His Not-So-Blushing Bride: Marriage with Benefits / Improperly Wed / A Breathless Bride

“Stop being so stubborn, Wheeler. The bed is yours. Sleep in it.”

Coconut and lime hit his nose, and the resulting pang to the abdomen put a spike in his temper. “Darlin’, you go right ahead and blow every gasket in that pretty little head of yours. I’m not sleeping in the bed when you’re on the floor. It’s not right.”

She made a frustrated noise in her throat. “Why do you always have to be such a gentleman about everything?”

“’Cause I like to irritate you,” he said easily.

She flipped back to face the wall. As he was about to snap out more witticisms, her shoulders started shaking.

“Hey,” he called. “Are you crying?”

“No,” she hissed, followed by a wrenching sob.

“Aw, honey, please don’t cry. If it’ll make you feel better, you can call my mother and yell at her for teaching me manners. Either way, I’m not sleeping in the bed unless you do.”

This pronouncement was greeted with a flurry of sobbing. Every ounce of temper drained away.

Obviously, his manners weren’t as well practiced as he’d bragged, and he’d been too worked up to remember arguing and prickliness were Cia’s way of deflecting the comfort she sorely needed but refused to ask for.

He scuttled forward and cursed the binding sheet and sandpaper carpet impeding his progress, but finally he wormed close enough to gather her in his arms. “Shh. It’s okay.”

She stiffened as the war going on inside her spread out to encompass her whole body. Then, all at once, she surrendered, melting into a puddle of soft, sexy woman against him, nestling her head on his shoulder and settling her very nice backside tight against his instantly firm front side.

Hell on a horse. He’d only been trying to get her to stop crying. He honestly expected her to kick him away. The sheet chafed against his bare erection, spearing his lower half with white-hot splinters. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. It didn’t help.

Prickly Cia he could resist all day long. Vulnerable Cia got under his skin.

Her trim body was racked with sobs against his, yet he was busy trying to figure out what she had on under that pile of sheets. Moron.

He shut his eyes and pulled her tighter into his arms, where she could sob to her heart’s content for as long as it took. His arousal ached every time he moved, but he stroked her hair and kept stroking until she fell still a million excruciating years later.

“Sorry.” She sniffed into the sudden silence. “I’m just so tired.”

He kept stroking her hair in case the torrent wasn’t over. And because he liked the feel of its dark glossiness. “That wasn’t tired. That was distraught.”

“Yeah.” A long sigh pushed her chest against his forearm. “But I’m tired, too. So tired I can’t pretend I hate it when you calm me down. I don’t know what’s worse, the day I had or having to admit you’ve got the touch.”

His hand froze, dark strands of her hair still threaded through his fingers. “What’s so bad about letting me make you feel better?”

She twisted out of his arms and impaled him with the evil eye. “I hate being weak. I hate you seeing my weaknesses. I hate—”

“Not being able to do everything all by yourself,” he finished and propped his head up with a hand since she was no longer curled in his arms. “You hate not being a superhero. I get it. Lie down now and take a deep breath. Tell me what tall building you weren’t able to leap today, the one that made you cry.”

Her constant inner battle played out over her face. She fought everything, even herself. No wonder she was tired.

With a shuddery sigh, she lay on the pillow, facing him, and light from the TV highlighted her delicate cheekbones. Such a paradox, the delicacy outside veiling the core of steel inside. Something hitched in his chest.

Oh, yeah. This strong woman hated falling. But he liked being the only one she would let catch her.

“One of the women at the shelter …” she began and then faltered. Threading their fingers together, he silently encouraged her to go on. A couple of breaths later, she did. “Pamela. She went back to her husband. That bastard broke her arm when he shoved her against a wall. And she went back to him. I tried to talk her out of it. For hours. Courtney talked to her, too. Nothing we said mattered.”

He vaguely recalled Courtney was Cia’s friend and also her partner in the new shelter. A psychologist. “You can’t save everyone.”

She pulled their fingers apart. “I’m not trying to save everyone. Just Pamela. I work with these women every day, instilling confidence. Helping them see they can be self-sufficient …” Her voice cracked.

