Then He Kissed Me

by Christie Ridgway

  All qualities that would prove useful in DC, and when he had at his side a beautiful wife -

  Wife. Panic clutched at him again. Thoughts of hair, his mother, his career vanished.

  He had to see Roxanne and make certain she was safe. His fist pounded the door in a most uncomposed manner. No problem, he assured himself. As soon as he saw her, his heartbeat would calm; his stomach-churning anxiety would quiet.

  Light poured out as the door swung open. It framed Roxanne’s petite figure and added a golden glow to her honey-colored hair. “Emerson?”

  He yanked her against him. She fluttered a bit in his hold - he wasn’t prone to yanking and likely surprised her - but settled once he buried his face in the perfumed warmth of her hair. After a moment, her arms circled his waist.

  “Are you okay?” she said against his shoulder.

  “Yeah.” He lied, because his heart still slammed unevenly against his chest. But he didn’t want her to notice that, so he managed to put some inches between them. “I’m, uh, just glad to see you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been that glad to see me in a while.”

  Without responding, he walked around her in order to get inside. As she shut the door behind him, he peered into the suite’s bedroom. Her phone was connected to the charger. He shot her a glance over his shoulder.

  “Guilty,” she said, looking even more so. “But I plugged it in as soon as I got back.”

  “Where were you today?”

  “I drove into San Francisco to see … to see a friend.” Her gaze cut away from him. “Someone I haven’t seen in a while.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t look at her, either, afraid she might make out the dregs of his earlier alarm on his face. Now that she was here, looking cozy and pretty in a fuzzy sweater and jeans, his reaction at not being able to reach her seemed like an overreaction.

  Not the least bit level-headed.

  He found his way to the sofa in the sitting area and lowered himself onto the cushions. Stretching his arms along the top, he took a few more deep breaths. There. Almost normal.

  His fiancée walked toward him, her delicate perfume reaching him first, and his pulse scrambled again. Crap! He was Mr. Imperturbable. It was one of his favorite things about himself, something he wouldn’t trade even for hair that didn’t need Glop.

  Roxanne sat beside him, such a featherweight that the cushion didn’t jiggle. “Where have you been?” she asked, reaching up to stroke his cheek.

  At her touch, his pulse jolted, started thrumming again. “I went to see Stevie,” he said.

  Roxanne’s hand dropped.

  Emerson cursed himself. Why had he mentioned her? But maybe Stevie had something to do with this roiling tension in his belly. He’d always been a decent guy. No slapping his buddies on the back when they stepped out on their girlfriends. Casual hook ups or booty calls had never been his style. Still weren’t, of course, but how things ended with Stevie had left him with the bitter aftertaste of shame in his mouth. He’d actually thought getting back on a normal footing with her through this wedding process would dissipate that.

  “Sometimes I’m an ass,” he murmured, tucking a tendril of hair behind Roxanne’s shell-like ear. It was pink, and in the light from the lamp, he could almost see through it. “You’re so delicate,” he said.

  It was the first thing to strike him at that planetarium party. He’d been dragged there by an old frat brother who’d immediately gone off with some scary-looking woman dressed like the character Ripley from Alien. At Emerson’s elbow stood a shy-looking Princess Leia.

  Shy enough that he would have normally kept his distance - his instincts were good when it came to that kind of thing, too - but something about her had upset his normal process. He’d approached her. Bought her this terrible glass of wine. Wandered around beside her while taking in all the bizarre outfits and interesting astronomical displays.

  When she’d mentioned he wasn’t in costume and bemoaned her own humiliating hairstyle, he’d promptly bought a pair of green antennae fastened to a band. Then he’d put the damn thing on, knowing perfectly well it would mar the Glop-induced order of his hair.

  That was the first time his gut had tightened in worry around Roxanne. He was pretty picky about his hair.

