No Time to Explain

by Kate Angell

  He wondered where Stevie would fit into his life. She was unique. Unbelievably gorgeous. Kind. Smart, too. A psychologist. That revelation had been mind-blowing, and, if he was honest with himself, impressive. Her career shouldn’t have mattered to him, but it did. He had a history with school guidance counselors and referral therapists that brought back difficult times and dark memories. Professionals had judged, criticized, and picked him apart, pointing out his faults and mistakes. Assuming reasons as to why he acted out. They never had a positive word for him. He’d grown combative, punching his way through his teens.

  His life gradually improved with age. Sex brought him release. Calmed him. Women came and went. No woman stayed in his bed or in his mind too long. Up until Stevie. She conceivably knew him better than he knew himself. Whether that was a good or a bad thing, he’d yet to resolve.

  Joe leaned back in the chair, stared up at the sky. There were a few stars. No moon. He finished off his beer. Alyssa offered him a second, but he shook his head. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. He cupped her chin with his palm, stroked his thumb over her lips. She nipped his wrist. Her gaze softened, expectant. She was ready to strip down and play water polo. He wasn’t there yet. He had a question for her. “Who am I to you?” he asked.

  She blinked. “A trick question?”

  “No correct answer. Just be honest.”

  “You’re my favorite Rogue.”

  “Mine, too,” from Cady. Out of the water, she walked toward them, all shivering flesh and chattering teeth. She leaned over Joe, kissed him full on the mouth. Her nipples nearly poked out his eye. Alyssa tossed her a beach towel, which she wrapped around her full figure. The ends gapped at her breasts. Split between her thighs. “I like my party guy,” she added.

  Roz of the red hair and low, sexy voice, the tallest of his posse, joined them. She slipped on a short terry-cloth cover-up that looked like a bathrobe and barely concealed her butt. She grinned. “You’re sex to me, dude. Pure sin.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” the ladies hummed. Agreeing.

  “We all love Chaos,” Roz said of his tattoo.

  “You’re bar night to me,” brown-eyed, athletic-bodied Bo told him. Beach towel – wrapped, she wiggled her ass onto his lap. Settled square on his groin. No stirring. His dick sat still.

  The remainder of his posse soon circled him. He looked deeply into the eyes of each of the twelve. All sexually hot, and altogether confused. They’d never seen him this serious before. Anxiety and concern had them shuffling their bare feet, clasping their hands, and gnawing their bottom lips. Tossing their dampened hair. Tightening their towels.

  “What if I wasn’t a ballplayer?” he went on to ask. Curious. Needing to know.

  “But you are,” said Alyssa.

  “What if I didn’t drink? Didn’t close down bars? ” Seeking insight.

  “Red Dog would lose their best customer,” Cady said. “You bring business to the Lusty Oyster and the Blue Coconut.”

  “What if I was a lousy lover?”

  “Impossible.” A small smile from Roz. “You were born for sex.”

  “We’re grateful,” from Bo.

  Their responses weren’t what he’d hoped. There was no depth. Regardless, a smile curved his lips. He’d created his posse to party. Shallow as it seemed now. He’d elected them for their looks, their sexual impulses and freedom. Intellect had never been a factor. Their time together was all about him. They lived up to his expectations. Feeding his ego. No jealousy. He could take any one of these women to bed tonight. Two, even. They offered passion. Pleasure. Satisfaction guaranteed.

  He held the thought. Turned it over in his mind, like a coin flip. Heads: posse sex. Tails: principled Stevie. He felt an uncharacteristic loyalty toward her. Which freaked him out a little. Stevie was a psychologist. He wanted more than a mind fuck. He wanted her body. To make love. All night long.

  His inability to commit to the ladies sent all but Alyssa back into the water for a second round of water polo. Sam, Pax, and his other teammates welcomed them with whoops and cheers. The guys had physically adjusted to the crystal coolness. Chests puffed. Cocks stood proud.

  ’Lyssa rolled off her hips and onto her knees. She leaned her elbows on his thighs. Licked her lips. Met his gaze. “Don’t you want me?”

  “You’re my go-to, babe.” So often. If he was wanting a woman.

