A Beaumont Christmas Wedding (11 page)

She kicked off her boots and undid her jeans. Miracle of miracles, she managed to slide them off without tipping over and falling onto the floor.

Matthew’s eyes lit up with want. With
need
. She could see him breathing faster now, leaning forward as if he could touch her. Heat flooded her body—almost enough to make up for the near-nudity. She felt sexy. Except for the socks.

Well, she’d already told him she wasn’t going to get naked. Although she was having a little trouble remembering why, exactly.

Plus, he was sitting there fully clothed. And she didn’t know where any condoms were. “Condoms?” They were required. She’d been accused of being falsely pregnant far too many times to actually risk a real pregnancy. The last thing she needed in her life were more headlines asking, Wildz Baby Daddy?

“Wallet.” The tension in his voice set her pulse racing. “Left side.”

“You just want me to touch you, don’t you?”

He grinned. “That is the general idea. Since you won’t let me touch you.”

“I stand for llama solidarity,” she replied as she walked toward him. “And until you can see reason...”

“Oh, I can’t. No reason at all. Llamas are nature’s mistake.”

“Then you’ll just have to stay tied up.” She straddled him, but she didn’t rest her weight on his obvious erection. Instead, she slid her hands over his waist and down around to his backside until she felt his wallet. She fished it out, dropped it onto the table and then ran her hands over him again. “I didn’t really get to feel all of this last time,” she told him.

“You were a little tied up.”

She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his pecs, feeling the muscles that were barely contained by the button-down shirt and cashmere sweater. Then she leaned back so she could slide her hands down and feel what was behind those tweed slacks.

Matthew sucked in a breath so hot she felt it scorch her cheek as she touched the length of his erection. He leaned forward and tried to kiss her, but she pulled away, keeping just out of his reach. “Llama hater,” she hissed at him.

“You’re killing me,” he ground out as he tried to thrust against her hand.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she scolded. This was...
amazing
. She knew that, if he wanted to, he could probably get out of the tie and wrap her in his arms and take what she was teasing him with. And she’d let him because, all silliness aside, she wanted him
so
much.

But he wasn’t. He wouldn’t, because she was in control. She had all the power here.

Tension coiled around the base of her spine, tightening her muscles beyond a level that was comfortable. She let her body fall against his, let the contact between them grow.

“Woman,” Matthew groaned.

She tsked him as she slid off. “You act like you’ve never been tied up before.”

“I haven’t.” His gaze was fastened to her body again. She felt bold enough to strike a pose, which drew another low groan from him.

“You...haven’t?”

“No. Never tied anyone up before, either.” He managed to drag his gaze up to her face. “Have you?”

“No.” She looked at him, trying to keep her cool. He hadn’t done this before? But he’d seemed so sure of himself last night. It wasn’t as though she expected a man as hot and skilled as he was to be virginal, but there was something about being the first woman he’d wrapped his necktie around—something about her being the first woman he’d let tie him to a chair—that changed things.

No. No! This was just a little fling! Just her dipping her sexual toes back in the sexy waters! This was not about developing new, deeper feelings for Matthew Beaumont!

She snagged the condom off the table. “I demand an apology on behalf of Larry the Llama and llamas everywhere.” Then—just because she could—she dropped the condom and bent over to pick it up.

He sucked in another breath at the sight she was giving him. “I beg of your forgiveness, Ms. Maddox.” She shifted.
“Please,”
he added, sounding desperate. “Please forgive me. I’ll never impugn the honor of llamas again.”

Ms. Maddox.

She needed him. Now.

She slid her panties off but kept the bra on. She undid his trousers and got them down far enough that she could roll the condom on. Then, unable to wait any longer, she let her body fall onto his.

She grabbed his face and held it so she could look into his eyes. “Matthew...”

But he was driving up into her and she was grinding down onto him and there wasn’t time for more words. They had so very little time to begin with.

“Want to...kiss you,” Matthew got out, each word punctuated with another thrust.

His clothing was rubbing against her, warming her bare skin. Warming everything. “Kiss me back?” she asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Always,” he replied as she lowered her lips to his. “Always.”

Always.
Not just right now but always.

She came apart when their lips met, and he came with her.

She lay on top of him, feeling the climax ebb from her body. It was then that she wished she hadn’t tied him up, because she wanted him to hold her.

“I had no idea that llamas got you so worked up,” he told her as his lips trailed over her bare shoulder. “I’ll make a mental note of it.”

She leaned back and grinned at him. “Was that okay? I didn’t hurt you or anything—? Oh! I should untie you!”

