Ian (BBW Bear Shifter Wedding Romance) (Grizzly Groomsmen Book 4)

by Becca Fanning

  The honking of horn and a shout brought them abruptly apart.

  “Get a room!”

  They hastily broke apart, and Meg felt herself blushing deeply. John only laughed and pulled her back into his arms for a hug before turning her back the way they had come.

  “How about we go up to my place, so I can teach you how to play a mandolin,” he said with a wink. “You did say somethin’ about wantin’ to learn, didn’t you?”

  Meg kept her arm around his waist and tipped her head against his shoulder.

  “Is that what they call it down here?” she teased.

  John laughed and pulled her tighter to him as they picked up their pace.

  They did stop at Mark and Addy’s apartment to pick up Meg’s violin before heading over to John’s place. The band had the full day off, so there was no hurry to go anywhere. Mel had to go to work—she worked at the Konstantine Talent Agency, which represented the band—and Bart was going in with her to work on more negotiations with Mel’s boss. Addy and Candace were taking the family’s SUV to the grocery store, as all of their larders were bare, and Matt, Mark, and Luke were headed out with the old beater van to see about trading it in on a newer model. No one seemed at all surprised that John and Meg were spending the day together at his place, and if anyone suspected music was just an excuse, no one said anything. Meg still found her face heating as they headed out under knowing eyes.

  In all fairness, they did spend the first hour playing music.

  “You heard me last night,” John said, as they rosined their bows, “so why don’t you give me a taste of the kind of music you play?”

  “All right. What should I play?”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  She thought for a moment then smiled. “Rimsky-Korsakov. Scheherazade.”

  “What’s that?” he asked settling himself on his worn couch.

  “Not what, who.”

  He grinned. “Okay. So who’s that?”

  “Rimsky-Korsakov is one of my favorite composers. I’ve always loved the Late Romantics, especially the Russians. They wrote a lot of what’s now known as ‘program’ music—it tells stories, like Scheherazade, which is about a woman who tells stories to an Arabian sultan, and through a thousand and one nights, he falls in love with her and makes her his queen.

  John laughed. “Cool. So when did he write?”

  Meg laughed to here the great composers referred to as “dudes.”

  “The late Romantic composers would have been born in the second half of the nineteenth century. There was just something about that period. Whether it was the climate, the beginning of the industrial revolution, the political upheavals throughout the world, whatever…”

  Sighing, Meg tucked her violin under her chin and began to play. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and she let it carry her along with it. She didn’t play the entire movement, but came to a stopping point, and sighing once more, she dropped her violin and bow to her sides. Then she looked at him and shook her head in wonder.

  “I’ve played that hundreds of times, but I haven’t felt it—really felt the music—in a very long time.”

  “It was real pretty,” John said. “You’re real pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  She set her violin and bow gently aside and reached for his mandolin.

  “Show me,” she said. “Please.”

  He got off the couch and went to her. “Like I said, you finger it the same as a fiddle.”

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and helped her place her fingers on the strings, then handed her a pick, and held her right hand in his, to show her how to pluck the strings. She leaned against him and let her fingers find the melody she had just played. It sounded so different on the mandolin she giggled.

  “No, you need to move the pick from your elbow, not your wrist,” he said, showing her how as she continued to finger the melody.

  Then they were both laughing at the awkwardness of their positions.

  “I’m not certain Nikolai would appreciate my efforts,” she said, laughter ringing in her voice.

  “Who’s Nikolai?” John asked with a frown.

  “The Russian composer I told you about. His first name was Nikolai.”

  “Oh, that Nikolai.”

  Meg laughed out loud then turned in his arms, leaving her trapped between the mandolin and his hard body. It took her only a moment to notice there was a part of him that was suddenly particularly hard, and she caught her breath. Hesitantly, she reached up to gently touch his face.

  “Do you want me, John?” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes tightly then stepped away from her just long enough to lay his mandolin back in its case. When he turned back to her, Meg saw his golden eyes darken. Then she was in his arms, and he had his hands fisted in her long, silky hair.

  “I’ve wanted you since you first walked in last night,” he told her, his voice tight with emotion. “I think I’ve wanted you my whole life.”

  “Then take me. Now. Please.”

  “Are you sure? ’Cause once we get started, darlin’, I won’t be able to stop anytime soon.”

  She smiled. “I certainly hope not.”

  With a growl reminiscent of his uncle’s last night, John laid his lips on hers and lifted her effortlessly, wrapping her long legs around his waist so she could hold on tight for the ride into his bedroom. The furniture there was still as sparse as that in the rest of the unfinished apartment, but when he laid her down and came over her, she felt the mattress’ firm support and decided he had at least managed to buy a new bed. Then she couldn’t think about anything but John, as his big hands roamed her body, inflaming every place he touched.

