The Virgin's Secret Marriage

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

  Trying not to laugh at his unexpected morph into hockey referee, she kept her hold on the remote and tried without much success to scramble off the hard cradle of his thighs. A playful light in his eyes, he wrapped one strong arm around her waist and used his other to divest her of the remote and toss it aside, well out of reach. “Into the penalty box you go.”

  Feeling his immediate arousal, as well as her own tingling response as their bare legs rubbed up against each other, Emma flushed and shoved at his chest. She wished it wasn’t so hot in here, so intimate. And more than that, she wished she had remembered sooner that Joe Hart was a man who worked hard and played hard, and when he wasn’t doing one, he was diligently doing the other. “Stop that!” she commanded, even though she knew it was too late—she had interrupted his work—and now that he had switched gears, she was going to have to “play,” too.

  “Ah-ah-ah!” Still holding on to her with one arm, he made yet another “call”—via a punching motion to the side, his arm extending downward from the shoulder. “Another two for roughing!” Tightening his grip on her possessively, he ignored her unsuccessful attempts to wiggle out of his grip and shook his head at her in mock dismay. “Shame on you, Mrs. Hart!”

  Being called by her married name sent another shimmer of awareness through her. Aware all her struggling was doing was increasing the friction between their already overheated bodies, she stopped and regarded him warily.

  To her dismay, he had the same look of utter concentration and ruthless determination he had in his eyes when he was playing a game. The breath stalled in her chest, even as anticipation swept through her body, as she thought about what it was going to be like to be in a clinch with him again—without an audience chaperoning them this time.

  If his kiss at the wedding had been sexy and exciting, she could only imagine what his kiss now would be. “Joe—” she warned, doing her best to remain imperious as she splayed her hands flat against the hard, bare surface of his chest and angled her chin up at him.

  “I know you’re new at this, so I’ll give you a helpful hint,” he offered with mock gallantry, her attempt to simultaneously calm him down and extricate herself only adding fuel to the fire. “You don’t want to add unsportsmanlike conduct to the mix,” he told her gravely, bending his head to kiss the nape of her neck, as one hand slid beneath the hem of her cotton blouse to caress the skin just above her waist. “That might get you sent to the locker room for the rest of the game.”

  If the penalty box was his lap, Emma didn’t want to even think where the locker room might be.

  Aware she wanted nothing more than to call a halt to the game and kiss him, really kiss him, without an audience or a reason this time, and that her heart would be in real jeopardy if she did, she simultaneously stomped on his instep and elbowed him in the chest.

  His startled grunt of dismay ringing in her ears, she vaulted off his lap. Only to feel his foot come up, just as deliberately and sneakily, beneath her ankles. She went flying—he caught her around the middle and flipped her. The next thing she knew she was lying prone on the sofa, looking up into the very satisfied expression on his face. His body was draped along the length of her, blocking any thought or hope of exit. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to add another five minutes for that little display,” he informed her with mock severity. “Fisticuffs are not tolerated in this game.”

  “It wasn’t fisticuffs,” Emma argued, even as she tried unsuccessfully to bring her knee up. Rookie or not, she was not going down without a fight.

  “Oh, I beg to differ on that,” he drawled, capturing her wrists and bringing them above her head and anchoring them there even as he parted her knees with his and sank his weight into the cradle of her thighs.

  “It felt very…oh, I don’t know—” he paused playfully, his ardent gaze lingering on the curves of her breasts before returning to her face “—down and dirty to me. And frankly, I have to tell you, Mrs. Hart, I was shocked,” he murmured as he brushed his lips over hers. He continued to regard her mournfully. “I can see I underestimated you as an opponent, something I try never to do.”

  But she did not for one second want to be his opponent. Reason coming quickly back, she shook her head at him in slow, deliberate warning. “Joe, you are not going to kiss me,” she stated plainly. Not this way. Not without love.

  But his sexy grin only widened. “Want to bet?”

