The Wedding Band (18 page)

In one smooth motion he caught her hips and sat back on his heels, dragging her up his thighs and onto his cock. One thrust had him seated, the next had her eyes opening wide with surprise and wonder, and a whole lot of
wow
. She'd unchained his animal. And she damned well liked it.

Hauling her upright, he drove deeper, taking her nipple in his teeth, scraping as she arched, sucking as she cried out. His hands cupped her gorgeous ass, helping her ride him, his fingers drenched in the hot mess they'd made.

Gripping his shoulders, she worked her thighs till she couldn't. Then he took over again, going up on his knees, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Hang on, baby,” he murmured, and he carried her down, flat on her back, trying not to crush her, dying to crush her, to absorb her through his skin.

It was sex, and more, and the more made it better, better than ever before. She fisted his hair, dragging his lips down to hers, kissing him, and it was more than a kiss. It was molten, and it spread through every inch of them, welded every juncture until they beat with one heart, felt with one skin.

And when they came, together, there was no Kota, no Christy. There was only a flame, one flame, burning bright.

 

Chapter Nineteen

E
VERY CELL ACHED.
Every hair follicle. Every hair.

Chris's body had gone from pitifully underused to worked-­like-­a-­rented-­mule in twenty-­four short, but extremely awesome, hours.

The shower jets showed no mercy, hammering like a blacksmith on her aching flesh. Bruises bloomed on her thighs in fingerprint patterns. She'd earned every one.

But enough was enough. When Kota stepped up behind her, she moaned. “Food first. And coffee.”

He reached around and held a steaming mug under her nose.

“Oh my God. I love you.” It popped out of her mouth.

He kissed her nape. “I love you too, babe.”

Oh God, oh Jesus, can I make this any worse?

“I . . . uh.” She gave up. What could she say? The toothpaste was out of the tube.

“I'll make you whatever you want,” he said. “Pancakes? Omelets? Frittata?”

In spite of her turmoil, her stomach growled like a bear.

He curled an arm around her, spreading his big palm over her no-­longer-­flat stomach. “I love that you eat. Skinny women don't do it for me anymore.”

Her lips flattened. First, ample ass. Now, not skinny.

Okay, both true. But what next? Saggy tits?

“I'll have toast,” she said.

“Toast?” His disappointment was palpable.

She sighed. “Okay,
French
toast.”

“Coming right up.” He dropped another kiss on her nape.

When the door closed behind him, she thunked her forehead on the tile.
Thunk thunk.
And another
thunk
for good measure.

What am I going to do now?

Tell him, that's what. Forget waiting four days. No more procrastinating. No more sex, for God's sake, and no more “
I love you
” until all the cards are on the table.

Out in the kitchen, she walked into another episode of
Cooking with Kota—­Shirtless Edition
.

She scooped up Tri and propped her butt on the stool. He smiled gorgeously and slid a refill across the counter.

Sipping her coffee, she watched him bend and reach and stir and sprinkle, and she blatantly ogled his muscles as they flexed and stretched and bunched and rippled. It was a breathtaking display, so dazzling that it took her a moment to realize he was hamming it up.

But when he curled the saltshaker so his biceps bulged, her gaze snapped to his face, and he burst out laughing.

“Very funny.” She crossed her arms.

“Sweetheart, I get just as stupid when I stare at your ass.”

“My ample ass. On my not skinny body. With my saggy tits.”

He looked scandalized. “Your tits do
not
sag.”

“Not yet. But I'm sure you'll point it out when they do.”

He aimed the wooden spoon at her. “Speaking of your tits.”

“What? Too big? Too small?” She crossed her arms tighter. “I don't care what you say, I'm not changing them.”

Now he looked shocked. “I don't want you to change them. They're perfect handfuls. And baby, I got big hands.”

He aimed the spoon again, at her chest this time. “My point was that I don't know why you say they do nothing for you. It looked to me like they were doing plenty.”

She softened. “That was all you. They
like
you.”

A smile spread like sunrise across his face. “Your tits like me?”

“Apparently. Because they've never even noticed another man. But you, they're all over.”

He dropped the spoon and hotfooted around the island. “Let me at 'em,” he growled, slipping up under her tee. “Mmm, no bra. I like.”

She swelled into his palms, filling his hands. “I don't know what's wrong with them,” she murmured. “The girls have lost their heads.”

