The Morning After The Wedding Before (8 page)

Her breath caught and her blood fizzed through her veins like hot champagne. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

He swirled a finger beneath the fabric. ‘Your skin feels like warm satin. How many buttons?’ he asked again.

‘Twenty two.’

He muttered a soft short word under his breath.

‘Is that a problem?’

His eyes burned into hers. ‘I’ve never encountered a
problem with female clothing I couldn’t solve one way or another.’ And with a slow sexy grin he released her. ‘Okay, you’re free. For now.’

For now?
But she couldn’t deny the thrill of knowing he wanted her. That he was already figuring a way to get her out of her dress. That the women casting admiring glances his way were not even on his radar tonight—Emma Byrne was.

His proprietorial hand at her back manoeuvred her through the dancers as she made her way towards the bridal table. A middle aged Fred and Wilma Flintstone twirled by, a gay couple dressed as King Arthur and Merlin, a Beauty and a Beast.

‘Who’s the Roman warrior chatting up Bernice?’

Emma followed Jake’s gaze to a nearby table and snorted a half laugh. ‘He won’t get far with Mum.’ But to her surprise her mother smiled at something the middle-aged guy said. Then laughed. ‘Amazing.’ Emma smiled too. ‘Maybe I should invite him around some time as a distraction when I’m fed up with her.’

‘Hang on—that’s Ryan’s Uncle Stan from Melbourne. Divorced last year and looking good. Go, Stan.’

Emma took that moment to break away. ‘I have something I need to take care of.’

Leaving the sounds of laughter and music behind, she made her way to the honeymoon suite in another wing of the hotel with a basket of rose petals. A glance at her watch told her she had half an hour before the happy couple were due to leave the party and celebrate the end of their special day.

More than enough time to catch her breath and take a moment. Letting herself in with the keycard she’d been given at Reception, Emma flicked on the light. A soft glow filled the room, glinting on the massive brass bed and lending
a rich luxury to the sumptuous gold and burgundy furnishings. She leaned a shoulder against the door, drawing in air. She really needed to increase her daily workout.

Rubbish
. Emma knew her lack of fitness wasn’t the reason her lungs felt as if they’d shrunk two sizes. She could try telling herself her underwear was laced too tightly. The ballroom had been badly ventilated. She’d had too much of the fizzy stuff.

But there was only one reason, and thank God he was downstairs—

‘Need a hand?’

That familiar seductive drawl coated the back of her neck like hot honey, causing her to jolt and drop her little basket. She drew in a ragged breath. His question, which wasn’t a question at all, could only mean one thing, and it wasn’t an offer to help sprinkle her rose petals over the quilt.

‘Jake …’ The word turned into a moan as a warm mouth bit lightly into the sensitive spot where shoulder met neck. She simply didn’t have the strength or the will to pull away. ‘What are you doing here?’

He soothed the tender spot with his tongue and her toes curled up. ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ In one fluid move he spun her around. The door swung shut behind them and he rolled her against the wall, his hands hard and hot and heavy on her shoulders.

He didn’t give her time to answer or to think. One instant she was staring into a pair of heavy-lidded dark eyes, the next her mouth was being plundered by the wickedest pair of lips this side of the Yellow Brick Road.

He lifted his mouth a fraction and his breath whispered against her lips. ‘Is that clear enough?’

Perfectly. And just clear enough to have her remember where they were and what she’d come here to do. ‘Are
you out of your mind?’ She pushed at his chest. Uselessly. ‘Housekeeping could show up here any minute.’

‘Then we’ve got a minute.’ He grinned, dark eyes glinting. ‘Better make the most of it.’

Excitement whipped through her as his hands rushed down, his thumbs whisking over taut nipples, the heat of his palms searing her skin through the satin as he moulded them around her waist and over her belly with murmurs of appreciation.

There was nothing of the suave, sophisticated gentleman from this afternoon except perhaps the scent of his aftershave. This man was the wickedly handsome rogue bent on seduction that she’d always known him to be. Nothing for her to do but to look into those eyes and oh-so-willingly acquiesce.

He gathered handfuls of her voluminous skirt in his fists at either side of her, creating a cool draught around her knees as he ruched the fabric higher. ‘Do you want to tell me to stop?’ he murmured, leaning down to sip at her collarbone.

Only to stop wasting time
. A moan escaped as the tips of his fingers grazed the tops of her stockings, then came into smooth contact with naked flesh. He slid one sensuous finger beneath a suspender and up, to track along the edge of her panties.

He grinned again as he tossed her skirt up over her breasts. ‘How many layers have you got on under here?’

‘I don’t remember …’ Moisture pooled between her legs, dampening her silk knickers, and she didn’t know how much longer she could remain upright.

