The Wedding Band (12 page)

He pressed deeper, and her head lolled back. Oh God, if he could do that with only two fingers . . .

“How long to get home?” she asked. If it was more than ten minutes . . .

“Ten minutes at a gallop.”

She unlocked her ankles and let her legs slide down his thighs, sopping pink silk dragging over bulging white cotton.

The man was big everywhere. Every. Where.

Then he split her eardrums with a whistle. Sugar came at a run.

“You'll want your pants,” he said, releasing her to snatch up his own.

She worked wet legs into capris that seemed two sizes too small, then looked around for her T-­shirt. She spotted it hanging from the back of the jeans he hadn't bothered to button.

“Hey.” She reached for it.

He swiveled away. “You don't need a shirt to ride.” His smile had plans in it.

“What about sunburn?”

“I'll cover you.”

She made another grab. He danced away, then circled back, catching her waist and boosting her up on Sugar.

In a finger snap he'd plopped Tri on her lap and leaped up behind her. “Sugar baby,” he called out in his powerful drawl. “Run like the wind!”

He was as good as his word, keeping the sun off her back with his big body, and off her front with his free hand. His palm fit her breast like a glove, and watching him handle her while they streaked through the meadow was the hottest thing she'd ever seen.

They pulled up on a dime at the shed, and Kota had all three of them on the ground in a heartbeat, hurrying Chris down the path toward the house.

“I could carry you,” he offered, as if she was dawdling.

“I'm not a sack of potatoes.” Flopping over his shoulder was no fun.

“How about this?” He scooped her up with one arm under her knees, the other under her back.

Not bad.

Then, “Nope, I can't do it. I can't look at your tits without touching 'em.”

He dropped her legs and backed her up to a tree, one big hand behind her so the bark wouldn't scrape her, the other taking the weight of one breast.

“Beautiful.” He dipped his head and licked her nipple with the flat of his tongue, then pulled back to blow on it. She hardened to a point.

“My breasts”—­her breath caught as he went in for another taste—­“don't usually do much for me.” They simply weren't that sensitive.

“Baby, they're doing plenty for me.” He moved her hand from his waist to his erection, stroking himself with the flat of her palm.

The last shreds of her reason fell in tatters to the ground.

Shaking off his hand, she shoved hers down his pants, palming him, velvet over steel.

He sucked air through his teeth, bracing a hand on the tree. “Just for a second,” he whispered as she stroked. “Just a second.”

Leaning in, he let out a low moan, swelling in her hand. Throbbing against her palm.

Then he straightened and yanked her hand out. She tried to get back in, to grab hold of what she wanted, but he cuffed her wrist. Squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath.

Seconds ticked. Then he hissed it out slowly and opened glazed eyes. “That was close.”

She smiled. Oh, she'd liked having all that power in her hands. All that
everything
in her hands.

“Let's go.” Taking her elbow, he barreled down the path, hustling her along in front of him.

They'd reached the edge of the woods, the home stretch, with the house in sight, when they heard
knock knock knock
.

“Kota?” Sasha's voice. “Are you home?”

They slammed on the brakes, then backtracked into the trees while the dogs charged ahead, giving them away.

“God
damn
it.” Kota kicked a stump. “For a desert island, it's pretty fucking crowded.”

“Give me my shirt.”

He whipped it out of his jeans and held it over his head.

“Seriously?” She put a hand on her hip.

He eyed her pose. “Keep that up and you'll never get it back.”

She dropped her arm. “Is this how you want your new sister-­in-­law to find you? Acting like a caveman?”

He grinned like an idiot. She made a grab for her shirt. He let her catch hold, then used it to pull her close and wrap an arm around her waist.

“You can have it,” he said, nuzzling her ear, “if you promise to take it off again as soon as she goes.”

That was easy. “I promise.”

“Cross your heart?”

She drew an X on her breast. He dropped a kiss on top of it, turned it into a bite. The scrape of his teeth shouldn't be so arousing—­

“Kota?” Sasha sounded concerned now, striding toward the path, the dogs racing ahead.

Chris shrugged on her shirt, then casually, as if she hadn't just had a hand down Kota's pants, she stepped out of the trees with him at her heels.

“Hey, there you are.” Sasha looked relieved. “I got worried when the dogs showed up without you.”

“Just lollygagging, enjoying the day.” Kota's smile was genuine.

