The Decoy Bride

by Lizzie Shane

  “Sorry,” she said, yanking back her hands as he coughed and choked, moving away from the fall of water. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s fine,” he assured her, taking a seat on an underwater ledge. “I didn’t hear you get in.” Because he’d been trying to drown out the thought of her. Trying not to picture her diving into the water and rising out of it like something from one of his teenage fantasies.

  She treaded water in front of him, her strokes smooth and easy—someone who had swum all her life. Cross was a decent enough swimmer, but she looked natural in the water. Like a freaking nymph.

  She glided over to him, perching sideways on his lap, though the buoyancy of the water made her seem like she was barely there, like she could float away at any moment. Her hands came to his chest and he wasn’t sure whether she was using him for balance or teasing him when her palms smoothed slowly over his pecs. She leaned in, until her mouth was a whisper away from his ear, until he could feel the movement of her lips against his lobe when she whispered, “Is this okay?”

  Okay? Try fucking incendiary.

  Instead of answering her, he turned his head, catching her lips and kissing her hard enough to make her fingers flex on his chest. They were supposed to be sweet. They were supposed to be romantic.

  But he was only human.

  The slight taste of salt clung to her lips from the saltwater pool and he wrapped his arms around her, kissing the taste from her lips, slipping his tongue between them where hers was there to meet it. She pressed closer to him, the water facilitating her movements as she slid higher up his lap until her thigh pressed against his erection. She whimpered eagerly into his mouth—and the sound about killed him.

  Only the primitive, instinctual knowledge that she wasn’t safe here—exposed to the prying eyes of those fucking telephoto lenses—kept him from stripping her bare and doing every wicked thing he could think of to her. Instead he shifted, trying to get his feet under him, trying to get his arms around her—and that part was easy, but he stumbled when he tried to stand, lurching against the side of the pool with her cradled high in his arms, never breaking the kiss, because to stop kissing her would be to stop breathing—but fuck, he was going to kill them both if he didn’t watch where the hell he was going. He finally, reluctantly, broke the kiss, but he didn’t loosen his hold.

  He waded through the shallow end toward the steps, cradling her sleek, slippery body against his chest. But she wasn’t sitting passively in his arms. She nibbled his earlobe and he lurched to the side, barely keeping his balance in the water as he carried her out of the pool. Her hands were everywhere, stroking his neck, his shoulders, nails lightly grazing his nipples until he growled, “Behave.”

  She chuckled darkly in response.

  The house wasn’t far—but the shelter of the cabana was closer. There was a daybed in the cabana. And heavy burlap flaps that closed out prying eyes. That was all he needed.

  He laid her down on the daybed, releasing her only long enough to go back to the door and untie the ribbons holding the flaps open. One of them knotted when he tried to undo it and he swore, all thumbs as he wrestled with the ties until it finally fell closed and he turned back to the bed, his mouth watering at what he saw.

  She was exquisite.

  Lying on the bed. Propped on her elbows. The long, lean line of her legs. The curve of her hip. The dip of her clavicle. Fuck, she was gorgeous.

  He froze, staring at her, and reminded himself that it had been a performance to this point. But now they were alone and he needed to know that she was still with him. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice gravel rough.

  She bit her lower lip, the even white teeth pressing into the plump, kiss-reddened pad—and then she shook her head. “No.”

  Thank you, Jesus.

  He didn’t remember getting to the bed. He just knew he was suddenly against her, over her, and the press of her skin against his made him lose his mind a little. What was left of it.

  Then he was kissing her again, heavy and deep, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, fucking her mouth, losing his fucking mind in her. He stroked a hand down her side and her skin was cool from the water. He warmed it with his touch. His body felt like a furnace right now and he needed to share his heat with her. She shivered as he caressed her stomach, gliding up over her ribcage to cup her breast. He growled at the layers of fabric and padding between his hand and her skin, breaking the kiss to press his mouth beneath her jaw, breathing in the scent of her. Saltwater and jasmine and need.

  “Cross,” she gasped, her hand gripping his wrist where he cradled her breast. “Wait.”

  He groaned, that single word killing him, but he forced himself to go still above her. Shit shit shit shit shit. “Wait?” His voice barely sounded human, guttural and dark.

  She took a deep breath, the movement lifting her chest into his hand, but he managed not to twitch a single muscle. He lifted his head, gazing down into eyes that were suddenly disconcertingly uncertain. She wet her lips. “I just…”

  God could not be this cruel. She could not be stopping him. Why was she stopping him? Seconds ago she’d been breathless. Her legs had been moving restlessly against his. She’d told him not to stop and then…what had happened? What had he done?

  He removed his hand from her breast, rocking to his side next to her, and she released his wrist. Had he gone too fast? Pushed too much? He was always pushing…

  “What kind of car do you drive?”

  “What?” He’d been prepared for a lot of questions. That wasn’t one of them. She wanted to know what kind of car he drove before she slept with him? That didn’t sound like Bree.

  “I just…I realized I didn’t know and I thought…”

  Okay. So it was some kind of weird getting-to-know-you thing. Like don’t sleep with someone if you don’t know their last name. Fine. He could handle that. “A Lexus. I drive a Lexus LC.”

