Man of My Dreams: A Steamy Contemporary Tortured-Hero Romance (The Manly Series Book 3)

by Teddy Hester

  Mick sets his dessert tray on the sideboard. His jaw is flexing hard and fast. “You could call it that. Dieter, are you here for dessert?”

  “Dessert sounds good, thank you, Mick, but I’m really here for my fiancée.” He drapes a proprietary arm on the top edge of my chairback.

  Mick’s eyes follow the motion. “Yeah. About that. I have some bad news for you, Dieter. You see, you can’t be her fiancé, because—"

  The chair scrapes the stone floor when I leap to my feet and run to where Mick’s standing. He catches me around the waist and tucks me close. “Because I’m his fiancée!” Mick’s eyes jerk to mine. His smiling eyes. They flare with heat right before he sears my lips with his.

  A collective gasp makes the candlelight flicker.

  “Menuett, you’re sure?” Mick breathes against my mouth.

  “I’m sure,” I breathe back before plastering his mouth with a kiss.

  “Brava, Liebchen!”

  Evelyn and Birgitte exchange high-fives.

  Alfred sits back, a big smile across his face.

  The male DePauls rush Mick.

  Juliette raises her glass to us.

  And Cleo has the last word: “Fuckin’ A!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Menuett

  Dieter dwarfs the pretty French chair struggling to hold him. He abandons it to pace. “I don’t understand! What about our marriage talks?”

  There are so many emotions running through me right now, I don’t know which to focus on first. I want to get out of this formal living room where Dieter, Mick, and I withdrew to talk, so I can snuggle with the man I’ve finally decided will be my husband. That means helping Dieter move past this. Hopefully still as friends.

  “Dieter, I’m sorry. But it never got beyond the talking stage.”

  His rugged face flushes. “That’s not true. We’ve been engaged for years.”

  “No, Dieter, that’s what’s not true. You kept asking, and I kept saying I wasn’t ready.”

  There’s more confusion in his eyes than anger. “Now you’re ready, and you choose a Yank? You know what our parents wanted.”

  My Yank’s been silent, but he’s finally galvanized. “Ah. It all makes sense now. You know, I’ve watched the two of you together for about a month. In all this time, I’ve never seen stolen moments, fumbling touches, secret kisses, sweet words, anything that I’d expect to see between lovers. Especially lovers who’ve known each other since childhood. What I’ve seen is two people marching toward a destiny neither of you picked.”

  Dieter tries the little chair again. “There are things here you’ll never understand.”

  “I’m sure. But what I know is that you don’t need to live your parents’ dream. You have the right to have your own dreams.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Dieter mutters, staring down at his shoes.

  “What am I missing?”

  He raises his gaze, firing icy blue at Mick. “Five hundred years of history and tradition.”

  This argument between Dieter and Mick is not going to get us anywhere. I have to try to explain myself to Dieter, because he doesn’t want to hear anything from a Yank interloper.

  “Dieter, my parents loved each other deeply. It’s my strongest memory of them. I didn’t realize it, but I’ve been waiting to have that, too. Come observe Mick’s parents. They share the same kind of love. Mick and I have been raised with that. We know what it looks like, what it feels like. It’s our shared vision. As much as I care for you—and I do—it’s not the same as what I feel for Mick. Don’t you want a chance to find that, too?”

  Mick leans forward, arms resting on thighs, fingers interlaced. “You’re a man of the world, Dieter. I’m sure you’ve known other women. You know the difference between lust, passion, and love. The luckiest guys on the planet find all three with the same woman. That’s Menuett for me. Tell me you don’t want that, too.”

  I reach over and twine my fingers with his. The jumble of feelings I struggled with at the cottage earlier today are now sorted. Mick just gave me the structure: desire, devotion, commitment. I’m going to let myself love this man with all my body, heart, and soul.

  Dieter stands again, shoves his hands in his pockets, and wanders to a window. It’s dark, there’s nothing to see, but I know that staring at nothing sometimes helps you see things inside yourself more clearly.