“Uh—wait—” he said, but she was already at the back of the chair.

The tie lay in a heap on the ground. Not around his wrists. Not tied to the chair. She blinked at the puddle of bright fabric. Confusion swamped her. “When— Wait—if you weren’t tied up, why didn’t you touch me?”

He stood and adjusted his pants before turning around. He was, for all intents and purposes, the same as he’d been before, minus one necktie. And she was standing here in her socks and a bra. She couldn’t even tie a man up.

“Why didn’t you touch me?” she asked again.

He came to her then, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight to him. “Because,” he said, his lips pressing against her forehead, “you tied me up. It was kind of like...making a promise, that you were in charge. I keep my promises.”

“Oh,”
she breathed. People didn’t often keep promises, not to her. Her mother hadn’t protected her, hadn’t managed her money. Her former fiancé hadn’t kept a single promise to her.

She had crazy Donald, who didn’t know who she was, and...Jo, who’d promised that she wouldn’t tell anyone about the months she’d spent with Whitney, wouldn’t tell a living soul where Whitney lived.

And now Matthew was promising to follow her wishes.

She didn’t know what to make of this.

From somewhere far away, his phone chimed. “Our lunch is probably ice-cold,” he said without letting her go or answering his phone.

At the mention of the word
cold
, she shivered. She was mostly naked, after all. “We haven’t had a successful meal yet.”

The phone chimed again. It seemed louder—more insistent. “I need to deal with some things. But if you want to hang out for a bit, I can take you home and we can try to have dinner out at the farm?”

“I’d like that.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, brushing his lips over hers as his phone chimed again and again. “So would I.”

Twelve

I
t was a hell of a mess. And what made it worse was that it was self-inflicted. He’d made this bed. Now he had to lie in it.

Matthew tried to focus on defusing the situation—which wasn’t easy, given that Whitney was exploring his apartment. Normally, he didn’t mind showing off his place. It was opulent by any normal standard—truly befitting a Beaumont.

But now? What would she see when she looked at his custom decorating scheme? Would she see the very best that money could buy or...would she see something else?

None of the other women he’d brought back here had ever focused on his parents’ wedding picture. They might have made a passing comment about how cute he was as a kid, but the other women always wanted to know what it was like being Phillip’s brother or meeting this actor or that singer. They wanted to know how awesome it was to be one of the famous Beaumont men.

Not Whitney. She already knew what fame felt like. And she’d walked away from it. She didn’t need it. She didn’t need other people’s approval.

What must she think of him, that he
did
need it? That he had to have the trappings of wealth and power—that he had to prove he was not just
a
Beaumont but the best one?

Focus.
He had a job to do—a job that paid for the apartment and the cars and, yes, the ties. Matthew didn’t know why Byron had gone after that chef. His gut told him there was a history there, but he didn’t know what it was and Byron wasn’t talking.

So Matthew did what he always did. He massaged the truth.

He lied.

The other guy had swung first. All Byron had done was complain about an underdone salmon steak, and the chef took it personally. Byron was merely defending himself. So what if that wasn’t what the police report said? As long as Matthew kept repeating his version of events—and questioning the motives of anyone who disagreed with him—sooner or later, his reality would replace the true events.

“What’s in here?” Whitney called out. Normally, he didn’t like people in general and women in particular to explore his space on their own. He kept his apartment spotless, so it wasn’t that. He liked to explain how he’d decided on the decorating scheme, why the Italian marble was really the only choice, how a television that large was really worth it. He liked to manage the message of his apartment.

He liked to manage the people in his apartment.

However, Whitney was being so damned adorable he couldn’t help but smile.

“Where?” he shouted back.

“Here— Oh! That’s a
really
big TV!”

He chuckled. “You’re in the theater room!”

“Wow...” Her voice trailed off.

He knew that in another five minutes they’d have almost the exact same conversation all over again.

Matthew realized he was humming as he gave his official Beaumont response to the “unfortunate” situation again and again. Byron was merely noting his displeasure with an undercooked dish. The Beaumonts were glad the cops were called so they could get this mess straightened out. They would have their day in court.

Then a new email popped up—this one wasn’t from a journalist but from Harper, his father’s nemesis.

“Thank you for inviting us to the reception of Phillip Beaumont and bride at the last second, but sadly, no one in the Harper family has the least interest in celebrating such an occasion.”

The old goat hadn’t even bothered to sign the kiss-off. Nice.

Normally, it would have bothered Matthew. Maybe it did, a little. But then Whitney called out, “You have your own gym? Really?”