He plopped Tri on the other stool and lifted Chris onto the countertop. Then he peeled her shirt over her head and stepped back to look. Just look.

After a long, slow study, he lifted his eyes to lock onto hers. “I might love your tits as much as your ass.”

She smiled. “I might love your shoulders as much as your arms.”

He looked surprised. “You like my arms best? Out of
everything
?”

She shrugged innocently. “What could be better?”

He stepped in again, grabbed her ass, and tugged her to the very edge of the counter, meeting her there with his groin. His hard-­again groin.

She groaned, part arousal, part misery. “Okay, I give. I love that more. But if you use it on me right now, I'm done for.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “Did I hurt you, babe?”

“No, you didn't hurt me.” She covered his hands with hers. “I'm just well used. And hungry. I'm ready to fight Bumble for his food.”

They both turned to watch the scrawny cat gumming.

“He's tougher than he looks,” Kota said.

“That wouldn't take much.” Bumble was a stick on legs. “Will he ever fatten up?”

“Nope. He's got cancer.”

“Oh no.” It cut deep.

“He's had a good run. Four years here, living large. He'll come back to L.A. with us, so when it's time I can put him to sleep.”

That was the downside of loving so many creatures so much.

Chris laced her fingers through his. “He's lucky to have you. They're all lucky.”

She desperately wanted to be that lucky too.

T
ANA SHOWED UP
again after breakfast and stuck like a burr for an hour. An hour alone with Christy that Kota would never get back.

When they finally saw the back of him, Kota pulled her down into the hammock. “Jesus, I thought he'd never leave.”

She laughed her smoky, sexy laugh. “He was tweaking you. The more you tried to get rid of him, the more he dug in.”

“Nah, he's just clueless.”

She rolled her eyes. “Talk about clueless. You're the easiest person to get over on I've ever met.”

“Take that back, little girl.” He menaced her with a look. “Say ‘Kota's the baddest ass I know.' ”

“Pfft.”

He juggled her around. The hammock swung drunkenly, but he got her where he wanted her, stretched out on top of him, breasts flattened to his chest, legs interlocked with his.

She stacked her fists on his chest and rested her chin on top of them. Her eyes were melted caramel, her lips curved deliciously.

She seemed lighter today. Not weight-­wise. Oh, no. She was no bony supermodel.

But mood-­wise. Like her heart was lighter. Like she'd finally stopped holding back and was ready to go all in.

Like she was in love.

He knew the feeling. He felt lighter himself.

It put him in a forgiving mood. “I'll let the clueless thing go on one condition.” He shifted her hips a few inches to give his cock room to expand. “We have to prove that hammock sex is possible.”

“What kind of hammock sex?”

“The intercourse kind. Doesn't matter who's on top, as long as we get it done.”

They got it done.

They got trampoline sex done too.

Swimming-­pool sex.

And surfboard sex. But not without some water up the nose.

He made a play for horseback sex too, while they were taking a sunset walk with the herd. But Christy drew the line. “As it is, I won't be able to ride a horse for a week. I definitely can't ride you
and
a horse.”

He gave Sugar's rump an affectionate slap, and she drifted off with the herd. “I guess it can wait. I've got horses in L.A.”

L.A. Right now it seemed like another world. But once they got off the plane, he'd be back to twelve-­hour workdays. He'd have to change a few things around to make time for Christy. Which made him wonder about her schedule.

“So, what do you do with yourself back in L.A.? Who
is
Christy Gray?”

She stumbled, an arm-­flailing flounder that damn near ended in a face-­plant.

He steadied her with an arm around her waist. “You all right? Twist anything?”

“I'm good,” she said, trying to disguise a limp.

He steered her to a deadfall. “Sit for a minute and let me see.” He knelt to examine her ankle. “It's swelling up.”

“It's always been bigger than the other one.”

He gave her a pitying look. “You strained it. I'll ice it when we get home.” For now, they had the sunset to admire.

The deadfall was only big enough for one, so he sat her on his lap and picked up where he left off. “Tell me what your days are like.”

“I write.”

“Friends?”

“A few from college, but they're mostly back east.”

This was like pulling teeth. He kept at it. “No high school friends?”

She fidgeted. “I was on the road with my mother. She homeschooled me, more or less. I got hands-­on experience in geography and current events.”