Sasha's gaze zeroed on Chris's pink T-­shirt just long enough to remind Chris that it was wrinkled and wet, and probably transparent.

Chris's face heated, and embarrassment gave conscience a foothold. It reared up, reminding her she had no business getting naked with Dakota Rain. She was a spy, hiding out on his island to pen an article about his brother and this very nice woman who'd never done her any harm.

Suddenly, Kota's hand on her waist felt all wrong. She stepped away, scooping up Tri, keeping her distance from Kota.

“I guess you were riding,” Sasha said. “And swimming. And stuff.”

“Yep,” Kota said. “Surprised to see you up at this hour, being on your honeymoon and all.”

Sasha smiled, a sparkle in her eye. “We went to bed early. Besides, I'm usually up before dawn. Which makes this a late start for me, especially since we're a ­couple of time zones over.”

Kota caught Chris's eye. He rubbed his chest with the flat of his hand, a riveting move. She gulped, then forced herself to look at Sasha, who was still chattering away cluelessly.

“—­ so I thought I'd stop by and invite you to dinner. Tana's dying to try out your new grill.” Sasha flashed a friendly smile at Chris. “Wait'll you see it. It's so Kota. As big as a bus. You herd the cow in one end and steaks come out medium rare on the other.”

Chris's half-­assed smile was less than Sasha deserved but all Chris could manage.

“Sure, dinner sounds good.” Kota shuffled his feet, practically herding Sasha along.

She got the hint at last. “Okay then, come on over when you get hungry.”

She'd scarcely disappeared around the corner when Kota caught Chris's hand.

“Come on, babe. I need you under me
now
.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

K
OTA PRA
CTICALLY DRAGGED
Christy to the house. She balked when they got to the steps.

“Listen—­” she said.

“Later,” he cut in. No sentence that started with “Listen” ever went anywhere good. “You can talk my ear off later and I'll memorize every word. But right now, my balls are turning fifty shades of blue.”

He started up the steps, tugging at her hand. She held her ground.

“I can't do this,” she said.

“Sweetheart, we've been doing it for an hour. We're just getting to the good part.”

She looked down at her toes.

Jesus, he was losing her. Swallowing exasperation, he fell back on proven methods.

“Okay. It's your call.” He made it sound like gracious surrender. When she lifted her head, he raised his arms and slicked back his hair with both hands, then locked them behind his head in his billboard pose.

He pretended to study the sea while she looked her fill. Then he dropped his hands to his hips. Rolled his shoulders like he was shaking it off. Rubbed a palm across his abs, slowly, like he was thinking about something else . . .

And she bolted past him, up the stairs, and down the hall toward her room. A door slammed in the distance.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered.

Tri hopped up the steps and went after her, the traitor.

Kota glared at Cy. “Go ahead, why don't you? You know you want to.” Cy tucked his tail, guilty as sin.

“Whatever.” Kota stomped down the other hall and slammed his own bedroom door.

A cold shower helped for about five minutes, until he flopped facedown on the bed. The bed where Christy should've been spread underneath him.

What the fuck?

Everything had been going according to plan. Even better, in fact, what with the hot-­buttered abs opening the show with a bang.

Then there was the foreplay in the shed, in the water, on the sand. If he'd just remembered a goddamn rubber, they'd have gotten it done right there.

He rolled over on his back and stared at the fan going round and round. His cock pulsed with each heartbeat. Why hadn't he let her get him off in the woods? He'd had to channel a fucking Jedi to keep from coming. And for what? Sasha showed up and that was that.

What the fuck?

He punched a pillow into shape and stuffed it under his head. God
damn
it. He had a few things to say to Christy Gray, that was for damn sure. But he'd be a gibbering nutcase unless he finished himself off like a goddamned teenager first.

Taking himself in hand, he crossed an arm over his eyes and summoned her tits.

C
HRIS CUPPED HER
breasts and stroked her thumbs over the nipples.

Nothing. As usual. Her breasts were dead zones. Nobody had ever gotten into her panties by way of her breasts.

Except Kota. His palms conducted some kind of current that zapped life into her breasts and made her nipples stand at attention.

Was it because his hands were rougher than a pampered movie star's should be, as if he actually
did
something with them?

No. Jason's palms were calloused from years of baseball, but her breasts slept through their whole relationship.

Whatever.
It was irrelevant. What mattered was that she was out of control.

