The Wedding Band (16 page)

Now to hustle the whole crew out of there, double-­time. If Tana caught him, they'd both be scarred for life.

And Sasha . . . Kota broke a cold sweat at the thought.

Prying Christy's hands off the tree, he tried to turn her around. But she grabbed his arms. “Wait.” She was a step above him on the path, so she could see over his shoulder. She stared unblinking, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed.

Sweet Jesus. The woman really liked to watch.

Then she gave a little gasp, caught her lip in her teeth. And his dick, in hiding since he glimpsed Tana's ass, stood up straight, ready to party.

It was weird, for sure, but weird never stopped him before. Keeping his back to the beach, he dropped Cy like a sack of potatoes, caught Christy's hem, and whipped her dress over her head.

Her nipples poked at her bra like nail heads. Popping her out of the silky little scrap, he caught one in his lips and thumbed the other. Her hands pushed into his hair, dragging him closer, smothering him in tits.

“Oh God,” she breathed. “He's got her on her knees.” She moaned, and it hit him like the tenth shot of Patron.

He lost his mind completely.

Shoving her back against the tree, he drove his hand down her panties, her sopping wet panties, digging for the heat, groaning as she soaked his fingers.

But it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. She'd lost her mind too. Out came her nails, raking his back, scoring his shoulders as she squirmed on his hand.

“Please, Kota.” She panted it. “Please please please.”

“Hell yeah.” He tore off her panties. Whipped out a condom and kicked his shorts aside.

“Now now now!” Her arms cinched his neck like she'd drown without him.

Hands shaking, he fumbled the condom like a kid. When he rolled it on, she jumped up, climbing him as he caught her ass, wrapping her legs around him as he drove up inside her.

“Oh God yes.” She clung to him as he pumped, her tits slick with sweat, sliding against his chest. He braced one hand on the tree, held her ass with the other, sweat streaming as he pounded, as she met him stroke for stroke.

Then she snaked one hand down between them. Her head fell back in abandon.

Like a stallion he sank his teeth in her neck, gave a last hard thrust, and exploded.

 

Chapter Seventeen

C
HRIS WIPED
HER
sweaty hair off her forehead.

Okay, so she'd gotten a little ahead of herself. But holy shit, seeing Tana and Sasha going at it had unhinged her.

Kota lifted his heavy head off her shoulder. Dreamy blue eyes gazed into hers. “Are they still doing it?”

She peeked over his shoulder. “They're in the water. Naked, but not touching.”

“Disappointed?”

Heat climbed her neck, invading her cheeks. “You'll never let me forget this, will you?”

“Nope.” He kissed her, a playful smack on the lips. “It's blackmail bait, babe. I'm your lord and master.”

She shrugged. “In that case, I'll confess and get it over with. Tana, I'll say, we only watched for a little while, because we got so horny seeing you bang your wife—­”

“Okay, okay. It's our little secret.”

She took a deep breath. Time to yank off the Band-­Aid. “Speaking of secrets—­”

“Hold that thought,” he said. “I need to take care of business before things get messy.” He lowered her till her feet touched the ground. “You sure it's safe to turn around?”

“Totally G-­rated.”

Kota stepped back, rousing the now-­dozing dogs. Cy jumped up, ready for action. Tri tapped her ankle, looking for a lift.

It took a few minutes to get everyone organized. When they were headed back the way they'd come, Kota took her hand, smiling and relaxed. “So, what were you saying about secrets?”

Chris reconsidered the Band-­Aid. Not that she had cold feet. It was just simple logic. Any reasonable person would agree that this kind of news would go down better with wine.

She gave him a smile. “Ignore anything I say within ten minutes after an orgasm. Especially an orgasm like
that
.”

His eyes gleamed. The king of the jungle, full of himself and high on endorphins.

By the time they got back to the house, he was ready for more.

“Whoa, wait.” She grabbed hold of the door frame as he propelled her through the kitchen. “I need water.”

“There's a fridge in my bedroom.” He detached her from the door frame and kept her moving down the hall, pushing open a door to a gigantic room with a stupendous view and a mammoth bed.

“Sorry about the mess.” Rumpled sheets, yesterday's socks, another pile of scripts. Everything hit the floor with one sweep of his arm.

“But I need—­”

“A shower? Me too.” He peeled her dress over her head, unhooked her bra—­her panties had gone missing on the trail—­and stepped back to look at her.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “I could eat you alive.”

And didn't that conjure an image?