She looked at this as failure—as her failure. Because these women, and what she hoped to accomplish with them, meant something, and she believed in both. It went way past fulfilling her mother’s wishes. Her commitment was awe inspiring.

The line between her eyes reappeared. “She threw it all out to go back to a man who abused her. He might kill her next time. What could possibly be worth that?”

“Hope,” he said, knowing his little psych minor couldn’t see past her hang-ups. “Hope people can change. Hope it might be different this time.”

“But why? She has to know it’s got a one hundred percent certainty of ending badly.”

“Honey, I hate to rain on your parade, but people naturally seek companionship. We aren’t meant to be alone, despite all your insistence to the contrary. This Pamela needs to hope the person she chose to marry is redeemable so they can get on with their lives together. Without hope, she has nothing.”

Hair spilled into her face when she shook her head. “That’s not true. She has herself, the only person she can truly rely on. The only person who can make sure she’s taken care of.”

“Are you talking about Pamela or Cia?”

“Don’t go thinking you’re smart for shoving a mirror in my face. It’s true for both of us, and I’ve never had any illusions about my beliefs, particularly in relation to men.”

“Illusions, no. Blind spots, yes.” He ventured a little closer. “You’re so black-and-white. You saw the trust clause and assumed your grandfather intended to manipulate you into a marriage where you’d be dominated by a man. You said it yourself. He wants you to be taken care of. Allowing someone to take care of you isn’t weakness.”

Her mouth tightened. “I can take care of myself. I have money, I have the ability to—”

“Darlin’, there’s more to being cared for than money.” He swept a lock of hair off her shoulder and used the proximity as an excuse to run his hand across her silky skin again. “You have physical needs, too.”

“Oh, my God. You do indeed have a gift. How in the world did you manage to drop sex into this conversation?”

He grinned in spite of the somber tone of their illuminating conversation. “Hey, I didn’t say anything about sex. That was you. I was talking about holding you while you cry. But if you want to talk about sex, I could find some room in my schedule. Maybe start with telling me the most sensitive place on your body. Keep in mind, I’ll want to test it, so be honest.”

She smacked him on the arm without any real heat. “You’re unbelievable. I’m not having sex with you simply because we’ve been forced into sharing a room.”

Touching him on purpose. Would wonders never cease? He caught her gaze. “Then do it because you want to.”

Her frame bristled from crown to toe, and the sheet slipped down a few tantalizing inches. “I don’t want to, Wheeler! You think you’re God’s gift to women and it never occurs to you some of us are immune to all your charm and … and—” her hungry gaze skittered over his chest, which he had not hidden under a sheet mummy-style, like she had “—sexiness. Stop trying to add another notch to your bedpost.”

Could she have protested any more passionately? “Okay.”

“Okay?” One eye narrowed and skewered him. “Just like that, you’re giving up?”

“That was not an okay of concession. It was an okay, it’s time to change the subject. Roll over.”

“What? Why?”

A growl rumbled through his chest. “Because I said so. You need to relax or you’ll never go to sleep. If you don’t go to sleep, you’ll keep arguing with me, and then I won’t sleep. I’m just going to massage your shoulders. So shut up and do it.”

Warily, she rolled, and he peeled the sheet from her as she spun, resettling it at her waist. Tank top with spaghetti straps. Not the sexiest of nightclothes, but when he lifted the dark curtain of hair away from her neck, the wide swath of bare skin from the middle of her back up to her hairline pleaded for his touch.

So he indulged.

First, he traced the ridges of her spine with his fingertips, imprinting the textures against his skin. Once he reached her neck, he went for her collarbone, following it around to the front and back again.

She felt amazing.

He wanted more of her naked flesh under his fingers. Under his body. Shifting against his skin, surrounding him with a hot paradox of hard and soft.

The stupid floor blocked his reach, so he settled for running his fingers over her exposed arm, trying to gauge whether she’d notice if he slipped the tank top strap off her shoulder.

“What, exactly, are you doing?” She half rolled to face him. “This is the least relaxing massage I’ve ever had.”

“Really?” he asked nonchalantly and guided her back into place. No way was he missing a second of unchecked access to Cia. “Someone who’s immune to my charms should have no problem relaxing while I’m impersonally rubbing her shoulders.”