  “Sweet girl,” he whispered now, recalling how helpless he’d been against the softness of her voice, the clean lines of her face, the graceful moves of her petite limbs. Yet despite her small size, she’d knocked him over with the speed and surprise of a boulder tumbling downhill. He hadn’t known he could feel like this.

  Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he attempted acting like his normal, stalwart self. “What were you doing before I showed up at your door?” he asked.

  Her mouth primmed in a clear refusal to answer the question, but her gaze gave her away as it jumped to the open notebook on the narrow coffee table in front of them. He recognized her precise handwriting and straightened to peer at the lined paper. “What do we have here?”

  She swiped the notebook from the table and closed it. “I was working on my wedding vows … that is, if you still want to get married.”

  “Of course I do,” he replied, though apprehension squeezed him again. Marriage!

  “Good,” she said with a little nod. “Then I’d recommend you start working on yours as well.”

  “Wedding vows, you mean? Doesn’t the minister read them and I just, uh, repeat?”

  A line appeared between her downy golden brows. “Emerson,” she chided. “You agreed that we would write our own.”

  “I did?” He had? Good God, this marriage business was unbalancing him. Truly, he couldn’t recall any such agreement.

  Panic washed through him. At least he figured the cold-sweat feeling was panic, though it felt much worse. It wasn’t his memory lapse that made him feel so anxious, however. He could understand that, what with all the wedding details that had been thrown at him lately, not to mention his mother urging him into fast-forward with the political plans.

  It definitely wasn’t forgetting the promise that unnerved him, but that he’d agreed to it in the first place. For God’s sake, writing original wedding vows sounded so damn … was geeky the word? No. Besotted.

  Emerson Platt wasn’t a man capable of that kind of emotion, was he? Infatuation like that struck him as just too extreme.

  Out of character.

  Uncomfortable with the thought, he jumped to his feet and started pacing the small room. He sifted his hands through his hair, trying to get a handle on everything that was running through his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Roxanne asked.

  He paused, arrested by the reflection he saw in the ornate mirror hanging over the fireplace. The Glop had lost its power and his hair was on end and every which way - precisely how he felt in general. “I don’t recognize myself,” he muttered. I don’t feel like myself.

  She came to his side. “What?”

  “I was worried about you today,” he admitted. I worry about you every day.

  Every damn thing about her scared him.

  How can I live like this? he wanted to say. She put her hand on his arm and he jumped. Jumped!

  “Emerson,” she said in that soft, gentle voice of hers. “Your muscles are tight. Why don’t you come into the bedroom and lie down?” Her hand petted him as if that could soothe his frayed nerves.

  It didn’t.

  “I know a way to work off your tension,” she said, a sexy little suggestion in her voice.

  Oh, no. Oh, hell no. She’d been after him to make love to her, but so far he’d resisted. At first, because he knew she was a virgin and he thought that waiting for their wedding night would be something she valued. Now, it was because getting even this close to her made his lungs expand and his head spin.

  Any closer and he could die of a heart attack.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, and he meant it. He’d come by to ensure Roxanne was safe … only to realize that he
might never feel safe once he married her.

  Then He Kissed Me

  10

  ************************************************************************************************

  What are we doing, Rox?

  Going for normal.

  For days, Jack hadn’t been able to get that exchange with his sister out of his head. Though he was convinced that “normal” didn’t exist for a man with his past, he had a temporary opportunity to experience it with Stevie. By asking the beautiful woman out on a date tonight, he had hopes the evening would end in a normal and very satisfying manner.

  Except, despite yet another scorcher of a kiss, at the moment the beautiful woman was looking at him with an odd light in her eyes. Just as he tightened his fingers to draw her near again, she stumbled back.

  He closed the distance between them, wanting to reassure without letting her get away. His knuckle traced the clean edge of her jaw with a slow stroke. “Hungry?”

  She let out a short laugh that didn’t release the tension radiating from her. “Jack,” she admonished. A flush flagged her cheekbones.

  He chucked her chin. “Get those dirty thoughts out of your head. I meant for dinner.”