  Chapter Seven

  Joe knew Emma didn’t want them getting close again. Until he had kissed her at the wedding yesterday afternoon, and shared a bed with her—albeit platonically—he hadn’t wanted that, either. But now that they were married, and destined to stay together for at least a year or two, he saw no reason why they should deprive themselves of sexual comfort and satisfaction. And he figured Emma would eventually come to that conclusion, too. Sooner, if he took the time to demonstrate the pleasure they could have in store, given the time and opportunity and relatively little effort.

  So he took her chin gently in hand and lowered his lips to hers. She murmured a soft, sexy sound of protest and clamped her lips tightly shut. He grinned. He always had liked a challenge.

  When the kiss she’d been expecting didn’t come, she opened her eyes again. He kissed the other corner of her mouth. “Expecting something else?” he drawled, and thought he saw something—disappointment maybe?—flicker in her pretty eyes. “Something slower?” He pressed his kiss to her cheek. “Or hotter?” He brushed a caress across her temple. “Or wetter?” He stroked the shell of her ear with his tongue.

  This time she did moan and buck against him, her breasts brushing the hardness of his chest. Lower still, he felt the blood rush into his groin.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” she swore emotionally.

  “Because I kissed you?” Joe planted another one on her chin, enjoying the feel of her, so warm and close and feisty, almost as much as the raw desire reflected in her eyes. “Or because I didn’t?” he taunted, even more softly. Not the way she wanted, anyway.

  Her chest rose and fell with the quickness of her breaths. She struggled against his grip. He held fast. “I mean it, Joe.”

  “So do I.” He tunneled his free hand through her hair, tilting her face up to his, her lips to his. “So make me pay, Emma,” he urged her softly as he slowly, deliberately lowered his lips to hers. “Make me pay for everything and anything I’ve done to you.”

  He knew she didn’t mean to kiss him back—any more than he had meant to be kissing her this evening—and somehow that made the culmination of their long-denied desire all the sweeter. Groaning, he deepened the kiss, exploring the soft, sweet cavern of her mouth, and the silky give and play of her lips against his. Never passive, she took the lead and kept right on kissing him, long and hard and deep, soft and sweet. Until Joe’s heartbeat hammered in his ears and he was so aroused he could barely think. He didn’t know how or why or when, but suddenly she was every bit as needy and in control of the situation as he.

  Emma hadn’t meant to give in to him, to the pressure of his lips and the plundering sweep of his tongue, but the moment he had begun to kiss her—really kiss her—her heart had soared and every ounce of her restraint had fled. Making her want only one thing. To be close to him again. As close as they had once been meant to be, closer than they had ever been before.

  He let go of her wrists and she wreathed her arms around his strong, broad shoulders, melting against him in boneless pleasure. And still Joe kissed her, as if he meant to have her and make her his.

  Completely caught up in the moment, Emma smoothed her hands down the warm solid muscles of his back. Lower still, to the waistband of his shorts. She moaned again, loving the warm, hard, masculine feel of him. The pressure and weight of his body draped over hers. Never before had she been so tempted to let go of caution, and just feel, want, need. Take each moment as it came, without thought or worry over the future. And that was when he broke off the kiss and lifted his head, looked deep into her eyes. �
��Let’s go to the bedroom, Emma.”

  The words were soft, matter-of-fact, and they acted like a cold bucket of water on her overheated senses. They were talking about sex here. Not the love she needed, wanted, had to have. “No.” Emma struggled to sit up halfway, and this time he let her. “We can’t.” She shoved the hair from her eyes.

  Joe sat up, too. Moved so they could both swing their legs over the side of the sofa. He looked at her. To her frustration, whatever he was feeling was well hidden.

  “I don’t get it.” His voice was low, carefully neutral.

  Emma swallowed, wishing that she was as well versed as her husband in curtailing her innermost emotions and desires at the instant a time-out was called. Feeling like she had just been called over to the bench by an unhappy coach, Emma stood. Embarrassed she had behaved so wantonly, so fast, she turned to him, determined to make him see this wasn’t a game they were playing. “It’s not that I don’t want you,” she said in a low, strangled tone. “I do.”