  “I attended a conference while I was gone. An art conference. I’ve been doing it for years. Research, buying, selling. I love art. My collection is growing, and I’m building a reputation for it.”

  “I never knew.”

  His head bobs. “I met a woman a few years ago at one of my conferences. We talked about the art. We agreed on so many aspects of it. A connection formed. It’s been getting stronger with each meeting. But I’ve never acted on it. I couldn’t do that to my best friend.”

  He pivots and locks gazes with me. “That’s what we are, Menuett. Best friends. I’ve always known, deep down, but Mick saying it out loud confirms it. Schatzi, you and I deserve more in a mate. I release you from our engagement.” He grins and winks.

  I jump up with a squeal, and we share our first and only truly passionate kiss.

  “Hey!” Mick jumps up, too, and snatches me from Dieter’s arms. “I thought I made it clear: she’s mine, and I’m not giving her up or sharing.” He makes a great show of wiping Dieter’s kiss off my lips with the tail of his shirt before planting one of his own on me.

  Dieter chuckles and breaks us apart so he can shake Mick’s hand. “Congratulations, Yank. Treat her right, and I’ll overlook your nationality.”

  “Great!” Mick says with his widest grin and dancing eyes. “Now that we’ve got all that out of the way, let’s have some dessert!”

  I wrap an arm around the waist of both my guys and start walking. “Amaretto milkshake?”

  His eyes hold all sorts of promises. “What else would it be for my angel?”

  This night just couldn’t get any better.

  Or so I think until we get back to the dining room. We enter to a sea of party hats and Champagne glasses. Jack shoves a glass in Dieter’s hand, and Cleo assaults our ears with a blast of her party kazoo.

  During the rounds of congratulations, hugs, and kisses, Mick’s father slips something to him. Ignoring the craziness continuing in the room, Mick takes my left hand and steps close enough to speak where no one else hears.

  “Even though we’re technically past a formal proposal, I want to do this right,” he murmurs, “because I’m never doing it again. Menuett, my angel, rescue me one more time. Marry me.” He slides a heavy signet ring on my finger.

  It’s beautiful. It looks like one I saw on Cleo’s hand yesterday. Glancing around, I see that all the DePaul women wear one, including Evelyn. I look forward to studying it later. But for now, all I can do is caress it, feel its unfamiliar weight on my hand, because my husband’s waiting for an answer.

  I gaze up at him, hoping the love welling inside me shows through my eyes. “You’re the man of my dreams. How can I refuse?”

  “Hallelujah.” He smashes my mouth with his. With his lips still on mine he breathes, “I love you.”

  “As I love you.”

  In spite of our murmurs, we’ve attracted a crowd. When the clapping dies down, Juliette pulls out her phone. “Planning a wedding on another continent is an exciting new challenge for me to tackle. But I’m ready to clear my calendar—when would you like to be married?”

  “When I can walk her down the aisle,” Alfred’s beloved voice replies. I beam at him, and his eyes twinkle. Birgitte sniffles.

  “In that case, old man, I’m calling your physical therapist right now!” Mick beams at him, too.

  “Oh, Adam, all our boys will be married. Soon we’ll have grandbabies to spoil!”

  *****

  We’re able to book first-class passage for all the DePauls on a flight from Frankfurt to Atlanta. Alfred assures Mick and me that the estate will survive
for as long as it takes to get Moon’s widow settled. So, two days later, we leave for the airport, some of us piled into the rented SUV with Mick’s parents, the rest of us with Dieter.

  From Atlanta, we say goodbye to the group. Jack’s heading to Dallas, and the other DePauls live on the beach in North Carolina. We’ll see them on our way back to Germany.

  Mick hails a cab that takes us to the Buckhead Westin, where we check into the most luxurious hotel room I’ve ever seen. Black, silver, and gray, with shots of citrus green and rich lavender, it’s a beautiful place to spend our first night alone since I went to him during his nightmare.