“But you missed out on the social stuff. Friday-­night lights. Prom.”

“Cliques. Mean girls. Losing my virginity under the bleachers.” She tapped his chest. “How many cherries did you pop?”

“Not Verna Presky's.”

Christy laughed, obviously more comfortable teasing him than talking about herself. “I bet you were captain of the football team.”

“Cocaptain with—­”

“Don't tell me. Earl Quigley.” She put a hand on her heart and fluttered her lashes. “I want to meet this man. He must be quite the stud.”

He did his big-­dog growl.

She dropped a kiss on his nose like he was a puppy. “I used to think you looked dangerous. But you're all hat and no cattle.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “You've been reading the script.”

“You left it on the nightstand.” She grinned. “It's a quick read. Not much dialogue. You do a lot of squinting into the distance, and squinting at the bad guys, and squinting at Sissy What's-­her-­name until you figure out she's a dancehall girl with a heart of gold. Then you squint at her pimp, and then you squint at the bad guys some more.”

“Then I shoot 'em all, right?”

She nodded. “It's actually pretty satisfying. There's a good story built around all that bloodshed. And I like how you save the pimp for last.” She rubbed her palms.

“Bloodthirsty, aren't you?”

“And vengeful. You should add a scene where Sissy dances on his grave. And while you're at it, you could change the ending so you stay with her, or she goes with you. Because it's really sad that after all you go through, you end up alone.”

He looked into her eyes. Yep, the sun rose and set there. “I never minded being alone. But I like this better.”

“Oh,” she said softly. Her head tilted, and her eyes warmed even more. She took his cheeks between her hands like he was the most precious thing she'd ever held.

And she kissed him tenderly.

Tenderly.

Imagine that.

K
OTA TOOK THE
ice pack off Chris's ankle and examined it gently. “Bed rest,” he prescribed. “Flat on your back. Or your stomach. Or up on all fours.”

She heaved a phony sigh. “I'll try to make the best of it.”

He turned out the light and rolled into bed alongside her. Her head slotted into the notch of his shoulder. Her leg hooked naturally over his. Outside the window, the stars seemed close enough to touch. The quarter moon hung in the treetops.

She laid her palm on his warm chest. “I'm still thinking about vet school,” she said.

“Me too.” He sounded surprised at himself, but he went on. “Tana's settled now. Sasha's got his back. He doesn't need me like he did.”

She lifted her head to peer at him in the moonlight. “You mean to tell me you stayed in Hollywood all these years to take care of Tana?”
Seriously?
Tana was thirty-­four, a major force in the industry, and strong enough to break houses barehanded.

“I'm his big brother,” Kota said, as if that said it all. “I've been watching out for him since I could walk.”

“What about your parents? Weren't they watching out for both of you?”

He gave a short laugh. “My mother—­my birth mother—­was a hard-­core junkie. She fed us when she remembered, but she was mostly interested in her next fix. Tana would've starved without me.”

Good God. This must be what Sasha meant about abandonment issues.

“What about your father?” she asked.

“He was a user too. Not as bad as her, probably because he loved her. Keeping her alive meant keeping a roof over her head, feeding her when she didn't care about food.” He shrugged a shoulder. “So he kept us alive too. When she had a roof, we had a roof. When she had food, we had food.”

Chris tried to picture it. She couldn't. How did two weak-­minded, selfish drug addicts produce such smart, successful men?

“The way I see it,” Kota said, as if reading her thoughts, “my father was a good man who fell in love with the wrong woman. Maybe she was different before the drugs. I don't know. But the woman I remember was a waste of space. Strung out most of the time. Either jonesing and crying, or blissed out and staring at the wall.

“He never quit loving her, though. And he never gave up on her. The farther down the rabbit hole she went, the more he pulled out of it so he could take care of her.”

What a prince.

“He cleaned up eventually,” Kota went on, “which was harder than I gave him credit for at the time. He even started taking an interest in Tana and me. Not that he put us in kindergarten or anything normal like that. How could he, when we moved every few months? But he made us watch
Sesame Street
instead of game shows.”

Father of the year.

“He had a friend in Casper—­probably the last one he hadn't screwed over. The guy was a roofer, and he gave Dad a job. Steady work. And Dad was good at it. He was a big guy. Strong, now that he was off the shit.