Hmm.
The moms spotted him. His called out, “There’s my boy!” The next thing he knew he was the recipient of two sloppy, unsteady mom hugs.
“Hey”—he caught each woman in an arm and supported them—“seems like you all had fun.”
Sinclair rolled her eyes and peeled the moms off him. “‘Fun’ is not the word. These two are mine. This one’s yours.” She nudged Savannah his way. “She’s hammered.”
He tucked Savannah under his arm and looked down at her. “Really?”
She nodded. “Lil’ bit.”
She smelled like tequila and…tequila. He knew she could handle her whiskey. How much tequila did it take to get her drunk?
“We went out to dinner, to celebrate,” his mom chimed in. “We found the perfect—”
“Shhh.” Savannah put a finger to her lips. “Secret, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m not supposed to tell him we picked out the perfect dress.”
Laurel burst out laughing, staggered into his mom, and hung on. “You’re like a vault, Cheryl.”
He turned to Savannah, who winced and evaded his gaze. “You picked out a dress? As in, bought it…already?” he added when he realized his incredulous tone sounded odd for a supposedly engaged man.
“Not a dress,” his mom scoffed. “The dress. You’re going to love it—and such a steal at just three thousand dollars.”
“Three thousand…” He couldn’t finish the figure. Speech failed him.
Savannah slumped against him and moaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Him, too. But now he understood why she’d resorted to the Jose Cuervo. Clearly the afternoon of dress shopping had gone off the rails. “I think everyone’s had enough excitement for one afternoon. Let’s go inside and have some coffee.” He swept her into his arms. She draped her hands around his neck and buried her face against the side of his throat.
“Sorry.”
No, that should have been his line. He’d dragged her into this. He kissed her sweaty forehead. “Everything’s okay, Smith. I’ve got you.”
The moms sighed in unison, and then his said, “Remember the time Savannah fell off Beau’s scooter and skinned her knee, and he carried her home?”
Savannah’s mom nodded. “I always knew these two were destined to be together.”
“On second thought, this might require a lot of coffee,” he muttered, and led the way into his apartment.
“I’ll make it,” Sinclair offered, and walked over to the machine sitting on his kitchen counter.
He set Savannah on the sofa and eased one tall red heel off her foot. “Cabinet above the machine.” He slid the other heel off, rotated her ankle in a slow circle, and smiled at her appreciative moan.
“Got it,” Sinclair called from the kitchen.
Savannah’s mom grabbed a magazine from the coffee table, sat down beside her daughter, and fanned her. “How’re you doing, honey?”
She leaned back and her eyelids drooped to half mast. “Good. No.” She straightened. “Not good.” Then she leaped to her feet, scrambled around him, and hurried down the hall.
“Oh dear,” his mom said. “Poor Savannah. What a way to end such a wonderful day.”
Laurel stood, weaving a bit on her feet. “I better check on her.”
He gestured Savannah’s mom back to her seat. “Sit. I’ll take care of her.”
A short trip down the hall and through his bedroom brought him to the closed bathroom door. He knocked once and then walked in. Savannah sat on the tile floor, her back propped against the tub, arms resting on her drawn-up knees. She raised her head and gave him a terrified look. “Three thousand dollars.”
He hunkered down next to her and gathered her up onto his lap. “Don’t panic.” He stroked her hair and tried for a joke. “We’ll return it when they’re not looking.”
Sinclair appeared at the door and handed him a bottle of water. “Nope.”
He took the bottle and offered it to Savannah. “Hydrate.” Then he looked up at Sinclair. “What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”
“Dresses need altering. They’ve already done the first cuts.” She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “That sucker is nonreturnable.”
Okay, it took a moment to choke the news down, but he managed. “That is…unfortunate, but don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”
A combination of a sob and a hiccup erupted from the woman on his lap. “T-that’s not the w-worst part.”
There was worse? He glanced at Sinclair. “It’s an ugly dress?”
