Once Trace began to kiss me, the world seemed to accelerate. He kissed with the same enthusiasm and affection with which he approached life, and it was addictive to be the subject of that kind of attention. His hands felt gentle and warm against my skin, and when his finger traced a line between the top of my pants and the edge of my shirt as we made out like teenagers in the back of the taxicab, I couldn't help the little moan that escaped my lips.
I jumped away from him and clapped a hand over my mouth, mortified that the cab driver might have heard me. The man's eyes in the rearview mirror suggested he had, and I felt the heat flood my cheeks. I mouthed to Trace, "Oh my God."
Trace was grinning back at me, laughing silently at my embarrassment. For the rest of the ride, he kept me close into his side, the promise of more—so much more—floating around us, but he didn't kiss me again.
"I'm pretty sure he's probably seen and heard worse," Trace laughed as the cab pulled away from the front of a three-story modern building that faced the boardwalk running along Mission Beach. He walked casually onto the patio and let us in the side door, punching a code into a pad just inside.
I'd lost the ability to speak, because I'd never been inside a house as stunning as this. Soaring glass windows faced the beach, and the interiors were sleek and modern, but comfortable. The patio we'd just left had several seating areas, a hot tub, and what appeared to be a pool table, all positioned to enjoy a completely unobstructed view of the beach and the ocean beyond. It was dark now, but I could hear the rolling waves, and the sea scented the air, even inside the house.
"Come in," Trace said, reaching a hand to pull me from where I'd stopped, mouth agape, staring around the luxurious house.
"This is a lovely home," I told him, feeling suddenly more insignificant somehow.
He looked around with a smile and then threw off the comment with a shoulder shrug. "Can I get you something?"
I nodded, feeling like an injection of courage was what I really needed. My family wasn't wealthy, and I hadn't been exposed to bald wealth very often, and while I knew Trace was probably paid well, for some reason I hadn’t expected this. The striking house was a contrast to Trace’s playful personality, but it was another sign that there were more layers to this man, more depth than he volunteered.
Certainly, the wine world had its fair share of sprawling chateaus and worldly winemakers, but in truth, most winemakers were simple farmers. Those of us who did the real work of making wine were more likely to live in cottages with dirt on our hands than to enjoy the literal fruits of our labors in fancy restaurants or bars. Trace's house felt overwhelming, and it reminded me that while he was open and approachable, there was more to him than that.
Trace handed me a small glass, and lifted a Pacifo to the sprawling granite bar separating the kitchen area from the main living room. I watched as he demonstrated, shooting the shot and then sipping the beer. I followed suit, feeling the satisfying burn of tequila slide down my throat and through my limbs, loosening the tension that had accumulated there since the cab ride.
As I put my shot glass down, my eyes were drawn to a small fat creature standing on all fours at the end of the bar. I froze, for a moment worried it was alive, but then I realized it was actually stuffed.
“Oh,” Trace said, catching my gaze. “That’s Wally. He’s harmless. Mostly because he’s dead.”
“He is . . .”
“A wombat. “
“Oh. Of course. Right.” I decided to just let that go.
Together, we carried our beers to the side of the bar facing the open space of the living room, each of us taking a seat on a tall stool and swiveling to stare out into the inky black of the sky visible through the enormous windows.
"It must be very bright in here in the morning," I said, thinking how the sun would light up the open space inside the house.
"Wanna find out?" Trace asked, and if it hadn't been for the glint of amusement in his eye, it would have been the slimiest line I'd ever heard.
I raised an eyebrow, actually considering an answer. I did want to find out. I wanted to find out many things about this man—I just wasn't sure how to fit the answers into the life I'd been building, a life where I was pushing to be independent for once, to succeed on my own. And I didn't want to ruin the evening by thinking too much about it now. I slid to my feet, placed my beer on the bar next to me after taking a long pull, and stepped closer to Trace. His knees were apart, and I moved between them, sliding my hands up his chest.