Eyes on the prize, Christine. Keep your job, save your career, and do Emma proud. Even though she has no idea.

Especially because she has no idea.

That made it even more meaningful, didn't it? More honorable. This wasn't some lame attempt to win Emma's approval. That ship had sailed.

No, Chris would become a top-­notch journalist because Emma deserved a daughter who was a credit to her. One who'd carry her torch into the future, who her colleagues would say was a chip off the old block.

Or maybe Chris would become a top-­notch journalist to silence the doubting voice in her head, the voice that said she didn't have the drive to be the journalist her mother was.

Or, for that matter, the serious singer her father was, although that was a whole different can of worms.

One disappointed parent at a time, please. Take a number.

Back to Emma. Reed. The
Sentinel
.

Chris tried to focus her thoughts, but Kota kept ambling across her brainpan, distracting her with his arms, his chest. His package.

“Leave me alone,” she muttered. Stepping into the shower, she braced one hand on the tile wall and turned on the cold water. Goose bumps shivered over her skin. She gritted her teeth.

So it was uncomfortable, so what? It was no more than she deserved. She was a wanton woman. An old-­fashioned phrase, but it summed up her morning. Thank God Kota hadn't had a condom, or she would have surrendered her last sliver of self-­respect right there on the sand.

But at least sexual frustration wouldn't be gnawing her alive.

Disgusted with herself, she gave up on the shower, wrapped herself in a fluffy towel, and flopped on the bed. Tri tapped her ankle until she hoisted him up. He snuggled against her side.

She watched the ceiling fan's lazy sweep. Why, oh why, couldn't Kota be the obnoxious idiot he was supposed to be?

Thump thump thump.
A fist shook the door.

“God
damn
it, Christy, open up.”

“And speaking of obnoxious idiots . . .” She strode to the door and yanked it open. “What's your problem?”

Barging in, he shot out one accusing finger at Tri. Then he swung around to point it at her. “You promised.”

She let her eyebrows ask what the hell he was talking about.

“You promised to take your shirt off as soon as Sasha left.”

She looked down at her chest, then up at him. His eyes blazed blue flame. She fanned it for fun. “Do you see a shirt?”

“No. And I don't see your tits either. Which was the whole point.”

“That may have been
your
point.
My
point was to get my shirt back before
Sasha
saw my tits.” The same traitorous tits that perked up the minute he charged through the door.

He advanced on her until she had to look up to hold his gaze. “It was implied by the context.” He tucked a finger into the towel between her breasts. They seemed to swell of their own volition, forming cleavage just to snuggle up to his finger.

“The context,” he went on, “was heavy foreplay, as in you were playing with my dick and I was playing with your tits. And the implication was that we'd get back to playing just as soon as we got rid of Sasha.”

He tugged. The towel slithered to the floor.

She stood perfectly still while his eyes devoured her breasts, then inched lower, and lower, as hot as a blowtorch.

When he spoke, his drawl was ragged and deep. “God must've built you just for me.”

He touched her breasts, the barest drift of fingertips over the outer swells. He trailed them down her sides, tickling her waist, skimming her hips. Then moved them up again, lighter than a breeze, raising goose bumps in their wake.

It was so erotic she could've climbed out of her skin.

He dug a handful of condoms from his pocket and tossed them on the bed. “Baby, we're gonna do everything two ­people can do. And we're gonna start right now.”

She couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow.

He stepped in.

She stepped back, guided by her last working brain cell. “I-­I can't.”

“You can.” He closed the distance.

“No.” Firmer now. “I just met you. I don't have casual sex.” That was the truth, even if not the whole truth.

“Sweetheart, there's nothing casual about this.” Conviction burned in his eyes.

“I'm serious, Kota. Two days together might make us old cronies to you. But not to me. I don't make friends easily, and no matter how tempted I am, I don't have sex with a man until I'm comfortable with him.”

That stopped him short. His brow creased in confusion. “You're not comfortable with me?”

“All evidence to the contrary”—­she gestured to her own nakedness—­“no, I'm not. But if it's any consolation to your ego, no man's ever seen my breasts after forty-­eight hours—­or had my hand down his pants, for that matter—­so you're in a class by yourself.”

“And you want me, right?”

She made a “duh” face.

He seemed slightly mollified, but his gaze was sharp. “So when you get to know me, we can do it?”

A loaded question, but she'd walked into it. And she couldn't fault his logic, based on the facts as she'd stated them. The problem was, she'd left out a few things she was in no position to reveal.