  “I’m available now.” She spread her hands over his groin. Unbuttoned his jeans. She stroked his tat, then finger-walked his happy trail. His dick twitched. His balls pulled tight. A purely physical reaction. Painful as hell.

  No more. He covered her hand. Gritted out, “Can’t, ’Lys.”

  Unrelenting, believing he just needed further convincing, she snuck her free hand inside his Living Hard T-shirt. She palmed across his ribs to his nipple. There, thumbed and teased.

  She turned him on.

  He turned her down.

  He caught her wrist. Shook his head. “Not going to happen.” He set her from him. Went on to button up his jeans. To straighten his shirt. To stand, towering over her.

  He offered his hand, and she took it. He pulled her to her feet. They faced each other. He had nothing more to say, but his silence seemed to speak to her. Her gaze rounded. Her lips parted. “Oh, dude. Really? You’ve met someone special. Hard to believe.”

  For him, too.

  “Are you breaking up with us?”

  “Short weekend break only.”

  “I’m betting longer.”

  Groom for an afternoon wasn’t a lifetime commitment.

  A couple hours max.

  He’d be back. No man got caught up in make-believe.

  * * *

  Ten a.m. Saturday morning. Joe was still sleeping. Noise and voices now rose from the first floor, echoing upstairs. He groaned. What the hell? No man deserved to be wakened from a sex dream. Especially one in which he was just about to undress Stevie. She’d stood before him, eyes dark with desire. A blush of longing on her cheeks. Her lips plump, swollen from his kisses. He’d left her breathless. She’d left him bone-hard.

  Sunshine sliced through his bedroom window, warming his face and prying his eyelids open. He blinked the room into focus. He’d returned to the Victorian on the morning side of midnight, after leaving his party posse at Rock Creek Cove. He had a key, and slipped quietly into the house, tiptoed up to his room. Not wanting to rouse Stevie, Turbo, and Etta. Dean Jensen had requested a weekend sleepover for his bulldog. To Turbo’s delight. The two were now inseparable.

  Rumor in the locker room registered Dean and Lori at Sandcastle. Their sunburns had faded. Dean had left the practice field for marathon sex at the hotel. There was an exhibition game on Sunday, and sex could drain a man if he wasn’t careful. Dean would hit the field already played out. Advantage Joe.

  He presently lay flat on his back, naked, alone. A scrunched-up pillow under his neck. The wrinkled top sheet wrapped his ankles. He scratched his belly. Balls. Jacked to a sitting position. Ran his tongue over his teeth. Dry mouth. Tooth brushing, a must. Which meant knocking on the bathroom door in case Stevie was inside, hopefully in a state of undress.

  He drew on a pair of black boxer jocks—as decent as he was going to get. It was gifting time. He tucked her presents under his arm. Yellow panties and wedding thong. He knocked with purpose. Heard her gasp, and swore she jumped.

  “Coming in,” he warned as he turned the knob.

  “Stay out,” she mumbled.

  “Already inside.” He found her at the sink, toothbrush in hand, toothpaste on her upper lip. He liked the view. She wasn’t naked, but her short gown dipped low over her breasts and flashed her ass. Cute bare feet. Nice.

  Her gaze flicked over his face, chest, held on his Under Armour. A brand he endorsed. He bulged. Significantly. Unabashedly.

  She held up her hand, palm out. “My time, not yours.”

  “Bad breath. Share the sink.”

  “Don’t breathe on me.”

 
He balanced the gift boxes on the corner of the countertop. Crowded her. She nearly spit on his hand. On purpose.

  He stretched around her, located his Sonicare electric toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Added Crest. “Grumpy, babe? I thought you were a morning person.”

  “I like mornings,” she said. “However, two in the bathroom is one too many.”

  She rinsed her mouth, hung up her toothbrush, and twisted away from the sink. She grabbed her bathrobe off a hook, clutched it to her chest. “I should’ve locked the door,” she muttered as she struggled into her robe. Jamming her arms through the sleeves. She tied the sash. Unevenly. She’d yet to request that he put on pants. He remained in his boxer jocks.

  “But you didn’t.” Obviously.

  “I didn’t think you were home.”

