Billionaire Bridegroom

by Peggy Moreland

  “Sorry,” he mumbled and loosened his hold on her.

  She huffed a breath, frowning at him, then turned her cheek to his chest. They danced their way around the perimeter a couple of times without any more questions being asked, and gradually Forrest began to relax. Though he’d danced with Becky a thousand times or more over the years, he couldn’t remember ever holding her this close before. Most of their dancing had been of the line variety, where they stood side by side, with very little touching and a whole lot of stomping going on.

  He was surprised to discover how small she felt, how delicate...and how womanly. With his knee wedged between her thighs and his groin pressed against her abdomen, guiding her in the Western waltz, he had to admit she was right Dancing was a whole lot like making love. Their hips moved in unison, brushing lightly with each forward step, then retreating only to meet again, like one lover teasing another.

  Unconsciously he began to stroke his thumb along the flesh bared in the diamond-cutout on her dress. He felt a sigh move through her, then the barest touch of her fingertips against the curve of his ear.

  “I can feel your heart beating,” she said softly.

  He dipped his chin, but could see nothing but the top of her head. “You can?”

  “Yeah. Can you feel mine?”

  He felt it, as well of the swell of breasts that pressed against his chest. “Y-yeah,” he stammered, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, much less talk.

  Her fingertips traced the shell of his ear and a tremor rocked through him strong enough that he was sure it was being measured on a Richter scale in California by some seismologist.

  “I think I understand now why so many religious groups are opposed to dancing,” she said, thoughtfully.

  “And why’s that?”

  She lifted her face from his chest to look up at him, her eyes wide with wonder at her newly found discovery. “Because it is a whole lot like making love.”

  Forrest swallowed hard as he stared into her eyes. Innocent, yet gleaming with something that looked dangerously close to lust. He knew he was going to have to put a stop to this conversation before he embarrassed himself... or her...or both of them.

  Before he could, though, she rested her cheek on his chest again with a sigh.

  “You know what, Woody?” she murmured softly.

  “What?”

  “I think I’m going to like sex.”

  He stumbled again, mumbled a quick, “Sorry,” then moved on, his heart pounding against the wall of his chest like a herd of wild horses on the run. He gave himself a moment to compose himself before he asked, “And what makes you say that?”

  “Well, I love to dance. Always have. So if dancing and sex are so similar, then I guess it would follow that I’m going to enjoy sex.” She lifted her head to look up at him again. “Wouldn’t it?”

  Forrest just stared at her, unable to push a word past the lump that had wedged itself in his throat.

  “Well, it does makes sense, doesn’t it?” she asked uncertainly.

  He stopped dead right there in the middle of the dance floor, then spun, dragging her by the hand behind him as he cut a quick exit from the dance floor.

  “Woody!” she cried, all but running to keep up. “What are you doing?”

  “I need something to drink,” he muttered.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed, then brightened, hurrying after him. “You know, a drink does sound good. I worked up a powerful thirst on the dance floor.”

  Forrest stifled a groan. He’d worked up something powerful, too, while dancing, but it sure as hell wasn’t a thirst...at least not for a drink. But a drink might be just what he needed, he told himself as he spied a swan-shaped fountain whose long beak released a steady stream of champagne. He let go of her hand long enough to grab two flutes from the linen-covered table, and stuck one under the swan’s curved beak, filling it with champagne. He drained the glass while he waited for the other one to fill. He passed the second glass to Becky without looking at her and stuck his own glass back under, filling it again.

  “Heavens, Woody,” she said, watching him gulp champagne. “I didn’t think you liked champagne.”

  “Don’t,” he mumbled, and filled the glass a third time. “But I don’t see a keg anywhere around, do you?”

  She glanced across the beautifully landscaped grounds, truly an oasis when compared to the rest of West Texas’s barren landscape, but even more so now with all the twinkling lights and baskets of fresh flowers scattered everywhere. “No, but I could go up to the house. I’m sure Sterling’s probably got a six-pack or two in the fridge. He usually does.”

