by Alice Ward
Grace was already gone with Kenneth for the first portion of the picture-taking, which meant I had at least fifteen minutes before I’d be summoned to participate. The facility where the wedding and reception were being held was first-class, and Grace hadn’t spared any expense. Waiters walked around with trays of beverages, everything from cosmopolitans to whiskey sours to imported bottle beer. I snagged a colorless drink garnished with a lime wedge from a passing tray and watched the doors to find Owen in the group of guests filing to the reception ballroom from the ceremony site. He entered just as I put the glass to my lips and took a sip.
“Ugh!” I exclaimed a little too loudly, wrinkling my nose and holding the beverage far from me like doing so would eliminate the flavor in my mouth.
A familiar chuckle vibrated down my spine. “Not a gin drinker, I take it?”
“Is that what this is?” I glared at the drink as though it had personally offended me, which it kind of had, given that I desperately needed something to take the edge off. Between Grace and Owen, I was a mess.
Owen took it from me and sipped for himself. It didn’t escape my notice that he drank from the very same place I had, nude lipstick smudge and all. “Yep,” he said, smacking his lips and nodding once. “That’s a Gin Rickey.”
“It’s sour,” I complained. My throat was burning. “And strong.”
“Do you usually drink sweeter?” he questioned. He took another small pull from the glass. Clearly gin and tartness weren’t unpleasant to his palate.
I shrugged. “Yeah, but I figured anything would do right now. Guess I was — hey! Where are you going?”
He’d spun on the spot and marched toward the cluster of waiters refilling their trays at the freestanding bar across the room without a word. I stared after him and was about to follow when he twisted his head to look at me over his shoulder, and his mouth formed the silent word, Stay.
Maybe I should’ve felt like a dog, but the only thing I felt was heat. A lot of heat. The thick, sweltering, sweaty kind of heat that melts the muscles and jellifies the joints until just a puddle of needy, desperate desire remains. I also had an itch to defy him. Something about the glint in his eye told me the consequences would have been worth it.
“Hi, peanut!” The sound of my mother’s voice and the pet name address was the equivalent of a bucket of water on a bonfire, although the most buried of coals continued to scorch. I hoped my face wasn’t as pink as it felt and turned around to say hello to my parents. I hadn’t even rotated completely before I was surrounded by my mom’s arms and her stifling cloud of floral perfume. “You look gorgeous!”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, returning her hug with a measure of reservation. Behind her, my dad rolled his eyes and gave me a knowing look. We both were well-versed in Mom’s overly emotional expressions.
“Don’t you think Grace looked like a dream?” she gushed. I released her first and counted the seconds before she let me go long enough to step back and clear my nostrils of her manufactured garden aroma. My mom was a wonderful woman and I loved her dearly, but she tended to err on the side of a bit much. Dad and I, on the other hand, minimized the drama in our lives as much as we could and preferred to leave the exuberant exclamations and lovey-dovey episodes to Mom.
I offered up a half-hearted shrug as I rounded her to hug Dad. “Yeah, she looked good. Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, kid,” he responded gruffly, giving me one of his typical loose-armed hugs.
I wanted to look back toward the bar and see if Owen was headed over with a drink, but I didn’t want to draw more attention to him than necessary. Inviting him to the wedding as my date had obviously meant there was a good chance he was going to meet my parents, which didn’t bother me in a basic sense, but seeing Mom in this goopy state was embarrassing enough for me as I stood there by myself. I could only imagine what Owen was going to think when I introduced him, and Mom started going on about what beautiful children we would have while Dad tried to kill him with a glower. And even if they managed to behave themselves, it went without saying that Mom would have a million questions for me about him the minute he was out of earshot.
