With a Stetson and a Smile & The Bridesmaid’s Bet

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “You couldn’t have been serious.” There. That said it all. That said they’d been playing around. Flirting. Enjoying a little male-female game that didn’t need to go anywhere beyond the few kisses they’d shared.

  He didn’t let himself think of the sweet, heated taste of her mouth.

  “I am serious.”

  He thought about jumping out of the car. Anything to end this conversation. He’d wanted to restore her confidence, not create a whopper of a problem for himself.

  “Hah.” He thought it sounded a little like a laugh.

  “Hah?” She repeated, then drained her champagne.

  “Are you afraid you won’t respect me in the morning?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t respect me in the morning,” he muttered, then stopped, appalled at how that had sounded and by the stunned look on her face. “No, no, you don’t understand. That didn’t come out right.”

  He slid closer to her. He found himself taking the champagne glass from her and then holding her hands in his. “How could I…take this from you, Francesca?” He brought her fingers up to his mouth and kissed them, like a supplicant asking for royal favors.

  He felt the fine tremble in her hands, and she shook her head. “Why can’t it be something I give to you?”

  “Francesca. Your family would kill me.”

  She stubbornly set her chin. “This is not about them. This is about me.”

  He sighed.

  Then she withdrew her fingers from his. She turned sideways on the wide bench seat to face him fully and placed her hands on his shoulders. The small and warm touch roller-coasted to his toes.

  “Who taught me to ride a bike?” she said.

  He thought back. “I guess…I did.”

  “Who showed me how to make a kite tail and wind the string on a stick?”

  He frowned. “Me.”

  “Who held my hand when I ice-skated the first time, and who made sure I didn’t throw like a girl, and who taught me how to dive instead of belly flop?”

  She’d tackled each new skill with a verve and intensity that he’d admired even as a teenager. She’d had a passion— Damn.

  Passion.

  Brett closed his eyes, but she kept talking, whispering like the temptation she was turning out to be.

  “You, you, you,” Francesca said. “You were there every time I needed to learn something new.”

  She wanted a teacher, a tutor, a mentor, in…sex. But she’d call it lovemaking and right there was the biggest sticking point.

  Maybe she could read the objection on his face. “I’m not asking for forever, Brett. I’m asking you for tonight. I want this and I trust you. You’d never hurt me.”

  But he might. He could. And her passion would definitely burn him. His blood pumped hot and heavy, and the sight of her naked torso flashed through his mind. He could almost feel the plump heat of her breasts against him.

  Setting his back teeth, he took hold of her hands again and drew them off his shoulders. He cradled her fingers in his own. That’s what he was supposed to be doing. Sheltering her, protecting her, not remembering the taste of her skin or the responsive catch of her breath.

  The limo rolled to a stop. Brett looked out the window and realized they’d made it back to the apartments. Just in time. He’d say no as gently as he could, and she wouldn’t have a chance to work those wiles of hers on him again.

  He opened his mouth.

  But she spoke first. “Think about it, Brett. If it’s not you, it will be someone else.”

  At the words, the burn in his blood and his belly turned to red fire in his brain.

  Scruples fled. Reasons not to involve himself retreated. Every rational thought receded, and everything but Francesca turned hazy dark.

  He slipped his hands from her fingers to handcuff one of her wrists. He pulled her from the car, dug money from his pocket and tossed it at the driver. Walking as quickly as he could, he led her in the direction of his apartment. One part of his brain realized she was almost running to keep up.

  The rest of his brain just wanted to be alone with her as soon as possible.

  In seconds they were inside. In an instant he’d slammed shut the door. He didn’t bother with the lights. Surrounded by inky blackness he pushed Francesca back against the door and dove for the dark heat of her mouth.

  He thought he heard her gasp, but he didn’t let up. He pressed harder, pressed forward, pushing his tongue into her mouth and taking her taste into himself.

  If it’s not you it will be someone else.

