The Decoy Bride

by Lizzie Shane

  But this man, with his exquisite control, the kiss seemed to say, knew exactly what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to rush.

  Muscles loose with release began to tighten again with anticipation. He reached between them, one finger unerringly finding her clit and tapping her there, sending shivers of aftershocks through her body, as if she hadn’t already literally come until she couldn’t come anymore.

  Cross rumbled something close to her ear, but she couldn’t process words anymore because he was hooking his elbow under one of her knees, opening her to him, his cock pressing into her, slow and thick and God, she was losing her mind, losing her sense, losing everything but the feel of him filling her, stretching her—fuck, he was big and then his other arm was beneath her other knee and he was lifting her pelvis off the bed, angling her up, on his knees, sliding deep and damn, the man was strong, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but reach over her head and brace herself against the headboard as he lifted her just a little higher and fuck what did he hit in there because her toes were curling again and she was gasping, couldn’t breathe, coming so hard she couldn’t breathe, and he was thrusting, harder now, the slap of flesh loud in the room and every time he hilted he hit that spot and her vision went black again. Every. Fucking. Time. Then he was swearing, the stream of blue words feral and raw as he yanked out, wrenching a cry from her and flipped her so fast she was bracing her hands on the bed before she saw him move, her knees still held off the mattress by his strong hands, lifting her as he drove back into her and—Christ, it was better. How could it be better? She pushed back against him, deaf to the sounds she was making and he slammed into her one last time, stiffening, holding her tight against him as he came and she screamed along with him, losing her mind all over again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  No one had ever told her sex could be like that.

  She’d seen porn, seen the writhing and the screaming and the moaning, but she’d always sort of thought that was the male fantasy, not the female reality. The sex she’d had had always been nice, but sort of…tame before. And now…

  Damn.

  She lay on the bed afterward, staring at the ceiling and trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d just had porn star sex. Cross was breathing hard at her side, flat on his back, staring up at the tray ceiling as well.

  It was a nice ceiling. The resort had spared no expense. And at least if she kept staring at it she didn’t have to look at the man who could turn her into a shameless porn star with one touch.

  She felt like every muscle in her body had been wrung out. No wonder people said sex burned calories. She wasn’t sure it had, the way she’d done it before, but this…yeah. That had been aerobic.

  “Wow,” she said, when she was able to form words.

  Cross chuckled, low and smug—and she decided she would allow him smug. The man deserved smug. He was good at that. Fucking fantastic at that.

  Which was amazing. As long as she didn’t think about how he’d gotten to be so fantastic. He’d obviously had a lot of practice. A lot more than she had, anyway. Not that it was a competition. But still, her insecurities flickered to life at the reminder that this man had probably spent his entire football career from high school to the NFL tripping over women who wanted nothing more than to help him hone his sexual skills.

  The large body at her side moved before she could fall completely down that particular mental rabbit hole. He rolled away from her, disposing of the condom, and then he was back, reaching for her, curling his body around hers, and it felt so good she forgot to be insecure.

  “You called me Aaron,” he rumbled.

  “What?” She couldn’t see his face, tucked with her back to his front, but his voice was teasing in her ear.

  “There was a lot of Oh God, Aaron. Harder, Aaron.”

  “Oh.” She blushed and ducked her head, unsure whether she should be embarrassed by the things she’d said—though he seemed to like it—or apologizing because she knew he preferred to be called Cross. “Sorry about that.”

  “No. I kind of like it when you say it,” he murmured against her neck, and she relaxed against him, nestling closer. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Are you shy now?” she asked incredulously.

  He chuckled, a low dark sound. “Not hardly.” He shifted her in his arms until she was on her back and he was on his side beside her, looking into her eyes as he asked her, “Why did it matter what I drove?”

  “What?” she asked vaguely, hoping to play dumb, though she could feel herself blushing and his direct gaze offered no escape. She squirmed, looking away.

  “Hey. Look at me.”

  She sighed gustily and admitted, “I thought it was her car. When I first saw it at the house.” She made a face, mouthing Maggie’s in a belated attempt to keep from being overheard saying something she shouldn’t. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You drive the same kind of car that a movie star would drive. It’s credible that a guy like you would be with someone like Maggie Tate.” She shrugged then, hoping the negligent gesture would make the words she was about to say seem worldly and indifferent. “It doesn’t make sense for you to be with me.”

  His eyes darkened. “That’s bullshit.”

  “Is it?”

  “I am with you,” he said.

  But for how long? She didn’t say it. They hadn’t talked about the future. They hadn’t talked about more. And he’d already been very clear that he wasn’t looking for marriage and kids and happily ever afters.

  Not that she was looking for that, necessarily, but it made her nervous, not knowing what the future held. Not knowing how long this would last.

  So when he bent his head to kiss her, she twined her arms around his neck and pressed up into the kiss, enjoying the moment, because at any second the moment could be gone.