  “At last,” he sighs, setting down our bags. “I have you all to myself with no distractions.” He reaches for me, but stops short. “I’ve dreamed of this moment with you, but now that’s it here, I…” He drags a hand through his hair. “We can wait. Until we’re married. Would you like a room of your own?”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else for days. Nothing has ever felt so right to me than that night we held each other and slept. The first night I slept with a man. Now I’m ready for you to teach me the rest of it. But, Mick…I’m not on any birth control.”

  This time when he reaches for me, he crushes me against his hard body. All my softness welcomes it with a delicious shiver.

  “Ever since Mammina mentioned grandbabies, I can’t get the idea out of my mind. Putting my baby in you, watching you grow round with our child. Cuddling a pink cherub with your hair and eyes.” Step by step he walks me toward the bed. “With as many bedrooms as there are in your house, we should probably get started.”

  “In our house.”

  He kisses my nose. “In our house.”

  The back of my legs hit the bed. Something low in my belly rolls over, and heat pools in an achy place my hand twitches to touch.

  “Don’t hold back,” he whispers against my temple. “Let yourself be completely free with me.” He cups a hand between my legs. “Is this better?”

  “Better,” I pant, “but it’s like taking only one sip of milkshake.”

  “You crave more. Like this.” He adds pressure.

  “Yes,” I moan.

  “Let’s get comfortable.” He pulls his hand away to lay me on the bed and remove my shoes. Then he unfastens the button on my jeans. His fingers at my abdomen cause it to tighten, heightening the ache. I clamp my eyes shut to concentrate on what I’m feeling. What’s taking him so long? Doesn’t he know I’m in pain? If he doesn’t do something soon, I’ll…

  The jeans end up tossed on the floor. He wraps his hands around my ankles and slides them up my legs, stopping to kiss each knee. Yes. Please. More.

  His hands start traveling again, up the outside of my thighs. The closer he comes to my achy heat, I still, afraid I’ll miss something. Every muscle in my body is poised for the next sensation I’m dying for him to elicit.

  Suddenly, his hands are gone. I cry out with frustration.

  “Angel. Look at me.”

  I shake my head, and smooth my hands down my twitching abdomen, over my panties, to the place that needs attention.

  He chuckles. “Angel. Look at me.”

  I give him the slit of one eye.

  “Such a hungry angel,” he says, dusky laughter playing in the words. “I want you to see what you’re doing to me.”

  To him? I haven’t done anything. Both eyes pop open. His hands, those big, tanned glorious things that I want back on me, are on the waist of his jeans. One button pops open, revealing a trail of dark hair like I played with on his chest that night so long ago. Saliva pools in my mouth.

  Another button. The top of his underwear. Gaping from his body. Elastic stretched by…

  The rest of the buttons come undone, and Mick peels the jeans off his backside so they slide unimpeded to his ankles. He steps out of them and kicks them out of his way.

  And I get my first real look at what a man carries. An aroused man. I’ve seen plenty of mating on the estate. I’ve witnessed Gunnar mounting a mare. That reminds me of something I saw on Mick’s helmet the very first day.

  “Stallion.”

  I rub all four fingers of one hand on my mound to ease the pulsing. I groan at the promise of relief, but the more I move my fingers in a circle, the more urgent becomes my need.

  My eyes shut again to capture…something. “Mick!”

  “Yes, love. I’m here.”

  I turn my head, eyes open, ready to beg, if I have to, because I know he can help me. But I’m transfixed by the sight of naked Mick, standing legs apart, stroking himself. I couldn’t tear away my gaze from that magnificent sight, even if I wanted to.

  My breathing gets shallower, my rubbing harder. While I watch, Mick matches my rhythm and strokes harder, faster. The thick, round bulb at the top is deep purple—quickly becoming my favorite color. I want to touch it. I reach for it.

  Mick steps closer so I can, and hisses when I do. “That feels so good, Angel.”

  While I explore, he removes my panties. “Soaking wet. Just the way they should be.”

  Aching is past. Now I’m throbbing. He’s too slow, too careful taking off my sweater, so I sit up and peel it over my head. He reaches behind and unfastens my bra, freeing my breasts. They’re throbbing, too. With my free hand, I knead one and whine as the relief I get there makes me throb harder below.