  When he couldn’t breathe, he lifted his head and breathed raggedly. “Well?” he said hoarsely. “Sex isn’t kites and bike rides. I can’t be gentle with you, Francesca. Not every moment. Not even if I wanted to.”

  He closed his eyes, and his heartbeat pounded like flashes of fire against his eyelids.

  If it’s not you it will be someone else.

  His breaths moved harshly in and out of his lungs. “It’s now or never, Francesca.” He stepped away from her, every muscle in his body granite hard. “Your call.”

  Only one more quick breath passed. Then she came against him, her arms around his neck, her mouth hot against his throat. “Now,” she said, her voice strained with what he recognized as passion. His skin shuddered in response. “Please, Brett. Now.”

  DESPITE her big brave words and the tingling desire in her body, an armada of goose bumps set sail down Francesca’s spine. She’d expected Brett to be a tender and gentle lover, but he was hot and hard, and she was a little afraid she couldn’t keep up with him.

  She bit down on her lower lip, but then he was there instead, seducing her with a heavy, heated kiss. Her limbs went soft, and she locked her arms around his neck to stay upright.

  “That’s right,” he said, his voice hoarse and deep.

  “Lean against me, honey. I want to feel you.”

  Francesca shuddered in response, and he trailed his mouth down her neck. He kissed her there, too, and she almost fainted at the sweet, slight burn of his whiskers.

  His mouth returned to her lips. “Kiss me back,” he murmured to her, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t kiss or say his name or even breathe, because his fingers found the zipper at the back of her dress and in seconds he’d opened it and peeled the dress from her shoulders. The fabric pooled at her feet and he dragged her out of the tangle of its folds by stepping back.

  “Let me feel you,” he said again, his voice harsh, his hands hot and hurried as they trailed down her shoulders to her wrists. She still wore a strapless bra and panties and yet Brett’s touch was so knowing, so intimate, so impatient that her heart sped up again and she gasped for air.

  He took her mouth again but she wrenched her face away because she needed still more time to breathe. His heart pounded insistently against her chest, and when he lifted her against him, pushing her hips against his so his arousal pressed against the notch at her thighs, she felt a sob rise.

  He didn’t seem to notice her panic. He twisted his head and thrust his tongue into her mouth and she stiffened, instinctively pushing away from him with her hands.

  He didn’t seem to notice that, either, instead grinding his pelvis against hers and kissing her neck.

  “Brett.”

  Tears stung the corners of her eyes and a real sob tore through her throat. “Brett, please. Stop.”

  Instantly he drew his hips away from hers. Instantly his hands softened and loosened. “Have you had enough?” he asked quietly.

  “Uh…” She blinked in confusion and a now-extraneous tear burned a path down her cheek. “Wh-what?”

  He moved completely away from her, and she followed the sound of his voice toward his living room couch. “Have you had enough?” he repeated.

  With the back of her hand she wiped her face dry. “I…I don’t get it.”

  “Damn it, Francesca.” His voice sounded strained. “You must be careful what you ask for. Be careful who you ask for.”

  She
came several steps forward. “Are you saying I should be afraid of you?”

  “No. Yes.” In the darkness she could barely make out the wave of his hand. “Maybe this is one of those things that come with the experience of prom dates and making out in cars. You’ve just got to learn to be more careful about offering yourself.”

  A flush of embarrassment heated her cheeks. “So that—” she pointed toward the door “—that was about teaching me a lesson?”

  “You wanted to learn, didn’t you?” he said flatly.

  “And if not from me, from someone else. Well, that’s what somebody else might offer you.”

  Francesca had never been a cryer and didn’t think that now would be a good time to start, but she felt a new sting of tears nonetheless. “You scared me.” In the darkness she stared at Brett accusingly. “You really scared me.”

  Silence welled in his side of the room. Then his voice sounded, hard and cool. “That was the whole point, Francesca.”