  “Sure.” She retreated again, her feet tripping over a cardboard carton. “I knew that.”

  This time he let her have her space. “Our reservations aren’t for an hour, but it’s raining like hell out there.”

  She seemed to relax at the notion that he didn’t consider having her as the appetizer on tonight’s menu. “I’m ready to go,” she said, “I just have to bring these boxes of stemware into the caves. Can you help?”

  “Bring them into the caves?”

  Already she was lifting one. “It will only take a couple of minutes if you can grab the other two.”

  He could do this. Of course he could do this.

  With the stacked cartons in his arms, Stevie’s tension dissipated by half. Her stride was confident as they exited the winery offices, though she let out a whistle at the heavy downpour. So heavy, he could hardly hear their footsteps over the sound of striking drops on the gravel parking lot.

  The two of them remained dry, however, as the pathway to the caves was covered and brightly lit. More lights flanked either side of the entry.

  He stared at their yellow glow, then eyed the heavy wooden door. Stevie set down her box and fumbled with a key ring. “So, uh, how extensive are these?” he ventured.

  She glanced back. “There’s approximately five thousand square feet of working area, including barrel storage. We have another fifteen hundred feet of entertainment space, which includes the tasting room, the dining room, and kitchen.”

  As she pushed open the door, more light flooded the first corridor from wrought iron chandeliers hanging every eight feet. With a gesture, she welcomed him inside.

  He eyed the passage ahead. “What about earthquakes?”

  “We’re safe,” she answered, scooping up her box. “The excavation into the hillside is only about five years old, and though the caves were expensive to build, they’re a great place to store and age wine. No AC units, no need for heaters.”

  “Yeah. Caves keep the humidity and temps fairly constant,” he said, approaching the threshold.

  “That’s right, you know this stuff.” She preceded him into the passageway. “Humidity hovers around fifty-five percent. Which means less evaporation from the barrels. The temperature average is about sixty degrees.”

  A shiver tracked from the back of his neck to the base of his spine as he followed. Sixty chilly degrees. He cleared his throat. “Where are we taking these things?”

  “Just follow me.”

  The entry door closed, shutting out the sound of the rain. It was quiet inside. Tomblike. Anyone might find the atmosphere confining, he told himself, though the ceiling height was fifteen feet and the passage they traveled down was another twenty wide. With a shrug, he tried dislodging the uneasiness pressing against him. “How much farther?”

  At a juncture, she turned left. “Just into the dining room where we’ll hold the rehearsal dinner.”

  It was gloomy ahead. She paused.

  He froze. “Lights?”

  They came on as the word left his mouth. These chandeliers matched the others, though he thought the wattage of the bulbs might be less. Eyeing them, Jack blew out a breath. “I’m starved. How about you? Let’s get out of here, down a beer, grab some grub.”

  ‘Down a beer?’ “ She tossed him a smile over her shoulder. ” ‘Grab some grub?’ Prince Jack, you’ll have me thinking you’re just some ordinary American boy.”

  “That’s me,” he muttered. “Ordinary.” Normal. That’s what he was doing tonight, remember? Going for normal.

  “And here I thought you might be different,” she teased, disappearing into another doorway.

  He followed her into a spacious room with lit sconces and a long slab of a table. She slid her carton of stemware onto its surface and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “Different how?” he asked, putting down his own boxes.

  “I thought perhaps the state of your stomach might come second to finding yourself alone with a woman in a romantic setting like this one. That you might -”

  “Good idea,” he said, drawing her arms from across her body to loop them around his neck. She wriggled as their bellies met and their mouths fused. “Best idea.”

  The cold fled. She was warm in his arms, then hot, as the kiss deepened. He stroked into her mouth, this cave sweet and wet, and his hands slid down to cup her ass. Her hips tilted into his and she rubbed against his stiffening erection.

