Once Upon a Honeymoon (Harlequin American Romance)

by Julie Kistler

  And then the door burst open.

  Perched in the doorway, Kitty Belle stuck her hand over her eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t see anything. Not a thing.”

  “Mother!” Scandalized, Tripp sat up, pulling the sheet up over Bridgie completely, shielding himself up to the chest. “What the hell are you doing? Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?”

  “I wanted to surprise you!” she said happily. “Now, Tripp, don’t get all excited. I told you, I didn’t see anything.”

  “You don’t surprise someone on their honeymoon,” he shot back.

  “Oh, pish posh! I have a big announcement to make.”

  “Go back out in the hall, will you? Better yet, get some breakfast. We’ll meet you out there in a few minutes.”

  As his mother finally consented to disappear, Tripp pulled the sheet back, revealing Bridget’s rosy face. “It appears we are being summoned for a command performance,” he told her. “Better get up, sleepy head.”

  She muttered something unpleasant, but she deigned to hoist herself out of the bed, straightening her nightgown and marching haughtily to the bathroom to get ready.

  “Oh, and Bridgie?”

  She turned.

  “You didn’t do it.”

  “Didn’t do what?”

  He grinned at her. “You promised me you’d stay on your own side of the bed. You promised me I wouldn’t know you were here.”

  “I lied.”

  And then she spun on her heel, leaving him alone in the big brass bed.

  * * *

  “I’M GOING HOME.”

  “To Ashbyville?” Tripp asked. “Are you serious? What does this mean?”

  “It means that this mountain air has done me a world of good, and I’m well enough to travel.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it, Bridgie?”

  “Wow. It’s fabulous.” She crossed to her mother-in-law’s chair. “Are you sure? You’re really feeling that well?”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. And I’m anxious to get home. I feel it’s important to give the two of you some time for a real honeymoon.” She winked broadly. “We need to get those grandchildren started, after all. You know how much I want to keep the Ashby name going, and now that my son is finally married, I can’t wait to see my grandsons.”

  “Your grandsons?” Bridget was surprised. “Do you mean...?” But she could hardly ask her mother-in-law how long she planned to live. It was probably just wishful thinking, just a sweet dream for their future without her.

  Tripp seemed to have missed the part about the grandchildren. He peered at his mother, as if there were something more going on that he couldn’t see. “When will you leave?”

  “Right away. All packed,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve got a flight this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?” Tripp stuck his hand in his pocket. “Well, I guess I’d better find my keys and get ready to roll. Whenever you’re ready, I can drive you to Reno. Bridgie, do you want to come? Oh, and you, too, Uncle Joe.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Kitty Belle said quickly.

  “Mother, of course I’ll drive you.”

  “But there’s no need,” interjected Frank Emerick. Awkwardly, he said, “When Kitty Belle told me she was ready to head out to Chicago, I thought maybe it was time I got back to St. Paul, as well.”

  “You’re leaving, too?” Bridget looked at one and then the other. “But why now?”

  “Well, I always said I would go as soon as I felt better,” Tripp’s mother said quickly.

  “And I said I would go as soon as I was sure you were all right, Bridget Marie.” Her dad gave her a gruff smile. “I guess I figured out, from watching the two of you together, that there was no reason to worry, none at all.”

  “Really?” Bridget said softly.

  “Sure, honey.” He reached out to ruffle her hair. “I know two people in love when I see them. I’m not that old and decrepit, you know.”

  “You’re not old and decrepit at all.”

  His smiled widened, as her father stuck an arm around his little girl. “Why, I can tell just by looking at you that you’re crazy about each other, and what’s more, I trust him to take care of you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Tripp said somberly.

  “What more could you ask?” Frank Emerick laughed. “The boy has a wonderful mother, plus he’s a great cook, which is really a good thing, since Bridget is awful.”