  He turned to her, his mouth twisted in a scowl. “How the hell do you know what Sterling keeps in his refrigerator? Just exactly what have the two of you been up to all these years?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Sterling’s one of my best friends,” she said defensively, then frowned and stepped closer, peering closely into his eyes. “Are you drunk?”

  “No, I’m not drunk,” he groused and swung an arm out to keep her from drawing any closer. But the combination of the champagne he’d chugged and the wildly made gesture overbalanced him, and he grabbed for her to keep from pitching forward.

  Becky staggered beneath the unexpected weight, but quickly wedged herself against his side and slid an arm around his waist to support him. “I think maybe you better sit down for a little while,” she suggested a little shakily as she guided him toward a stone bench curved around the trunk of a tree.

  “You’ll sit with me, won’t you, Becky?” he asked.

  She sputtered a laugh at the little boy sound in the request. “Yeah, Woody. I’ll sit with you.”

  She eased him down, and he laid his head back with a groan and closed his eyes. For a moment, she thought that he’d passed out, but then he dropped a hand onto the bench beside him and patted the smooth stone.

  “Sit,” he mumbled. “You promised.”

  Biting back a smile, she sank onto the bench beside him. She set her glass aside, folded her hands on her lap, looked up at the moon, down at the ground, tipped up the toes of her new heels to admire them, then glanced over at Woody...and had to fist her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out and smoothing back into place the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead.

  She inhaled a shuddery breath, then released it slowly so as not to disturb him. And she’d thought she liked him best when he was dressed in his work clothes. As she looked at him now in his starched, white, banded-collar shirt with its turquoise studs and smooth pleated front, she wondered how she could have ever thought such a ridiculous thing. Woody was built for a tux. With those wide shoulders of his, and muscled chest. She let her gaze drift down over the nbbed plane of his abdomen and to the paisley cummerbund, smiling because she knew that more than likely he’d worn it at his mother’s insistence.

  With a lustful sigh, she forced her gaze past by the swell beneath his slack’s zipper, then down the length of muscled thigh, over the hump of his knee and stopped at the silver-tipped toes of his custom-made black eel boots. Yeah, she’d been wrong, all right. Woody was even more handsome all gussied up.

  She leaned over to brush a sprig of grass from the leg of his pants, but froze when she felt the weight of his hand on her hair.

  “You’ve got the most beautiful hair,” she heard him murmur.

  She glanced over her shoulder, and nearly wilted at the heat she saw in his eyes. Slowly, she straightened, keeping her gaze on his.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  His hand slipped beneath her hair and his fingers cupped the back of her neck.

  “And the most beautiful eyes. Green,” he said, angling her face to look deeply into them. “I never noticed how green they were before.”

  Embarrassed, Becky ducked her head. “Cat eyes, daddy always said.”

  He sat up, bringing his other hand to her chin and forcing it back up. “No. Not cat eyes,” he said, his voic
e growing husky. “They’re much too pretty to be compared to something as common as a cat.” Thoughtfully, he stroked his thumb along the edge of her jaw. “An emerald,” he said after a moment. “They’re the color of an emerald. A rare and priceless emerald. I’m gonna buy you one to match them.”

  A shiver chased down her spine at the seductive pull of his voice. He edged closer and she caught the musky scent of his aftershave, the sweeter scent of champagne on his breath.

  She felt the pressure of his hand on her neck as he drew her face toward his. “I dreamed about you today,” he told her, his breath whispering across her lips. “And you were right. You do like sex.”

  She closed her eyes against the heat in his. He’d never touched her like this, talked to her in such a way—nor had any man, for that matter—and she wasn’t sure how to respond. But then his lips grazed hers, and forming a reply became impossible, unimportant. Moist, she thought as a delicious shiver chased down her spine. Icy cool and burning hot at the same moment. She wondered how that could be.