  He lifted his palms. “Then what’s the problem?” he asked in a low, gruff, kick-butt athlete’s tone.

  The problem was she knew if they made love, or took their kisses any further, the passionate tryst would end up involving her heart, and she couldn’t let that happen. Joe had hurt her enough before when he walked out on her—and their marriage—because he had been afraid his hasty marriage to her would damage his standing with the team. She couldn’t let it happen again. Couldn’t let him make her fall in love with him all over again. This time, to secure his position on the Storm. Because that, in her mind, was just as bad, as what had happened before. “Because if we let ourselves make love it’s going to seem like a real marriage,” she said flatly.

  Joe got to his feet, too. Her heart raced as he squared off with her once again. “It is a real marriage.”

  “Legally,” Emma conceded, jerking away from him. “Not in here.” She pointed to her heart.

  HER OPINION STATED, EMMA said a strained good-night and went off to sleep alone in the guest room.

  Unable to sleep, Joe settled back down on the sofa and turned on the television. But no matter how much he tried, he was unable to concentrate on the game tape he had been studying.

  Frustrated because it wasn’t like him to think of anything but hockey twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Joe hit the pause button on his VCR and went out to the kitchen for a light-carbohydrate beer.

  He’d thought he could handle living here with Emma. That it would be like having a roommate again, albeit one of the opposite sex, instead of a teammate.

  He had figured they could reside under the same roof.

  Make joint appearances when required.

  And pretty much go their own separate ways the rest of the time.

  He realized now that was going to be impossible.

  He was as physically attracted to Emma as ever. He couldn’t be anywhere near her without wanting to hold her in his arms and kiss her passionately, without wanting to tumble her into bed and really make her his. It was territorial. Male. Instinctive. He wanted her to be his woman and his alone. Unfortunately, Joe realized as he twisted off the cap and took a long thirsty drink, Emma did not want to be tied to him in that way.

  The way he had hurt her in the past made her afraid to trust him.

  And though that wasn’t all his fault, he knew he was responsible for some of it. And that in turn left him riddled with guilt.

  He had known from the beginning that her sheltered life had left her both inexperienced with the opposite sex, and hence, vulnerable, to the potent come-ons of guys like himself. Just as he had realized that she was as sexually attracted to him as he was to her. And that sleeping with him would signify the kind of lifelong commitment he had not been—at the reckless age of nineteen—afraid of making.

  Who knew what might have happened if she had told him the whole truth about her identity and family connections from the get-go—and they had stayed married that first year and actually consummated their relationship…? But they hadn’t. And the two of them had both moved on. To the point he hadn’t figured the two of them making love now would be any big deal.

  He had been wrong. As usual. Joe sighed. And now they had yet another misstep to deal with.

  “I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS.”

  Joe looked up from his morning newspaper to see Emma standing in the portal of the breakfast room. She was dressed in a pretty pale yellow business suit that molded her slender curves, and high heels that made the most of her spectacular legs. She smelled like perfume and shampoo. Just like that, his pulse was off and running….

  Joe swallowed the bite of PowerBar he had in his mouth and took a drink of juice, trying all the while to appear a lot more nonchalant than he felt.

  Trying hard not to notice how soft and glossy her hair looked, he regarded her cautiously. “What do you mean?” Was she talking about the fact they’d flirted with the idea of having sex last night? ’Cause he had been awake most of the night, body aching, his mind filled with lustful—and luscious—thoughts, even as he wished in retrospect he had used a little more finesse to get her from the sofa to the bed.

  Emma gestured around her broadly before striding through the sunlit kitchen to the family room beyond. “It looks like a dorm room exploded in here, Joe.”