  Anger moved in to replace the tears, and Francesca welcomed it. She stomped over to her dress and stepped inside, then wriggled to pull it over her hips. “Well, thank you very much, but I’m not an idiot.”

  From his side of the room there was a grumble.

  She sent a murderous glare his way. “I’m not acting like one. An idiot would go to any man when she wanted to make love for the first time. An idiot would have found a way when she was sixteen or eighteen or twenty or anytime before now, if all she wanted was to have sex.”

  She heard his quick intake of breath.

  “Well, I’m smarter than that. I’m smart enough to wait until I’m ready. I’m smart enough to pick a man that I…care about. A man who makes my skin quiver and my bones melt and who I thought I could count on to make me feel beautiful. To make it beautiful.”

  She struggled with the zipper that seemed stuck somewhere at the small of her back. “If you ask me Brett, the only stupid one around here is you.”

  The zipper wouldn’t budge. She wanted to stamp her foot in frustration, but that would take precious seconds away from a timely exit. She just had to get this dress on! Arms behind her, she worked at the dress, feeling the shoulder straps slide down her naked shoulders.

  The light beside the couch blazed on.

  She stood there, caught in its glare, half angry, half teary and half-dressed. Three halves, she thought hysterically. That can’t be right.

  “Francesca.”

  She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want to see any smugness or superiority on his face. The zipper moved an inch, stuck again.

  “Francesca, please. Look at me.”

  She breathed out her nose impatiently. “What?” she said, reluctantly sliding her gaze in his direction.

  The light from the lamp colored his hair gold, and he’d tossed off his jacket and tie. His white shirt was open at the throat, and his blue eyes took hold of hers and wouldn’t let go. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I screwed up and I’m sorry.”

  Her hands froze on the zipper. He had an expression on his face she’d never seen before. His cheekbones pushed starkly against his skin and his eyes were wide and serious. “I don’t know if I wished you hadn’t grown up or I’m down-on-my-knees grateful you did or…” He shook his head. “I just can’t seem to get this right.”

  He rose from the couch and walked toward her. “Let me help you, honey.” With achingly gentle hands he turned her so her back was to him. She let go of the zipper and he eased it up, past her hips, her waist, the middle of her back.

  “There,” he said. “All done.”

  She didn’t turn around.

  He didn’t move.

  And then he touched his mouth to her shoulder. Gently. A butterfly’s kiss that made Francesca’s nipples harden and warmth pool instantly between her legs.

  Oh.

  He rested his cheek against the top of her head and pulled her back against him. His shirtfront was scratchy and hot, and her skin rose in goose bumps to meet it.

  “Let me, Francesca?” His voice was soft and hoarse at the same time. “Let me try again?”

  8

  BENEATH HIS HANDS Brett felt Francesca tremble. He’d made her afraid and he hated himself for it. She was beautiful and sweet and fragile, and if he didn’t restore her faith in him he wouldn’t forgive himself.

  He kissed the side of her neck, gently, softly, closing his eyes to the seductive scent of her perfume, remembering how she’d tried it out on him that first night.

  For better or worse, she wanted him. And the only thought he could focus on now was making sure it was better. The best.

  “Francesca?” he murmured against her skin. “Let me have another chance?”

  The stiffness slowly flowed out of her body. “Admit you’re an idiot,” she said.

  “I’m an idiot.” He sucked lightly on the side of her neck.

  Her voice came fainter. “And you were wrong.”

  “I’m often wrong.” He breathed against her temple and she shivered.

  “And…and…” She leaned back lightly against him and shivered again. “I’m nervous.”

  He squeezed her shoulders, half relieved, half disappointed. “Then why don’t we say good-night.”

  “No!” Her body straightened and she took a quick breath. “Sorry. Sorry. Just feeling a bit skittish.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “I’m sure!”

  Brett pressed his fingers against her shoulders, kneading the tight muscles. “Then just relax. Think of tonight as…”

  “As what?” Her muscles remained tensed. “A rite of passage? An initiation rite?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly and smiled. “To probably the world’s biggest club.”

