Hitched (4 page)

Tate doesn't look convinced. He raises an eyebrow, his blue eyes reading too much into my face, I'm sure. Damn him for knowing me so well.

I sigh with more drama than the situation requires and flop onto the couch next to him. "Stop looking at me like that. Yes, he was the most amazing sex I've ever had. And yes, he's an amazing catch in a sea of slimy serpents, but he's not for me. We're from two different worlds. It would never work. What could a girl with a business degree who plans bachelor parties possibly have in common with a fucking pediatric heart surgeon?"

He throws his arm over my shoulder. "I don't know. But there's no harm in finding out, right?"

***

I'd like to say that I hadn't given any thought to the package Sebastian promised would be arriving today. I'd like to say that over the last twenty-four hours my mind never drifted to the few memories I still have of our tumultuous night together. That I didn't scamper to the front door like a dog every time I heard something that could possibly be construed as a delivery.

I'd like to say all of those things. But you and I both know that would be a load of a shit, right?

I know I'm not the first woman to feel these flutters of butterflies at the mere thought of a man, but I still feel like a numskull, nonetheless. This isn't me. This has never been me. While my high school girlfriends were going crazy about boys, I was studying. While my college friends were crushing on guys, I was having meaningless flings to satiate needs while I stayed focused on my life plans.

Running a business like mine might not seem like the loftiest of goals, but it was a strategic plan on my part to build something small into something big. This is a market in demand, regardless of the economy. People want their wedding, and their pre-wedding parties, to be memorable. And people, men in particular, like their strippers. And I like running my own life, having a career that I control, not working for someone else who tells me when I can eat and use the bathroom and make a phone call. I'm too autonomous for that shit. So this business suits me perfectly. And I have big plans for expansion.

Men, relationships, emotional attachments—those just complicate shit. It makes the whole world muddled. I've seen it happen to my girlfriends time and again, women I hardly ever see anymore. Women who don't have time for the things they loved before.

I don't want to be one of those women.

That's why I'm not going to let Dr. Sexy woo me beyond one night.

So when the doorbell rings (finally, fuck!) and I accept the package I know is from him, I refuse to acknowledge the schoolgirl giddiness I'm feeling in the pit of my stomach.

But Tate watches me pull off the red ribbon from the box with his knowing grin, and I want to smack it off of him.

"Fuck off," I tell him as I open the lid.

"You're all talk, my love-sick twin."

With all the maturity born of years of study, I stick my tongue out at him and then suck in my breath when I see what's in the box. With shaking hands I pull out the most stunning red dress, shoes and matching lipstick. Russian Red, the Mac label says. But I'm more focused on the clothes. A pair of designer shoes, and a dress that I know put him out a shit ton of money. (That's a real amount by the way. You can look it up. It'll have a picture of this dress and these shoes next to it.)

Tate whistles. "This is what he sends you for your breakup dinner?"

"It's not a break up dinner. We were never together. Not really." But my voice lacks conviction because I'm now reading the note, and maybe there's a tear in my eye, but I refuse to admit that.

I tuck the card away, and Tate waits.

"I'm not sharing that part. It's personal."

"Too personal for me? It must be huge, then," he says.

And it is. It's huge because it's so simple. So tender. So unexpectedly pure. And I can't think about it or look at it or read it because it destroys my resolve, and tonight I will need all my resolve to finish this once and for all.

The rest of the day is wasted. We try to work; we get a few plans down for marketing and ideas for this summer season of parties. Business will take off soon. It always does this time of year, especially in Vegas, and we want to be ready to take on all of the clients we know will be coming our way.

I put off dressing for my non-date until the latest possible moment, my mind and body at war with what they want from the night.

The dress fits perfectly, hugging all my curves as if it had been made for my body alone. The shoes give height to my short frame, and I fall in love with them the moment I put them on. Damn that man.

When the doorbell rings, I know it's not a delivery, but the man himself, and I experience a case of serious nerves. I'm not the wilting flower type, if you hadn't guessed that by now. I can hold my own in most any situation, but right now I'm about to melt out of my dress, and I haven't even seen him yet.

I can hear Tate opening the door and letting him in, and I hurry to swipe my lips with Russian Red lipstick, grab my purse—which has all the important documents in it—and act like I'm not a basket of butterflies as I walk—gracefully, I like to imagine—down the stairs.

Tate is talking to him, and they are laughing, and I want to smack my brother and tell him not to bond with the man I won't likely see again after today.

Sebastian looks up and stops talking; instead his eyes eat me up, and he smiles this small, secret smile that makes me think naughty thoughts about what that mouth is capable of achieving between my legs. Instead of my usual witty retort, I pause. Struck by him. He's wearing a suit and tie, very high end, tailored to his muscular, tall body, his dark hair just a bit ruffled, like he recently ran his hands through it.

I remember his hair, thick under my palm, as I held his head while he licked me and made me come.

Argh! I want to scream from frustration, but instead I smile. "Hello, Sebastian."

He holds out a hand as I reach the last stair. "Ms. Michaels, you look stunning."

"Thank you for the dress and shoes," I say.

His eyes darken. "It's not the dress, or the shoes, that make you stunning, darling."

Breathe. Just. Breathe.

"You have a way with words, Dr. Donovan. A better bedside manner than most in your profession, I imagine."

Tate clears his throat. "I'll leave you two to your evening." He kisses me on the cheek and retreats upstairs to his own room, but not before turning and giving me a meaningful look. "Remember what I said, Kacie."