So she hedged. “When I get to know you, I might not like you.”

“Damn, you're making this complicated.”

You have no idea.

He got a crafty look in his eye. “Temptation might get the best of you.”

He tempted her just by breathing. “We'll see about that.” She squatted to scoop up her towel. When she rose, he was grinning. “What's so funny?”

He pointed behind her. She turned.

A full-­length mirror.

C
H
RISTY'S FACE WENT
up in flames. Wrapping up like a burrito, she said, “That's cheating—­”

He lifted a hand to cut her off. “All's fair, darlin', and just so you know, I aim to cheat every way I can think of. And I can think of
lots
of ways.”

He rubbed his jaw contemplatively, and the scrape of knuckles over stubble put stars in her eyes. He bit back a grin. The poor thing thought she could hold out until she “got to know him,” whatever that meant. Not that he didn't respect her for it. It was a nice change of pace.

But her admirable morals were mighty inconvenient. Even after taking the edge off back in his room, he was hornier than a seventeen-­year-­old, and not fucking her
right this minute
was harder than anything—­
anything
—­he'd ever done in his life.

Well, if she was into torture, two could play at that game. Tempting her to bend her rules was really just another brand of foreplay. The higher he stoked the fire, the hotter the main event would be.

With one last, slow scratch of bristles that left her wanting more, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets, drawing her eyes to his crotch. He tapped his fingers as he rocked back on his heels.

She played with the ends of her towel, trying not to stare.

“Hungry?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I could eat.”

“Meet me in the kitchen”—­a last tap of fingers on denim—­“and I'll feed you.”

She showed up ten minutes later with the grape sundress covering too damned much skin.

Enjoy the pursuit,
he reminded himself. The endgame is inevitable, and it'll be all the sweeter.

“Pasta okay?” A rhetorical question if ever there was one. He dusted the countertop with flour. “Want to help?”

She looked dubious. “I've never made pasta.”

“And you're not starting today. Amateurs get chopping duty.” He set two fat red tomatoes in front of her.

She eyed them like they might bite. “Um, there's a reason I eat out a lot.”

“You're kidding me.” Anyone could chop tomatoes.

“I spent my childhood on the road with one parent or other. Nary a Verna in sight.”

With a long-­suffering sigh, he took up the knife. After all, she had other attributes that couldn't be taught.

“Like this.” He diced a tomato in slow motion.

“Huh. They do it so much faster on the Food Network.”

He chopped the other at full speed.

She slid a cheek onto a stool, gave a Cheshire cat smile. “How will I learn if you do everything for me?”

“Smart-­ass.” He went back to his dough. “Don't put your feet up yet, you're not done. There's an herb garden around the south side of the porch.” He pointed, for the directionally challenged. “Think you can handle snipping some basil?”

“It's green, right?”

“Right. Just like all the other herbs.” Picking up the scissors, he stared at her until she slid off the stool, reluctantly.

“You're supposed to be tempting me,” she groused as he shuffled her toward the door. “Making me work isn't the key to my heart.”

He paused in the doorway. “You could sing for your supper.”

She smirked a little smile and plucked the scissors from his hand. “Never mind. I'll figure out which one's basil.”

She brought back an armful that made his eyes pop. “Pesto it is,” he said, and got busy washing and chopping.

Christy picked up the pepper mill to use as a mic. “Welcome, all you horny ladies at home. It's Man Candy Monday on
Cooking with Kota
. Today he'll demonstrate the proper use of pectorals when slicing basil.”

K
OTA GLANCED
UP,
and the blue of his eyes stole Chris's breath. Then he flexed, and she lost her voice too.

“You asked for it,” he said.

She set the pepper mill on the counter. What was she thinking? She was playing with fire. She should go to her room. She even turned to flee.

And—­“Whoa”—­a white cat prowled into the room, skinny as a toothpick.

“There you are, Bumble.” Kota squatted and made kissy noises. “You must be hungry.”

“Hungry? He should be dead.” Chris squatted down next to Kota. “What's wrong with him?'

The scrawny thing rubbed between Kota's knees. Kota tipped its pointy face toward Chris and pulled back its lips.

No teeth.

“I'm not even gonna ask,” she said.

“I wouldn't tell you if you did.” Kota opened a can and set a bowl of soft food on the floor, aiming a get-­back finger at Van Gogh.