  He groaned at the goodness of it: the pressure, her taste, the rightness of her slender and strong body. His hands rushed to find bare skin, and there it was, that sweet dip above the waistband of her jeans and under the soft give of her sweater and the stretchy thing she was wearing beneath it. Goose bumps broke out on her silky skin and he chased them up the sides of her ribs.

  She made a needy, feminine noise, and when he boosted her onto the table, she widened her thighs to keep him close. His cock pushed against their juncture as his hands yanked her double layer of top clothing upward. In the light, her nipples showed a dark pink against her nearly transparent bra. He put his mouth on the closest one, sucking strongly and tonguing it through the thin fabric. He knew she liked that.

  Stevie bowed into his arms. He glanced up at her face and saw her dark lashes fall to her flushed cheeks. Her hands cupped his head, and then her nails bit into his scalp as he lifted his mouth. “I like your claws, mon petit chat.”

  Her hold immediately eased. Her top teeth seized her pillowy bottom lip.

  “No, mon chat,” he said, his voice soft. “I like the sting.”

  She shook her head, sucking her lip harder. He kissed her chin, her cheek, trying to distract her. Then he sighed. “No,” he said again, touching his forefinger to the corner of her mouth, gently releasing the clasp of her teeth. Taking moisture from her tongue, he painted the abused bottom lip. “Mine to kiss,” he scolded her. “Mine to bite.”

  Her eyes flew open as he did just that, a tender warning that he soothed immediately with another pass of his wet fingertip.

  “Jack…” There was a note of alarm in her voice. “I don’t … I feel…” She was panting a little, small hot exhalations against his cheek that only raised his internal temperature.

  “Shh…” he said, trying to soothe again.

  “Seriously, Jack.” She tried scooting back on the table, but his splayed hand at her back kept her close. “This, uh, can’t be normal.”

  He smiled. “You don’t like my kisses? My touch?”

  “Sure, but it’s so much, so fast…” She shivered as he ran his hand up the silky skin covering her spine. “What the hell,” she murmured, and her arm curled around his neck and brought his mouth to hers again.

  She kissed him even as he felt her slender hand slide beneath his jeans and boxers. H
er fingers were hot against his hip.

  His body jerked, his cock twitched as desire surged, hardening his flesh, tightening his balls. It burned in his blood, and as she circled his stiff flesh, he thought he might come.

  Damn! It was so much, so fast. She was right, it wasn’t normal. She squeezed.

  Okay, it was better than normal.

  He cupped her breast in one hand and scooped her closer with his other arm. The table would be a fine surface for what his body was clamoring to accomplish. Tilting his head, he changed the slant of the kiss.

  His tongue surged into her mouth. She sucked on him and -

  They were plunged into darkness.

  No. No! His head jerked from hers.

  She squeaked in protest, then pulled in a sharp breath. “Oh. The lights went out.”

  “Yeah.” He was clutching her, he knew that, but she was the only solid thing in the profound blackness. Disoriented, he only tightened his grip. “What now?”

  “We should wait here. Maybe the electricity will come back on -”

  “No!” He modulated his voice, even though anxiety was rising within him with every passing millisecond. “No. I think we should get outside.” He had to get outside.

  In the gloom he could feel her fumbling with her clothes. He kept one hand on her forearm and helped her ease down the hem of her sweater.

  Sweat pricked his belly and back. His pulse continued rising until he could feel it pounding at his temples. When she moved to get off the table, it took him a moment to unlock his muscles and give her room.

  He kept his hand curled around her bicep.

  “I’m pretty sure I can find our way out.”

  Pretty sure. Bordel de merde. She was merely pretty sure she could find their way out. With his heart slamming in his chest and his breath only reaching as far as his collarbone, the single thing he could locate in the dark was an overwhelming state of panic. Nausea churned in his gut.

  He struggled to keep the bile down. “You lead then.”

  They held hands. He knew he was crowding her, but God, he needed to feel another human’s heat. They shuffled forward, then turned right.