Love, Unexpectedly

by Susan Fox

  How many times had he looked at her perched on a washing machine and imagined doing this? Did she know she was fulfilling one of his fantasies?

  Her fingers wound through his hair, her tongue plunged into his mouth, and he couldn’t think. Only enjoy and kiss her back. Feel the hot surge of blood in his veins, the hardness of his growing erection pressing against her crotch.

  Breathing hard, she pushed him away and reached down to unfasten her shorts.

  He stepped back to help her pull them off, and her panties went with them.

  “Your turn,” she said, and he hurriedly skinned his sweatpants and briefs over his hips and kicked them off.

  “Damn,” he said. “No condom.”

  “In my shorts pocket,” she said smugly.

  He gave an exultant laugh. She’d planned this laundry room seduction.

  Quickly he found the condom and sheathed himself.

  Kat had shifted position so she was sitting on the very edge of the machine, leaning back on her hands, legs spread.

  He moved between her legs, erection nudging her.

  Once more she hooked her legs around his waist and pulled him closer, wriggling against him. “Make love to me, Nav. I want you.”

  He stroked her pussy, glided a finger inside.

  A sexy shiver rippled through her, and she clenched around his finger. “I’m ready, damn it. Get in here. Now.”

  Chuckling, he said, “It’s true what guys say. Put a ring on her finger and she gets bossy.”

  “I don’t have the ring yet,” she pointed out.

  “We’ll find a jeweler today.”

  When he slid inside her, she gave a trembling sigh of satisfaction. “This feels so right. You and me.”

  “It does. I’ve been waiting for this for two years.” He stroked smoothly in and out, savoring the view of her half-naked body, the soft grip of her lush channel, the little whimpers she made.

  “Nav, I’ve been…waiting for you…all my life.” Her words came out on gasps of pleasure.

  “I love you, Kat.”

  Her gaze held his. “More than…them? The other two?”

  Them? What was she talking about? There was only her. Then he realized what she meant. Somehow she was still insecure about his love.

  Slowing his thrusts, he cupped her face tenderly between his hands. “More than Margaret. There’s no comparison. And the other woman? That was you, Kat.”

  “Oh! I hadn’t…realized.”

  “I know. I couldn’t tell you. You weren’t ready to hear it.”

  He gazed at her, letting her see all the love and passion in his heart. “You taught me what love is,” he said, driving deep into her.

  “You…too.” As she came apart around him, she cried out, “I love you, Nav.”

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  “I didn’t invite you in, TJ.”

  He just smiled.

  He was built as solid as the mountains that had shaped his life, and frankly had the attitude to go with them—the one that said he could take on whoever and whatever and you could kiss his perfect ass while he did so. She’d seen him do it, back in his hell-raising, misspent youth.

  Not that she was going there, to the time when he could have given her a single look and she’d have melted into a puddle at his feet.

  Had melted into a puddle at his feet. Not going there.

  Unfortunately for her senses, he smelled like the wild Sierras; pine and fresh air, and something even better, something so innately male that her nose twitched for more, seeking out the heat and raw male energy that surrounded him. Since it made her want to lean into him, she shoved in another bite of ice cream instead.

  “I saw on Oprah once that women use ice cream as a substitute for sex,” he said.

  She choked again, and he resumed gliding his big, warm hand up and down her back. “You watch Oprah?”

  “No. Annie does, and once I overheard her yelling at the TV that women should have plenty of both sex and ice cream.”

  That sounded exactly like his Aunt Annie. “Well, I don’t need the substitute.”

  “No?” he murmured, looking amused at her again.

  “No!”

  He hadn’t taken his hands off her. He still had one rubbing up and down her back, the other low on her belly, holding her upright, which was ridiculous, so she smacked it away. She did her best to ignore the fluttering he’d caused and the odd need she had to grab him by the shirt, haul him close, and have her merry way with him.

  That was what happened to a woman whose last orgasm had come from a battery-operated device instead of a man, a fact she’d admit, oh never. “I was expecting your brother.”

  “Stone’s working on Emma’s ‘honey do’ list at the new medical clinic, so he sent me instead. Said to give you these.” He pulled some maps from his back pocket, maps she needed for a field expedition for her research. When she took them out of his hands, he hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his Levi’s. He wore a T-shirt layered with an open button-down that said WILDER ADVENTURES on the pec. His jeans were faded nearly white in the stress spots, of which there were many, nicely encasing his long, powerful legs and lovingly cupping a rather impressive package that was emphasized by the way his fingers dangled on his thighs.

  Not that she was looking.

  Okay, she was looking, but she couldn’t help it. The man oozed sexuality. Apparently some men were issued a handbook at birth on how to make a woman stupid with lust. And he’d had a lot of practice over the years.

  She’d watched him do it.

  Each of the three Wilder brothers had barely survived their youth, thanks in part to no mom and a mean, son-of-a-bitch father. But by some miracle, the three of them had come out of it alive, and now channeled their energy into Wilder Adventures, where they guided clients on just about any outdoor adventure that could be imagined; heli-skiing, extreme mountain biking, kayaking, climbing, anything.