“Romy’s been an absolute mess, you know, and I told her, ‘Romy, you’ve done this four times. You know weddings don’t go as planned!’ But she didn’t want to listen to me, as usual, so I ended up on the phone with her last night until one-thirty, Tabby, listening to her weep that there wasn’t time for the florist to swap the chrysanthemum in her corsage to a…” Mom was prattling on and on, but she was nothing more than white noise. Owen was coming. I didn’t even have to look to know it because the hairs on my arms stood and my panties suddenly felt too tight.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” His voice was smooth and flawless, and for the first time I heard the full-fledged businessman in him. He spoke with polished syllables and just the right amount of variance in his intonations, and though what he said was far from impressive, he captured the attention of my parents and myself — along with a few bystanders — without effort. He extended a cocktail glass to me, inside of which sloshed what looked like watery chocolate milk. “Here.”
“What is it?” Mom and Dad were gaping at me, but I tried to ignore them and lifted the glass to give it an experimental sniff.
Owen’s mouth twitched with a restrained smile as he leaned down. His lips caressed my ear as he murmured in a low purr, “It’s a Screaming Orgasm. Now, drink.”
Any progress I’d made in ensuring my parents didn’t identify the obvious signs of attraction in my eyes or cheeks was lost at once. Without bothering to take a test sip first, I tipped the glass to hide my face and swallowed it half down as I worked on regaining my composure. When I lowered it, Mom and Dad were still staring at me, but this time, it seemed to be with concern — Dad— and disapproval — Mom.
“Tabitha Nell!” my mother hissed, her penciled brows furrowing. “You are at a wedding! This is not the place to be chug-a-lugging cocktails like a frat boy!”
Dad nodded and placed his hand on Mom’s shoulder in support. “A little soon to get three sheets, don’t you think, Tab?”
Thanks to my parents using terms like chug-a-lugging and three sheets, I felt the situation couldn’t get any more awkward than it already was and decided it was the time to introduce Owen. “Mom, Dad, this is my date, Owen Driscoll.”
“Your date?” Mom swung her eyes from me to Owen then back to me again. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
“Hmm,” Owen remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I didn’t know we were seeing each other, either.”
I elbowed him in the ribs, making him grunt mildly before chuckling with appreciation. “We’re not,” I clarified to everyone in the conversation.
“So… you’re just friends?” Mom was looking more disappointed than I thought the situation warranted while Dad adopted an obviously hopeful expression.
“Yes. We’re just friends.” I wasn’t sure I believed it, but I hoped it sounded genuine.
“Day three and going strong,” Owen quipped.
I went to elbow him again, but he dodged my arm and instead swung his hand around behind me. His palm connected with the swell of my rear, and I had to bite back the yelp of surprise that nearly burst from my mouth. Luckily, my parents didn’t seem to know what was going on behind me, but my mom was determined to find out more.
“Day three? What does that mean?” Her head was darting back and forth between Owen and me fast enough to whip well-sprayed curls around her face. “You just met?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. I wasn’t ashamed of whatever was happening relationship-wise with Owen, but I wasn’t fond of the questions. Clearing things up for other inquiring minds would’ve been a lot easier if I’d been clear on things myself. “Owen lives here in New Orleans. I just did the photography for his new restaurant yesterday.”
“Are you a chef?” Mom asked him with interest.
Owen smiled indulgently. He hadn’t lifted his hand
from my backside yet, and the pressure of his palm on such an intimate place was both soothing and unnerving. “No, I’m unfortunately not as gifted in the creative arts as your daughter here,” he answered. “I’m an investor.”
“Tabby!” The shriek cut through the busy room, and the hard knot of stress between my shoulder blades swelled to epic proportions.
Grace was shoving her way between people, bouquet in one hand and train in the other. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to see steam shooting out of her ears if her snarling scowl was any indication of her temperament. My mom, however, wasn’t deterred by Grace’s demeanor in the slightest. She intercepted my cousin with a bearhug and a squealing bounce.
“Oh, Gracie, you’re so beautiful today!” Mom cried. “How are you feeling?”
“Hi, Aunt Maureen,” Grace obligatorily responded. She tugged herself free from my mom and rounded on me before any of the other guests could swarm her with congratulations. “We need you for pictures, like, yesterday.”