  That got a crooked smile out of Tripp. “I know. Remind me to tell you about this one Thanksgiving—”

  “Be quiet,” she rasped. Quickly she pulled her father out of earshot, where they could speak privately. “Thank you, Dad. For going along. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, telling all these lies, but it really has made Kitty Belle happy.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mind so much. Once I got used to the idea.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Once I saw how right the two of you were for each other. I admit it, I wasn’t crazy about Tripp at first. You know, I like Jay. He’s a good man, and I hate to see you lose him. But now I see things a little more clearly. Tripp loves you, baby. It’s written all over him.”

  Bridget smiled wanly. She wished she knew whether it was true.

  “We’ll see you at Thanksgiving, right? Both of you? Your sister Linda will be making the turkey.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. We haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

  “It’s just a couple of weeks away,” he protested.

  “I know, but...” She had to say it. “I don’t know if Tripp and I will still be together in a couple of weeks. Once Kitty Belle...well, you know.”

  “No matter what happens with Kitty Belle, you two will still be together.” Her dad gave her a confident squeeze. “Trust me. You’ll be together.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  AND THEN THERE were two.

  There wasn’t much time left, only a day or two. It was a shame in a way, even though, left all alone, Tripp and Bridget weren’t quite sure what to do with each other. The shadows in the cabin seemed longer, quieter, more for bidding. Time seemed to hang around them, unfilled.

  He cooked her dinner, like always. She helped him clean up, like always.

  The first day and then the second passed in this sort of edgy truce. Neither one seemed willing to confront the other and have it out.

  Until finally, inevitably, they reached their last night together in the cabin.

  And after dinner, after the usual ritual of cooking and cleaning, as the sun glowed pink behind the mountains to the west, they exchanged confused glances. What now?

  “Hey,” Tripp said lightly, “we’ve never had any problem keeping ourselves busy before this. Tell you what—I’ll get the Scrabble game, and you get the dictionary.”

  It was a relief to fall into the old patterns. Scrabble. Over the years, they must’ve played a hundred games.

  “I’ll beat the pants off you,” she promised. “I always do.”

  “Emerick, you are so conceited. Just wait till you see my seven-letter triple word score.”

  “Dream on.”

  Bridget lounged on the fluffy white rug in front of the fireplace, watching the embers die down, watching Tripp as he frowned at his rack of tiles.

  “Will you hurry up?” she pleaded. “You must have some kind of word there.”

  He didn’t even look up, just kept staring at his tiles.

  Bridget sighed. In the morning, she knew, they would rise together for the last time, they would get into their separate rental cars and they would fly back to their separate lives.

  As she stared into the dying fire, moodily contemplating the end of this wretched honeymoon, Bridget suddenly knew with crystal clarity what she was going to do.

  It didn’t really matter whether she went back to Jay or not, whether she did indeed take the high road for the rest of her life, or stayed earthbound with the rest of the mortals.

  She could still hav
e tonight.

  She’d wanted Tripp Ashby for sixteen years, and this was her last chance. In the morning it would all be over, one way or the other. Her heart beat faster. Her face flushed with heat and desire. She was going to do it, and damn the consequences.

  Even if she lost him forever, she would have this one night to remember. She wanted it. She wanted him.

  Seize the night.

  She sneaked a glance at him. Completely unaware.

  “Tripp?”

  “Hmm?”

  Bridget reached over and knocked over his rack of tiles. Tiny wooden letters toppled into the rug.

  His blue eyes blazed, reflecting the flames in the fireplace. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m tired of this game.” And she slid through the middle of the board, scattering letters everywhere, as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “What would you do if I asked you to make love to me right here, right now?”

  He hesitated, for just a split second.

  “I’m perfectly sober, and there’s no one to interrupt us,” she said quickly. She licked her lip, watching the fire in his eyes deepen. “Forget about the future. I don’t care.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true,” she insisted, and for the first time, it was. Whether or not she did the smart thing had ceased to matter. If this one small act threw away her future forever, she simply didn’t care. “I want this, Tripp. I want it more than anything. Will you say something? Now? Before I lose my nerve?”