  Though TJ had matured and found success, he still gave off a don’t-mess-with-me vibe. Even now, at four in the afternoon, he looked big and bad and tousled enough that he might have just gotten out of bed and wouldn’t be averse to going back.

  It irritated her. It confused her. And it turned her on, a fact that drove her bat-shit crazy because she was no longer interested in TJ Wilder.

  Nope.

  It’d be suicide to still be interested. No one could sustain a crush for fifteen years.

  No one.

  Except, apparently, her. Because deep down, the unsettling truth was that if he so much as directed one of his sleepy, sexy looks her way, her clothes would fall right off.

  Again.

  Wasn’t that just her problem? The fact that once upon a time, a very long time ago, at the tail end of TJ’s out-of-control youth, the two of them had spent a single night together being just about as intimate as a man and a woman could get. Her first time, but definitely not his first. Neither of them had been exactly legal, and only she’d been sober.

  Which meant only she remembered.

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  This wasn’t happening. Callie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re not real,” she repeated over and over until she could feel herself beginning to relax.

  The naked hottie was only the last fragment of a delicious dream she’d been having. Right before she went to sleep, hadn’t she wished he would magically materialize in her bed?

  She relaxed and smiled. It had been a great dream. The way he touched her, nuzzled her neck, pressed his naked body against hers. It had been one long sensuous dream. That was probably why she’d apparently gotten rid of her hot granny gown sometime during the night. Okay, now she was back to normal. No more fantasies that a hot sexy man was in her bed. The idea was ludicrous.

  Deep br
eath. Inhale. Exhale. She was wide awake now. She opened her eyes.

  He was still there, sitting on the end of her bed, staring at her with what appeared to be…amusement? He laughed at her! He was in her house, her bed, and he laughed at her!

  Callie sat up, and the cover fell to her waist. His gaze dropped. She grabbed the sheet and pulled it against her chest. “Get out! Who are you? How did you get into my house? Where’s my gown?”

  One eyebrow arched. “Are you always this emotionally unstable?”

  “Emotionally…” she sputtered.

  “Unstable,” he slowly and distinctly repeated.

  “I am not emotionally unstable!” Oh God, she was arguing with the serial killer. She took another deep breath, then exhaled once more. She needed to stay calm. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police.”

  Oh, yeah, now he really looked nervous—not! He didn’t even flinch. Just sat there staring at her. And why wouldn’t he? He probably weighed around one-eighty. She would be no match for him.

  Maybe if she kept him talking, he wouldn’t kill her right away. She’d once read somewhere that if you could befriend your abductor, then he would be less likely to kill you. Not that he’d abducted her, but he had apparently broken into her home. God, she hoped this worked.

  “How…uh…did you find me?” Surely someone would’ve noticed a naked man following her car. For the first in her life, Callie wished her rattletrap car went faster.

  She frowned. How had he followed her? Her car wasn’t that slow. He probably had his own car. He’d waited for her to leave, then followed.

  So, he drove around naked. And no one noticed this?

  “Does it matter how I came to be here?” he asked.

  “I guess not.” If she knew where he came from, then maybe she could talk him into going back, though. “Where are you from?”

  “New Symtaria.”

  “Never heard of it. Is that a suburb of Dallas?” New ones were cropping up all the time.

  “It’s in another galaxy.”

  Alrighty. “Another planet?”

  He nodded, still looking amused about something.

  “And you are?”

  “Prince Rogar.”

  She nodded. Delusional. Probably escaped from the state hospital. This was worse than she ever could have imagined. Not only was he naked, but he was a nut. Automatically, her eyes strayed downward. She swallowed, then quickly jerked her gaze to a safer place. She had to stop looking…looking at him…down there. It wasn’t like she’d never seen a naked man before.

  This was ridiculous. She needed help, and all she could think about was staring at his…his nakedness. She had to call the police or something—911. Her cell phone was in her purse. From now on, she was keeping it on her bedside table. If there ever was a from-now-on in her future. Okay, keep him talking.

  “And why are you here?” She smiled. At least she tried to pull it off as a smile, even though her stomach rumbled, her hands were sweating, and she was probably going to throw up any second.

  “To take you home.”

  She looked around “I am home, so…bye-bye.”

  He grinned and she noticed his teeth were pearly white, and he had a nice smile. Ted Bundy probably had a nice smile, too.

  “You’re part Symtarian,” he continued.

  “Okayyy…” He thought she was from another planet, too. This was worse than she could’ve imagined.

  “When our planet was dying, some of the people were sent to other places. An expedition went in search of a new planet to call home. Some of our people were forgotten and became integrated with the aliens. Now we’re searching for them so we can bring them home.”

  “And you’re doing it without clothes.”

  “It happens when I shape-shift.”

  “Well, of course, I should have guessed.” The guy was a raving lunatic. “And what form do you take?”

  A fog began to roll across her bedroom. She glanced nervously around, then looked at her crazy guy. Her mouth dropped open as he slowly began to change.