I held back the snappish reply I wanted to shoot at her for her snotty attitude and nodded. “Right. Sorry.” Turning toward Owen, I handed him my half-drained cocktail. “I’ll be back in a bit, I guess.”
Grace was eyeing him even as she grabbed me by my forearm and started yanking me toward the beautiful French doors leading onto the well-manicured grounds. When we were far enough away, she demanded in a hushed tone, “Who is that?”
“His name’s Owen. He’s my date.”
“How did you get someone like that?” she hissed.
I opened my mouth, on the verge of barking an infuriated retort, but at that moment Grace folded her veil over her face and I was reminded once again that it was her day. For the final time, I sealed my lips and silenced myself. She could be as nasty as she pleased — it was my ass Owen’d had his hand on.
CHAPTER SIX
Owen
Pretentious and rude or not, I had to give Grace one thing… she had excellent taste. The dark green bridesmaid dress Tabby wore was as delectable as anything I could’ve imagined, snuggling to her hips and cupping the undersides of her breasts exactly the way my hands were craving to do. Every step she took brought about a gentle billowing of the skirts that parted the centered slit and permitted me a glimpse of ample, creamy thighs. It was hell trying to keep my focus on her face, as beautiful as it was, when every muscle I had was screaming at me to take her to an isolated corner, throw the split skirts over her head, and lick the taste off those thighs until the only thing left to savor was her sweetest of offerings.
I was alleviated from my torture a bit when she was gone for pictures, and again over dinner when she was seated at the head table and I was keeping company with six people who seemed to dislike each other more than sin. Once the dancing began, though, she stepped down from the raised platform at the front of the hall and swept her eyes until she located me, and I was pummeled with renewed arousal.
“So,” she said with a heavy sigh as she plopped onto the empty chair beside me where the forsaken Emily’s date surely would’ve sat. “Maine, huh?”
I clenched my fingers into a ball to prevent myself from reaching out and stroking the hint of leg showing through the slit. “Is this a riddle?”
“You said you’re from Maine,” she laughed. “Lobsters. New England. Were you one of those guys in waders stabbing mud?”
It was my turn to laugh, and I did, heartily. “Those guys aren’t just stabbing mud, kitten. They’re clamming. And, yes, I’ve tried my hand at it a time or two.”
“I’m picturing an expensive suit tucked under rubber pants. I have to admit, it’s an amusing image.” She laughed, a soft musical sound that sent warm tingles over my skin.
“Spot on, except for the top hat. You left out the top hat.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed an ankle over my knee. “I suppose you’d be driven to hysterics if I told you I grew up in a log cabin, then.”
Her eyes widened, and she smiled from ear to ear. “Like Abraham Lincoln?”
“Just like him,” I replied solemnly. “That’s why I avoid the theatre like the plague.”
She rolled her eyes, bent forward, and delicately plucked my glass of champagne from the table. I watched the transparent rim fall flush against her lower lip and the honey liquid slither its way through the gap between her teeth. The glow of the candles in the middle of the table provided just enough light for me to make out the tip of her tongue lapping the bubbly meniscus before she lowered the beverage and smiled primly at me. I needed to get her to The Club soon or I was going to end up catatonic from a chronic lack of blood in my brain.
“Come on,” I said, getting to my feet without warning and holding out a hand to her.
She blinked. “Where are we going?”
“Well, I figured we’d venture out to Bourbon Street and see how many unsuspecting tourists we can pickpocket. If we get enough money, we can share one of those margaritas with a whole bottle of tequila in it.”
She nibbled her bottom lip, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’m more inclined than I should be to take you up on that offer.”
I smirked and brandished my hand, encouraging her to take it. “We’re going to dance, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” Rather than placing her palm on mine and standing, she shrank back an inch or two and a look of reservation crossed her lovely features. “I… don’t really dance.”