  Her expression fell, her body shifting subtly away from his. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  He frowned. “Why were you afraid? What does that have to do with anything?”

  But she was already moving away. Slipping off the bed, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around herself, hiding her body from him.

  “Br—” He barely stopped himself from saying her name out loud. They were still outside. They could still be overheard. “Maggie. Come on.”

  She shook her head, padding toward the door. “I’m sorry.”

  She was gone before he could argue. Not that he could have argued. He had no idea what the fuck he would have argued with because he didn’t know what had happened. One second everything had been good and then—bam. Blue balls.

  “Fuck,” Cross swore, long and loud, not caring who heard him. He could not catch a fucking break.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It had been his car. The one in the driveway that day Maggie had summoned her. He’d dropped by to talk about security. She didn’t know why she hadn’t put the pieces together before, but when he’d been kissed her just now she’d heard Andi’s voice in her head, talking about how he was the kind of guy who would date women like Maggie Tate and all of a sudden it had clicked.

  He drove that sex-on-a-stick Lexus. And she’d thought it might be Maggie’s car. He belonged with Maggie. Not with some art chick who couldn’t even pay her rent without pretending to be someone else.

  He’d grabbed her breast—Maggie’s breast, with all that ridiculous padding—and reality had hit her like a lightning bolt.

  She might not know anything about sports, but she knew how the world worked and the perfect people like Cross didn’t end up with the also-rans like her. She hadn’t really realized what a big deal he was before—he’d just been Cross. Hot Cross, her harmless crush. But now he was the hotshot Lexus-driving NFL-star who could get someone like Maggie Tate if he wanted.

  A guy like that would never want anything real with her.

  Not that she
wanted something real. She’d just wanted him.

  This morning, when he’d appeared, shirtless and mouthwatering, on the pool deck, her heart had stuttered in her chest and she’d lost track of the world for a moment. The kiss he’d given her had been perfectly nice—a light good morning hello between lovers—but she’d wanted so much more. She hadn’t wanted respectable and sweet. She’d wanted heat and insanity. And she’d already proven she had the world’s worst impulse control.

  When he’d splashed into the pool and swum over to tip his head back beneath the waterfall, she’d given in to her urge to join him—and to see if she could push him past respectability and back into heat.

  And it had worked. God, had it ever worked. Until she remembered that he was lightyears out of her league.

  She’d run. Into the blinding sun that bathed the pool deck and then up the steps and across the patio into the air-conditioned chill of the house, shivering as she raced up the stairs and into her room. She crossed the master suite to the balcony and the view, waiting for the beauty to soothe her, but nothing did.

  She still felt that restless whisper beneath her skin, the need that never entirely went away when he was near. If only he’d been a bad kisser. If only every time he touched her didn’t set a new bar for how good she could feel. If he was going to be out of reach, he could at least do her the courtesy of being undesirable. But no. He had to be fantasy-perfect in every way.

  A guy like that would never want a girl like her. When they seemed to, it was a lie. Every time.

  Except he did. Right now, she was sure he did. Even if it was only temporary.

  She didn’t trust easily, even if she was impulsive, but she trusted him.

  Hell, maybe the fact that he was out of her league was for the best. She’d be able to keep her heart out of the equation if she remembered how different their worlds were. Just a fling. A pure fling. Her one chance to be with a man like him.

  No. Not a man like him. Her one chance to be with him. With Cross. Strong and gorgeous and protective and so freaking hot she nearly singed her fingertips touching him.

  What the hell was she doing, walking away? This was the fantasy. Where was her freaking impulsiveness now?

  She spun away from the view, the towel falling forgotten to the balcony floor as she moved quickly through the master suite, picking up confidence and speed as she went until she was nearly running when she hit the stairs down to the pool deck.

  He wasn’t in the cabana any more. He stood beside the lounge chair where she’d left her sunglasses and her book earlier when she dove into the pool. He turned at the sound of her bare feet slapping against the tile and his eyes widened when he saw her. She didn’t know what he saw on her face, but he braced his feet and barely swayed when she collided with him, her arms around his neck, momentum carrying her body against his chest and her feet lifting off the ground as his arms closed around her.

  Her mouth crashed against his and Cross didn’t miss a beat, kissing her back hungrily—but before she could do more than moan her relief, he lifted his head, breaking the kiss, his eyes searching her, dark and questioning.

  “What happened?” he asked, still holding her against him, off the ground.

  She shook her head. “I was stupid.”

  His eyebrows arched. “And you’re smart now.”

  “Very smart,” she promised, putting a hand to the back of his neck and pulling him toward her for a kiss that seared her nerve endings. He didn’t resist—thank God—his mouth moving persuasively over hers.

  As if she needed persuading.

  He lifted her higher and she wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles at his back and grinding her core against the hard ridge of his erection. Fuck, that felt good. Especially when he closed one of his large hands on her ass and pressed her tight against him, making them both groan.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” he murmured against her lips, and she felt the fizzy urge to laugh, the idea that she could make him wild going straight to her head like champagne bubbles.