“Gorgeous dress. She’s upset because the moms paid for it, as a wedding gift. There was no talking them out of it.”
Aw, fuck. This wasn’t about the damn dress. She was crumbling under guilt.
She sobbed harder, her tears soaking through his shirt, and now guilt—and something else he refused to name—formed an uncomfortable weight in his stomach. “Don’t cry. Please. There’s nothing for you to feel bad about. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’m lying to our families. I’m a big lying liar.”
He pulled a towel off the rack above their heads, tipped her face up, and dried her tears. “You’re helping me heal my relationship with my parents, and you don’t deserve to spend a second feeling conflicted about it. What you’re doing means a lot to me.” He tightened his hold on her. “You mean a lot to me.” A flood of words gathered in his throat, but he swallowed them. He had a bad feeling what spilled out would break their “no complications” rule beyond repair.
As if it already isn’t, for you. You shattered the rule the first time you kissed her, and letting her go will feel like ripping open a wound you never should have left vulnerable in the first place.
The only thing he could avoid at this point was inflicting any wounds on her. “Any fallout from this is on me, understand?”
Sinclair coughed. He’d been so intent on easing Savannah’s conscience he’d forgotten she still stood there. “I’m going to go check on the moms,” she said quietly. “Give you two a chance to talk.”
He was racking up all kinds of debts to the Smith sisters. “Thanks.”
Savannah sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “We’ll be out in five.”
“Take your time,” she said, and shut the door behind her.
…
“How are you feeling?”
Savannah opened her eyes and stared into Beau’s. They’d said goodbye to their moms and Sinclair, and she’d wandered back to his bedroom and flopped across the bed while he’d washed up the coffee mugs. No leaving dishes until tomorrow for him.
“I’m okay.” Between washing her face, brushing her teeth, and downing two painkillers and a bottle of water, she felt almost human. The soft light from the bedside lamp didn’t hurt, either. She reached up and brushed her fingers through his hair. “Sorry about tonight. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I got stressed, and I didn’t handle it well.”
He gave her a quick smile and then flexed his arms and slowly lowered his body to hers. “Trust me, Smith. I’d be stressed to the breaking point if I spent the day dress shopping with our moms. Lucky for you”—he paused and bestowed a gentle kiss at her temple—“I know a foolproof”—another pause, another kiss on the opposite temple—“stress reliever.”
God, she was easy. She raised her chin and parted her lips, already anticipating the pressure of his mouth on hers. Instead he lifted himself off her. Before she could utter a word of protest, he swept her red sweater over her head and flipped her around so she lay facedown on the mattress.
“Um”—she popped her head up—“I’m not so sure this constitutes a foolproof stress relieverrrrr…” Her words trailed off as big, warm hands moved her hair out of the way and went to work on the sore spot where her neck met her shoulders. “Never mind.” Her muscles dissolved and her forehead hit the mattress. “I was wrong.”
“Too hard? Too soft?”
“No, no.” Those magic hands moved
to her shoulders, and she bit back a moan. Sort of. “Just right.”
“Then relax.” He leaned in and his words feathered over her skin. “I told you I’d take care of you.”
His palms slid down her back, along either side of her spine. Every sweep of his thumbs released tension she hadn’t even realized her body held. Even her head felt better. He wrung the aches out like water from a sponge. When his thumbs found the dimples bracketing the base of her spine and pressed firmly, she groaned with relief.
Warm lips brushed the small of her back. Heat flowed in to replace the pain, and even though it felt like heaven, she raised herself onto her elbows and tried to roll away. Heat she could handle. There’d been heat between them from the very start. But this—his hands and mouth moving over her with tender yet erotic touches—made it too easy for her to feel cherished. Cared for. Loved. He made it too easy to let her soft heart hope for things she knew damn well he didn’t want to offer. Case in point? The debate she’d been having with herself about passing on the fellowship and accepting the offer from the gallery. How much of her indecision stemmed from her desire to stay right here, in his arms, enjoying moments like this?
