Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (37 page)
Read Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) Online
Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
“I’m so glad you asked.”
He kissed her, lingering on the sweet taste for a while, sliding his hands up and down the shimmery white dress that clung to her curves and had teased him all night.
“I have something else to ask,” he murmured into the kiss.
“Mmmm.” She angled her head so he could press his lips on her jaw and throat. “Anything.”
“Willow Ambrosia Zatarain.” He inched back so he could look into her eyes. “Will you make love with me?”
She lifted a brow. “I’ve never done that, you know.”
A warm rush of pleasure heated him. “I know,” he said gruffly. “Which is about the sexiest thing I ever heard.” Very slowly, he turned her around. Lifting her hair, he kissed the nape of her neck then slid the long zipper all the way down. The sound cut through the silent room, a long, slow promise of things to come.
Shuddering on her next shaky breath, she stayed still. “No one has ever seen me completely naked before.”
His knees almost buckled as the honor and privilege and awe of that hit hard. “Then I’m the luckiest man alive.”
The dress fell to the floor with a soft whoosh, pooling around her feet. He closed his eyes, taking one second to appreciate what he was about to see and touch and love. He turned her again to find her eyes were closed, too.
“Are you scared?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Happy. Deliriously happy.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “I had no idea that anything could feel like…this.”
“And this.” He touched her face, stroking her cheek, her jaw, her mouth, then drawing a line straight down to her bare breasts. They rose and fell with her next sigh, their gazes still locked.
Still silent, he traveled his finger down her abdomen, over her belly button, into the tiny slip of lace she wore for underwear. “The last barrier.”
“Except for your clothes. I hardly recognize you with them on.”
He laughed and stepped her back to the bed, easing her down. Standing over her, he undressed while she watched. She bit her lip and looked up and down and up and, well, mostly down. With every passing second, he grew harder.
“There’s the man I know and love,” she teased. “Bare-ass naked as the day I found him screeching out our song.”
He knelt on the bed, studying her, touching, stroking, caressing, kissing. He helped her out of the lacy thong, nibbling on her thighs as he slid it off.
“Our song.” He couldn’t stop grinning. “Willow’s gonna marry me,” he sang.
“And Nick’s going to make love to me.” She sang back, tugging him closer with no small amount of impatience. “
Now
.”
“Yes. Now.” He lowered his head and kissed her open mouth, soft as air at first. As she reached up and clung to his shoulders, they both intensified the kiss, the moment like a leaf suspended in air, fluttering to the ground, lasting five, six, seven slow heartbeats.
Finally, they pressed against each other and began the dance.
A caress of skin, a sigh of pleasure, one whispered promise, and another long, sweet kiss, as they rolled and tumbled over velvety rose petals.
The flower scent mixed with the something Nick couldn’t identify but already needed. Willow. She folded under and around him, any inhibitions gone as she explored his body with sweet hands and tender lips, kissing his throat, his chest, his stomach.
He threaded her hair as she dragged herself lower and closed her hands, then her mouth, over the length of him, stunning him with the pleasure of her touch.
He hissed in air, closing his eyes and letting raw, rough arousal thrum through him. After a moment, he pulled her back up so they could kiss and touch more, filling his hands with her breasts and bottom, filling his heart with the beautiful sounds of satisfaction that came out of her lips.
Every inch on fire, his body hardened and rocked and vibrated with blood-pumping desire, aching already to be inside her. Had his helpers remembered the condoms he’d asked for?
He opened the nightstand drawer and found them.
“Those girls thought of everything,” Willow said with a laugh.
“No kidding.” He lifted a handful of Hershey Kisses that had been spilled around the condom box. “Everything.”
“Oh, how clever. Hershey Kisses.” She smiled up at him. “As sweet as yours.”
Kneeling, he tore open the condom packet, then stopped in the act of sheathing himself to look in her eyes. “Willow, you are giving me the most precious honor. I’m…I’m…”
She closed her hand over his shaft. “You’re
huge
.”
The compliment warmed almost as much as her greedy fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Go easy and we’ll be fine.” She gave him a Mona Lisa smile and guided him inside her, closing her eyes as he very slowly entered the warm, wet, tight envelope, sliding deeper and deeper as her hips rose more and more to give him access.
Fire licked up his thighs and heat tightened his back and a wicked hot need to thrust squeezed his entire lower half. But he fought the desire, staring at Willow, holding her gaze as he finally hilted himself deep, deep inside her.
For a moment they were perfectly still, suspended, connected, and maybe a little overwhelmed by every sensation that rocked them.
“My darling Willow, you’re…”
Mine
. “You’re…”
All mine
. “You’re…”
She smiled and pulled him down to kiss her. “I’m so happy.”
Satisfied with that, he moved slowly in and out of her, letting her get used to him, waiting for her to get completely comfortable and meet his rhythm. Seconds and heartbeats, kisses and soft cries, all of it passed in a haze as each thrust made him burn for more.
She gripped his shoulders and started to lose control, both of them panting and groaning in a syncopated beat. His pulse raged, pounding and screaming, his lungs fighting for every breath, his body lost in the pure, pure pleasure of hers.
