He paused, his forehead scrunched at whatever Eli said.
“Veal and tea cakes with the cucumber shit,” Brek replied and shoved his thumb against the off button.
“Planning a wedding takes time. You can’t do it in less than a week.” Velma slumped to the love seat and fell back against the cushions, knees together, ankles wide.
“Eh. We’ll make it happen.” He sat down next to her, squishing her against the armrest. Remarkably unconcerned. “Dang. We’ll need a cake. I’ll have to figure that out.”
If he wasn’t careful, he would end up making it worse. What if the whole thing blew up in his face? Shooting from the hip at this point was a horrible idea. Calculated effort. Careful preplanning. Those were needed now, not gut feelings.
“I set up the conference room for a reason. Why couldn’t we have met there?” She angled herself away from him.
“Velma,” he said calmly. Too calmly.
She ignored him.
He turned her face toward him with a fingertip on her chin. “Did you see how close Troy and Sophie were? If you buy into that love language stuff, Sophie was absolutely into his touch. Makin’ ’em sit on the sofa here meant he had to keep touchin’ her. Moving to the conference table meant space. They didn’t need space. They needed touch. Which, by the way, for the record, my love language is fuc—”
“What do you know about love languages?” she asked, ignoring the fact that he had a point about Sophie and where they should’ve held their appointment.
“I know your love language is acts of service. Which, if you’d just relax a bit, I’d service you. Here. On this couch.” He pressed on the cushions, bouncing them in illustration.
“We’d have to close the blinds.” She tried really hard not to smile at him. She failed. Perhaps she had a dirty love language, too.
“Good thing I brought the remote.” He clicked something and the shades on the front windows slid down.
He kissed her shoulder, working his way along her neck.
“Is what you’re planning for Sophie and Troy even legal?”
He smiled a devilish half grin. “Nope.”
Chapter Seventeen
Brek shifted the phone against his ear, signed the credit card slip, and grabbed the pink garment box from the counter at the bridal salon. “Really need to lock in that contract. Anything I can do?”
“Can we meet up in Kansas City when I stop there? Hash out the details?” Hans asked.
“Right. Can’t do that. I’ll be stuck in Denver for a few more weeks.”
“Let me check with the boys, see if anyone wants to swing by Denver.” Hans hollered something to one of the band members spending the week with him. “Maybe play a club. Remind the boys why they play.”
“That’d be great. See what you can come up with.”
“Will do. We’ll catch up later.”
“Sounds good.” Brek ended the call, let out a breath, and frowned at the counter.
He had done his best to keep Aspen’s business alive, but his was suffering. One of his boys had checked out of rehab two days ago, which meant Brek needed to be on damage control, not schmoozing editors for a bridal blog. Presently, he couldn’t leave town. Not until Dean and Claire’s wedding was over.
“Thanks again,” he said to the woman behind the counter.
“Hope she likes it,” she replied.
So did he. Damn, he hoped Velma liked it.
Brek expected Velma would be home from work by the time he got there, but the apartment was empty. He dropped the box on the counter and was midtext to find her when the door opened. Velma came through with two oversized Macy’s bags on her arm.
“I have news.” Her cheeks flushed as she tossed the bags and her purse onto the couch and entered the kitchen.
When she buried her head against his chest and squeezed him, he smiled and held her close.
She planted a kiss on his cheek and filled a glass at the sink.
“I got you something.” He picked up the box with the red lettering and slid it across the granite countertop.
“You didn’t have to do that.” She set down her cup to untie the satin ribbon.
He shifted and shoved his hands in his pockets, worried that she wouldn’t like his effort. That she might misunderstand. Blame him.
She removed the lid, rooted through the white tissue paper, and paused. Eyes wide, she stood entirely too still. “Oh.” Her fingertips traced the fabric.
He’d seen the way her smile had fallen when Claire had talked about the dress. And the way she’d picked it right back up and played along, as though nothing were wrong.
“I noticed you looked a little sad when Claire talked about the changes she made. Figured the dress meant something to you.”
With Dean’s help, he had tracked down the lace from her grandmother’s dress and had it prepared so Velma could turn it into something later. He figured she might want to use it as a veil or whatever for her wedding.
Velma stayed still. Her expression unreadable.
And he’d fucked up.
Of course, she wouldn’t want chopped-up lace for her wedding dress. His heart clenched uncomfortably.
Her wedding. To a groom. A groom that would be a man. And, holy crap, the apartment started to spin because, fucking hell, he couldn’t let her wear her grandmother’s lace to marry a man who wasn’t him. Which meant…he was fucked.
Might as well hand her the wire strippers to attack his nuts now. Get it over with.
Her gaze never left the package. “Grammy’s lace,” she murmured, lifting the fabric and holding it against her chest.
His throat bobbed against emotions that seemed to mirror hers. He was turning into a total pansy. One with feelings and shit.
“Figured it’s important to you. Thought you could do something with it if you wanted, when you…you know…church bells and an aisle and all that.”