Too much.
His hand at the center of her back stopped her roll. “Did I hit a sore spot?”
“No.” She blew her hair out of her face. “You hit all the right spots. No need for the seduction. I’m good to go.”
He settled her against the bed again and trapped her hips between his knees. “What part of ‘I’ll take care of you’ did you not understand?”
“The part where I had to lie here with a bad case of lady blue balls while you sat on me?”
He laughed, but only moved to shift himself lower. “Now you know. Shut up and let me finish my job.”
She shut up, closed her eyes, and somehow endured as he trailed his mouth up her spine, using his tongue to trace every single vertebra. The whiskers on his cheeks and jaw tickled her skin, and she nearly squirmed. Quick fingers unclasped her bra and then teased the sides of her breasts while he nibbled her shoulder.
When he slid his hands under her and cupped her breasts, she sank her fingers into the bedspread and tried not to beg.
“Still good to go?”
She didn’t trust her voice, so she nodded.
He rolled her over, and his eyes locked on hers. Slowly, purposefully, they slid down her body. His fingertips followed, gliding along her throat before trailing down her arms to draw the bra off. He popped the button on her jeans. The rasp of her zipper filled the room, and then he stood and tugged her jeans and underwear off.
Next came his shirt, and if he hadn’t already rendered her speechless, the sight of shadows and light playing over every hard-etched curve and angle of chest and abs would have done the trick. She folded her arms behind her head and waited for him to remove his jeans. He unbuttoned the fly, but didn’t take them off. Instead he knelt between her parted legs and kissed the inside of her knee. The scrape of whiskers contrasted with the soft kiss, and everything north of his lips started to tingle.
She levered herself up onto her elbows. “I appreciate the effort you’re putting in here, but it’s not necessary. I believe I mentioned my condition?”
He kissed the other leg, a little higher, and then deliberately ran his chin along her thigh until she shivered. “The lady blue balls?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve got the cure.” He moved to the other side and kissed her again, very high. She dropped back onto the mattress and sank a hand into his hair.
“I might not survive your cure.”
His laugh tickled her skin, and then he hitched her legs into his arms and forced them wider. “You’re safe with me.”
She braced for what came next, anticipating his hot mouth, his lips, teeth, and tongue driving her straight into a fast, hard orgasm. But he lied. She wasn’t safe at all, because he lowered his head and danced his tongue over her. Slowly, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing more important to do than savor every second it took to reduce her to a trembling mass of need.
She tightened her fingers in his hair—probably too tight, but the urgency didn’t allow for manners. “Oh God.”
He came back for another pass. Her body tensed. Nerve endings caught fire. She blindly chased his tongue, which only made him tighten his hold to keep her hips still.
“Let me take care of you.” His plea caressed her, as torturously light as his touch. Then his lips closed over the part of her most in need of care and bestowed a featherlight kiss. Followed by another, and another. She rocked into him, as much as his hold on her hips would permit, while the need built into something crushing.
“Beau,” she breathed, but he didn’t increase the pressure or the pace, just kept driving her insane with those slow, unbearably gentle kisses. Even the smallest move of his jaw brought his whiskers into contact with oversensitized flesh, to the point she literally itched for more.
Did he understand what he was doing to her? He slid a hand up her body, over her stomach, her torso, to come to rest between her breasts. On either side of his wide hand, her nipples throbbed in time to the slow, steady pull of his lips between her legs. She closed her eyes and waited for him to touch the aching peaks. It took several seconds before she realized he wasn’t going to. No, he expected her to come like that, with his hand on her heart and his mouth slowly, patiently drawing the orgasm out of her.
“I can’t. I can’t…”
She sucked in a breath for a third denial, and that’s when he proved her wrong. She could. She did, with devastating intensity. All the more devastating because he stayed with her, using increasingly light strokes to prolong every wave of pleasure. When he finally eased away, even she couldn’t identify the sound that came out of her—some kind of moan.