  The prince dude gritted his teeth and lowered his head. His skin changed from flesh to short black hair with visible spots. He stretched out across her bed, his hand curling into a fist, becoming a paw.

  Oh, God, she was crazy. Now she would never get her chance to work with the big cats—except in her warped mind. It wasn’t fair.

  The fog rolled in thicker until all Callie saw were patches of black fur, a glimpse of golden eyes boring into her. She couldn’t move. She tried, but her legs wouldn’t budge.

  The fog slowly dissipated.

  A black jaguar from last night lay across the end of her bed, panting slightly. It met her gaze, and seemed as though it was gauging her reaction.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it when no words came out. The cat purred from deep in its throat. She swallowed past the lump in hers. What if the jag was real? Oh, yeah, now she felt better. She was going to die. Then again, she might already be dead and this was hell.

  Whatever it was, the jaguar was still stretched across the foot of her bed.

  The room began to tilt, then grow dark, and she knew without a doubt, she was about to faint. She’d never fainted in her life.

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  Wine. Turn the page for a preview of Susan’s story,

  “As You Wish.”

  Fortunately for the earl’s pressing schedule, the night was over-cast. Not a hint of moonlight broke through to expose his athletic form as he scaled the old, fist-thick wisteria vines wrapped around the pillars of the terrace pergola. The house to which the pergola was attached was quiet, the ground floor dark save for the porter’s light in the entrance hall. Either the Belvoirs were out or already in bed. More likely the latter, with only a single flambeau outside the door.

  He’d best take care.

  Kit had described the position of Miss Belvoir’s bedchamber—hence Albion’s ascent of wisteria. Once he gained the roof joists of the Chinoiserie pergola, he would have access to the windows of the main floor corridor. From there he could make his way to the second-floor bedchambers, the easternmost that of Miss Belvoir. Where, according to Kit, she’d been cloistered for the last month, being polished by her stepmother into a state of refined elegance for her bow into society a few weeks hence.

  Which refinements, in his estimation, only served to make every young lady into the same boring martinet without an original thought in her head or a jot of conversation worth listening to.

  He hoped there wouldn’t be much conversation tonight. If he had his way there wouldn’t be any. He hoped as well that she wouldn’t prove stubborn, but should she, he’d stuff his handkerchief in her mouth to muffle her screams, tie her up if necessary, and carry her down the back stairs and out the servants’ entrance. It was more likely, though—with all due modesty—that his much-practiced charm would win the day.

  Pulling himself over the fretwork balustrade embellishing the pergola, he stood for a moment balanced on a joist contemplating which window would best offer him ingress. His mind made up, he brushed himself off, navigated the vine-draped timbers, and reached the window. Taking a knife from his coat pocket, he snapped open the blade, slipped it under the lower sash, and pried it up enough to gain a fingerhold.

  Moments later, he stood motionless in the dark corridor. The stairs were to the right, if Kit’s description was correct. After listening for a few moments and hearing nothing, he quietly made his way down the plush carpet and up the stairs. A single candle on a console table dimly illuminated the hallway onto which the bedrooms opened. Pausing to listen once again and distinguishing no undue sounds, he silently traversed the carpeted passageway to the last door on his right.

  It shouldn’t be locked. Servants required access if the bell pull by the bed was rung. For a brief moment he stood utterly still, wondering what
in blazes he was doing here, about to abduct some untried maid in order to seduce her. As if there weren’t women enough in London who would welcome him to their beds with open arms. Considerable brandy was to blame, he supposed, along with the rackety company of his friends who had too much idle time on their hands in which to conjure up wild wagers like this.

  Bloody hell. He felt the complete absence of any desire to be where he was.

  On the other hand, he decided with a short exhalation, he’d bet twenty thousand on this foolishness.

  Now it was play or pay.

  He reached for the latch, pressed down, and quietly opened the door.

  As he stepped over the threshold he was greeted by a ripple of scent and a cheerful female voice. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

  His first thought was that he was unarmed.

  His second was that it was a trap.

  But when the same genial voice said, “Don’t worry, no one’s at home but me. Do come in and shut the door,” his pulse rate lessened and he scanned the candlelit interior for the source of the invitation.

  “Miss Belvoir, I presume,” he murmured, taking note of a young woman with hair more gold than red standing across the room near the foot of the bed. She was quite beautiful. How nice. And if no one was home, nicer still. Shutting the door behind him, he offered her a graceful bow.

  “A pleasant, good evening, Albion. Gossip preceded you.” He was breathtakingly handsome at close range. Now to convince him to take her away. “I have a proposition for you.”

  He smiled. “A coincidence. I have one for you.” This was going to be easier than he thought. Then he saw her luggage. “You first,” he said guardedly.

  “I understand you have twenty thousand to lose.”

  “Or not.”

  “Such arrogance, Albion. You forget the decision is mine.”

  “Not entirely,” he replied softly.

  “Because you’ve done this before.”

  “Not this. But something enough like it to know.”