And just like that, Matthew didn’t care about Harper.

“Really!” he called back. He sent off a short reply stating how very much Harper would be missed—Hardwick Beaumont had always counted him as a friend. Which was another bold-faced lie—the two men had hated each other from the moment Hardwick had seduced Harper’s first wife less than a month after Harper had married her. But Harper wasn’t the only one who could write a kiss-off.

Speaking of kissing...Matthew checked the weather, closed his computer and went looking for Whitney. She was standing in his bathroom, of all places, staring at the wide-open shower and the in-set tub. “It’s just you, right? Even the bathroom is monster huge!”

“Just me. You need to make a decision.”

Her eyes grew wide. “About what?”

He brushed his fingers through her hair. It’d gotten mussed up when she’d stripped for him. He liked it better that way. “The weather might turn later tonight. If you want to go back to the farm, we’ll need to leave soon.”

One corner of her mouth curved up. “
If
? What’s the other option?”

“You are more than welcome to stay here with me.” He looked around his bathroom. “I have plenty of room. And then I could show you how the shower works. And the bath.” He’d like to see that—her body wet as he soaped her up.

She gave him a look that was part innocence, part sheer seduction. A look that said she might like to be soaped up—but the thought scared her, as well. “I don’t have any of my things...”

He nodded in agreement. Besides, he tried to reason with himself, just because there hadn’t been paparazzi waiting for them when they got to the building didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be people out there in the morning. And the last thing he needed right now was someone to see him and the former Whitney Wildz doing the walk of shame.

“Besides,” she went on, looking surprisingly stern, “it’s Christmas—almost, anyway—and you don’t even have a tree. Why don’t you have a tree? I mean, this place is amazing—but no tree? Not a single decoration? Really?”

He brushed his fingertips over her cheeks again. He didn’t normally celebrate Christmas here. “I spend Christmas night with my mom. If they’re in town, Frances and Byron come by. She always has stockings filled with cheesy gifts like yo-yos and mixes for party dips. She has a small tree and a roasted turkey breast and boxed mashed potatoes—not high cuisine by any stretch.” He wouldn’t dare admit that to anyone else.

Christmas night was the one night of the year when he didn’t feel like Matthew Beaumont. Back in Mom’s small apartment, cluttered with photos of him and her and Frances and Byron—but never Hardwick Beaumont—Matthew felt almost as if he were still Matthew Billings.

It was a glimpse into the past—one that he occasionally let himself get nostalgic about, but it never lasted very long. Then, after he gave his mother the present he’d picked out for her—something that she could use but a nicer version than she could afford herself—he’d kiss her goodbye and come back to this world. His world. The world where he would never admit to being Matthew Billings. Not even for an afternoon.

Except he’d just admitted it to Whitney. And instead of the clawing defensiveness he usually felt whenever anyone brought up the Billings name, he felt...lighter.

Whitney gave him a scolding look. “It sounds lovely. I watch
It’s a Wonderful Life
and share a ham with Gater and Fifi. I usually bring carrots to the horses, that sort of thing.” She sighed, leaning into his arms. “I miss having someone to celebrate with. That’s why I came to this wedding. I mean, I came for Jo, but...”

“Tell you what—we’ll head back to the farm now, because it looks all Christmassy, and then—” his mouth was moving before he realized what he was saying “—then after the wedding, maybe we can spend part of Christmas together before you go home?”

“I’d like that.” Her cheeks flushed with warmth. “But I don’t have a present for you.”

He couldn’t resist. “You are the only present I want. Maybe even tied up with a bow....” He gathered her into his arms and pressed her back against the tiled wall with a rather heated kiss.

Several minutes passed before she was able to ask, “Are you done with your work?”

“For now, yes.” Later he’d have to log back in and launch another round of damage control. But he could take a few hours to focus on Whitney. “Let me take you home.”

She giggled. “I don’t think I have much of a choice in that, do I? My truck’s still out on the farm.” A look of concern crossed her face. “Can you drive your car in the snow?”

“I’m a Beaumont,” he said, his words echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom. “I have more than one vehicle.”

* * *

After a comfortable drive out to the farm in his Jeep, Whitney asked him if he’d stay for dinner. Jo had already set a place for him at the table and Phillip said, “Hang out, dude.”

So, after a quick check of his messages to make sure that nothing else had blown up, Matthew sat down to dinner—homemade fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Finally, over easy conversation about horses and celebrities, he and Whitney managed to successfully eat a meal together.

Then Jo said, “We’re going to watch
Elf
, if you want to join us.”

