Pleasure With Purpose (8 page)

Heather entered the church, the sound of the music playing softly in the chapel filtering into her ears, offering her the relief of escape. Here, Brad couldn’t corner her, he couldn’t question her.

“
Where have you been?” Brenda whispered urgently, clearly waiting inside the door for Heather and dressed in a navy-blue silk dress that contrasted with her red hair brilliantly. “And wow–you look amazing.”

Amazing. Same thing Brad had said. Wow, was more like what she’d said–or thought–when that orgasm had hit her. “The driver was slow,” Heather said quickly, flustered by her own thoughts.

“
Heather,” Brad said, rushing up behind them.

Heather barely managed to turn to him, looking at his shirt rather than his face, only to realize his shirt had a big red lipstick stain. Heather’s heart dropped to her feet. Brenda was going to figure things out. Brenda was going to know what was happening.

Brenda glanced at him and then Heather. “Oh good grief, tell me he didn’t corner you outside to lecture you. I’ll hurt him for you if he did.” Her brows dipped. “What’s on your shirt?”

“
Excuse me,” the usher said. “It’s time to be seated.”

Oh, thank goodness. Heather grabbed Brenda’s arm, “Rebecca’s going to kill us if we hold up the wedding.” Thankfully, Brenda didn’t argue. And Heather rushed to her escape, down the aisle…at someone else’s wedding. At least her friend, Rebecca, was about to live a fantasy with a happy ending.

Chapter Seven

Heather could feel Brad watching her from across the room at the reception, which was held at an adorable historic carriage house off "Lovers Lane" in Dallas. She even knew exactly where he was. Directly across from her, standing at the carved-wood bar, facing the dance floor where Brenda was flirting outrageously with a doctor named Dan.

Heathe
r
sippe
d
he
r
secon
d
glas
s
o
f champagne,
brough
t
t
o
he
r
by
a
ma
n
named—o
f
al
l
things—Brad. If that wasn’t an omen of some sort, she didn’t know what. Not that she knew what said omen might be, but it was an omen, she was sure of it. And she’d never heard of an omen being a good thing.

Brad–the one she hadn’t almost had sex with in the limo–was a friend of Dan’s, and also a doctor. Ten years her senior, quite handsome in a blond, California kind of way, and quite
nice
. And he w
a
nted
her.
_{Sh
e
sa
w
i
t
i
n
hi
s
eyes. And she…wanted Brad. The other Brad. The one she should never have let touch her outside her nice, safe fantasies.}

In fact, standing in a room filled with chocolate fountains, champagne, honeysuckle, and impossibly perfect fake diamonds hanging from the ceiling, all Heather could think about was the back of that limo.

And she was starting to get mad. Mad was easier to deal with than embarrassed, so she embraced it. How dare he take advantage of her, how dare he…how dare he what? Give her the orgasm she’d been longing for? The mockery of anger slid away.

She finished her champagne and commented on something Doctor Brad was saying, then accepted his offer to get her another glass. The minute he was gone, she saw Brad–orgasm Brad, who shouldn’t be orgasm Brad at all, walking toward her. She turned and headed into the crowd, fearful that Brenda would put two and two together, and figure out whose lipstick was on Brad’s shirt. There was no way Heather could act like herself right now with Brad and Heather would pick up on that.

Weave, dodge, and weave some more—her heart thundered in her chest as she made her way past food displays, waiters, and guests, to a distance hall. Not caring where it led, besides away, she darted down the dark path.

“
Not so fast,” came the impossibly near sound of Brad’s voice, a second before he shackled her wrist and turned her to him.

With a gasp Heather turned to him, her hand flattening on his hard chest, the sweetly spicy male scent of him enveloping her in instant awareness she had no chance of resisting. “What are you doing here?”

“
Why are you running from me?”

“
Why are you chasing me?”

“
Because I’m not about to allow you a wedding fantasy with that bozo back there.”

“
That bozo is a doctor, and I can have a wedding fantasy with him if I like.”

He stared down at her, his expression shadowed by the darkness of the hall, impossible to read. And then without warning, he grabbed her hand. “Come with me.”

She all but stumbled as he tugged her down the narrow hall. “Where are we going?” she whispered urgently. “Brad!”

He didn’t reply and didn’t stop, weaving down yet another hall, the place like a small maze. Finally he entered a room, pulling her inside. She pulled away from him as he shut the door.

Heather’s gaze rushed around a room lit only by the spray of a streetlight peaking through the curtain of a large window. She blinked, her eyes trying to adjust to the shadows, barely allowing her to decipher the details of what appeared to be a small dance studio of hardwood floors, complete with a bar in front of full-length mirrors, several chairs in the far corners. A rack of clothing stood to the left of the door.

“
Are you crazy?” she hissed, turning back to him as he flipped the lock on the door. “We’re going to get in trouble.”