Then he dropped his shorts, and she got an eyeful of what she'd barely glimpsed before.

Gulp.

His shower was oversized too, big enough for a cheerleading squad.

She didn't ask.

“Let's get you wet.” He nudged her under a giant showerhead that soaked her like a cloudburst. She closed her eyes and slicked back her hair. The water cooled her steaming skin.

Then Kota's big, soapy hands slid over her breasts, heating it up all over again.

Opening her eyes, she drank him in, his shoulders twice as wide as hers, his chest hard and muscled and within her grasp. She stole some soap from her breasts and used it on him, her palms sliding up to meet behind his neck, then down, over his stomach, around his hips.

His cock bobbed against her belly, and she went back for more soap, taking him in her fists. She'd dreamed of this, handling him, fucking him. For three days it seemed impossible. Now it was real, and oh, so hot.

“Nice hands,” he murmured. His own slid down and around behind her. “Nice ass.” His big palms made it seem small.

She lifted her face, greedy for his lips, sucking his tongue as his long fingers curled around and under, opening her, reaching for the heat.

Sliding her hands up his chest, she cupped his cheeks, plastering herself to him, massaging his cock with her belly until he tore his lips away, his voice a rasp. “Unless you want it standing up again, we gotta get out of here.”

They didn't bother with towels. He tossed her on the giant bed and caged her under him.

“Condom?” her last, faraway brain cell asked.

“We're not there yet.” He slid down the length of her, lips curved in a wicked smile. “Spread 'em, babe.”

She spread 'em. Then he elbowed 'em wider to fit his shoulders. Slipping his arms under her thighs, he jacked her up, taking her with his tongue, no preamble, just a shock of pleasure right where it counted.

Gasping, she arched, heels gouging the mattress, hands fisting the sheets. He brought his fingers into play, toying with her, finding her sweet spots like he'd been there before.

It was torture sublime, by a man who knew how. Again, and again, he brought her to the brink, always holding her climax just out of her reach, working her, working her, for hours, for days, with lips and tongue and the pad of his thumb.

Her mind tilted toward madness. The universe contracted to one thought; her brain could process just one word.

“Please.” A moan. “Please. Please please please.”

At last he lifted his head. “Please what, darlin'?”

She wracked her fevered mind for the answer. “Please . . . Master?”

K
OTA LAUGHED
. “O
KAY,
that works for me.” And burying his face between her thighs, he shot beautiful, sexy, incredible Christy straight up to the surface of the moon.

Waiting for her to come down to earth, he sat back on his heels and enjoyed the view—­wet hair plastered to her cheeks, skin sheened with shower water and sweat, arms splayed at her sides with a few strands of his hair wrapped around limp fingers.

Yep, God built her just for him.

He jiggled her leg. “Wake up, sweetheart. Master wants to get off.”

One eye opened, a baleful stare. “That was a joke.”

“Uh-­huh. We'll discuss the terms later.” He reached for the nightstand, fished a condom from the drawer, and tore the foil with his teeth.

“For now,” he said, “let's get you up on your knees.”

T
O
K
OTA'S MIND,
women were their most beautiful in the languid moments after sex. Unconcerned about makeup, or hair, or what tomorrow would bring, they simply glowed. An inner beauty that enhanced their natural gifts.

Propping his head on his hand, he gazed down at Christy, the most gorgeous creature in the universe. With the tip of his finger, he wrote her name on her stomach, swirling the tail of the Y around her belly button.

A slow smile curved her lips. “That tickles.”

“That tickles,
Master
.”

She opened her eyes. Rolled them.

“That was your call,” he reminded her, “and lucky for you, I'm up for just about anything. Blindfolds, handcuffs.” He caught the flicker in her eye.

So she liked to play, did she?

He pulled her closer, caging her with his leg, nuzzling her ear. “I can raid wardrobe for anything you want. We can play bad girl and perverted cop. Coed and horny professor.” He nipped her lobe, and her breath caught.

Still, she tried to save face. “What makes you think I'd be into that?”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, honey. I'll tie you up, tie you down.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “Just don't ask me to spank you, because, sweetheart, I couldn't lift a hand to you to save my own life.”

Her caramel eyes melted. She framed his face with her hands. “If ­people only knew what a softy you are.”

“Think again, little girl.” He curled his lip in a sadistic sneer.

She nibbled it.

He tried the narrow-­eyed grill that made bed wetters out of hardened criminals.

She laughed. “You're cute.”

“
Cute
?” He rolled over her, caging her with his body. “Take it back.”

