One Night Stand Bride

by Kat Cantrell

She had to kiss Hendrix. For real. And the moratorium on that thus far had guaranteed this would become A Moment. The carnal spike through the gut at the thought did not bode well for how the actual experience would go down.

  Neither did the answering heat in his expression. He cupped her jaw on both sides, giving her plenty of time to think about it. No need. Her whole body had just incinerated with the mere suggestion of the imminent follow-through.

  And then he leaned in to capture her mouth with his. It was a full-on assault to the senses as their lips connected and she couldn’t do anything else but fling her arms around his waist, or she’d have ended up on the ground, a charred shell that was burned beyond recognition.

  Oh God, yes. With that one hard press of his mouth, Hendrix consumed her. This kiss was but a shadow of the many, many others they’d shared, but it was enough to slide memories along her skin, through her core.

  This was so very right, so perfect between them. Everything else faded—the weirdness, the nerves. This heat she understood, craved. If he was burning her alive from the inside out, she didn’t have to think about all the reasons this marriage might not work.

  He teased the flame in her belly into a full raging fire with little licks of his tongue against hers. Hell, that blaze hadn’t ever really been extinguished from the moment he’d lit that match in Vegas. Masterfully, the man kissed her until she’d been scraped raw, panting for more, nearly weeping with want.

  This was why she’d thrown down the no-kissing-no-sex rule. She could not resist him, even in a church full of people. Her body went into some kind of Hendrix-induced altered state where nothing but basic need existed. And he wasn’t even in full-on seduction mode. Thank God he’d played by her rules or there was no telling what new and more horrific scandals might have cropped up prior to the wedding.

  That was enough to get her brain back in gear. She broke off the kiss to the sound of flutes and strings. The recessional music. They were supposed to walk and smile now. Somehow, that’s what happened and then she floated through a million photographs, a limo ride to the reception and about a million well-wishers.

  All she really wanted was to dive back into Hendrix and never surface.

  The crowd at the reception crushed that hope flat. No less than ten people vied for their attention at any given time and she’d lost count of the number of times Hendrix had introduced her to someone from his business world. The reverse wasn’t at all true, a sobering fact that brought home the reasons she was wearing a wedding band.

  She’d spent the past few years having what she’d staunchly defend as a “good time” but in reality was a panacea for the pain of losing first her mother to cancer and then her father to indifference and grief. The scandals were just the cherry on top of her messy life and ironically, also the reason she couldn’t move forward with something respectable like running a charity.

  Her new husband would change all of that. Had already started to.

  The pièce de résistance of the event came with the first dance between husband and wife. Hendrix, whom she’d scarcely said two words to since that pantie-melting kiss, whisked her out onto the dance floor. He drew her close and when his arms came around her, the strangest sensation floated through her as they began to move to the classical piece that she’d have never picked out but fitted the occasion.

  “Hey,” he murmured into her ear. “How is Mrs. Harris doing?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to your mother.” When he laughed, she realized he hadn’t meant Helene. “Ha, ha. I’m out of sorts. It’s been a long day.”

  “I know. That’s why I asked. You seem distracted.”

  She pulled back a touch to look at him. “Ask me again.”

  The smile in his eyes warmed her, but then it slid away to be replaced by something else as their gazes held in a long moment that built on itself with heavy implications. “How are you, Mrs. Harris?”

  A name shouldn’t have so much color to it. If anything, it should have sounded foreign to her, but it wasn’t strange. It felt...good. She took a deep breath and let that reality expand inside her. Mrs. Harris. That was her name. Rosalind Harris. Mrs. Roz Harris.

  She liked it. Maybe she should have practiced writing it out a bajillion times on a piece of scratch paper. Then the concept wouldn’t have been such a shock. There was a huge difference between academically knowing that you were changing your name and actually hearing someone address you that way. Especially when the man doing the addressing had the same name and you were married to him.

  “I’m better now,” she told him.

  Understatement. Hendrix was solid and beautiful and he’d pulled off the wedding event of the season. Why hadn’t she participated more in the planning?

  Sour grapes. Nothing more complicated than that. She’d started getting a little too touchy-feely with the peanut butter and jelly analogy and he’d set her back on the right path with timely reminders of what they were doing here. For his trouble, she’d frozen him out and then used that as an excuse to pull back from a friendship with his mother.

  Well, she was over it. They were married now and both of them knew the score. The no-sex rule wasn’t in the way any longer. Thank God. They could spend all their time in bed and never have to talk about mothers, peanut butter or anything difficult.

  “This was amazing,” she said earnestly. “So much more than I was expecting. Thank you.”

  Surprise filtered through his expression. “I... You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it. The wedding planner did all the work. I just approved everything.”

  “I should have done it with you.” The fact that she hadn’t made her feel petty and childish. If nothing else, it was an effort that benefited her, so she could have done half the work. Then maybe she’d feel more like she’d earned the right to be called Mrs. Harris. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  For the first time since their disastrous date, Hendrix smiled at her like he had that night in Vegas. As if he’d found the end of the rainbow and the pot of gold there was more valuable than he’d ever dreamed.