  *

  In the short time he’d known her, Cross had learned that he and Bree were very different. She was artistic and impulsive where he was disciplined and driven, but in one crucial way, it turned out they were perfectly matched: neither of them had an off switch.

  If he had two modes—push and push harder—Bree only had one—go. His exes had often bitched that he was relentless, not knowing when to stop, but Bree gave him a run for his money.

  He should have known an affair with her would burn hot and fast. After that first time in the suite, things between them didn’t so much progress as erupt. She became his instant obsession—and the feeling appeared to be mutual.

  It was surprisingly nice being with someone who matched him in that way. Who even outpaced him. When they physically exhausted one another the voice inside him that always pushed him quieted for a moment and they could just be. Or at least he could. Even after he’d made her come screaming, she often still had energy, her body restless against his. Over the next couple days, he started taking it as personal victory when he could not only make her lose her senses, but also make her come until she was boneless and immobile.

  She was a challenge—and he loved to win.

  Neither of them had any balance, any perspective, but that was perfect for a fling. This thing between them wasn’t built to last, but it felt fucking incredible in the moment. He couldn’t remember ever being with someone he’d sexually clicked with so completely.

  They still played the lovey dovey couple in public for Mel’s agenda, but in private it was raw heat and sexual marathons.

  Not that it was all sex. On the second morning after their affair started, he pulled her into the theatre room—yes, because he wanted to have sex without worrying that he would say her real name when he came—but also because he just wanted to talk to her when they didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing her being her non-Maggie self.

  Bree was restless, already pacing in the space when he closed the door behind them, the shower sex they’d had earlier apparently doing nothing to calm her down.

  “Aren’t they married by now?” she demanded. “I k
now the days are all sort of blurring together, but it’s been over a week and they wanted a two week honeymoon, didn’t they? Shouldn’t the deed be done by now?”

  “Apparently there have been a couple delays.” He relayed what he’d learned from Candy’s latest report. “It’s been raining and Maggie wants the photos to be perfect so they’re waiting for a clear day.”

  Bree snorted. “They should have come here and we could have gone to Fiji.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. The weather had been perfection. The tropical storm that had threatened a few days ago had swung north of them, far enough away that they hadn’t gotten even a drop of rain. Cross had almost been disappointed when he’d seen the forecast, because a hurricane might have scared away some of the photographers. Or at least given him an excuse to keep “Maggie” holed up in bed all week. Not that he needed an excuse.

  “I just wish they would get to it already,” Bree declared. “Not that it matters since we’ll still be here distracting from their honeymoon, but at least I’d feel like we’d accomplished something when they’re actually married, you know?”

  He stepped into the path of her pacing, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re terrible at patience, you know that?” She made a face and he dropped a quick kiss on her mouth to distract her. “You should take it as a compliment that they aren’t in any hurry. They’re enjoying being hidden away and confident that we can keep the heat off them.”

  She grimaced, leaning back in his hold even as she gripped his biceps. “I didn’t think I would be so bad at keeping this up, being her for three weeks.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re amazing at it.” He pulled her closer, bending to bite her lower lip. “You’re just wilder than she is. Not as domesticated.”

  Her smile glinted, wicked and inviting. “You going to tame me?”

  He grinned, lowering his head. “Why would I want to do that? The wildness is the best part.”

  Half an hour later, he lay on the oversized couch with Bree sprawled across him, his thoughts tracking back to their earlier conversation as she began to fidget. He stroked a hand through her hair—silken, blonde, and so exactly like Maggie’s. But now when he looked at her he couldn’t help but see the differences.

  He brushed his thumb over the line of her upper lip, the shape of it ever so slightly different than Maggie’s, though he’d never noticed it before they came to the island. “You look so different to me now.”

  “That’s because you’ve seen me without the Wonderbra,” she said, grinning. “Once someone points out the differences it’s easy.”

  “Yeah?”

  She held up a finger. “I’m shorter than she is.” Another finger joined the first. “Flatter than she is. Blonder—though don’t tell her I told you that. Younger—though definitely don’t tell her I told you that. And our eyes are different colors.”

  Cross frowned, staring into the turquoise eyes that had been staring back at him all week. “What color are your eyes?”

  “Sort of grey-ish hazel. Nothing special.”

  “Will you show me?”

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out. At length, she frowned. “Why?”

  Because I want to see the real you.

  He frowned, unsure where that thought had come from—and careful not to say it aloud. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression about what this was. They’d been careful so far to keep things easy. Undefined.

  He liked what they had now, liked being with her, but he wasn’t looking for forever. Better if they kept things casual. Better if he didn’t have to worry about disappointing her.

  “No reason,” he said finally. “Just curious.”

  Mollified, she rolled off him, reaching for the clothes that littered the floor. “Has Mel said anything to you about how Campaign True Love is going?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted, catching the boxer-briefs she tossed at him and standing to put them on. “Though honestly I don’t see the point of trying to convince the world Maggie is in love with me when she’s going to reveal she was with Demarco the whole time.”