"Is this a yes?" He asked, his voice deeper than it had been a moment before.
"It's a maybe," I told him, wanting only to continue the kiss we’d had in the cab. One of my hands threaded into the dark hair at the back of his head.
Our mouths came together again, his hands landing on my hips but then sliding beneath my shirt to explore my back. He teased and sucked at my tongue, my lips, and then dropped his head to my neck, which caused me to moan helplessly. I pushed myself farther into his arms, and he lifted his hot mouth to my earlobe, just as his thumb grazed one of my nipples over the lace of my bra.
I heard myself whimper, and when Trace slid to his feet, increasing the contact between us, I lifted my legs to wrap around him, letting him take my entire body in his arms.
I could feel his smile in the way he kissed me, and feel his throaty chuckle deep in his chest. "Upstairs?" he asked.
My entire body was on fire and I was overwhelmed with the need to remove every stitch of clothing that separated us, even though a tiny part of my mind was telling me this was crazy, that I didn’t know him well, that this was only going to complicate everything more. "We can stay here, I don't care," I said, taking his mouth in mine again.
"My sister might, if she comes home tonight," he said. "She and Fuerte were having a romantic night out, but I don't know if they'll end up at his place or here."
I pulled my head back, a little chill of shock momentarily dampening my desire. I hadn't considered that someone else might walk in at any moment, and I’d forgotten that he said he lived with his sister. "Then yes, upstairs would be good."
It had been a while since I’d been with anyone—years, actually. And while I’d had boyfriends, Maman had managed to ruin most relationships with her overbearing presence in my life. Love, she had always told me, should not be the focus. So I’d had sex, hidden in barns and beds away from her watchfulness, but I’d never had time to develop much else. I didn’t know what was building between Trace and me, but again I worried that Maman would arrive to ruin everything before I could find out. I wanted tonight—to learn about him before she got here.
Trace actually carried me up the steel staircase, my body wrapped around his and one of his arms under my butt as he climbed easily to his room, which had the same astounding windows as the first floor.
He set me gently on the king-size bed and I pulled him to cover my body with his, but then realized immediately that we were still dressed. My hands found the hem of his T-shirt and pulled, relishing the hot flesh I found beneath it. His body was hard, muscled. It was like running my hands over hot steel. He straddled me, sitting up on his knees, and pulled the shirt off over his head, revealing the most defined set of muscles I'd ever seen.
"Oh bonne mere," I breathed, unable to stop the words coming out.
"Does that mean, 'my goodness you're attractive?'" Trace asked, a half-smile on his lips.
"Something like that," I said, laughing as my breath was coming faster. "It's just . . ." I ran my hands up the planes of his abdomen, my fingers exploring the deep grooves between the muscles. "I . . ." None of the men I’d been with in France had looked like Trace. They’d been college boys and farm kids—all two of them. And while they’d been fit, they hadn’t been professional athletes. It was like comparing the local carnival I’d seen on a recent trip to a small country town to Disneyworld.
He chuckled, and leaned down to take my mouth again, stretching out beside me and pulling me into his arms, slidi
ng his hands back beneath my shirt. Our legs tangled, and I could feel the thick hardness of him pressed against my thigh. I wanted to feel all of him, and I began fumbling with the button at his waist.
He helped me, pushing his jeans off and then kicking them from his feet, and when I began pushing at the elastic of his boxers, he pushed those off as well. This man, I thought, didn't have any hesitation about removing his clothing. I wouldn’t either, if I was as fit as he was. I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed by my own lack of muscle definition. I wasn’t unfit, but you couldn’t count my abdominal muscles, either.
I pulled my head back, wanting to see every inch of him, and was rewarded by a body every bit as impressive as his abs. The small overhead lights that glowed at the edges of the room set every muscle in his strong thighs into dark relief. He was incredible.