  “And you’re good,” he added, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. “As good as you are at dancing.”

  She shivered again, letting her head fall back as his lips slid over her jaw and down the smooth column of her throat. His hand followed his lips movement, then disappeared, only to reappear at her breast. She sucked in a startled breath at his touch.

  “So soft,” he murmured, molding his palm around her fullness. “All these years you’ve been hiding all this behind a man’s shirt and I never knew.”

  He lifted his head, drawing back far enough to look into her eyes. “Damn, but I must’ve been blind,” he whispered as if unable to believe he could have missed something so obvious. He continued to stare at her, his silver eyes full of wonder.

  A couple passed by, laughing at some shared joke. He glanced their way, his eyes hardening at the interruption. He stood abruptly, catching her hand in his, and quickly ducked around the tree, dragging her behind him.

  “Woody,” she cried, glancing back toward the house where the celebration continued in full swing, “The party...”

  “Too many people,” he growled.

  She stumbled to a stop, forcing him to a halt, too, as she stared up at him, her eyes widening in dismay. “We can’t just leave without saying goodbye. That would be rude.”

  “We’re not leaving. We’re going to the barn.” He gave her hand a tug and took off again, lengthening his stride.

  She quickened her step, trying her best to keep up with him, but the unfamiliar heels made doing so difficult. She stumbled and the strap of one shoe slipped off her heel. She tugged hard on his hand. “Woody, wait!”

  He stopped as she bent over to readjust her shoe. But before she could slip the stubborn strap back over her heel, he was scooping her up into his arms.

  “Woody!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on. “What are you doing?”

  “Carrying you.”

  “But my shoe,” she cried, glancing over his shoulder at the shoe that lay abandoned on the carpet of grass.

  “I’ll buy you another pair. Hell, I’ll buy you a damn shoe store!”

  Stunned by the anger in his voice, she turned to stare at his shadowed profile. With the twinkling lights and glowing torches left behind, there was only moonlight to illuminate the determined set of his jaw, the angry glint in his eyes. Then they were passing through the bam’s double doors and, for a moment, she could see nothing but inky blackness.

  A horse shifted in his stall, making a whiffling sound as they passed, then there was only silence and the labored sound of Woody’s breathing. He stopped in the center of the long alleyway and simply stood, his chest heaving, the muscles in his arms bulging beneath his jacket. Becky held her breath, staring at his profile as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, unsure what to say or do.

  Slowly he turned his face to hers. In the darkness, his features seemed sharper, his eyes darker, while his mouth was curved downward in the same frown it seemed he’d been wearing since she’d first told him of her engagement. Longing for the easy relationship they’d once shared, and wanting desperately to see one of the laughing smiles he’d once sent her way, she pressed a fingertip against his lips. She felt the warmth of his breath, the barely suppressed anger, then his hold on her was loosening, and she felt herself slipping. When she tightened her arms around his neck to keep from falling, he twisted her around, and held her against him as he slowly guided her body down the length of his.

  Her feet touched the ground and she started to drop her hands, but he caught them in his and forced them back around his neck, holding them there as he looked down at her. “You’re not getting married.”

  She widened her eyes in surprise at the anger in the command. “I’m not?”

  “No,” he growled. “And if you need convincing, then I’m prepared to change your mind right here and now.”

  “H-how?”

  He inhaled deeply, as if struggling to get a grip on his temper. She could almost see the tension melt from him as he forced out the breath. As he did, his jaw softened, as did his tone. “Like this.” With his gaze on hers, he opened his hands over hers. The strength was there, but there was a tenderness as well as he slid his palms slowly down the length of her arms. Gooseflesh popped up on her skin as he moved his hands on, smoothing them over her shoulders, down her back, until they settled low on her waist. He urged her hips toward his and their abdomens bumped gently, then welded together as heat burned against heat.

  When Miss Manie had said that if she pushed hard enough, Woody would be forced to fight for her, Becky had envisioned him physically fighting another man for her hand. But as she looked at the raw need in his eyes and realized his intent she knew that this was what Miss Manie must have meant.