  She didn’t laugh.

  Brett continued massaging her shoulders. If she was determined to go through with this, he was determined to make it worthwhile. No mechanical, let’s-get-it-over-with act for Francesca.

  “Speaking of clubs.” He put his mouth against her ear. “Remember when you wanted to join our Boys Only Club?”

  Her lips curved up. “My brothers refused. They would have broken your legs if they knew you let me into that rickety clubhouse you built in our backyard.”

  Brett wondered briefly what punishment they’d enact if they knew what he was doing now, then pushed the thought away. “That’s right,” he said. “I took you out there and showed you the place.”

  Her body leaned back against his. “In the middle of the night.”

  “I bet it wasn’t much later than nine, but okay.”

  Francesca shook her head and her hair tickled his chin.

  “You said it had to be pitch-black.”

  Brett slid a glance in the direction of the living room lamp. “I did, didn’t I?” In an instant he strode to the light, turned it off and returned to Francesca. “I remember now. You’d been bugging me about it all day. I said we had to wait until dark.”

  In the blackness inside his apartment, he heard her breathing quicken. Then he knelt by her feet.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t you remember?” he said, circling her ankle to lift one foot. “So we wouldn’t get caught creeping out of the house you had to take off your shoes.”

  She didn’t protest. Having taken both her shoes off, he stood. Then he reached around her back, the tab of the zipper cool against the hot skin of his fingers.

  Francesca jerked. “Wh-what?”

  He pulled it down. “Someone might hear the rustle of your clothes,” he said matter-of-factly, the escapade of the past turning into another kind of game entirely. “We better take them off.”

  The bzzzip of the zipper opening sounded loud and harsh in the darkness. Brett’s pulse started a sledgehammer beat, and he swallowed hard as the dress fell away from her. He leaned down to kiss the side of her neck, stroking the spot with his tongue.

  She moaned.

  “Shh,” he said, moving upward toward her ear. “We have to be ve
ry, very quiet.”

  At her sides, he laced their fingers and just leaned into her, letting her become accustomed to the heat and hardness of his body.

  “What about your clothes?” she whispered. Strained tension remained in her voice.

  He ignored the question and instead lifted her light form into his arms. “The grass is wet on the way to the clubhouse. And because you’re afraid of slugs—”

  “I am not afraid of slugs!”

  “And because you’re afraid of frogs—”

  “Frogs, either!”

  Smiling, he turned toward the short hallway. “And because you’re a kind young woman you’ll indulge me and let me carry you to the clubhouse.” Inside his bedroom, he shut the door behind them with a snick.

  It was cool and even darker than the living room. Brett slid Francesca down his body, then held her lightly against him. “What do you think of the place?”

  “As I recall there was nothing but a dirt floor and the stub of a candle.” She was talking about the old clubhouse.

  “That’s because I’d hid the stack of girlie magazines.”

  There was real shock in Francesca’s voice. “No!”

  He shrugged. “Well, I think we had a couple of pages of ladies underwear ads torn from the Sears catalog.”

  She giggled. “You didn’t.”

  “I’ll never tell.” The truth didn’t matter. What mattered was that Francesca was relaxed against him and laughing.

  She sighed. “You were very nice to me, you know.”

  He drew a forefinger from her wrist to her bare shoulder. “I was, wasn’t I? Didn’t I even go so far as to spill all the details of our secret ceremonies?” His finger traced across her collarbone and he felt her tremble.

  “You even initiated me,” she said.

  His fingers drifted toward the top curves of her generous breasts. “I did, didn’t I?”

  Then she went serious and quiet and with calm intent he picked her up again and strode the few feet to his bed. He pushed aside the down comforter and laid Francesca against the cool sheets. He stretched out beside her.

  “That initiation rite involved blood,” she said.

  “Just a little.” As he remembered, he’d pricked her ring finger with a pin. “And I didn’t hurt you.”