“Hmpf.” She flipped back to face the wall. Must not hate it too much.

He let the grin spread wide and kneaded her neck muscles. “Darlin’, there’s no sin in enjoying it when someone touches you.”

She snorted but choked on it as his hand slid up the inside of her arm again and a stray finger stroked her breast. He needed the tank top gone and that breast cupped in his palm.

“There is the way you do it,” she rasped.

“You know,” he said, closing the gap between them, spooning her heated back to murmur in her ear, a millimeter from taking the smooth lobe into his mouth. “I don’t for a moment believe I’m God’s gift to women. Women are God’s gift to man. The female form is the most wonderful sight on earth. The beautiful design of your throat, for example.”

He dragged his mouth away from her ear and ran his lips down the column of her neck. “I could live here for a decade and never completely discover all the things I love about it,” he said, mouthing the words against her skin.

He was so hard and so ready to sink into her, his teeth hurt.

Her head fell back onto his shoulder, her eyes closed and her lashes fluttered, fully exposing the area under discussion. Her sweet little body arched in wanton invitation, spreading against his. He wanted to dive in, find Dulciana’s gorgeous, gooey center and feast on it.

This visceral attraction would be satisfied, here and now.

“Lucas,” she breathed, and his erection pulsed. “Lucas, we can’t. You have to stop.”

“Why?” He slid a hand under her tank top, fanning his palm out on her flat stomach and working it north. Slowly. Familiarizing his fingertips with velvety skin. “And if you use that smart mouth to lie to me again about your lack of interest, I will find something better to do with it.”

“I doubt even I could pull off that lie anymore,” she said wryly.

The admission was so sweet, he couldn’t help it.

He found her lips and consumed them, kissing her with every bit of frustrated, pent-up longing. And God Almighty, her lips parted just enough, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth, tasting her, reveling in the hot slide of flesh.

For a few magnificent seconds she tasted him back, triggering a hard coil of lust.

But then she ripped her lips away, mumbling, “No more,” as his thumb brushed the underside of her breast.

She bowed up with a gasp, and his erection tingled. She was so responsive, like it had been ages since she’d … He pulled his hand free and gripped her chin to peer into her eyes. “Hold up a sec. You’re not a virgin, are you?”

That would explain a few things.

He let his fingers fall away as she sat up. “My past experience is not the issue. We agreed to keep this business only.”

No. No more of this endless circling. Business only disappeared eons ago, and she knew it as well as he did.

“Why are you here, in my bedroom? You could have easily moved your stuff and still slept in your room. But you didn’t. Your signals are so mixed up, you’ve even confused yourself. Talk to me, honey. No more pretending. Why the roadblocks, when it’s obvious we both want this?”

She crossed her arms and clamped her mouth shut. But then she said, “I don’t like being some big challenge. If I give in, you win. Then off you go to your cave to beat your chest and crow over your prize.”

“Give in?” He shook his head to clear it. They should both be naked and using their mouths on each other. Not talking. “You better believe you challenge me. Something fierce, too, I’ll admit. You challenge me to be better than I ever thought I could be, to rise to the occasion and go deep so I can keep up. I dig that seven ways to Sunday. Feel what you do to me, Cia.”

Her eyes went liquid as he flattened her hand over his thundering heart, and when the muscle under her cool palm flexed, she curled her fingers as if trying to capture his response. She weaved closer, drawn by invisible threads into his space.

“You’re so incredibly intelligent,” he continued, fighting to keep from dragging her against him and sinking in like he ached to do. She had to choose this on her own. “How have you not figured out that gives you all the power? I’m just a poor, pathetic man who wants to worship at the altar of the goddess.”

She hesitated, indecision and longing stamped all over her face. Whatever stopped her from jumping in—and it wasn’t dislike of being a challenge—drove the battle inside of her to a fever pitch. She spent way too much energy thinking instead of feeling and way too much time buried in shadows.

And here he was trying to help her fix that, if she’d lay down that stubborn for a minute.

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, and I like that about you,” he said. “We both know strings aren’t part of the deal. This is about one thing only. Sex. Fantastic, feel-good, uncomplicated sex. Nobody gets hurt. Everyone has fun. Sounds perfect for an independent woman with a divorce on the horizon, doesn’t it?”