“Cutie pie.” She pinched his cheeks. “Cutie patootie.”

He bared his teeth. “Take. It. Back.”

She ran a knuckle over his ribs, and he flinched like a girl.

“God
damn
it.” Enough was enough.

He quit fooling around and kissed her.

C
HRIS POURED THE
Orvieto while Kota plated his chicken
limone
with linguine.

“God, I'm starving.” She swiped a finger through the lemon butter and sucked it off. Orgasmic.

“We worked up an appetite, all right.” He scorched her with a look. “I expect we'll be just as hungry come breakfast time.”

If he was still speaking to her. She gulped her wine. It was time to quit fooling around and tell him.

After supper.

Any reasonable person would agree that this kind of news would go down better on a full stomach.

They settled at the table, dogs underfoot, cats pretending to doze on railings and windowsills, everyone hoping for a handout.

Kota rubbed his thigh along hers. “How about a sunset ride?”

She lifted an eyebrow.

“On Sugar,” he clarified, then wagged his head. “Can't you keep your mind out of the gutter for five minutes?”

“No.”

He grinned. “I like that about you.” He pointed his fork at her pasta. “Eat up.”

“I've been eating up since I met you. Pasta this and pasta that. It'll go straight to my ass.”

“Here's hoping.” He took a long swallow of wine.

“Seriously? You like a fat ass?”

“Sweetheart, your ass isn't fat. It's ample.”

She sat back, horrified. “
Ample
? My ass is
ample
?”

He looked confused. “Abundant? Generous?”

She scowled, and he spread his palms. “Baby, it's
perfect
. I love your ass. I'd follow it anywhere.”

That didn't cut it either. “It's not floating through space, disembodied. It's attached to the rest of me.” She tapped her temple. “There's a brain that goes with that ass.”

“And I'm crazy about the whole package. I can't help it if I'm partial to your ass. Like you're partial to my arms.” He flexed, and her jaw sagged.

He twirled linguine on his fork and carried it toward her mouth. She buttoned her lips.

“Sweetheart.”

She turned her head away.

“Master says open up.”

“You know, I've had just about enough—­”

Cy leaped up, barking, startling the pants off both of them.

Tana rounded the corner, and the dog subsided to a pet-­me whine.

“Shit,” Kota muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm not ready for this.”

“
You're
not?” Her cheeks were on fire. She'd watched the entire X-­rated show.

“What's up, kids?” Tana skipped up the steps with no clue that his rump was burned into both of their brains.

Chris found her voice first. “Hi” was all she could muster, but she couldn't help eye-­walking all six-­foot-­three of him.

Kota noticed and turned a hard eye on his brother. “Em accused me of horning in on your honeymoon. And yet.” He spread his hands.

Tana dragged a chair over to the table. “Sasha's cooking dinner. I couldn't watch.” He sniffed appreciatively. “Chicken
limone
. Don't mind if I do.” He snatched a cutlet off Kota's plate. “Damn, how do you get it so tender?”

“I beat it with a hammer,” Kota said through his teeth. “I can demonstrate.”

Tana grinned and copped Kota's wineglass too. Tilting back in his chair, he turned his attention to Chris. “Sasha tells me you're writing a book.”

“Mmm-­hmm.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to mind-­wipe the beach sex.

“What's it about?”

“It's a biography. Of a journalist.”

Tana flicked a glance at Kota. But Kota already knew that much, and he seemed to be too busy glowering at his brother to care.

“Interesting choice,” Tana said noncommittally. “Someone you know?”

She'd hoped to use Emma's story to ease Kota into her own unsavory tale, but there was no avoiding Tana's question. “Actually, she's my mother.”

That brought Kota's head around. “Your mother's a
reporter
?” He spat it out like
Nazi
or
terrorist
.

Chris's chin came up. She wouldn't apologize for Emma. “She was a war correspondent. She covered Vietnam, the Gulf War. All the hot zones.”

“Sounds like dangerous work,” Tana said diplomatically.

“
Very
dangerous. My mother's a hero, and now she has Alzheimer's. She can't write her own memoir, so I'm writing it.” She pointed her chin at Kota. “You got a problem with that?”

His throat worked. “It's . . . admirable,” he said, obviously groping for a word that wouldn't choke him.

So much for piggybacking on Emma's heroic career. Chris balled her fists in her lap, pissed off.

And worried. If Kota couldn't stomach a valiant war correspondent, how would he feel about a weasel who wormed her way into his brother's wedding?

And worse, into his own bed.