Eventually she found her powers of speech. And her manners. “Thank you.”
“Premature. I’m not done.”
His words had her opening her eyes in time to see him drag his jeans off. He stood there for a moment, like some living, breathing masterpiece of masculine power and beauty, and every sated inch of her suddenly hungered for more. For him.
He leaned over her and kissed her stomach, her heart, and then slid his arm around her waist and hauled her up until he had her stretched out across the bed. The hot, hard weight of his erection branded her thigh. His mouth grazed hers. Retreated. Came back for another brief kiss.
This man was going to wreck her. She wrapped her arms around his head and pulled him in, fused her mouth to his. He braced himself on his forearms and gave her what she silently demanded. The pressure of his mouth forced hers open wider. He took full advantage, delving deep, laying claim. His tongue filled her mouth, and left her desperately aware of a frustratingly empty part of her. She raised her knees and fluttered her thighs against his hips, not caring if she came across as impatient. The move nudged the smooth, wide head of his cock closer to the target, and her inner muscles quivered.
He extended his arms, breaking the kiss as he levered his upper body above hers. Her hands slid down to the small of his back. She blinked her eyes open and looked up at him.
“Still good to go, Savannah?”
She parted her thighs wider, opened herself for the first deep, driving thrust. “Go.”
Except apparently tonight he preferred to torture her slowly. He sank into her inch by inch. She flattened her palms against his ass, urging him down, but he wouldn’t be rushed. The angle of his hips pinned hers to the bed, thwarting any decent effort she might make to hurry him along. His shoulders shook. Sweat dampened the hair at his temples, but still he took his sweet time. His eyes never left her face.
“How long can you keep this up?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but still he managed a tight grin. “As long as it takes.”
Her reply ended up being an inarticulate moan because he finally, finally settled in deep enough she could tighten her hips and get a brutally solid
grind against the base of his cock. Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. She made it last as long as she could, then moaned again as he slowly withdrew. And withdrew. And kept on withdrawing.
“No. No. No. No.” She dug her fingernails into his ass and clamped her legs around his waist in an attempt to keep him.
He eased all the way out, and she didn’t know whether to burst into tears or slug him. Or both.
“I love…being. Inside. You.” He pushed into her again, a little more with each word, and the wet glide of his entry echoed in the room. “So much, I needed to feel that again, but you don’t have to worry, Savannah. I will never leave you hanging. I will always”—thrust—“always”—thrust—“take care of you. ”
And now she really was blinking back tears, because terms like “never leave” and “always” weren’t really in his vocabulary. Hearing them from him, even in this capacity, overwhelmed her. She turned away so he wouldn’t see how his words affected her.
Movement to her right caught her attention. Her gaze homed in on the flat screen of the TV on the wall opposite the bed. The dark rectangle acted like a mirror, reflecting them. The knot of desire at her center twisted tighter as she watched the rippling muscles in Beau’s shoulders, the slope of his back, the unspeakably sexy way his glutes bunched and relaxed with every unhurried thrust.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away. He rocked into her, once, twice, and then moved his hips in a lazy circle, stirring her, hitting every trigger point along the way. He stilled. She whimpered.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying the view, but”—callused fingers smoothed over her cheek and turned her face back to him—“look here now.”
She didn’t have much choice, but finding herself the focus of his dark, miss-no-detail eyes left her more exposed than she could afford. All she had left was her Southern sass, so she used it. “You’re kind of strict about the eye contact, Beauregard.”
He smiled, but didn’t release her gaze. Instead, he threaded his fingers through hers and pinned their linked hands on either side of her head. “I’m strict about a lot of things.”
With that, he angled his talented hips and unleashed a series of rough, rapid strokes that sent her flying, and all she could do was call his name.
Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) Page 15