got it all.” He stood and pointed to the documents strewn across his desk. “Take it from me, man. If I were you, I wouldn’t be stuck here the day after my wedding. I’d be home paying attention to the missus.”

  Beck only just caught his muttered, “Something I should’ve done more often,” as Lou headed out the door.

  The last thing Beck wanted to do was pay more attention to Poppy. But as he blindly stared at the spreadsheets, with the lies he’d told his best bud echoing through his head, all he could think was, Who was he really lying to?

  Chapter Eleven

  Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

  Playlist: “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” by Pat Benatar

  Movie: One Fine Day

  Cocktail: Angel’s Lips

  Poppy had just zipped her overnight bag when Beck barged into the penthouse suite.

  “Change of plans. We need to attend one last party before you head out to the desert.”

  Poppy hated being told what to do almost as much as having to jump to his tune because she’d agreed to this farce of a marriage. That didn’t mean she’d make it easy for him. “Is that right?”

  “Don’t give me grief.” He shrugged out of his jacket and ripped off his tie before heading for the bathroom. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Not what you said last night.”

  If her barb registered he didn’t show it as he splashed water on his face, spritzed aftershave, and grabbed a fresh tie from his extensive collection.

  Cheap shot, considering she was as much to blame for the last few nights’ lapse as he was, but the fact he ignored her during the days following sizzling nights really rankled. It shouldn’t. Not with a clear-cut business agreement of a marriage. But it did. Sue her for being a fickle female prone to flights of fantasy: like the one where he’d rush into the penthouse and rip off her clothes because he’d been as stunned by their connection the last three nights as she was.

  “We need to put in an appearance at a party thrown by one of the investors. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.” He swapped cufflinks and plucked a new jacket out of the closet, not looking at her the entire time.

  “Beck?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You may have blackmailed me into marrying you, but I’m not some puppet you can jerk around who’ll perform on cue.”

  His head snapped up, his gaze accusatory. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Like hell it isn’t.” She marched across the penthouse and into his personal space. When his crisp aftershave tickled her nose, she stepped back, scared by the intense impulse to nuzzle his neck and inhale. “Your type likes calling the shots, I get it. But a little courtesy doesn’t go astray, so next time, text or call me.”

  If she’d expected him to appear suitably chastised, she was sorely disappointed.

  “My type?”

  “Bigshot. Used to getting his own way, expecting subordinates to jump.”

  His eyes narrowed to green sabers. “That’s not how I treat you—”

  “Yeah, it is.” She whirled away, surprised by the flicker of hurt cramping his mouth. “You want this marriage to be a business arrangement, fine, but start treating me with the same respect you’d afford your colleagues.”

  He whistled low. “You don’t pull any punches.”

  “Stop acting like an arrogant jerk.”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder and she jumped, so consumed by her fury she hadn’t heard him sneak up behind her. “I’m sorry.”

  She heard true contrition and her anger fizzled. They didn’t have a real relationship so she shouldn’t care this damn much. Powerful guys in her past wouldn’t apologize if she begged, so for Beck to capitulate so quickly earned her respect.

  “You’re forgiven,” she said begrudgingly as she turned to face him, unprepared for the uncertainty clouding his face. “Let’s put in an obligatory appearance at this party so I can head—” she almost said home, but quickly amended to “—out to the desert.”

  Everything about this arrangement was temporary, so why did she feel so blah about shacking up at Red Rock Canyon for the interim, until his precious deal went through?

  Already requests for quotes were flooding into the Divorce Diva Daily site, and between that and corresponding with Ashlee about Party Hard’s plans in the works, she hadn’t had time to breathe the last few days.

  There was plenty to keep her busy between putting in obligatory appearances at Beck’s functions. He’d asked her to stick around for three days to show a united front to the doubters and she’d done it. More fool her, because all she’d succeeded in doing was feeding an addiction…to her new husband.

  “Thanks for being a good sport about all this. I appreciate it,” he said, his gruffness belied by a soft kiss on her cheek.

  She mumbled a response and fell into step beside him as they headed downstairs for the latest meet-and-greet. They didn’t touch until they neared the function room, when he snagged her hand. All for show, of course, and she tried to ignore the niggle of regret that wormed its way through her pragmatic acceptance of the situation.

  She hated pretending for his cronies, hated how she felt when he wasn’t around more: irrationally missing him a tad. How could she miss someone she barely knew? Someone she’d spent a few freaking nights with? Crazy.

  But she couldn’t help it, and every morning when she woke to find his side of the bed empty, she’d remember the night before and how he’d made her feel.

  Like the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Beck was the type of guy to get under a girl’s skin and that was exactly what he’d done. She admired his ruthlessness in doing whatever it took to get the job done, including marr
ying. Not many people would go to such lengths. Ironically, he was probably thinking the same about her. If he knew Sara and saw how much she’d deteriorated since her marriage imploded, he’d understand.

  Which made it all the more imperative she kept Divorce Diva Daily under wraps.

  “Will any of these people be at Lou’s party?”

  Beck nodded and gripped her hand tighter as they eased into the room. “You’ve seen the guest list. Lou’s inviting every occupant of the state of Nevada and half of Cali, too.”

  “I should play nice, then?”

  Considering the A-listers Lou had insisted she invite, if she nailed his party she’d virtually secure Sara’s future beyond Beck’s cash injection.

  Business would boom and in time, when Sara was stronger and less vulnerable emotionally, Poppy could tell her the truth and present her with a thriving business she’d be foolish to shut down. Yeah, she had it all figured out. Except the part where her heart beat faster every time her husband glanced her way.

  “Playing nice for this crowd is the only way you’ll escape unscathed.”

  She didn’t understand his bitterness or the frown he quickly erased when she glanced at him. She had her own reasons for hating glitzy parties like this: she’d grown up with them, had despised every fake schmoozing minute. But guys like Beck moved in these moneyed circles all the time, thrived with the backslapping and BS.

  So why did he look like he’d rather be anywhere but here?

  “Shouldn’t you mingle?” She gave him a gentle bump with her hip but he didn’t budge, her hand way too comfortable in his.

  “It’s all about being seen and we’re doing that.” His stony gaze swept the crowd. “I’m so over this,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

  “I thought you loved the schmoozing.”

  “You would think that,” he said, releasing her hand. “Drink?”

  “Champagne, please.”

  His brusque nod made her heart sink. She could think the worst of her blackmailing husband, but why couldn’t she keep her big mouth shut and not articulate it every five seconds? She watched him thread his way through the crowd, being stopped every few feet to air-kiss a fake-tanned bimbo or shake hands with pretentious jackasses.