  She liked it when he looked at her like that.

  “It’s okay. It wasn’t any trouble.” He spun her around as the last notes of the waltz ended and something a little darker and more sensual wafted from the string quartet on the dais in the corner. His arms tightened, drawing her deeper into his embrace. The crowd on the dance floor grew thicker as people filled in around them. “I’m enjoying the benefits of it, so it’s all good.”

  His body pressed against hers deliciously. A slow simmer flared up in her core, bubbling outward until her nerve endings were stretched taut with anticipation. “The benefits?”

  “Dancing with my bride, for one,” he murmured. His hands drifted along her body with sensual intent, pressing her more firmly against him as he stroked her waist, the curve of her hip, lower still, and there was so much wedding dress in the way that she strained against his touch, yearning for the heat of his hand in places that hadn’t been touched in so very long.

  Dancing was a great excuse to let Hendrix put his hands on her in public. “I’m enjoying that part, too.”

  “It’s been a long time,” he said gruffly, “since I had free rein to hold you like this.”

  Yes, and judging by the oh-so-nice hard length buried in her stomach, he was as affected by their close proximity as she was. “You were a trouper about it.”

  “Wasn’t easy. But it’s over now. I can kiss you whenever I feel like it.” To prove the point, he nuzzled her neck, setting off fireworks beneath her skin as he nibbled at the flesh.

  “That’s not kissing,” she muttered, biting back a gasp as he cruised to her ear, molding it to his lips as he laved at her lobe.

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Get there faster.”

  He pulled back and swept her
with a glance that was equal parts evaluation and equal parts I’m a second from throwing you down right here, right now. “Is that your way of saying you’re ready to leave?”

  “We can’t,” she reminded him and tried to ignore how desperately disappointed she sounded.

  This was a networking event as much as it was a wedding. Helene had a throng of people around her, and the movers and shakers of Raleigh stood at the bar. If the bride and groom dashed for the door fifteen minutes after the reception started, that wouldn’t go over well.

  “No,” he agreed and bit out a vile curse that perfectly mirrored her thoughts. “We need tongues wagging with positive comments about us, preferably with lots of praise about how respectable we are.”

  Exactly. Especially if they spouted off at the mouth around her father. He needed a whole lot of reassurance that Roz had turned a corner, that her photo ops with naked men were a thing of the past. From here on out, the only scandal associated with her name should be more along the lines of serving the wrong wine at a party she and Hendrix threw for Harris Tobacco Lounge executive staff.

  “So maybe we don’t leave,” she said as a plausible alternative began to form in her mind. Oh God, did she need that alternative. Fast. Her insides were already tight and slick with need.

  His expression turned crafty as he considered her comment. “Maybe not. Maybe there’s a...closet in the back?”

  “With a door. That locks.”

  His thumb strayed to the place along her bodice where it met the skin of her back and heat flashed as he caressed the seam, dipping inside just enough to drive her insane and then skimming along until he hit the zipper.

  “One tug, and this would be history,” he said, the hazel in his eyes mesmerizing her with the promise as he toyed with the hook anchoring the zipper to the bodice. “It feels complicated. Challenging.”

  “Maybe you don’t start there,” she suggested and swayed a little to give the couples around them the impression the bride and groom were still dancing when in reality, her attention was on the perimeter of the room where two very promising hallways led to the back of the reception venue. “You might have better luck checking out how easily my skirt lifts up.”

  “Mrs. Harris, I do like the way you think.” In a flash, he grabbed her hand and spun to lead her from the dance floor.

  Well then. Looked like the honeymoon was starting early. She had no problem with that and she was nothing if not ready to ignore the fact that the bride and groom were still dashing for the door fifteen minutes after the reception started but with this plan, they’d be back in a few minutes. At least ten. Maybe once wouldn’t be enough. Was married sex better than one night stand sex? Oh God, she couldn’t wait to find out.

  Breathlessly, she followed him, ignoring the multitudes of people who called out to them as they scouted for this hypothetical closet with a door that locked. In a true wedding day miracle, off the kitchen there was a linen closet full of spare tablecloths and empty centerpieces. No one saw them duck through the door, or at least no one who counted. They passed a member of the waitstaff who pretended he hadn’t noticed their beeline through the back rooms where guests typically didn’t tread. Whether it was a testament to his discretion or the fact that Hendrix and Roz were tied to powerful families, she didn’t know. Didn’t care.

  All that mattered was the door had a lock. She shut it behind her with a click and flipped the dead bolt, plunging the room into semidarkness. Maybe there was a light but before she could reach for it, Hendrix pinned her against the door, his mouth on hers in an urgent, no-holds-barred kiss. No time to search for a light. No time to care.

  Her knees gave out as the onslaught liquefied her entire body, but he’d wedged one leg so expertly between hers that she didn’t melt to the ground in a big hot puddle. She moaned as his tongue invaded her mouth, heated and insistent against hers. He hefted her deeper into his body as he shifted closer.

  Too many clothes. She got to work on his buttons, cursing at the intricacy of his tuxedo. Shame she couldn’t just rip the little discs from the fabric but they had to reappear in public. Soon. Giving up, she pulled the fabric from his waistband so she could slide her hands under it.