“I auditioned for that movie,” Whitney said, leaning into him. “But I was, um, under the influence at the time and blew it pretty badly, so Zooey Deschanel got the part. It’s still a really funny movie. I watch it every year.”

Matthew looked at Phillip, who was pointedly not smiling at the way Matthew had wrapped his arm around Whitney’s waist. “Sure,” Matthew heard himself say. “It sounds like fun.”

As the women popped popcorn and made hot chocolate, of all things, Phillip pulled him aside under the pretense of discussing the sound for the movie. “Who are you,” he said under his breath, “and what have you done with my brother Matthew?”

“Shove it,” Matthew whispered back. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not even with Phillip.

His brother did no such shoving. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he went on, “but weren’t you on the verge of personally throwing her out of the wedding a few nights ago?”

“Shove. It.”

“And yesterday—well, she’s an attractive woman. I can’t fault you for sleeping with her. But today?” Phillip shook his head, clearly enjoying himself. “Man, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be so...lovey-dovey.”

Matthew sighed. He wanted to deck Phillip so badly, but the wedding was in a matter of days. “Lovey-dovey?”

“Affectionate. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you touch a woman, outside of handshakes and photo ops. And you
never
just sit around and watch a movie. You’re always working.”

“I’ll have to log back on in a few hours. I’m still working.”

Phillip looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You can’t keep your hands off her.”

Matthew shrugged, hoping he looked noncommittal. He touched women. He took lovers. He was a Beaumont— having affairs was his birthright.

Boring
women, he remembered Phillip calling them yesterday. Women he took to stuffy restaurants and to their own place to bed them so no one would see that he’d had a guest overnight.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t affectionate. It was that he was careful. He had to be.

He wished Jo and Whitney would hurry the hell up with that popcorn. “I like her.”

“Which her? The fallen star or the horse breeder?”

“The horse breeder. I like her.”

Phillip clapped him on the shoulder. “Good answer, man. Good answer. The movie is ready, ladies,” he added as Jo and Whitney made their way over to them.

Matthew hurried to take the full mugs of cocoa— complete with marshmallows—from Whitney. Then Jo produced blankets. She and Phillip curled up on one couch with the donkey sitting at their feet as they munched popcorn and laughed at the movie.

Which left him and Whitney with the other couch. He didn’t give a rat’s ass for the popcorn. He set his cocoa down where he could reach it, then patted the couch next to him. Whitney curled up against his side and pulled the blankets over them.

“Do you watch a lot of movies?” he asked in a quiet voice, his mouth against her ear.

“I do. I get up really early when it’s warm—farmer’s hours—and I’m pretty tired at night. Sometimes I read—I like romances.” He could see the blush over her face when she said that, as if he’d begrudge her a happy ending. “It took a while before I could watch things like this and not think a bunch of what-ifs, you know?”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her onto his lap. Maybe Phillip was right. Maybe he wasn’t normally affectionate with the women who came into his life. But he
had
to touch Whitney.

They watched the movie. Whitney and Jo had clearly watched it together before. They laughed and quoted the lines at each other and had little inside jokes. Matthew’s phone buzzed a few times during the show, but he ignored it.

Phillip was right about one thing—when was the last time he’d taken a night off and just hung out? It’d been a while. Matthew tried to think—had he planned on taking a couple of days off after the wedding? No, not really. The wedding was the unofficial launch of Percheron Drafts, Chadwick’s new craft beer. Matthew had a 30 percent stake in the company. They were building up to a big launch just in time for the Big Game in February. The push was going to be hard.

He’d made plans to have dinner with his mother. That was all the time he’d originally allotted for the holiday. But now? He could take a few days off. He didn’t know when Whitney was heading back to California, but if she wanted to stick around, he would make time for her.

By the time the movie ended, he and Whitney were lying down, spooning under their blankets. He hadn’t had any popcorn, and the cocoa was cold, but he didn’t care. With her backside pressed against him, he was having a hard time thinking. Other things were also getting hard.

But there was a closeness that he hadn’t anticipated. He liked just holding her.

“I should go,” he said in her ear.

She sighed. “I wish you didn’t have to.”

Phillip and Jo managed to get untangled from their covers first. “Uh, Matthew?”

“Yeah?” He managed to push himself up into a sitting position without dumping Whitney on the floor.

“Icy.”

“You see what?”

“No, icy—as in ice. On your car. And the driveways.”

“Damn, really?” He waited long enough for Whitney to sit up. Then he walked to a window. Phillip was right. A glaze of ice coated everything. “The weather said snow. Not ice. Damn. I should have...”