He watched her eyes while his finger cruised closer, curling inward, between her thighs, along the lacy edge of her knickers, almost but never quite touching where she wanted him to touch her most. And the spark she saw
in his gaze ignited a burn that wasn’t about to be extinguished any time soon.

‘Jake … Housekeeping—’

‘Tell me what you like. What you want.’

The husky demand turned her mind to mush, and she arched wantonly against his hand. Forget Housekeeping. ‘Anything. Everything.’ Clutching her skirt, she let her spinning head fall back against the door. ‘And quickly.’

He stepped between her legs, the sides of his shoes pushing her feet wider. One sharp tug. Two. The sound of fabric ripping. And she felt her knickers being whisked away from her body by impatient hands.

She trembled. She sighed. She hissed out a breath between her teeth. ‘Hurry.’

‘No.’ His thumb found her throbbing centre. ‘A job worth doing …’

‘Ah,
yesss …
’ A slow, sensuous glide over her swollen flesh—one touch—and the burn became a raging inferno.
So
worth doing …

How could one finger cause such utter devastation? Her eyes slid closed. Golden orbs pulsed across her vision. She felt as if she was standing on the rim of a volcano, yet she was the one about to erupt.

He touched her a second time, and she flew over the edge and into the hot and airless vortex, her inner muscles clamping around him.

She flattened her palms against the wall for balance, her breathing fast and harsh. She felt him step away on a draught of air, and opened her eyes in time to see him grin with promises yet to be fulfilled as he slipped out through the door.

Oh … My. God
. Emma sucked in a much needed calming breath. If she’d had the luxury of time she’d have slid down the wall and possibly passed out for the rest of the night.

He’d touched her twice.
Twice
. That was all it had taken to bring her to the most intense orgasm of her life. And then he’d nicked off like some pirate in the night, stealing her breath and her composure and leaving her with the possibility of facing Housekeeping alone.

Out
. She realised she was still clutching her skirt up to her chest and pushed it down quickly, her cheeks flaming, at the same time thanking her lucky stars that no one had turned up yet.

A hank of hair fell over one side of her face. She pushed it behind her ear. Panicked all over again, she scanned the floor for her knickers. No sign of them. Picking up her forgotten basket, she stumbled to the bed and dumped the petals in the centre, arranging them in a hasty circle. She placed the two heart-shaped soaps she’d made with Ryan’s and Stella’s names in gold leaf in the centre, then made her way quickly downstairs, where the couple were preparing to farewell the guests.

She didn’t see Jake amongst the crowd until he appeared in the doorway ten minutes later. Their gazes clashed hotly across the room. He was the only one who knew she was
naked beneath her gown and her cheeks flamed anew. She prayed he’d stay away from her for the next little while, because they both had their respective duties before the social part of the evening was over.

Neatly sidestepping as Stella threw her bouquet in Emma’s direction—she wasn’t falling for that old trick—she saw Jake follow the bridal couple out.

She moved among the guests, catching up with friends and relatives. She was on tenterhooks, expecting Jake to tap her on the shoulder at any moment, and she didn’t know how she was going to hide the guilty pleasure from her expression.

The band was still playing and guests lingered, enjoying the music. Some danced; others gravitated towards the bar next to the lobby. A while later, when Jake still hadn’t shown his face, the glow cooled, to be replaced by an anxious fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Was he coming back? Was he expecting
her
to look for
him
after his impromptu seduction?

She didn’t know what game they were playing—had no idea of the rules.
Damn him
. Collecting her hat and parasol from behind the concierge’s desk, she made her way towards the bar.

Jake waved Ry and Stella off and headed straight for Reception. Business taken care of there, he stopped to collect a couple of sightseeing brochures on his way to the lobby bar.

He found a comfortable armchair in the corner, from where he could see the ballroom, and signalled the waiter. He knew Emma was still in there. He’d give her some space but if she didn’t materialise in ten minutes he was damn well going in there and hauling her out.

Folding the brochures, he slid them into his jacket
pocket. His fingers collided with silk. Emma’s panties. He remembered her surprise, the passion in those deep blue eyes, when he’d stripped them off. The way her lips had parted on a moan of pleasure when he’d first touched that intimate flesh.

His body tightened all over again. The next time Emma writhed and moaned against him … He smiled to himself in anticipation. He had definite plans for the way their evening was going to go.

Han Solo and Princess Leia exited, with a lone cowboy in tow. No sign of Emma. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils and rechecked his watch. Was she saying a personal goodnight to everyone in the bloody ballroom?

His order arrived with a paper napkin and a bowl of peanuts. He set the unopened bottle of champagne and two glasses on the floor beside his chair and reached for his beer.

‘Good evening, Rhett.’