He kissed her. Just like that. No pretense, no talk. She barely remembered him reaching for her. There was only the wet, wonderful heat of his mouth that answered her demands, the ones of her body that she’d not consciously issued, but so needed satisfied. Still, logic tried to prevail, logic born of the fears she’d been battling about losing Brad and Brenda, fears she’d battled during the entire ceremony. And Heather tried to resist—her hands pressed to his chest, where she intended to push away from him but did not. Her tongue tried to remain still, not to respond. But his was masterful, coaxing her into a reply, a moan, a burn that made her thighs ache and her body wet. And his hands–his hand moved over her body caressing a sensual path down her back and over her backside. Molding her to what was unmistakable, the thick bulge of his erection.

“
Why are you doing this?” she gasped, with her last bit of sanity.

“
I told you,” he said, his hand cupping her breast, shoving down the bodice of her dress and bra lining with it, until he pinched one of her nipples. “You want a wedding fantasy. I’m giving it to you. Not that
doctor
back there.”

He kissed her again, and she kissed him back, because kissing him was just too good But even so, she waded through the fog of desire to process his words, then somehow shoved her hands against his chest, and pulled back. “Brad. Stop. We don’t do things like this together.”

His reply wasn’t instant. Instead, his gaze dropped to her breasts, to the fingers tugging on her nipples, and she knew he had a clear picture of her now. That, like her eyes, his had adjusted to the shadows, and he could fully inspect her body, and somehow rather than insecurity at the realization, she felt hotter. His lashes lifted, eyes locking with hers. “I’m really wondering why right about now.”

Somehow she kept her hands firmly on his shoulder, though she didn’t fight a moan as he played with her nipples, flickering them back and forth with his fingers. “Because I’m….” family. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t family. She could be dismissed, written off, gone after a little hot sex that was great for a moment and then destroyed everything in the future. She couldn’t bring herself to say those things, though, so she clung to something else, and let the fear and the anger, of not being able to have it all, come out in her words, “I’m not one of your blonde Barbie dolls you can fuck, and--”

“
Heather.” His hands slid into her hair, laughter from his throat. He pressed his lips to hers, fast and hard, and then, “Well, well…my little good girl has gone bad. And I like it. And you know what else I like?”

Somehow her hands were no longer on his chest, but under his unbuttoned jacket, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin material of his shirt. “What?” And for some reason, she knew that the way he answered
that
question was going to decide so much more than the next few minutes of passion.

Chapter Eight

“
What? What do you like, Brad?” she asked again, her fingers curling around his shirt.

“
That you’re not one of those ‘blonde Barbie Dolls,’ as you called them. I like you just the way you are.” His hand slid down her hair. “I always have.”

“
You have?”

He smiled. “Yeah, sweetheart. I have. I tried to do what was right. I tried to be your friend, your extended family. But I wanted to be more. I want to be more.”

“
Brad.” She breathed the word, his name, breathed it with all the emotions of years of wanting him, of wanting this.

And then she wasn’t sure what happened, but they were kissing again, and this time, everything had changed. This time, there was acceptance between them, understanding–tenderness and passion. This time she didn’t hold back. He wanted her, as she had wanted him.

There was also the reality of this happening–they were too hot for each other, too ready for this. And if that meant she lost her surrogate family over it, then she was going to make it the best sex of her life. And once she made that decision, once she let herself be free–this was Brad, a man she not only wanted and cared about, but who she’d trust with her life. She certainly would trust him with her body, her pleasure.

They were wild now, kissing, touching, undressing each other. Her dress was at her waist. His zipper was down, and it was her doing, and her hand sliding inside his boxers and stroking the hard, warm flesh of his erection, slipping along the wet tip of the head. The moan he let out was empowering.

His hands covered her backside, and suddenly, he was lifting her, and she didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. They didn’t speak as he walked to the chair, but their breath mingled, the electricity between them shifting to something that tightened her chest, filled her with emotion. This was Brad, who’d been with her through thick and thin, who’d given her pep talks, and bet on football with her on holidays. Brad, who’d fixed her flat tires. Brad, who’d offered to come home from college to kick Tommy Walker’s butt, when he’d stood her up for prom.

She settled on top of him, her legs wide over his hips, and she wanted him inside her more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

“
Heather,” he said softly, his hand running down her hair again. She loved when he did that. It was tender and sexy, and just so darn perfect. That was, until he said, “We have to stop.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She was naked to the waist, in his arms, spread wide on top of him, thinking she was in love with him–and he wanted to stop. Emotion sent her into a jerk backwards. He held her, didn’t let her escape. “Heather, wait.”

“
No, I--”

“
We don’t have any condoms.”

“
Oh,” she gasped. “That’s why you want to stop?”

“
I don’t remember saying
I wan
t to stop.”

“
I’m on the pill,” she said. “I don’t want to stop either.”

“
You’re sure?” he asked, his voice distinctly more hoarse now, his hand sliding around her waist and then over one of her breasts.

“
Yes,” she mouthed against his lips. “Very sure.”

They melted into a soft, delicious kiss that quickly turned hot and wild, as she helped him press his pants down, and slid her panties to the side. And then he was inside her, stretching her–big and hard and so impossibly good.

“
You make me crazy,” he whispered, nipping her lips, and trailing kisses along her jaw and her neck. “Absolutely crazy.” Then near her ear, “And I’m crazy for you, Heather. I always have been.”