  “Shh. Shh. I’ve gotcha, angel.”

  He stretches out next to me and pulls me to lie on top of him. I thrill to feel him under me. The coarse hair on his legs, the solid muscle of his thigh, the hard platform for my breasts.

  But after I register all that, what I’m most aware of is that long, thick part of him pressing into the softness of my belly. I roll my hips to get a better idea of it. Oh! It’s like my finger rub, only one hundred times better!

  I do it again. It feels so good, I collapse onto his body and pour all my energy into grinding myself against his steel.

  “Christ, Menuett, that’s so good.” He slides his hands over my bottom. Cupping each cheek, he helps me by drawing me tighter against him. His hips roll, too, grinding up against me.

  “Mick. Oh, Mick.” I can’t stop chanting his name as the pressure builds inside of me.

  “That’s right, angel. You’re there. Let go. Let it rip through you.”

  With his words, my body blooms. A burst of sensation erupts from between my legs. Mick grinds himself into me slower, softer, and the burst becomes waves, radiating all the way to the hair on my head.

  With an exhausted release of air, I collapse on top on him. I’m too rubbery to move.

  Mick strokes my hair, brushes it off the side of my face. I’m panting into his neck, which can’t be very comfortable for him, and I plan to move…soon…maybe. It sure feels good to be right where I am. In bed with a man again. My man. I can do this whenever I want. Forever.

  His hips flex, and his pole pokes my belly. A heaviness consolidates in my abdomen, and I tingle where I used to ache.

  Can I do this again…now?

  I raise up and find caramel eyes, warm and soft, smiling at me. I test my body against his, and thrill when his eyes drift closed, and he hums with pleasure.

  “Was that your first orgasm, Angel?”

  I try to think, but pulling my mind together is harder than usual. “This was more powerful than anything I’ve felt before.”

  He pulls me in for a kiss. It goes on forever, him exploring inside, twisting his tongue with mine. My body begins to warm.

  When my hips begin to tick again, seeking the grind, Mick rolls us over so he’s lying on top of me.

  “I love this, Mick.”

  I feel him smile through kissing down my neck. “What do you like about it, love?”

  “The feeling of safety. It’s like you’re swaddling me. I’m completely wrapped by you and the bed.”

  “I’m not too heavy for you?”

  “No. Not a bit. Can we sleep like this?”

  “Now?”

  “Whe
never.”

  He ghosts a laugh. “Are you too sleepy for more lovemaking?” His backside tightens, and it presses his hardness against me.

  “More of that?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Good angel.”

  We kiss again, and I let my hands slide over his shoulders and back, reveling in the hard strength.

  “Harder,” he says.

  Instead of the fluttery touches, I dig my fingers into his strength and am rewarded with his growl of pleasure.

  It emboldens me to investigate his backside. I cup him and drag him against me, like he did earlier. He surges against me, and his kiss deepens.

  “I’ve wanted you for so long, angel. Now I need to make you mine. To claim you, mark you as mine.”

  His words inflame me. My hands fly over his back, stroking, kneading, scratching a little. His reactions become erratic, more demanding. He’s grinding against me so hard, I’m almost at another orgasm. I mewl, trying to pull myself to that point.

  Before I fall over the edge into that sweet oblivion, Mick raises a little to reach between us. He takes himself and drags through my wet heat.

  “More. I need more.”

  That bulbous head I saw before is pushing inside me. It’s a completely new feeling. “That’s good. More.”

  He pulls himself out and slides back in, a little farther this time.

  “My body. I can feel it opening for you.”

  He pulls back and gives me a little more. Over and over he repeats the sequence. Finally, when he pulls back, he plunges inside me. Something stings, and I cry out, ready to push him back, but then he grinds against me, and the sting turns into the familiar ache. I grind back.

  Mick pulls out a little way to plunge again, and there’s no sting. Only luscious sensation and pressure. “More.”

  His chuckle this time is tinged with something else. Something that makes me want to do things to make him chuckle like that again. “More? Such a good angel.”

  He gives me more. He surges into me until he hits the top of me. He’s like a battering ram.

  Stronger.