Jake took a second or two to catch on that the sultry come-hither voice was directed at him. He glanced up to see a well-endowed woman in her mid-thirties or thereabouts, in an embroidered medieval get-up, holding a cocktail glass brimming with blue liquid and a cherry on a stick.

He lifted his glass and drained half of it down then set it back on the table. ‘Hi.’

She took his half-smile as an invitation and spread herself out on the chair opposite him, placing her glass up close to his. She lifted the little stick to her mouth.

‘So.’ He kept his eyes off the cleavage obviously on offer and leaned back, crossed his legs. ‘Who are you tonight?’

Slipping the cherry between her glossed lips, she tossed her mane of auburn hair over her shoulder and aimed a killer smile at him. ‘The Lady of Shalott.’

He took his time to say, ‘No Mr Shalott?’

She giggled. The sound grated the way feet scrabbling down a rubbled cliff face to certain death grated. Clearly she thought he was interested in her as the night’s entertainment. And at some other time he might have been interested. Or not.

‘There
was
no Mr Shalott. It’s a poem,’ she informed him, in case he didn’t know.

‘Yes, Tennyson. Tragic circumstances. The girl loved Lancelot but he really wasn’t that into her, was he?’

She leaned forward on the edge of her chair. ‘But he didn’t
know
her. If he’d taken the time, things might’ve turned out different.’

‘But not necessarily for the better. Lancelot had his eye on someone else. The lady would’ve been disappointed.’ A thought occurred to him and he tried to recall if he knew her. ‘You and Ry weren’t …?’ He jiggled a hand in front of them.

She grinned. ‘No. I had no idea the groom was going to be Lancelot. I’m Ryan’s cousin. Kylie. From Adelaide.’

‘Ah … yes. Cousin Kylie from Adelaide.’

He’d heard about Wily Kylie—two husbands down, on the prowl for her third. He suddenly needed a drink, and lifted his beer.

Following suit, Kylie raised her glass and tapped it to his. Her eyes drifted to his mouth. ‘To a good night.’

Not if I hang around here it won’t be
. Like an addict, he suddenly craved the woman he’d partnered all day, not this silicone bimbo looking for rich husband number three.
Emma
. A woman with a real body and a smile that could quite possibly melt his heart if he wasn’t careful.

‘And a good night to you too.’ He drained the glass and set it down on the napkin, then picked up his bottle and
glasses, rose and executed a bow. ‘Welcome to Sydney, Lady Kylie, enjoy your stay.’

He didn’t wait for a reply, simply turned on his heel and headed towards the ballroom to find Emma.

Emma’s hands shook so much she could barely swipe the keycard through its slot. On the third try she managed to let herself in and lean back against the door. She felt physically ill—as if the five-tiered wedding cake had lodged in her stomach.

One hand clenched on her parasol, she rubbed her free hand over her heart and up her throat. Jake hadn’t come near her since their upstairs ‘encounter’. For want of a better word. Never mind that she’d stupidly tried to avoid him; that was totally beside the point.

Flinging her hat into the air, she watched it sail across the room. She’d been hanging around in the ballroom, expecting him to come and find her. But he hadn’t. When it came to guys like him she really was
so
naïve.

Then
she’d
found
him
. In the lobby bar … with a woman who
looked
like a woman, not some under-developed teenager.

The soft knock at the door behind her had her whirling around. Heart pounding in her throat, she yanked the door open.

Jake leaned on the doorjamb, his jacket slung over one shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled back. His hair was a little mussed, his cravat was gone, and the top button of his shirt was undone, leaving his throat tantalisingly exposed. He dangled a bottle of champagne and two glasses in his free hand.

His eyes met hers. They burned with such hot, unsatisfied hunger her throat closed over and she couldn’t raise
so much as a whisper. All she could think was he’d come for her.
Her
.

He lifted the bottle. ‘You going to let me in? Or do you want the entire floor to know the best man’s planning a hot night with the bridesmaid?’ He grinned as he slid sideways and passed her, brushing his liquor-tinged lips over hers on his way. ‘I hope you hadn’t planned on starting without me.’

She took a moment to catch his meaning, then a wild fire swept up her neck and into her cheeks. All she managed was a gurgling sound at the back of her throat.

She closed the door and leaned back against it, heart pounding as she watched him toss his jacket over the couch, watched the way his muscles bunched beneath his shirt. His hair held the gleam of burnished gold threads amongst the brown.

He glanced back at her as he walked to a little round table topped with a crystal vase of fresh blooms. ‘You weren’t running out on me, were you?’

‘You … you were otherwise occupied.’ She found her voice.

He frowned. ‘I was
waiting
for you.’