  Oh, yes, he was warm and his body was still drool-worthy with ridges and valleys of muscle along his abs that her fingers remembered well. He pressed closer still, trapping her hands between them, which was not going to work, so she shifted to the back as he gathered up her skirts, bunching the fabric at her waist. Instantly, she regretted not making him take the time to pull the dress off. She wanted his hands everywhere on her body, but then she forgot to care because his fingers slid beneath the white lacy thong she’d donned this morning in deference to her wedding day.

  “I want to see this thong later,” he rumbled in her ear as he fingered the panties instead of the place she needed him most. “It feels sexy and tiny and so good.”

  “It feels in the way,” she corrected and gasped as he yanked the panties off, letting them fall to her ankles. She toed off the fabric and kicked it aside. She needed him back in place now. “Touch me. Hurry.”

  Fast. Hard. Frenzied. These were the things she wanted, not a speech about her undergarments. This was sex in its rawest form and she knew already that it would be good between them. She hoped it would put them on familiar ground. Eliminate confusion about what they were doing here.

  “What’s your rush, Mrs. Harris?” He teased her with short little caresses of his fingertips across her shoulder, down her cleavage, which ached for his attention, but had far too many seed pearls in the way for that nonsense.

  “Besides the hundreds of people waiting for us?” Her back arched involuntarily as his fingers found their way beneath the tight bodice of her dress to toy with her breasts. Heavenly heat corkscrewed through her core as he fingered her taut, sensitized nipples.

  “Besides that.”

  “You’re my rush,” she ground out. “I’m about to come apart and I need your hands on me.”

  She needed oblivion like only he could give her, where all she could do was feel. Then it didn’t matter that he was totally on board with a closet quickie for their first time together as husband and wife. Neither of them did intimacy. It was what made their marriage so perfect.

  “Like this?” His hand snaked between them to palm her stomach and she wiggled, hoping to get it lower. He complied inch by maddening inch, creeping toward the finish line with a restraint more suited for a choirboy than the bad boy she knew lurked in his heart.

  He’d licked her in places that had never been touched by a man. He’d talked so dirty while doing it that she could practically give herself an orgasm thinking about it. They were having sex in a closet with five hundred oblivious people on the other side of the wall and he had every bit of the skill set necessary to make it intoxicating. She needed that man.

  “Hendrix, please,” she begged. “I’m dying here.”

  “I’ve been dying for weeks and weeks,” he said and she groaned as he wandered around to the back, wedging his hand between her buttocks and the door to play with flesh that certainly appreciated his attention but wasn’t the part that needed him most.

  Practically panting, she circled her hips, hoping he’d get the hint that the place he should be focusing on was between her thighs. “So this is my punishment for not letting you have your way with me until now?”

  “Oh, no, sweetheart. This is my reward,” he murmured. “I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms again so I could feel your amazing body in a hundred different ways. Like this.”

  Finally, he let his fingers walk through her center, parting the folds to make way, and one slid deep inside. Mewling because that was the only sound she could make, she widened herself for him, desperate for more instantly, and he obliged with another finger, plunging both into her slickness with his own groan.

 
“I could stay here for an eternity,” he whispered. “But I need to—”

  He cursed as she eased her way into his pants, too blind with need to bother with the zipper. Oh, yes, there he was. She palmed his hot, hard length through his underwear and it wasn’t enough. “I need, too.”

  Urgently, she fumbled with his clothes and managed to get the buttons of his shirt partially undone, hissing as he withdrew his magic hands from her body to help. But that was a much better plan because his progress far eclipsed hers and he even had the wherewithal to find a condom from somewhere that she distinctly heard him tear open. That was some amazing foresight that she appreciated.

  Then her brain ceased to function as he boosted her up against the door with one arm, notched his hard tip at her entrance and pushed. Stars wheeled across her vision as he filled her with his entire glorious length. Greedily, she took him, desperate for more, desperate for all of it, and he gave it to her, letting her slide down until they were nested so deep that she could feel him in her soul.

  No.

  No, she could not. That was far too fanciful for what was happening here. This was sex. Only. Her body craved friction, heat, a man’s hard thrusts. Not poetry.

  Wrapping her legs around him, she gripped his shoulders, letting her fingers sink into the fabric covering them because even if it left marks, who cared? They were married and no one else would see his bare shoulders but her.

  He growled his approval and it rumbled through her rib cage. Or maybe that was the avalanche of satisfaction cascading through her chest because Hendrix was hers. No other woman got to see him naked. It shouldn’t feel so good, so significant. But there was no escaping the fact that they were a unit now whether he liked it or not.

  They shared a name. A house. Mutual goals. If he didn’t like peanut butter and jelly, he should have come up with another plan to fix the scandal.

  Shifting ever so slightly, he hit a spot inside her that felt so good it tore tears from her eyes. The position sensitized her to the point of madness and she urged him on with her hips as he drove them both into the stratosphere, the door biting into her back as she muffled her cries against his suit jacket, praying she wasn’t smearing makeup all over his shoulder.