  “Bridgie,” he whispered, closing his eyes, gathering her close, breathing into her hair. “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded.

  “Is this really what you want?”

  “It’s what I want.”

  He tightened his hold, he knocked her back into the soft, thick fur of the rug and kissed her.

  His mouth was so warm, and so demanding. It was as if he, too, knew they didn’t have much time. He framed her face with his hands, and he dropped hungry little kisses on her cheeks and her chin, on her nose and her eyelids.

  She had imagined so many times what it would be like if Tripp made love to her. She wanted him to be everything she had dreamed he would be. Her hero. Her golden boy.

  Swifter, farther, higher. She’d seen him reach for the sky on the track field. She wanted to see that strength, that speed and daring, on this field of battle.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  His whole body was one hard line of desire as he shrugged out of his shirt and reached for hers. “No, I can—” she tried, but he batted her hands away.

  “I want to.”

  And then he ripped it away, ignoring the shattered buttons, ignoring the slashing, rending sound of torn fabric, as Bridget’s breath caught in her throat. She was afraid. He stared down at her, at the curves barely contained by the lacy bra she was wearing, and he drank her in. Under his rapt gaze, with those smoky blue eyes radiating heat and passion, she felt more desirable than she’d thought possible.

  Not quite sure she could believe what she was seeing, she murmured, “Do you want me, Tripp?”

  “Bridget,” he said roughly. “I want you so badly, I can’t think of anything else. I want you so badly, I’m shaking with it.”

  Her mouth went dry.

  Savagely, recklessly, he disposed of her blouse and tore away her bra. And he covered her hot, fevered flesh with his mouth and his hands, cupping her breasts, teasing her briefly, leaving her trembling with need.

  She could feel him everywhere, and the pleasure, the pain, was exquisite. His fingers and his lips stroked and caressed her, they licked her, they flickered sparks over her shoulders, along the column of her throat, across the tops of her breasts.

  But no farther. She was restless, impatient, anxious, melting inside.

  She tried to wriggle closer, to reach for him, too, but he held her back, still taking his time, charting his own course.

  Her breasts ached for his touch, for his mouth, and her nipples stiffened, tautened into impossibly hard little peaks. Tripp etched his kisses closer, but not close enough.

  Desperate, she arched up into his mouth. “Please,” she moaned.

  And he bit down gently, and she moaned again, louder this time.

  She lifted herself up off the fur rug, rubbing her jeans against his, greedy for the hard, heavy feel of him pressed to the center of her. She knew she was wanton, out of control, and she didn’t care. This was Tripp. This was her fantasy.

  But this was far better than any fantasy. This was real. Blazingly, scorchingly real.

  “Get rid of this,” he said huskily, trying to peel away her jeans.

  She shed them herself, eager to feel more of him, reaching for his jeans, too.

  And when there was nothing but skin between them, she took in the full, stunning picture of who exactly she was dealing with. Perfection. Not the idealistic, white knight kind. Tripp was real, hard, alive. He was a real man. And he was wonderful.

  Tall, slim, lean, beautifully muscled, Tripp had the long torso and sleek arms of the athlete he had once been, still was. She ran her hands over his chest, his gorgeous, sweat slick chest, reflecting golden in the dying firelight. She filled her palms with his supple strength, mesmerized by the hard, strong curves of his arms and his back.

  “You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she whispered.

  “Be quiet,” he said, nipping at her lower lip, wrestling her around until she was completely underneath him. His rigid arousal brushed her thigh, and she angled closer, wanting the feel of him under her fingers. But he caught both her hands in one of his, twisting them up out of the way.

  “Tripp, please...” She needed to touch him. This was torture.