  “I got home earlier than planned,” he told her. “I didn’t want to wake you when I came in, so I didn’t shower.” The pipes rumbled. The vintage plumbing needed an overhaul.

  “Weren’t you squeaky-clean after water polo?”

  Word had spread. She was aware of last night’s activities. If he’d chosen to participate. “Salt water, babe.”

  “You’re itchy?”

  “I never got wet.”

  His response obviously confused her. She crossed her arms over her chest, splitting the hem over her legs. Sexy thigh gap. “I’d have thought you—” She hesitated.

  “What?”

  “Would’ve been—”

  “The first wearing only a smile.”

  “You, or someone from your posse.” He heard the underlying hurt in her voice. Surprising, but there. She cared.

  “Jealous, Stewie?” he guessed.

  “Get over yourself, Joey.”

  “I’d rather get over you.”

  She pulled a face.

  He winked at her in the mirror.

  He switched on his toothbrush; it buzzed. He eyed her reflection as he cleaned his teeth. Rinsed. He replaced the Sonicare in the cabinet. Next gargled with Scope. He shifted his stance and saw her gaze slip from the back of his head, across his shoulders, down his back, then holding on his ass. She softly sighed, and her shoulders sagged. She liked what she saw, he was certain. A body bonus for him.

  He eased around, looked her in the eyes. Honesty filled his words. “Naked water polo can get wild, and a helluva lot of fun. I could’ve stripped, screwed. Had a sleepover.” She flinched. “But a groom doesn’t cheat on his bride the night before his wedding shoot.”

  “So you didn’t—” There was an expectant pause.

  He shook his head. “Kept it in my pants.”

  “Difficult for you?”

  “A first for me.”

  Her lips parted, her expression soft, appreciative, before reality reminded her, “We have no commitments.”

  “Not a single one,” he agreed. “Marriage isn’t my thing. This photo spread is as real as it gets for me.”

  “Me . . . too.”

  That he didn’t believe for a second. “I can see you married with a couple of kids.”

  “Wish I had your vision.”

  He could imagine her as a wife. A mother. Chasing after kids and Turbo. Turbo? His dog. The thought tightened his chest. He massaged his hand over his heart. Loosened the pressure there.

  She looked away from him, her gaze lighting on the presents on the countertop. Time for gift-giving. He handed her the floral-wrapped box with the satin bow and berry potpourri.

  Her breath caught. “What’s this?”

  “A replacement.”

  “For what?”

  “The Turbo mishap.”

  “You bought me panties?” Her tone was disbelieving.

  “One pair for everyday; another for formal wear.”

  No ripping off the paper. She took her time, savoring the presentation. Her fingers trembled as she carefully freed the bow and the dried berries. Then removed the flowered paper, smoothing out the creases before setting it aside. She lifted the box top, spread the tissue, and stared at the panties. Stared without a word.

  “I guessed your size,” he admitted. “The color’s all you.” Natural blond.

  She blushed. Her response was embarrassed, but yet polite. “Thank you.”

  “Try them on, see if they fit.”

  “I’m not modeling them for you.”

  He passed her his second gift. “Bridal.”

  She set the opened box on a small pink marble vanity table. “How bridal?” she asked.

  “To be worn with our blue garter.”

  * * *

  Their garter. Stevie’s stomach filled with butterflies when she noticed the discreet gold oval sticker peeking beneath the gauze ribbon. Délicieux. Intimate apparel. Joe’s eyes undressed her without taking her clothes off. Apprehension swelled her chest. She fingered the folded ends of the silver foil, afraid to open the box.

  “What’s inside doesn’t bite,” he teased her.

  Joe, however, did. She self-consciously touched her fingers to her neck, recalled his hickey. The memory stuck with her, as fresh now as when he’d nipped her. Nerves had her tearing a corner of the foil. The paper was ruined. Emotion overwhelmed her. Tears filled her eyes. She felt ridiculous.

  He reached out to her. “Let me help you.”

  “I can do it,” she insisted.

  “I can do it better.” He rid the box of the foil.

  She lifted the lid. Crystals sparkled on white satin. “A bridal thong.” Her whispered words were barely audible. She’d never seen anything so beautiful. So innocent. So sexy. She read the designer label out loud: “Kiss the Bride.”