“Nick…” She rocked harder, riding him, squeezing him, making the sounds he’d come to know when she was about to go over the edge. “Don’t stop,” she begged. “Don’t…stop.”
He couldn’t if he wanted to, plunging deep, all worry of pain gone as nothing but raw gratification dragged them both up and up and up to the peak of satisfaction.
She spiraled in his arms, closing her eyes, scraping nails down his back, moaning with each wave of the climax that seized her. He gave in the second she did, arching his back to intensify the feeling as he let go of his control and exploded into her over and over and over again.
Spent and sweaty, he fell on her with his full weight, letting his face hit the pillow so the sounds of her strangled breath echoed in his left ear.
A strange feeling crawled up his back, a sensation of…disbelief. He was too out of it to try and analyze the…awareness. That’s all he could think of, that he was hyperaware. He heard her breath, the sound of it filling him. The sound of it—
Sound? In his left ear? He stayed completely frozen while the realization swamped him.
“Nick.”
His eyes popped wide, but he stayed still. How was that possible?
“I love you.”
“Willow…” He sat up and looked at her. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
“No, I mean, I heard it in my bad ear.” He put his hand over his ear, and even the sound of his fingertips brushing his skin was audible. “My hearing’s coming back. Wow, Willow. You healed me.”
She touched his face and smiled. “Then we’re even.”
THE END
Enjoy your trip to Barefoot Bay? There are more love stories set on this island! Don’t miss a single one.
The Barefoot Billionaires
Secrets on the Sand
– FREE
The Barefoot Bay Quartet
And be sure to catch Book Two of The Barefoot Bay Brides Trilogy…Barefoot in Lace, coming in late summer, 2014. Turn the page for a sneak peek at Gussie’s story…
Sneak Peek
Barefoot in Lace
The Barefoot Bay Brides #2
Chapter One
“Thomas Jefferson DeMille? Was your mother obsessed with famous people or something?”
Ten feet away, the cashier’s question stopped Gussie McBain dead in her tracks, almost making her drop a liter of Diet Coke and a whole bag of Swedish Fish in the aisle of the convenience store.
Thomas Jefferson DeMille
? She stared at the back of a tall, dark-haired man whose shoulders rose and fell with obvious frustration.
“Something,” he replied. “Please clear the card, ma’am.”
“I can’t.” Charity Grambling, owner of the Super Min and undisputed Most Obnoxious Human on the small island of Mimosa Key, tapped a credit card on the counter while she peered through bifocals to read another card in her other hand. “Because this credit card does not match this New York state driver’s license, so I can’t accept it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was low and gruff, drawing Gussie closer to the exchange. “TJ DeMille, right there.”
Gussie bit her lip to keep from letting out a shriek. It
was
him! TJ DeMille, the world’s most talented, brilliant, and amazing fashion photographer was standing right in front of her. Was she dreaming? She still couldn’t see his face, only broad shoulders in a faded blue shirt with a few thick curls brushing the collar. She’d never actually
seen
TJ DeMille. His face was always behind the camera, not in front of it.
“TJ DeMille on the card but Thomas Jefferson on the license? Thomas Jefferson,
really
?” Charity raised a thickly drawn brow. “I wasn’t born yesterday, mister.”
“No shit,” he mumbled.
Fighting a smile—and a full-body fangirl shudder—Gussie took a few steps closer, finally able to see his square jaw set in anger as he looked down his strong Roman nose at the older woman. His lips were parted as he glared with displeasure at Charity.
“I use my initials in business, and that’s a business credit card.”
“Sorry.” Charity handed both back to him. “We do accept cash, however.”
He snapped them from her hands. “Where’s your ATM?”
“You’ll need to visit the Mimosa Community Credit Union, just at the corner of Harbor and—”
“Nevermind!” He gave a push to a pile of magazines, nearly toppling a bottle of red wine onto a bag of Fritos. He pivoted toward the door and marched out.
“Charity!” Gussie exclaimed when the welcome bell dinged in his wake. “Do you have any idea who that was?” Every cell in her body danced with the desire to run after him and…
fawn
. Or get an autograph. Or actually see what color his eyes were.
“Some New Yorker trying to get by me with fake credit cards.” Charity shoved his pile of merchandise to the side, obviously not as concerned with a lost sale as the possibility of stopping a criminal. “What kind of man buys ten-dollar cabernet, Fritos, and girlie magazines, anyway?”
Gussie eyed the cover of the top magazine, instantly recognizing the masterful camera work of TJ DeMille that somehow managed to make the model look both ethereal and vicious.
Vanity Fair
was a girlie magazine now?
“What kind of man?” Gussie asked. “The man who shot the covers, that’s who,” she said dryly.
For a second, interest flickered in Charity’s unadorned gray eyes, her weakness for local news and notoriety showing. “He did?”
“Yes, so you should have just
given
him the magazine, and asked for his autograph.”
She huffed some more. “The only autograph I accept is on the credit card machine. Despite my name, there’s no
charity
at the Super Min.” Charity pointed to the liter of Diet Coke and bag of candy. “Cash or charge?”