“Seducing me with logic. Devious.”

“But effective.”

The curve of her lips set off a tremor in his gut. “It’s getting there.”

Hallelujah. He threw his last-ditch inside straight on the table. “Then listen close. Let me take care of you. Physically. You give to your women till it hurts. Take for once. Let me make you feel good. Let me help you forget the rest of the world for a while. Use me, I insist. Do I benefit from it, too? Absolutely. That’s what makes for a great partnership.”

He’d laid the foundation for a new, mutually beneficial agreement. The next move had to be hers. She needed to be in control of her fate, and he needed to know she could never accuse him of talking her into it.

“Now, darlin’, the floor sucks. I’m going to get in that nice, comfortable bed over there and if you want to spend the next few hours being thoroughly pleasured, join me. If not, don’t. You make the choice.”

Eight

C hoice.

Instead of seducing her, Lucas had given her a choice. And with that single empowering act, Cia’s uncertainty disappeared.

They were partners—equals—and he’d done nothing but respect that, and respect her, from the very beginning. He got her in ways she’d only begun to realize. Domination was not part of his makeup, and all he wanted from her was to join him in taking pleasure from sex, the way he took pleasure from every aspect of life.

She longed to indulge in the foreign concept, to seize what she wanted—Lucas.

To let his talents wash away all the doubt and frustration and disappointment about Pamela and help Cia forget everything except how he made her feel. He’d stripped the complexity from the equation and, suddenly, sex didn’t mean she’d lose something.

The only way Lucas Wheeler could take a chunk of her soul when he left was if she gave it to him. She wouldn’t. Simple as making a choice. Who knew the secret to avoiding emotional evisceration was to lay out divorce terms first?

She stood and crossed the carpet with sure steps until her knees hit the side of the bed. Lucas lounged against a pillow, watching her, sheet pulled up to midtorso, bisecting the trio of intriguing tribal circles tattooed along the left edge of his ribs.

His eyes were on fire.

He was so gorgeous, and he was all hers for the night. As many nights as she chose, apparently. A shiver shimmied up her back, part anticipation and part nerves.

“You want to know what tipped the scales?” she asked, arms crossed so it wasn’t obvious her hands were shaking.

“More than I want to take my next breath.”

She eyed the length of his body stretched out in the bed. “Ironically, that you were willing to sleep on the floor.”

He laughed, and the vibration thrummed through her abdomen. “So you’re saying I had you at hello?”

“No. I’m pretty sure you had me at Versace. It’s painful to admit I was so easily bought with a designer gown.” She said it flippantly, so he’d know she was kidding.

Except she wasn’t, exactly. It was difficult to swallow how much she liked his gifts. What did that say about her?

“I’m glad one of us thinks this was easy. I’ve never worked so hard to get a woman into bed in my life.”

“An unrecoverable blow to your ego, no doubt.” She cocked her hip and jammed a hand down on it. Had she been so exhausted less than an hour ago that she could barely stand? Adrenaline and a hefty craving for Lucas coursed through her. “And it’s so funny, but I’d swear I’m not actually in bed yet. Perhaps your work isn’t done after all.”

With a growl, he flung off the sheet, sprang up from the mattress and crawled toward her, completely, beautifully naked. Her mouth went dry.

Wickedness flashed through his expression, and the shiver it unleashed in her this time was all anticipation. She absolutely could not mistake how much she turned him on.

This was all for her. Not for him. He’d said so, and she intended to hold him to it.

He rose up on his knees in front of her and extended a hand. She took it and braced to be yanked onto the bed. Instead, he held each finger to his lips and kissed them individually. By the time he reached the pinkie, he’d added licking and sucking and the rough texture of his tongue burned across her flesh.

He pressed her palm to his chest and left it there. Then, he cupped her face reverently. “Beautiful. So beautiful.”

Before she could squawk out a lame “Thank you,” he captured her mouth with his and held the kiss, lips suspended in time, and a tornado of need whirled through her womb.

Slowly, he angled his head and parted her mouth with his lips, and heat poured into her body. His tongue found hers, gliding forward and back in a sensuous dance.

