by Cheryl Holt
"I really don't like him barking at me."
"Maybe if you went upstairs, he'd stop." He pushed himself to his feet and extended his hand. "Give me that hundred. I'm feeling better. I'll drive myself to the store; I'll pick up the stuff for the party."
She gave him the bill, then opened her purse and pulled out two hundred more. "Buy whatever you need. And get something fun for Jeremy."
"I will." He walked to the door. "I'll be gone for hours, and Jeremy won't be home from school until four. The house will be empty—in case you decide you'd like some privacy."
"Why would I need any privacy?"
"I'm taking the car, so even if he tries to storm off in a huff, he won't be able to."
"Good plan."
"I thought so."
Ken left, and Brittney was alone in the kitchen with a ton of options.
Go upstairs? Or not? Poke that furious, stalking tiger? Or not?
She poured herself a cup of coffee and plopped down to figure it out.
* * *
Ken sat in Matt's car, curious if Brittney was in Matt's bed yet, or if she was still debating.
He already understood her much too well. Eventually, she'd goad Matt into doing precisely what he'd been salivating over since they'd first met.
Hopefully, when Ken returned, all that pent up sexual energy would be tamped down. A man could have some peace and quiet in his own damn house.
Watching the two of them, it made him wish he was twenty again. Almost anyway. Occasionally, he missed those wild escapades of women and bad choices.
These days, he was simply a sorry old fool, regretting his errors and working to fix them before he ran out of time.
Matt believed he'd brought Brittney home for Ken's sake, that he'd done it because Ken had requested it of him. But Ken had done it for Matt.
Ken hadn't allowed Emily to marry Matt—even though the poor girl had been crazy about him. Then she'd died soon after. Why had he—Ken—been so obstinate and inflexible? Why couldn't he have let her have her slice of happiness?
In the end, Ken's stubbornness had been pointless.
Emily had wanted Matt so desperately. It was the only thing she'd ever asked Ken for, and he'd refused her. He hadn't just broken his daughter's heart, he'd sent Matt away so that he spent years off on his own, serving his country and nearly getting himself killed in a thousand different ways.
Emily had paid the price of their idiotic separation, and Jeremy had suffered too. But Matt had suffered the most. And Ken wouldn't make the same mistake again.
Matt had grown up in the army, had proved himself to be fine and decent, and he needed someone to love him like no one had ever needed to be loved.
Brittney was no better. She had all the money in the world, but she was so alone.
Though they would both deny it, they were perfect for each other, and Ken was more than happy to play the matchmaker Brittney insisted she didn't want.
"Stupid kid," he scoffed, thinking of Matt. "You don't stand a chance against her. Or me."
As Ken had learned through bitter experience, it was silly to fight the inevitable.
He backed out of the driveway and headed for the store. He took it slow, wasting time. There was no reason to hurry. No reason at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Open this door. Right now."
"Go away."
"No."
Brittney pounded on the wood. "Let me in."
"No."
"You are such an idiot," she mumbled.
It wasn't locked, which she finally figured out when she spun the knob. She marched in, her temper blazing.
"What part of go away don't you understand?" Matt snarled.
He didn't know how else to act. He'd spent five hellish days avoiding her, ignoring her, pretending she wasn't strutting around in those sexy short-shorts of hers.
How was he supposed to focus when she never had any clothes on?
"Why are you being such a jerk?" she fumed.
"I'm trying to stay away from you."
"Have I asked you to stay away from me?"
"No, princess, you haven't."
She stomped over, all five-foot-six of her quivering with feminine outrage.
"I can't decide," she taunted, "if you're obtuse, blind, or gay. Which is it?"
Oh, he wasn't any of those. He felt like a stallion on a ridge that had just scented the mare he'd been chasing forever.
"What's the matter?" he taunted in return. "Are you so used to having men drool over you that you can't handle it when one of them won't?"
"Don't flatter yourself, bud. If I wanted some dull, obnoxious guy to drool over me, I'd have flown to New York to hang out with my rich, boring boyfriend."
"Why don't you do that? What's stopping you?"
"I'm slumming. I'm a poor little rich girl—with too much time on her hands. I guess I'll have to waste some of it with you."
She grabbed the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head. With a flick of her wrists, she was wearing only her bra and shorts. The bra was a flimsy, lacy thing that scarcely covered any spot that should be covered.
"Put your shirt back on."
"No."
Her fingers went to the button on her shorts, then the zipper. She tugged them down and kicked them away.
Damn! Her thong matched her bra: hot pink, lacey, barely there.
She slammed her fists on her hips. "I'm just about naked, Monroe. What will it take to get a reaction out of you?"
Still, he hesitated. He'd always viewed himself as cocky and confident, had pursued what he desired with a dangerous intensity, but he was frozen with uncertainty.
He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything, but what was the point?
She'd be gone—probably later that evening. And she'd hate him when she walked out their door. Why make the situation worse by sleeping with her too?
Her blistering gaze slithered down his torso to his crotch, where his hard-on blatantly pressed against the front of his sweats.