  But he was merciless. “You’re the beautiful one, Bridget,” he whispered. His voice was tense, unsteady, as if he were having trouble breathing. “Do you know how much I love your hair and your eyes and the way your pupils get huge when I kiss you? I love the sounds you make when I touch you, here.”

  And he did touch her, there, and she offered up a husky whimper of heady desire.

  “I love the way you move, and the way you breathe.” He found her mouth again, and he kissed her, deep and long. “And the way you taste. I can’t seem to get enough.”

  Poised there above her, his body fitted to her, he slid himself against her, back and forth, once, twice, just teasing her. She moaned incoherently, struggling to press in closer and harder, to find some point of relief.

  But Tripp set the rhythm, and he wouldn’t give in. Just barely brushing her, driving her mad, he held himself back. Every blood vessel in her body was pounding with the feel of him, every inch of her tingled and quivered. She was dizzy and weak, and the damn man was just out of reach.

  A longer, more urgent sound escaped her lips. “Now,” she begged, writhing under him. He stroked against her swiftly, sweetly. Again and again. Just right. Just perfect. Just Tripp.

  Finally, at the exact moment she thought sure she would shatter into pieces, she clutched at him, she clutched handfuls of soft, white fur, and she cried out with blessed release. Everything went woozy. She was drowning in waves of passion, of knowledge, of Tripp.

  But she needed to feel him with her.

  “Tripp. Please?”

  He knew what she wanted. His hands braced her hips, and with one thrust, he slipped inside. Sleek, golden, liquid, he felt impossibly devastatingly good.

  She met each stroke, wanting more of him, taking all he had to give. Swifter, farther, higher. Deeper.

  And together, together as they were always meant to be, they found their bliss. They touched the sky.

  * * *

  HE HADN’T PLANNED to spend his last night in the cabin buck naked on the rug in front of the fire. But what a way to go.

  Bridgie’s body was warm and delicious beside him, so soft, almost liquid, as she sinuously cuddled closer, tangling a leg over his, brushing his hair with one small hand. He closed his eyes, drawing her up
against him, fitting her tighter, nuzzling her neck.

  He wanted to make love to her again, right now.

  And when they were done, he wanted to try it new ways and new places. He wanted to bury himself in her and never let go. He had never been so hungry, so greedy, for one body, for one woman. He could make love to her all day, yet he knew it wouldn’t be enough. There was simply no way he could drink his fill of Bridgie.

  Euphoria and confusion suddenly filled him. “I’m in love,” he whispered, awed by the very idea. He was married to the woman he loved, and it was fabulous, it was wonderful, it was everything anyone could ever want.

  If he’d known marriage could be like this, he would’ve done it years ago.

  And if he’d known Bridgie could be like this, he would’ve taken her to bed years ago.

  Tenderly, he looked down at the woman sleeping in his arms. His wife.

  Holy hell. They were supposed to be at the airport in a few hours. She was leaving.

  But she couldn’t. He had to tell her first how he felt. He had to tell her something to make her stay.

  But what? What could he say? I love you. I want to stay married to you. I don’t want to wake up alone ever again.

  God, it sounded idiotic. She was destined for greatness, and he was a regular guy. He eased out from under her, leaving her alone in front of the long cold fireplace. He had to think. He had to plan.

  He found a blanket in the bedroom and he covered her there on the rug, tucking it in carefully so that she wouldn’t get a chill. And then he jumped into the shower, hoping some frigid water would clear his head.

  He had to figure out a way to convince her they had to stay together. But how?

  * * *

  WHERE WAS SHE? Fur under her fingers. Hard floor. A thin quilt.

  She blinked open and looked around, getting her bearings. The living room rug? But of course. Tripp. Last night. Bliss.

  Sighing extravagantly, she settled back down into the rug to nap a bit more. But wait a minute. If she’d made love with Tripp until the wee hours, and the stiff, well-loved feeling coursing her limbs told her that she definitely had, then what was she doing all by herself on this damn bear rug?