  And Joe did. He angled in, around the box, set on kissing her. The stubble on his jaw scraped her cheek. He stared deeply into her eyes and his blue eyes darkened. Dilated.

  Gentle and hesitant was a turn-on.

  The unexpected, raw emotion on his face switched her inside out.

  No tentative touch of his lips this time. He fully mated with her mouth. Parting her lips, touching her tongue, stealing her breath. He knew what he was doing. He consumed her senses. She was being kissed by the best. They tasted each other. Fusing toothpastes. His mint. Hers cinnamon.

  More. She rose on tiptoe, leaned closer. Her shoulders pressed his chest. Her satin and softness submitted to his muscle and strength. The primitive beat of his heart aroused her own pulse. Quickening sensations. Tingling. Temptation. Willingness. Rays of desire. Taken into him, without his touching her.

  The fantasy of a wedding settled deep in her soul. Too deep. There was nothing real about this day. Joe had initially agreed to the photo shoot in exchange for dog care and a place to live. A trade that benefited them both. Still, she embraced their pretend kisses with her entire being. Enjoying the man.

  He tilted his head, grinned down on her. “I like your mouth.”

  She touched her mouth with her fingertips. “You took advantage,” she accused.

  “Your lips said differently.”

  “How so?”

  “They parted for me.”

  That they had. There was no denying it. “Our kiss comes at the end of the shoot. If then.”

  “Then and there on the stairs.”

  She’d been warned. He eased back, allowing them air. She inhaled deeply. He expelled slowly. The gift box and dangling bridal thong were now crushed between them. Cardboard corners jabbed them both, marking his naked abdomen and indenting her hip where the robe parted.

  He lifted the thong with one finger, held it up to the light. The crystals sparked prisms as bright and colorful as rainbow confetti. It was a fairy-tale garment. Very romantic.

  His gaze lowered to her hips. Held. “Thong should fit.”

  “It will.” He was a man of many women, and had easily guessed her size. She wondered how many others had received gifts of lingerie from Joe Zooker. Perhaps a camisole or a teddy. Flowered nipple petals.

  He tipped up her chin with a finger, said, “You have a very expressive face.” He read her
mind. “I’ve bought ladies rounds of drinks at the bar, picked up dinner tabs, and purchased passes on booze cruises. I’ve shopped for lingerie, I’m not going to lie. But you’re my first bridal thong.” He handed it to her.

  She believed him. Her concern was ridiculous. She had no ties to the man. Other than the fact that he was the groom in her wedding shoot. For one afternoon.

  “What time does the shoot start?” he asked her.

  “Officially at one.” It was eleven now. “The creative director, photographer, and staff will arrive early.”

  “Turbo and I are headed out. Jogging. Where is he?”

  “In the backyard with Etta. Take her, too. The bulldog’s here all weekend. The two are inseparable.”

  “Turbo and I have our own pace. We race. Hope she can keep up.”

  “Your dog will walk beside her if she can’t.”

  He ran one hand down his face. “Puppy love.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “How so?”

  “He could still be incorrigible. Rough and rowdy. He’s manageable now. She’s calmed him.”

  “Broken his spirit.”

  “He surrendered on his own.”

  “Hard to imagine.”

  “Watch them together. See for yourself. Take their leashes. Hers is pink.”

  “Pink.” He rolled his eyes. Scratched his belly. It was flat, muscled. “I’ll shower after our run. Don’t panic. We’ll be back in plenty of time. What’s happening with you?”

  “I’m tied up here. A makeup artist from the magazine will arrive any minute.”

  “I like you natural.”

  “The camera won’t. I need a little color.”

  His grin came slow, sinful. “I’ll stand behind you on the staircase. Press against you. Whisper something naughty in your ear. So wicked you’ll blush. Bright eyes, pink cheeks.”

  “Behave yourself, Joe.”

  “I’ve promised best behavior.”

  Joe’s best behavior was still controlled chaos. “A bridal shop assistant follows makeup to help me into my gown.”

  “I could’ve done that for you.”

  “The back of the gown has forty tiny pearl buttons.”

  “I have fingers.”

  “The assistant is bringing a buttonhook. Works faster.”