  And it felt a little too homey having her here with him first thing in the morning, before he could even wolf down some breakfast. Aware it was suddenly a little hard to breathe, Joe looked over at her. Whatever it took to get her off his case… “You’re saying you want me to cart my boxes to another area of the house?”

  “No,” Emma explained as if he were particularly dense, “I want you to unpack them.”

  Joe frowned. He had gotten kind of used to living out of boxes. It made it easier when he had to move on to the next place.

  Emma strode past him in a whiff of tantalizing floral perfume. Looking particularly feisty with agitated color staining her high, elegantly shaped cheekbones, she plucked up a neon beer sign from the top of one of the boxes and scowled at it.

  Joe tipped his chair up on two legs and leaned back thoughtfully. He knew where she thought that belonged. “I guess I could mount that above the fireplace,” he drawled, just to irritate her.

  Her mouth dropped into a round O of surprise. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  He had been. Until he had seen her reaction. “Think it would look better above the sofa, huh?” He stood and began rummaging around his toolbox for the hammer and nails he knew were there somewhere.

  Her glance traveled over the T-shirt-and-athletic-shorts-clad body before returning, with cool fury, to his face. “I think it would look better in a tavern.”

  Joe nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly the theme—or is it decor—I was going for in here.”

  “Seriously, Joe—” She was suddenly right next to him, trying to keep him from picking up the hammer.

  Pretending the feel of her soft hands on his skin wasn’t causing a swift, hot reaction elsewhere in his body, Joe straightened up and turned to face her. “I know what you’re thinking, but no way am I putting this in the master bedroom, above our bed. That’s where my picture of dogs playing poker goes.”

  She ignored his bluff to concentrate on the most meaningful thing he had said.

  “Our bed?” she repeated, in mocking disbelief.

  “Well…” He shrugged, using every opportunity to lobby for what he had decided during the long lonely night that he wanted, as soon as humanly possible. “We are married, sweetheart. And that brings with it certain…perks.”

  Perks, Joe noted, Emma had no intention of enjoying today, tonight or any other time in the near future.

  Emma dropped her hand and rolled her eyes. Looking suddenly as if she couldn’t get far enough away from him, she strode past him, arms clamped across her waist in a way that drew—and kept—his attention on the softly rounded curves of her breasts. She stopped next to the bo
xes of his hockey memorabilia, which were set next to the big glass-fronted, mahogany display case Joe had bought the previous day.

  Ignoring what she could not dispute, she stated firmly, “At least put this stuff away today.”

  Joe had been planning to—in fact, that had been on his agenda during the midday break between the dual practices he had scheduled at the arena. Until she had tried to tell him to do just that, anyway. “I don’t know.” He braced his hands on his waist, considering. “Maybe I will. And then again, maybe I won’t.”

  Temper flared in her emerald-green eyes. Emma released a long, slow breath, then told him, “I mean it, Joe. I need order in my life.”

  Order was the least of what she required, as far as Joe was concerned. “And I—” he clasped his hands around her waist and drew her flush against him “—need you.”

  “Joe—”

  He cut off whatever she was going to say with a soft, persuasive kiss that quickly had her fully pressed against him, melting in his arms. She had used a peppermint-flavored mouthwash, and the taste of it mingled with the sweetness that was her. Knowing it was likely his only chance to have her before they both headed off to work, he foraged her mouth. When she moaned, he drew her even more flush against him, so she could feel his hardness. He wanted her to know how much she excited him, and he wanted to arouse her, too. Raw longing swept through him as the continued thrust and parry of their tongues sent a wake-up call to every inch of his body. And Joe knew, when they did make love—and they would, soon—it was going to be hotter, wilder and more exciting than anything either of them had ever experienced.

  Knowing, however, that he did not intend to make love to her for the very first time and then rush off—anywhere—he let the kiss come to a lazy close and drew back reluctantly. Her eyes were misty, her lips damp and parted. To his immense satisfaction, she looked every bit as carried away on the tide of passion as he. “You’re not playing fair,” Emma whispered shakily.