She smirked. "Well, you're not blind, and you're definitely not gay."
She flicked apart the clasp on her bra, and the straps slid down her arms. Her breasts were perfect, small and round, the tips pink and inviting.
He'd meant to do the right thing, to behave himself, but there was only so much restraint a man could exhibit.
"That's it," he grumbled. "I've had enough."
"Enough of what?"
"You asked for it and now you're going to get it."
"Get what? You're all talk, Monroe."
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Warn me about what?"
"You'll see tonight, and I'd better not hear a peep out of you."
He slipped his good arm around her waist, yanked her off the floor and flung her onto his bed. She bounced once, and he was on her, stretched out and pinning her down.
They came together like a pair of angry cats, like wrestlers fighting for control, like combatants in a war that no one could ever win.
He fell on her, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that went on and on and on. His fingers roamed over her, learning her shape and size, and he wasn't gentle or slow. He pinched and scraped and scratched, as she hissed and bit and commanded him to go faster.
She wanted him naked, and she tore at his t-shirt. She couldn't remove it quickly enough, though, so she ripped the fabric and shred it to pieces. Then she pitched him onto his back, grabbed the waistband of his sweats and dragged them down and off.
She straddled him, appearing wicked and determined. She thought she was in charge. She thought she'd precipitated the encounter and could orchestrate it to her liking, but she didn't know squat.
He bucked with his hips, tossing her to the side so he could roll onto her again. He dipped to her breasts, sucking on her nipples until she was writhing beneath him.
"Get on with it, Monroe," she snapped.
"When I'm ready."
"Do it!"
"Not yet."
"Matt!"
"Don't order me around. Not when you're in my bed and lying underneath me. Be quiet."
"I'll be quiet when you give me a reason to shut up."
He wedged a thigh between her legs, clutched her thong in his fist and wrenched it away. He paused to glance down her body.
She'd tormented his dreams with erotic visions of how she'd look without her clothes, and she was just as magnificent as he'd imagined she would be. Slender, tanned, shapely, and so very, very beautiful.
She arched up, offering her breasts, herself, and he'd finally reached his limit. Though he'd fought the inevitable, the battle was over. He was racing to the end and couldn't stop.
He shoved two fingers into her, taunting her with what was approaching.
"Don't you ever be sorry that we did this," he said.
"I won't be."
"Don't you ever complain or wish we hadn't."
"I'll always be glad."
"Not a word of regret."
"No. Never." Her eyes grew shrewd and cunning. "Do it, Monroe. I dare you."
"You don't have to dare me, princess."
He moved his hand, centered himself, and with a hard thrust, he was inside her. They were both so aroused that there was no opportunity for any finesse.
Instantly, she started to come. She cried out as he held her close, as close as he was able anyway with only the one arm that worked.
As she tightened around him, he lost whatever tiny bit of control he still possessed. He came with her, their bodies shuddering, tensing, heading up to heaven, then tumbling down.
Just that quickly, it was over.
He drew away and flopped onto his back. They stared at the ceiling, and she laughed, her voice husky and sultry and making him want her again already.
"What did that take, Monroe?" She glanced over at him. "Five seconds?"
"At least ten."
"Is that all I can hope for with you?"
"Hey, just wait till next time."
"Can you do it twice in a row?"
"Maybe—if my heart doesn't burst."
They shifted so they were facing each other. She looked smug and wise, as if he'd behaved precisely as she'd planned.
"Why are you grinning?" he asked.
"Because you're so easy."
"I'm a man. I'm supposed to be easy. What's your excuse?"
"Ken told me that if I had sex with you, you'd stop shouting at me."
"Ken should mind his own business."
"He might be on to something. Your volume is quite a bit lower."
"I'm too drained to shout."
"Good. I'm tired of you being so obnoxious."
"I was trying to protect you."
"From what?"
"From me."
"Too late, Monroe."
She rose up on an elbow and kissed him, and they both sighed with pleasure.
Her hand dropped to his cock, and even though he'd just come so ferociously that he'd nearly blown off the tip, he immediately started to harden.
"Ken went to the store," she said.
"Really?" He raised a brow, intrigued by the news. "Did he happen to mention how long he'd be gone?"
"Hours."
"How many hours?"
She peered over at the clock. It was a few minutes after nine. "I'm betting till four, when Jeremy gets home from school."
"That long, huh?"
She simpered like a flirtatious coquette. "Whatever can we do to amuse ourselves while he's away?"
"I can think of a couple of things."
"Like what?"
"Let me show you."
He pushed her onto her back, and they began again.
* * *
Brittney awakened gradually, but she didn't open her eyes right away. Matt was still dozing beside her, and she couldn't bear to have the moment end.
They'd made love over and over, fast and slow, rough and gentle. Finally, they'd fallen into a blissful sleep, but the afternoon was almost over. Jeremy and Ken would return soon.
Matt groaned quietly and slipped out of bed. She listened as he rummaged around, as he dug through a drawer and pulled out some clothes.