Trace took the bottom of my shirt in his hands and dropped his mouth to my neck again, immediately pulling a moan from my throat. I helped him pull it off and then wiggled out of my pants, until I was laying back on the bed next to him in just my bra and panties.
A groan escaped Trace's lips and his hands caressed my exposed flesh, exploring everywhere with his hands, his fingers, his lips and tongue. I was a writhing thread of desire beneath him as he came back to kiss my lips again, his hands in the hair that had come loose and was spread around my head. "You're beautiful. You know that, right?" He kissed me again, hard. "So beautiful."
I moved my hands to his back, slid them down to the firm globes of his muscular ass, and then grew bold as I slipped one around to grasp his hard length. I let my hand slide up and down him, pausing to circle the head, and was rewarded with a throaty groan.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," he said, and then moved out of my reach to pull a drawer open beside his bed. But as he did, he moved away from me and took a shuddering breath, one hand going to the back of his neck. He stared into the drawer for a second and then looked at me. "Magalie, do you think this is the right thing? Maybe it's too fast, too . . . And the fake engagement, and—"
I sat up, moving close to him again. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I don’t think there are rules for this situation, for any of this.” I wanted to say more, to explain how my heart felt bigger and warmer when I was in his arms, how being close to him made the world feel more full of possibility than it had before. But I couldn’t find the words, so instead I reached to take the foil packet from his hand as it hung over the open drawer.
"So that's a . . ."
"I want to be with you tonight," I said simply. And I did. I wanted something else too, something I couldn't define. And maybe I was moving too quickly, maybe nice girls didn't sleep with their fake fiancés on the third date. But I didn't care. It felt right, and while I did spend an awful lot of time thinking, the girl I longed to be lived by her heart. And this was what my heart wanted.
He watched as I opened the condom and moved around him to roll the condom down the thick length of him as we stood facing each other. His eyes were dark, and I pulled him back onto the bed, where he knelt beside me.
I slipped off my panties and bra as he hovered over me, watching, and then pulled him close, needing to feel him near. He lined himself up and carefully, slowly, began to fill me.
"You're perfect," he said, pressing inch by delicious inch into me.
I managed a low satisfied moan as I pulled him in, my arms, my legs, every part of my body desperate to get him nearer, closer.
Once he was in all the way, he paused, giving me time to adjust, and when I couldn't take the exquisite fullness anymore, I began to move beneath him, struggling to find a rhythm.
"Holy fuck," he breathed, and his expletives turned into a chant as he thrust slowly into me, meeting my hips as they rose. "Fuck. So fucking perfect. Fucking tight. You're so wet."
"Don't stop," I managed, feeling tension coil inside me as I clung to him, needing every inch he was giving me, wanting every single slide of his heat, every hard muscle of legs. "Don't stop."
He stopped. "The talking or the . . . you know, this?"
I shook my head. "What? No! Either. Both!" A quiet desperation began to fill me, replacing the delicious climb I'd been making. "You stopped!"
A sheepish smile crossed his handsome face. "Sorry, I just wanted it to be good for you, I wasn't sure if—"
I struggled beneath him, intending to delay whatever conversation he was trying to have and take what my body was begging for. My goal was to flip him over, but the man was so insanely huge, I couldn't do more than give him the idea. He rolled to his back and I straddled him, beginning the rolling motion of my hips again and retaking the delicious rhythm that had nearly sent me over the edge.
"Oh," Trace said, and then his hands found my hips and I could feel him thrusting up beneath me. "Oh, fuck," he said, staring up at me with wide lust-filled eyes. His hands moved to my breasts, his fingers pinching the nipples until a mixture of light pain and shattering pleasure ripped through me, ratcheting me up even higher.
"Oh God." I dropped my hands to his chest. "Oh God, I'm going to come."
"I'd love that," he said, and a moment later, I did, the spasms rocketing through me in waves. As I spiraled back down, I could feel Trace's own orgasm release, accompanied by one final, "Oh fuck. Fuck, Magalie."