  “Mel is protective of Maggie,” Bree commented. “I don’t think she likes anyone saying anything bad about her, even if it is just temporary.”

  A high pitched whine sounded outside the theatre room door and Bree padded across the room in her panties and padded sports bra, opening the door a crack to let Cecil slip inside. “Were you lonely, furball?” she asked the dog, crouching down to scratch his ears before he darted over to Cross to receive the same tribute.

  Cross’s cell phone rang from his pants pocket as he was bending to pet the dog and Cecil yipped, scampering over to growl at his jeans until Cross fished out the phone. His mother’s name showed on the screen and he frowned, sending the call to voicemail and tossing the phone on the couch.

  “Still dodging calls?”

  He grimaced, shoving his feet into his jeans and yanking them up around his hips. “I don’t know what to say to her.”

  “Have you heard her side of the story?”

  “I don’t need to hear her side.” He yanked his shirt over his head more forcefully than necessary, nearly tearing the fabric.

  ‘You sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  “What about your sister? Have you contacted her?”

  “I will,” he promised—promising himself as much as her. “I just need a little more time to process it. I’m not ready for it to be real.”

  “I think I’d be impatient to know the truth.”

  “I am, but I also…I don’t know. I don’t want to call her when I’m still mad at him. My father…” He shook his head—simultaneously having no words and too many words to describe the man. “He was a great football player. I’ve seen the tapes. He was fast—faster than me, as no one would ever let me forget because sportscasters love nothing more than to compare our 40 times. He played wide receiver and I played defense—cornerback, the position that defends against the wide receiver and I can’t count the number of times commentators speculated that my father would have been able to get separation if I’d been covering him. I have been compared to him my entire life, in every way we can be compared to each other. When we made varsity in high school. When we became starters. How high we were drafted. But that shit? That’s fine. That didn’t bother me. I may have spent my entire career chasing a ghost, but I could handle it. He was better than me. That’s fine. But the fucking lying? The rewriting history? Why do that? Why lie?” He shook his head, frustrated.

  “You could ask her that,” Bree commented, the words light, without judgment.

  “I’m not ready to talk to her. Because I know if I do right now all I’ll do is yell about the lies. About the freaking illusion that is my father.”

  He expected her to argue, but she merely nodded. “I hate illusions too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Zander? The guy who lured me out to LA under false pretenses? I think the worst part wasn’t that he’d lied or wanted to use me—it was that I’d built my entire self-worth around the idea that what he’d said was true and suddenly everything I wanted to believe about myself had no foundation. I felt so stupid for believing him. Stupid for wanting to. I couldn’t stop feeling like I should have known, like it was my own fault I’d been taken in. So I spent the next decade trying to peel back all the illusion in Hollywood. I hate the fake shit we all project to try to look like we’re successful or happy or like we don’t have regrets, because who do those lies help? They don’t help the people who are struggling and feeling like they’re faking it and any second someone is going to discover the truth. We aren’t perfect, but we all try to sell the lie. Facebook perfect. It didn’t help me when I came out here on the promise of a stranger. And it didn’t help you—giving you this unrealistic ideal that you spent your entire life trying to live up to. As if you have to be perfect to be worthy. So, I get why you would be mad at the illusions—I get why you would be pissed at your mom. But s
he’s still your mom. And this is still your sister. And if I found out I had a sibling, I wouldn’t wait around before calling her. Because you never know when someone needs you.”

  Cross stared at her, this woman who somehow sliced straight to the heart of everything. Straight to the heart of him.

  “I’ll call her,” he promised.

  Bree smiled. “Good.”

  She turned away, finishing dressing, and he watched her, his thoughts swirling.

  He couldn’t help but admire her, and envy her that knowledge she had, down to her core, beneath all the restless energy that rustled over the surface. She knew. Who she was. What she wanted. She had a calling. A purpose. A certainty that she was doing something she was meant to do with her life.

  The way she felt about her art came through every time she spoke about it. It was who she was. But more than that, it gave her meaning. Something Cross wasn’t sure he’d ever had, even when he was doing what he thought he was best at—playing ball. It had never meant anything. He’d never been happy. Not the way she was, completely separate from the idea of success. He didn’t know how to be happy like that. He only knew how to win.

  How did she do that? How did she cut right down to the heart of everything and see?

  He crossed the distance between them in two strides, taking her face in his hands. “You’re amazing. You know that?”

  “Do I?” she whispered, looking up at him, and he didn’t have the words to explain. He didn’t have words at all. So he explained the only way he could.

  He kissed her. Admiring her. Worshiping her.

  …and eventually shooing Cecil out of the room and taking her against the wall because he had no restraint where she was concerned. No limits.

  But also no illusions.

  With Bree, there were no illusions. Only them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bree’s life sometimes felt like a history of mistakes. A catalogue of them. But none had ever made her feel quite as nervous as this.