Her nails dug into his rock-hard chest, scrabbling for purchase to keep her off the carpet. The kiss went on and on and stoked the flame of desire higher and higher in her belly.

Slow. It was all about slow with Lucas, and it was exquisite torture. She needed more, needed him now.

She broke away and reached for him, but he shook his head. His hands skimmed up her arms and down her back, came around to the front again, and both thumbs hooked the hem of her tank top. Gradually, he drew it skyward as he watched her from below half-closed lids.

“You’re, um, not going to make me get in the bed?” she asked hoarsely.

“Nope.” He pulled her top free from her raised arms and tossed it over his shoulder, and then he encircled her waist with an arm to draw her closer, his gaze ravenous as it traveled over her bare breasts. “You chose not to get in bed. I choose to take care of you right where you’re at.”

Her nipples rubbed his naked torso and beaded instantly and fire erupted in her womb, drawing a moan from deep in her throat. If he kept whispering that whiskey-smooth voice across her bare skin, it wouldn’t take long to rip a verbally induced climax out of her. But she hoped for a hands-on approach.

He obliged her. One hand glided to the small of her back and pushed, jutting her breasts up and allowing him to capture a nipple with his tongue in a searing, swirling lasso.

She gripped his shoulders, lost in a slow spiral toward brainlessness as he sucked and laved at her sensitive flesh.

He switched sides and treated the other nipple to his magically delicious mouth. When he skated hard teeth across the peak, her legs buckled. Why hadn’t she gotten in bed?

His hand delved inside her shorts, along her bare bottom. His fingers slipped into the crevice, lifting her and crushing her to his torso, supporting her.

The shock of Lucas touching her there had her gasping, but a solid pang of want swallowed the shock. “Madre de Dios.”

Lucas groaned against her breast. With it still in his mouth, he mumbled, “I love it when you talk dirty.”

A throaty laugh burst out of her. “It means mother of God, dingbat.”

“I don’t care. Anything you say in Spanish sounds dirty. Say something else.” He licked his way down her stomach and bit the tie on her shorts, pulling the strings loose with his mouth.

“Quiero que ahora—”

And then her brain shut off when he yanked down her shorts and panties. He turned her and pressed her spine to his torso, settling her rear against his hard length. His firm arm snaked between her breasts, locking her in place, and his clever fingers slid down her stomach to find her center.

He mouthed her throat and rubbed the hard button between her folds until she squirmed against the restraining band of steel disguised as his arm.

One finger slid inside and then two, in and out, and her head rolled against his shoulder in a mindless thrash. So good, so hot. So everything.

His heavy arousal burned into the soft flesh of her bottom, thrilling her. His thumb worked her nub in a circle and the sensuous onslaught swirled into one bright gathering point against his fingers. She came so hard she cried out.

The ripples tightened her inner walls around his fingers, and he plunged his fingers in again and again to draw out the climax to impossible lengths until, finally, it ended in a spectacular burst.

Lucas had just ruined her for any other man.

Too spent to stand on her own, she slumped in his arms and her knees gave out. The additional weight must have caught him off guard, and she pulled him down with her. In a tangle of limbs, they hit the carpet, and Lucas laughed as he rolled her back into his arms.

“There you have it,” he said into her hair. “Now we don’t have to lie. Next time someone asks why we got married, you can truthfully say we fell for each other.”

A giggle slipped out and cleared the fog in her head, along with any lingering tension from being with Lucas, naked and exposed. His ability to bring the fun was unparalleled.

He picked her up and laid her gently on the bed.

“The first one is for you,” he said, eyes crystal clear blue and dazzling. “The next one is for me.”

“That’s fair.” She cleared her throat. He deserved more than she knew how to give him. “Lucas? I’m nowhere near as um … practiced at this as you are. However, I promise to give it my best shot.”

She dragged an elbow under her to sit up but he knocked it away. She flopped back on the tangle of sheets and watched as he straddled her, powerful thighs preventing his gorgeous body from crushing her.

All of him was beautiful, but in this position, the really good stuff lay at eye level. She didn’t hesitate to look her fill and reached out to run her palms along his legs. So hard and so delectable.