Had the room gotten hotter? He ran a finger along the collar of his tee. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word “married” in her presence. It wasn’t like he was dropping on one knee right here, right now, asking her to be with him forever. Except he did want to be with her forever. But marriage? He never figured he would get married. He’d just get laid. A lot. Then he’d die a happy, happy man.
She nodded, still admiring the fabric, not meeting his eyes. He should probably go to her now. That was what a guy did when he realized he was in love with a woman. A woman holdin’ her fuckin’ wedding lace. The “Wedding March” seemed to play on repeat in his head. He yanked his hands from his jeans and tapped his thumbs on the counter.
He couldn’t go over there. Couldn’t make this a bigger deal. Not until he figured out what the hell to do about himself. And her. And them. Shit just got deep because he’d tracked down some old lace and let his guard down.
She carefully folded the fabric back into the box, tucked the tissue across it, and returned the lid. Still, she didn’t glance up.
The air in the room went thick. He should have opened his mouth. Said something. But he waited with a hope that she would speak first. Whatever came out of her mouth would probably made a fuck of a lot more sense than what would come out of his. At this point, if he started talking, he’d probably end up reciting some sonnet about love or other bullshit.
She hiccupped and held the back of her hand to her lips. Then her shoulders started to shake, and fuck him, she was crying. Two strides and he was on her side of the counter, wrapping her in his arms, letting her tears soak into his T-shirt. There were a lot of tears.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I thought you’d want it.” He’d really fucked the toaster on this one—presenting her grandmother’s wedding dress massacre all wrapped up in tissue and ribbon. Yeah, Brek. Great thinking.
She hiccupped, rubbing her nose against his shirt in the process. “It’s p-p-p-perfect.”
Okay. Clearly, he’d misread something. He sifted his hand through her hair, stopping at th
e base of her neck and stroking the soft skin there.
“I can’t b-b-believe you did this for me.”
So, she was happy? He scooped her up and walked to the sofa, shoving the white sacks with the red stars to the side. On his lap, she cuddled closer, and his dick, always the traitor, responded against her ass.
“Happy tears, then?” he asked against her forehead.
She leaned back and studied his face for a moment.
“The happiest.” She kissed him hard on the lips, using her tongue as she straddled his lap. Her lips were everywhere, the salt from her tears a contrast to the grapefruit lip balm she loved to wear.
His dick was so confused. Then again, so was he.
Her mouth stopped by his earlobe. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Salty tears and grapefruit on his lips, the scent of strawberries in the air, and Velma rubbing against his jeans—he was a lucky son of a bitch.
She sat back so they were nose to nose. “Jase wants me to do a proposal to take over the 401(k) management of all their employees at The Flower Pot. I have to meet his family, convince them to move their accounts to me. It could be a huge account.”
“That’s fantastic.” He framed her face with his hands. “Let’s celebrate. I’ll take you to dinner.”
Brek couldn’t look away from the hope reflected in her eyes. “Let’s go have dinner. Then we’ll go for a ride,” he suggested.
She adjusted herself on his thighs and smiled against his mouth. “That sounds perfect.”
“It’s beautiful.” Velma nudged Brek and scooted closer to him where they lounged on the boulder. He slipped his arm around her.
She probably should’ve changed out of her skirt and twinset, but he’d insisted they celebrate immediately. He’d been weird ever since he’d given her the lace, mumbling something about his band. After dinner, they’d taken the long road up to Red Rocks on his bike. There wasn’t a concert tonight, so the roads were pretty much empty. He’d driven past the amphitheater to one of the dirt parking lots overlooking the lights of the city.
“I saw my first concert up here.” He nodded to where the amphitheater sat beyond the road and the canopy of trees.
“When you were a kid?”
He squeezed her tighter against his side. “Yeah, it lit the fire. I wasn’t good enough to go pro, but knew I wanted to be involved in music.”
“I like it when you play.” He’d play for her at night, before they went to sleep. It was her favorite part of the day.
“You’re biased.” He didn’t give himself enough credit, she thought.
“I never went to concerts. Claire did. I was too busy with school and debate club.” Of course she hadn’t gone to concerts. She’d been a good girl all through high school. She’d behaved. Done everything asked of her, and more. “I guess that makes me kind of boring, huh?”
“V, one thing you are not is boring.”
That’s not what her ex, Tommy Jordan, had said the night they broke up.
“It’s okay, you know.” She shifted a little away from him. “I can’t really change who I am.”
His arm tightened around her waist. Apparently, he wasn’t about to let her scoot away. “Who said you’re boring? I’m gonna kick her ass.”
“Not ‘her.’” It’s not like Tommy had lied. What he had said was true. “‘Him.’”
Brek raised an eyebrow. “Amended. I’m gonna crush his skull.”
She rolled her eyes toward the stars. “Your readiness to defend my honor is duly noted.”
“This guy really got in your head, didn’t he?” Brek shifted her so she had to meet his gaze.
He had. His words had embedded themselves in her psyche all this time. Brek made her believe she might be different. Maybe she wasn’t the boring financial planner with the choppy bangs and the turtleneck sweaters anymore. Heck, she was practically a biker chick these days. “Brek?”
“Yeah, V?” He snuggled his nose against the hairline at her temple.