‘I didn’t know.’ The door felt hard, the row of buttons digging into her spine.

He set the bottle and glasses down, brows raised, eyes dark as midnight. ‘You
didn’t know?
Jeez, woman.’

‘I thought maybe you’d …’
found someone more desirable, more attractive
‘… changed your mind.’

‘What? This weekend’s about you and me, remember?’

Her chin lifted. ‘I never agreed.’ Exactly.

‘You …’ He shook his head, eyes changing, finally comprehending. ‘Come on, Emma, do you really think I’d go for that type downstairs?’

‘I … hoped not.’ She swallowed, relief softening her
limbs, and allowed herself a smile. ‘Because then I’d have to hit you with my parasol.’

He grinned back at her, eyes wicked. ‘Maybe I’ll let you. Later.’

‘Um …’ Was she really up for an experienced man like Jake?

He popped the cork off the champagne bottle. ‘Tonight’s been a foregone conclusion all along, and we both know it.’

Yes. And for this moment, for what was left of the weekend, or for however long this spark burned, she knew without a doubt she wanted to make love with Jake more than her next breath.

He set the bottle down. ‘Come here and kiss me.’

She needed no second bidding. Crossing the few steps between them, she flattened herself against his chest, her arms circling his neck, fingers diving into his hair as she fused her mouth to his.

Heat met heat. Not sweet and tender—not even close. Not with Jake. Nor did she want it so. This melding of selves and mashing of lips was a dark, dangerous mix of pent-up passion and long-held desires. Exactly what she wanted.

Hard hands dragged her closer, then zigged down her spine to press her bottom against him so that she could feel the steel ridge of his erection. Persuasive pressure. Promised delights.

He lifted his lips to murmur, ‘Emma, Emma, you’ve been driving me crazy all evening. All week.’

His admission thrilled her to her toes. ‘Same goes …’ Dazed and dizzy, she arched her hips against his hardness and clung to him, welcoming the scrape of evening beard as he worked his lips and teeth up her throat, down the side of her neck, over her décolletage.

Impatient hands skimmed over her breasts, kneading and squeezing, deft fingers finding her aching nipples through the satin and rolling them into hardened peaks.

The delicate fragrance of the valley’s sweet-scented wattle and eucalypt from the arrangement on the table mingled with the hot scent of aroused man as he laved the swell of her breasts above the neckline of her dress, then bent his head lower to nip and suck at her nipples through the fabric.

He made a sound of frustration, lifted his head and leaned back slightly to look at her. Light from the chandelier wall bracket glinted in his eyes, but the heat, the purpose she saw there, burned with its own fire.

‘How many buttons did you say?’

Oh
. ‘Buttons …’ She raised her arms to help but he didn’t give her time. In a frenzy of movement, he fisted his hands in the fabric at her shoulders and yanked. She felt the satin give way down her back as buttons popped and pinged. ‘Uh …’

‘I know a dressmaker …’

Of course he did.

Dropping to his knees, he pushed the ruined garment and accompanying petticoats to her feet. She stepped out of the mound of puddled satin, kicked it away, leaving her wearing nothing but her laced bustier and stockings.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ he murmured, voice husky. A corner of his mouth kicked up in a wry smile. ‘And armour-plated yet again.’

Goosebumps of heat followed his gaze as it swept up her corset-trapped body to meet her eyes. ‘Not quite. You do have my panties … don’t you?’ she finished on a slightly panicked note.

‘They’re mine now.’ He looked down at the feminine
secrets exposed below the suspenders, then back, his eyes burning. ‘I want to see all of you.’

He knelt in front of her, took off her shoes then unhitched her stockings, warm hands gliding them down her legs, breath hot on her naked skin. She lifted each foot so he could slide them off and toss them away.

Hands shaking, she started to fumble for the laces. Her breasts weren’t … ‘I’m not—’

Laying a finger on her lips, he shook his head.

Taking her hands in his, he spread them wide so that their bodies bumped in all the right places, then, fingers entwined, brought them in close and began to waltz. Tiny steps, his thighs pressing against hers. He swayed her towards the massive four-poster bed. She could almost hear the dusky beat of Stella’s chosen song that they’d danced to earlier.

She felt the corner of the bed against her thighs as he backed her up against the bedpost. Watching her, he turned her hands palm up, kissed the inside of each wrist, where her pulse beat a rock concert’s applause, then curled each finger around the smooth wooden bedpost above her head.

‘And don’t let go,’ he ordered, squeezing them for good measure, fingers trailing down her raised arms, leaving little shivers sparkling in their wake.

The erotic pose triggered within her an avalanche of wild needs and urgent demands. Her breasts thrust upwards, straining at the bustier’s confines, nipples tight to the point of pain and on fire for his touch.