“I don’t think you heard me correctly,” I murmured, lowering myself to her and brushing a lock of hair aside to reveal the sensuous outer curve of her ear. Despite the thumping music and many conversations happening throughout the hall, I kept my tone soft to better fill it with the calm insistence I meant to portray. “There was no question mark at the end of that sentence. I’m going to dance with you, Miss Rickard. Now, whether you dance with me is your decision, but I assure you the only thing that’s going to be between your body and my hands is that dress you’re wearing, no matter what you choose.”
She shivered visibly, a sight that gave me such a jolt of adrenalized desire I almost shivered myself, but she lifted her chin and took my hand. “Fine,” she agreed. “But you’re not allowed to get mad when I step on your feet.”
The second I stepped onto the smooth, faux-wood floor, I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her to me. She moved her hands onto my shoulders, but I shrugged to slip her hands instead to the nape of my neck. The sensation of her bare skin on mine was enough to send goosebumps erupting up to my scalp and down my spine.
“People are looking at us,” she murmured self-consciously, darting her eyes both left and right with as much subtlety as she could.
“You’re too worried about how you dance,” I chided.
She shook her head. “They’re not looking because of me. They’re looking because of you.” She jerked her chin to one side. “Grace wouldn’t be glaring at me like that if I was dancing like a fool. If anything, she’d probably be gleeful.”
“I can’t imagine why I’d draw a crowd.” I didn’t care why I would, either. The only thing that mattered in that moment was how easily my palm cupped the small of her back, and how I only had to slide my hand a few inches south to feel the swell of her ass.
“You should try looking in the mirror sometime,” she returned, a breath of scorn in her voice. “You might find it insightful.”
Little spitfire, indeed.
I pressed my lips into her hair. “And you, sweetheart, should try remembering how impolite I can be.”
“As you so courteously keep reminding me.” She was growing more confident. “Was the whole chivalry thing already dead in Maine by the time you started dating?”
“Oh, chivalry I have,” I corrected her. “Believe me, my father might have bypassed the birds-and-the-bees talk, but he made certain I knew my role as a man. He brought me along on a date with my mom once and made me perform all the little acts of etiquette: opening her door, pulling out her chair, et cetera.” Tabby grinned broadly and open
ed her mouth, likely to tease me about going on a date with my mother, but I headed her off by leaning close enough to press my forehead to hers. “Unfortunately, the chivalry is accompanied by some very, very dishonorable desires.”
She lowered her chin but raised her eyes until she was looking up at me through her lashes, which was an expression so alluring I physically felt a pulse of blood swell between my legs. Her lower lip twitched like she wanted to say something but was reconsidering. Then, her cheeks sharpened, and she asked stoutly, “Care to share?”
Arousal aside, I wanted to laugh. She’d visibly had to steel herself to ask that question. I may not have known her beyond the title of friendly acquaintance, but I knew her well enough to know she wasn’t the type to make overt sexual innuendoes and requests. Furthermore, the boldness she’d adopted was already fading from her face, and in its place rose the most adorable bashfulness I’d ever seen.
I wanted her.
“Show is much more fun than tell.”
Her toe bumped mine, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her mouth tightened, and she watched me studiously, like she was trying to read something hidden in my eyes.
“Do you have a quarter?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Probably a whole dollar worth of them. Why?”
She leaned forward. “Because I want to do another Christmas bet. A coin toss this time.”
My cock pulsed at the promise in her eyes, and I knew I’d flip a million quarters to make sure she got what she wanted. I dug into my pocket, pulled a silver disc out and held it on my palm.
“What’s the bet?”
She licked her lips, then said something I wouldn’t have expected to hear from her in a million years.
“If I win, I’ll go to The Blackjack Club with you.”
The slow whine of a saxophone paled into white noise as my ears replayed her words as clearly as if she was saying them again. Everything but her grew blurry, and the fabric that had bunched between my fingers on her lower back turned to air. “Is that so?”