She traced a finger along a rip in his jeans. “We’re all alone here.”
“Yup.”
“And your bike’s over there.”
“What’re you gettin’ at?” His warm breath against her forehead sent little pops of fire through her bloodstream.
“Maybe we could…ah…you know. That thing we started the one time, at…” Fudge, she couldn’t exactly say “at your mom’s house” when she was propositioning him.
He pulled away and frowned. “You wanna hook up on my bike?”
She made a noise in the back of her throat. This was a bad idea then and a horrible idea now. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He stood and offered her a hand to help her up.
She took it.
“You only have to ask once.” His words rumbled against her earlobe while his hands smoothed the fabric over her bottom, pausing at a very intimate spot.
“You’re going to make me ask?”
He gave her a look that indicated he was, indeed, going to make her ask. Oh, for goodness’ sake.
“Brek?” She tilted her head to the side.
“Yeah, V?”
“Will you have sex with me on your motorcycle?”
His grin practically split his face in two. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He let go of her hand and turned on his heel to swing his leg over the seat—which was great and all, but what the heck was she supposed to do? She crossed her arms around herself. There was no way this could work. Sex on a bike was physically impossible.
He turned over the engine and stepped off the bike. “Take off your panties.”
They could always try, though. Drawing on the small bit of courage she still had, she hiked her skirt up, hooked her fingers over the edge of her lace underwear, and pulled them to her ankles. She wasn’t exactly the picture of grace, but she managed to tug them over her pumps.
“Hand ’em over.” Brek held out his hand and snapped his fingers.
What on earth did he want with her panties? Cautious, she placed the lace in his palm. He gripped the scrap of fabric and her hand to pull her into his arms.
He leaned his lips to her ear and ran his hand along the small of her back to the edge of her skirt. He lifted it to run his hand between her thighs. She parted her legs at the familiarity of his touch, and a shiver of carnal desire coursed through her.
“Shoes stay on.” His voice was rough, his fingertips sliding against her already wet core.
She leaned against him, relaxing into the movement of his hand.
“I let go, you swing your leg over the bike. Like you’re gonna ride her,” he continued.
“Her?” Velma’s own voice turned throaty.
“Don’t worry. She’ll treat you nice.” Brek chuckled, his firm erection obvious through his jeans against her hip. “You two are about to become very good friends.”
He circled her sweet spot with his thumb.
A moan escaped from between her lips.
“Just climb on. That’s all?” Thoughts weren’t coherent at the moment. She glanced up to him.
“To start.” He did not look at all like he found her boring.
He withdrew his hand, and she nearly begged him to put it back. But, no, she was being brave and trying new not-boring bedroom activities—activities that now involved his motorcycle.
Hopeful the dark night would continue to provide cover for what she was about to do, she stepped to the bike. The red gravel crunched under her pumps. Unsure, she tossed her leg over the seat.
Oh. Well, hello there. Brek was correct. She and his motorcycle were going to be good friends. Exceptionally good friends. The motor purred right where her lace thong had been. Her eyes seemed to close involuntarily as she placed her hands on the tank in front of her. Somewhere in the dark, the clink of Brek’s belt echoed, but she didn’t care because, at the present moment, his bike was teaching her how wonderful vibrations in a gravel parking lot could really be.
He sli
pped behind her on the bike and, sweet starlit heavens, the man wasn’t wearing his jeans. He lifted her skirt, and his erection settled against her back. Only for a moment, because before she could say, Hey, that feels nice, he’d tilted her pelvis and, holy God, the stars in the sky blurred as her sweet spot slid into contact with the vibrating seat. His erection settled between her thighs, not entering her…just stopping by to join the party.
“Holy crap.” She gripped the tank harder.
“Shit, V.” He bunched her skirt around her waist. “I’m not even in you, and I’m about to—”
“Remedy that,” she demanded, squirming against the erection near her entrance. “The inside part.”
He chuckled low, his hand passing over her leg to pat the side of the motorcycle. “I see you two have gotten to know each other.”
“I like her a lot.” She pressed her bottom to his abdomen.
“Just wait.” He rubbed the length of himself against her, his thickness throbbing between the leather of the seat and…well…her.
He ran his fingertips over her, spreading her open and, with one amazing thrust, joining with her. Immediately, he withdrew.
She nearly sobbed his name.
His breathing stilted as he seated his erection in her once more, a ripple of pleasure pulsing through her. Clearly, he was done with the cat-and-mouse portion of the evening, because he took her with everything she’d ever known him to have.
She gripped the tank as he delivered all he’d promised. Brek moving in and out of her with delicious force, she spiraled as the knot inside tightened—begging for release.
One hand around her stomach, holding her so she didn’t fall, he reached the other to her fingertips and peeled them from the chrome. His hand entangled with hers as he moved it to the handgrip, turning something so the motor between her thighs revved in unison with his thrusts.
The knot inside her released, and while she’d never been a screamer, she was pretty sure an extremely unladylike sound came from her that was anything but a squeak. Her internal muscles clamped around him. His body stilled, the way it always did right before he finished.
Going Down On One Knee (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 1) Page 17