  They were moving—and she realized belatedly he was taking her back to the cabana and shook her head. “The bedroom,” she whispered in his ear, feeling him shudder at her breath against his neck. He changed course without a word, every step sending shivering friction through her body where it was pressed against his. The chill of the air-conditioning hit them as they entered the house, but it only made the heat of his skin against her that much more of an erotic contrast. Hot against cold. Softness against strength.

  And God, he was strong.

  Up another flight of stairs, not even breathing hard. She thought he would put her down as soon as he kicked the door shut behind them in the master suite, but he showed no signs of tiring, one arm beneath her ass and the other banded behind her back, both holding her as if he could do it all day. She’d always been on the scrawny side, but she wasn’t a feather and the idea that he could manhandle her however he wanted was really fucking hot.

  He kissed her, his tongue thrusting against hers in a sensual echo of the act she wanted, the need building in her blood until she was squirming against him, anything to get him to stop screwing around and strip her bare and do this already.

  She might have said that out loud because he stopped nuzzling her neck and chuckled darkly, crossing to the bed in three long strides.

  She unhooked her ankles and let her legs drop down so she was kneeling on the bed, facing him as he stood beside it, and his hands, no longer occupied with holding her against him, skimmed up the sides of her body.

  Her uncertainties tried to creep in when his palms brushed the outer curves of the wonder-bikini. Maggie had generous Cs and Bree’s barely-Bs were bound to disappoint if he was expecting Maggie Tate’s legendary curves. But Cross caught her lips, distracting her, and his hands moved quickly over the complicated network of strings at her back, releasing the bikini top so quickly she could only gasp against his lips as he flung it away. She barely had a second to worry that he would be disappointed by her flatness before he was leaning back, his hands sliding up her ribcage until the curves of her breasts rested on the webbing of each hand and he groaned, his eyes locked on what he held, dark pupils glazed with a look that couldn’t have been further from disappointment.

  He looked dazed. Wild. She arched into his hands, encouraged by the gleam in his eyes as he bent and set his mouth to one nipple. A high cry burst from her lips, startled by the sharp jolt of sensation as his mouth tugged hard on the sensitive peak. She’d always been sensitive, but this. “Fuck.”

  He growled against her skin, turning his head, his stubble a delicious coarseness against her skin as he turned his attention to the other nipple, the fingers of one hand pinching the one he’d just left until she squirmed, gripping his shoulders to stay upright. Heat pooled between her legs—and he hadn’t even touched her there yet. His teeth gently tweaked one taut nipple and she gasped, “Aaron,” making him smile against her.

  He could smile all he wanted, as long as he didn’t stop.

  His mouth still on her breast, he pressed her back until her shoulder blades hit the comforter and she threw her head back—which exposed her neck and he wasted no time taking advantage, nibbling there while she twisted beneath him, her aching nipples pressed to his chest, trying to figure out how the hell she could get back in control of the situation.

  She’d never been like this. Mindless. Consumed.

  Sex was fun, sure, and it felt good, but this…this was tension and heat and need and if something didn’t give soon she was going to die. His weight left her suddenly and she released a helpless keen of disappointment—too far gone to even be embarrassed by the sound—but then his hands were gripping her bikini bottoms and she was lifting her hips to help him slide them down faster.

  She thought he’d be back—his weight over her, pressing into her—and she widened her thighs to make room for him between them, but it wasn’t his hips she felt there. His palms pressed her thighs
apart and then his mouth was on her center and she was arching, keening, digging her heels into the coverlet, trying to find purchase, trying to find anything to hold on to as he hooked her knee over his shoulder, sliding a finger into her, curving it high and—

  Bree screamed, losing her mind. His tongue. His fucking tongue. He kept licking. Didn’t let her come down, pushed her so high she was shuddering, jerking, crying, making sounds she’d never heard, let alone made, and Cross—one hand in her, one on her waist, holding her steady—he shattered the world.

  She covered her face with both arms, when he finally let her come down, breathing rough, ragged breaths as she felt the bed move and knew what he was doing. She heard the bedside drawer open. The tear of foil. The sound of wet fabric hitting the floor as his board shorts came off.

  She lowered her arms, not wanting to miss the view.

  He stood at the edge of the bed, sliding the condom on, his eyes on her. They looked almost black and her breathing, which had begun to calm, went ragged again. God, he was gorgeous. Art in motion. An erotic masterpiece. He crawled over her, bracing himself on straight arms above her, and her aesthetic appreciation was abruptly lost in something more carnal.

  “Are you ready?” he growled—and she almost laughed.

  Are you kidding? she wanted to say. I’m a puddle of orgasms and need. But she didn’t have words. She didn’t have anything but touch and taste and smell and God, the sight of him. Her legs were splayed bonelessly wide and he lowered himself slowly between them—but with his eyes at a level with hers, her core lined up with his stomach, not his lean, sexy hips and the delicious hard-on there.

  He kissed her, and it was one of those kisses—slow and deliberate and drugging. Where was the frantic thrust of tongues? The fierce rush of heat? How was he not losing his mind? He hadn’t just come his brains out all over the bed more times than he could count. That was her. Why wasn’t he hurrying?