I collapsed on his chest, and his huge arms came around me.
For long minutes we drifted together there, and I felt safe, sated, and protected by the hard muscular man beneath me.
"You're amazing," he whispered, and I nestled further into his arms, not wanting to move. Sex with him had been as surprisingly fun as everything with Trace was, interrupted by brief moments of humor. As I lay in his arms I had a glimpse of what life might be like with this man—always a little unexpected, full of surprises.
I loved surprises.
Chapter 60
Entertaining. Like a Clown?
Trace
I was already awake when Magalie stretched, rolling toward me as her eyes fluttered open. "I was right about the light," she said, blinking in the streaming sunlight that filled my bedroom.
"I should have pulled the shades," I said, smiling as she burrowed against my chest, hiding her face and making a little humming noise that echoed through my body, every cell vibrating an answer.
She was soft against me, all that dark curly hair splayed around her head and her limbs pliant and warm nestled up against me. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her nearer, breathing in the earthy orange scent of her.
There was a part of me that had expected to find her gone when I woke up, though in my prior experiences, it had usually been me leaping out of bed, often before the sun came up, to make an escape. Today I didn't have the same impulse. This wasn't some girl I'd found and brought home for a night of fun. In fact, the night of fun had come as something of a surprise, brought on by the way Magalie had pressed herself against me at the bar.
My mind was a little muddled as I stroked her silky back, listening to her soft humming moans of satisfaction. Why, exactly, had she pressed herself into my arms like that at the bar? If this was a means to an end, if I was just the guy she needed to fool her mother and get free of whatever family expectations were coming with her from France next week, then why were we here now?
Maybe I was a coward, but I didn't want to ask, at least not now, not when I’d rather hold her tight.
Instead, I burrowed my nose into her hair, inhaled, and felt a smile creep across my face as Magalie's hand began stroking me.
"You're gonna get yourself in trouble doing that," I told her.
"Exactly what I was hoping for," she said, her voice thick with sleep as her hand moved more firmly down my shaft. I still hadn’t figured this woman out—she surprised me constantly, partially by her open acceptance of my sillier side. I was starting to think Magalie might be the only woman in the world who could really take all of me—my ridiculous sense of humor, my darker moments too. But right now, she seemed wil
ling to take other parts of me and I wasn’t going to stop her.
My own hands began exploring, and soon she was beneath me, tossing her head and crying out my name. It was the perfect start to the day.
As we lay curled together afterward, she looked up at me with a languid smile. "That was nice."
"Nice?" I said with mock offense. "I might need to try again if it was just nice."
She laughed. "Very nice. Magnificent."
"Better." I scooted up against the headboard, pulling her with me to lean against my chest. "So . . ." I started. I wanted to ask her what happened next. Where did a fake engagement go, what was the usual course of things? Were we going to actually date? But before I could get out the question, Magalie glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
"Is that the time?"
"I usually keep it set to the actual time, yeah. It's confusing when I set it to other times."
That earned me a whack on the chest and a giggle that warmed the spot inside me that was worried about what this all meant, about how I was supposed to feel about everything. But then Magalie was leaping out of bed, dashing through the bathroom and returning to pull on her discarded clothes. I watched her whirlwind from my place against the pillows, still weighing potential options. "Wanna go eat?" I tried.
"No," she said, as if the idea was a shock to her. She stopped whirling around for a minute. "Sorry, no, I can't. I need to get to work!"
"Ah," I slid out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. "Work, right. It's Friday."
"Yes," she agreed, laughing a bit. "Where did I leave my purse?" She turned and left the room, and I followed her down the stairs, watching her hands weave her hair into a loose braid before knotting it at the back of her head. She reached her bag, which was sitting next to the counter, and pulled out a long stick, which she wove through the bun she'd made. The entire process fascinated me, and the idea that all that hair could be contained with a single stick . . . well, that was fucking mystifying.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 30