  And it was one battle Becky was more than willing to let Woody win.

  She watched his face draw nearer, the heat in his gaze bringing a flush of heat to her cheeks. “Oh my,” she whispered, her breath coming out on a thready sigh. Then his lips were touching hers. Where his first kiss had been tentative, this one was anything but. He traced the shape of her mouth with his tongue, sending shivers chasing down her spine, then teased her lips apart and slipped inside, closing his mouth fully over hers.

  A fire sparked to life low in her abdomen, and with each stroke of his tongue it blazed higher and hotter, until her breasts ached for the touch of his hands again. Desperate to ease the pang, she tightened her arms around his neck and pressed herself tightly against him. But the gentle chafing of his starched shirt on her tender breasts only made them throb all the more.

  Moaning her frustration, she flattened her hands against his chest, trying to push away from him.

  The pressure of her hands slowly registered in Forrest’s lust-filled brain, and he lifted his head. Sure that she was going to demand that he stop, he met her gaze. The desire he saw there made him tighten his hands on her waist.

  “What?” he said, his voice husky.

  “Your shirt,” she said, pressing a hand over her breast. “It’s so stiff it’s hurting me.”

  “I can fix that,” he said quickly and immediately shrugged off his jacket. He tossed it aside and started to work on the turquoise studs that lined the front of his shirt. Once free of it, he tossed the shirt on top of his jacket.

  “Better?” he asked, moving to take her in his arms again.

  With her gaze fixed on the wall of his chest, she braced her hands there, transfixed by the warmth and play of muscle beneath her palms. “Yeah,” she said, then with a sigh, laid her cheek between her splayed hands, feeling the rhythmic beat of his heart. “Much better.”

  He wrapped his arms tightly around her and gently rocked in rhythm with the muted music drifting through the barn doors. His chest swelled at the feel of her body pressed against his, his heart at the rightness of her being in his arms. Perfect, he thought locking his arms around her. He should have known all along.


  He shifted slightly, slipping a knee between her thighs, and rubbed his groin against her abdomen, mimicking the posture of their earlier dance, then tipped her face up to his. He looked deeply into her eyes, searching for any sign of reluctance or hesitation. What he found was a need that burned as hot as his own. She doesn’t love this fiancé of hers, he told himself. If she did, she’d never be looking at me this way, or allowing me to hold her so close. Freed by the assumption, he closed his mouth over hers.

  He sipped at her lips, then drank deeply, greedily, moving his hands to frame her face, as if in doing so he could somehow consume her. But kissing wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch her, see her...all of her.

  Finding the button at the top of the diamond-cutout on her back, he fumbled with it and was ready to rip it off when it suddenly opened in his hand. With nothing to hold it in place, the silk fabric slipped over her shoulders. Breaking the kiss, he stepped back and eased the dress farther down her arms, baring her breasts to his starving gaze. They were just as he’d dreamt. Creamy smooth, with dark rose-colored centers. As he stared, the nipples budded into hard knots that trembled, seeming to beg for his touch.

  As he had in the dream, he lifted a hand and cupped his palm over a breast, molding his fingers around its full shape. At the same time, he lifted his gaze to hers. He could feel the frantic beating of her heart beneath his hand, could see the throbbing of her pulse in her throat, the heat in her glazed eyes. “I want to taste you,” he whispered. Without waiting for her permission, he dipped his head over her breast, teasing with his tongue the distended nipple he’d exposed. He heard her soft mewl, felt the vibration of it against his lips. Sensing her acceptance, he opened his mouth fully over her and drew her in. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she arched back, giving him easier access.

  He moved from one breast to the other, alternately suckling and nipping, until she was all but sobbing his name. Slowly he withdrew, rubbing his thumbs over the moistness he’d left on her breasts. “I want to make love to you,” he said, his voice raw with need.