I scowl at him before turning back to my non-date. "Shall we go?"

***

I won't bore you with recounting the drive to the restaurant. Expensive car. Small talk. Hands brushing against each other once or twice. Blah, blah, blah.

I will say that by the time we arrived at the restaurant, my panties were expecting something hot because they were wet. Damn. That. Man.

Even in the evening, Las Vegas’s summers are scorching. It never cools off—just gets a bit darker. Fortunately, we only have to walk a few steps in the sweltering heat before the blast of air conditioning from the restaurant dries the sweat on my skin. Once we're escorted to our table, I sit and sip at the water immediately placed in front of me, grateful for something cold to drink.

Sebastian stares at me like I'm his dinner, and he hasn't eaten in days.

"You're making me nervous," I say, though that's only partially true. I can handle myself well enough, but something about him, about the way he looks at me, throws me off balance.

"I don't mean to. I just find you mesmerizing." He smiles. "Have you had any luck remembering more of our night together?"

"Some. The actual marriage part is still a haze, but I do remember meeting you and… other things."

"I want you to know, I wouldn't have married you if I'd known you were too drunk to consent. I would never take advantage of you that way. But I don't regret it either. "

His voice is intoxicating, but I need to change the subject before this goes too far. "I remember the tattoo, on your back. Of the stars. You said it was of battles lost. What did you mean?"

His face turns serious. "I'm an excellent surgeon. I'm not bragging; I've worked hard to become one of the best. But I'm not God. Sometimes… sometimes I can't save a child. When that happens, when someone dies on my table or in my care, I add a star to the tattoo. I need them to know they will never be forgotten. Not by me."

I can't remember how many stars he had on his back. Not too many, but enough. Each the life of a child he couldn't save. "What made you decide to become a pediatric heart surgeon?"

"My little sister was born with a bad heart. I wanted to fix her so badly, but as a child myself, I was helpless. The doctors at the hospital I now work at saved her life. My mentor, actually, was her surgeon. I knew then I wanted to do what he did. Now, it's my goal to put Sunrise Children's Hospital on the map as the leading hospital for pediatric care."

"Wow, that's quite a goal."

He smiles. "What about you? What are your life goals?"

"Nothing that impressive. I want Hitched to become the go-to party planner for celebrity clients. I want to grow big enough to franchise and create something truly lasting. I know it sounds shallow and silly compared to your life."

He reaches over the table and places his hand over mine. "You bring joy to people during the most memorable time in their lives. Your goals and dreams are just as important as mine. And I respect a woman who has ambition and knows what she wants in life."

His response surprises me. "Really?"

"Really. You have my respect Ms. Michaels. We are meant to be in each other's lives. I believe that."

With those words, he tugs at my heart in ways I don't expect. Too overcome with emotion to carry on our conversation, I excuse myself to use the restroom. I feel flustered, and I need to compose myself so we can discuss the business at hand: the end of our very brief marriage.

I'm alone in the posh bathroom, reapplying my red lipstick, when I hear the door open, then close with a click.

I expect another woman coming in to freshen up and am shocked when Sebastian is there in the reflection of the mirror.

"This is the ladies room," I say.

"I know." His voice is husky.

I put my lipstick away and turn to face him. "Someone could come in at any moment."

This does not get the desired reaction. He moves closer, hands gripping my hips as he gazes at me with a hungry look in his eyes.

"I locked the door. We have a few moments."

"For what?" Now my voice is thick with desire.

"For this." He lifts me onto the counter with an easy move, hiking up my dress to the very top of my thighs as he spreads my legs and claims my lips with his.

I'm breathless, needy, and in that moment, I don't give a flying fuck who might walk in or what people might say or why we're actually on this non-date to begin with. All I want is him. Inside me. Now.

His fingers move aside the satin cloth of my panties and slip into my wet and throbbing pussy. "I've wanted you since I left the hotel yesterday morning."

Has it only been since yesterday? It seems like so much longer.

"When I saw you in this dress, in this lipstick, all I wanted to do was take it off you. I planned to wait until later, but I can't wait. Fuck me, Kacie. Fuck me now."

I spread my legs wider and push my hips forward. He pulls his fingers out of me, and for a moment I feel empty, but then he unzips his pants, puts a condom on, and shoves his hard cock into me, deep and thick, filling me to the point of almost pain.

"Fuck," I say, smiling. "You feel even better than I remembered." And it's true; he does. My memories don't compare to the glorious man inside me.

His grin turns playful. "Then just wait until I make you come."

"Oh, God yes." I desperately want to come on his cock. 

With his hands on my hips, my arms around his shoulders, we move together as we strain to become one, to get closer, to take more of each other and give more of ourselves.

When he's close to coming, he slips a hand between us and uses his thumb to rub my clit, sending pulses of pleasure through my body, sensations overlapping as he rubs and fucks and moves inside of me and on me, and when I come it's hard, fast, sharp and followed immediately by his own orgasm.

I rest my forehead on his chest and catch my breath.

"I could get used to this," he says.

I look up at him and grin. "Don't you want to know if I'm satisfied?" I ask. "If my orgasm was better than last time?"

"I know it was," he says. Cocky bastard.

Then he kisses me again, caressing my face, trailing kisses up my chin until he lands on my lips. "You are a delicious woman," he says, his breath moving on my skin, sending a shiver of desire through my body.

Someone knocks on the door, and he pulls out. We both clean up as quickly as we can and walk out as two women ogle us. I can't help but giggle. "They must be thinking the worst of us," I say.