She took a deep breath, inhaling numerous, delectable masculine scents. The sheets smelled like him, the air smelled like him, her skin smelled like him. It was an aphrodisiac like no other. Her entire body was alight with the fire he'd ignited.
He approached, braced his palms on the mattress and bounced against it.
"Hey, lazy bones," he murmured, "time to get up."
She smiled. "I'm awake."
"I can't have Jeremy pounding up the stairs and finding you like this."
He straightened and stepped into a pair of jeans, and she watched with a great deal of feminine appreciation as he tucked himself in and zipped the zipper.
"I'm too comfortable," she said. "I want to stay here forever."
"Well, you can't, princess." He leaned over and swatted her on the butt. "Get dressed—and hurry up—before I change my mind and decide to join you under those covers."
She lifted the sheet. "There's plenty of room, big guy."
"You're going to be the death of me. Have I told you that before?"
"I believe you have."
He sat on the edge of the mattress, his feet on the floor, as he fussed with the buttons on his shirt.
She was able to study his injuries. He'd been badly burned in the explosion in Iraq, and he had large swaths of scarring that were usually kept hidden under his clothes.
She laid her hand on the worst spot, wishing she could wipe it away, that she could heal him. He hung his head, silent, pensive, letting her touch him for a brief minute, then he shifted away, as if he was embarrassed.
She came up on her knees and draped herself over his back, her arms over his shoulders, as she kissed him on the cheek.
"I'm happy," she said.
"I'm glad."
"Don't be so angry with me."
"I'm not. I don't feel well most of the time. I take it out on everybody."
"Don't take it out on me."
"I'll try not to."
He reached up to riffle her hair, then he eased away and stood. He groaned and winced.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I'm always sore when I first crawl out of bed. I have to stretch a little to get the blood flowing."
"You're a mess, Monroe."
"I know. I have so many pins and plates holding me together that I can't ever fly on an airplane again. I set off the metal detectors in the airport."
"You're a walking scrap heap."
"That's what it seems like, honey."
She wanted to ask him what had happened the day he was wounded, about his years as a soldier, or his months in the hospital in Germany. Ken occasionally alluded to some of those topics, but Matt would smoothly guide the conversation in another direction.
She wondered if he'd ever trust her enough to talk about any of it. She wondered if he'd ever let her get that close. She certainly hoped so, but she couldn't figure out how to venture into that territory.
In the period she'd been in Ken's house, she'd been so relaxed. It was so easy to be with the three of them. She hadn't worried a single time about what she was doing or where she was headed. She hadn't fretted over her choices or moped around like an outsider looking in.
Though she couldn't explain why, she felt as if she belonged with Ken, as if she'd arrived where she was meant to be.
She'd ignored her contentment, telling herself that she was on a brief vacation from her real life, that she'd sneaked away but would have to go back as soon as she'd rested and regrouped. But why would she go back?
Once she spoke to Andrew and broke off her engagement, there was nothing out in the big wide world to which she had to return. Why couldn't she stay with Ken and Matt?
Ken was in no hurry to have her go, and Jeremy liked her.
Matt had been the only one who'd been opposed, b
ut now that she'd passed the afternoon in bed with him, his fury had faded. He was back to being his normal, caustic self, and their relationship had reverted to the spot where it had been when he'd first brought her home.
There was absolutely no reason for her to leave, and she was finally clear on what she wanted.
She wanted Matt. She wanted him to love her and stand by her and be her friend forever, but if he couldn't give her all that, she'd take whatever she could coax him into providing. And she'd take it for as long as he would agree to give it to her.
She'd fallen for a man who had nothing of value to share except himself and his misfit family. Matt would never admit it, but he needed her. They all needed her, and she needed them.
Her fortune often seemed like such a burden, but it had dawned on her how she could use some of it more constructively. She could spend money—money that she'd never miss—tending and caring for them.
In return, they'd supply her with purpose and direction, would fill her with joy and the sense of belonging that had constantly proved so elusive.
"You're grinning again," Matt said. "Why?"
"Because I'm baking a birthday cake. I haven't done that in years."
"Before I met you, if someone had told me you could cook, I'd have called them a liar."
"I'm a great cook," she huffed, offended.
"Yes you are, but you're spoiled rotten and always have been. Who would imagine that a rich girl like you would know how to cook?"
"I'm not incompetent."
"No, you're not. You're proficient in all sorts of areas."
He nodded toward the bed, which made her laugh and blush.
"You haven't even scratched the surface of my skills, bud."
"Lucky me."
"If you can keep from barking at me every two seconds, you might get even luckier."
"I haven't decided if we'll do this again. I'm still not convinced that the first time was a good idea."
"Ha! I give you one hour, then you'll be begging me to sneak up here."
She was still on her knees on the mattress, naked, her blond hair curled over her shoulders. His lazy gaze traveled down her torso.
He chuckled. "You're probably right. I'm a pushover for a pretty face, and you're as easy as they come."
"Easy! I'll show you easy. Next time, I'm on top, and you'll have to obey my every command."
"As if you could boss me around and get away with it."