  “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.” It was a chant in her head as well as on her lips, but he didn’t seem to be swayed by it.

  “We have all afternoon, darlin’,” he told her, only slowly unbuttoning her blouse.

  “I can’t wait that long,” she gasped when she felt his mouth close over her breast. She felt his tongue working her nipple through the satin of her bra and arched her back, begging for more.

  She felt as much as heard his chuckle and reached for the front of his jeans in retaliation.

  “Hang on, darlin’,” he said.

  Shifting away from her touch, he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and pulled them up over her head, leaving her open to his ministrations but unable to reach for him.

  “I can’t,” she cried, moving restlessly in frustration.

  “Sure you can.”

  “No. No. No.”

  He silenced her with his mouth, and their kiss went deep as he used his free hand to finish undressing her. When he finally released her wrists, she frantically struggled with her own clothing, suddenly desperate to get it off. She used her toes to kick off her shoes, one at a time, then opened the top of her jeans so he could slide them and her panties down and away. The front clasp of her bra made it easy to open, and he pulled her to a sitting position just long enough to pull both her blouse and bra off.

  “Too many clothes,” she panted, tearing at his t-shirt, now, struggling to pull it free of his tight jeans.

  “I got it,” he said, pulling it out and over his head.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered, spearing her fingers through the thick, dark curls covering his chest. He was unlike any man she had ever seen. All the others had been mere shadows of this man: men too civilized, sculpted by exercise machines, coiffed unnaturally by five-hundred-dollar-a-cut hairdressers, stripped bare by wax treatments, and dressed in silk. She had never before cared one way or the other whether or not the lights were on, but now she was pleased beyond measure that the noonday sun was streaming in through the windows so she could see all of him.

  Meg pushed on his shoulders and knew satisfaction when he allowed her to tumble him onto his back. She straddled his thighs and ran her hands over his abs and chest, feeling the hard strength of him beneath the soft curls and knowing there was nothing the
least bit artificial about him.

  “You are so beautiful,” she whispered, awed as she explored him and felt his muscles contract with each light touch of her fingertips.

  His chuckle sounded pained and it turned to a growl when she reached for the button on his jeans.

  “Careful, darlin’,” he said, blocking her hands.

  “What’s the matter, big guy?” she asked, playfully teasing the furry line that disappeared beneath his waistband.

  “Just a little concerned about zipper burn,” he managed to gasp as she slowly slid the fastener down.

  She giggled. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  He was sweating, now, and once she had lowered the zipper all the way, she saw why.

  “Oh, my,” she said again, swallowing hard. He wasn’t wearing shorts, and he sprang into her hands, filling them completely.

  “I’m not sure this is going to work, John,” she said, sounding worried even to her own ears.

  He laughed and hugged her to him, flipping her over onto her back. He stepped away just long enough to shed his boots and jeans, then he was back, pushing her knees up and apart so he could kneel between them.

  “Trust me?” he asked, kissing her lightly on her lips then raining quick kisses along her jaw and down her throat, until his hot breath was on her breast.

  When he didn’t kiss her there, she looked down and saw the question in his eyes.

  “Yes!” she gasped, reaching for his head and pulling him to her.

  He suckled first one breast and then the other while she held him close and writhed in anticipation. Then he lightly bit one nipple while at the same time reaching down to touch her intimately.

  Meg came apart on a scream and she felt the wetness on her thighs as he swirled his fingers, preparing her for him.

  Then that other part of him was there, pushing inside. He was bigger than anyone she had ever known, and she felt herself tensing in anticipation of expected pain. John didn’t let it happen though, as he slowing pushed forward and pulled back, taking complete control of their joining. Meg’s hands clasped his shoulders, and she could feel the sweat and strain of his control.

  “John…?”

  “Just hang on, darlin’,” he whispered. “We’ll get there.”

  It took both patience and effort on both their parts, but then he was seated deep inside her, touching places she had never even known existed before. And as he began to move in a rhythm older than time, her muscles contracted around him, and she felt herself coming apart once more.

  “John!”

  Just as she thought the pleasure/pain would never end, he reached down to touch her where they were joined. She cried out once more as she climaxed, and she heard his answering roar as he followed her over the cliff..

  “You don’t have to do this you know,” John said as they approached the symphony hall.

  “Yes, I do.”

  After spending a great deal of the past two weeks in John’s bed, Meg was a little sore, but otherwise she felt terrific. She’d been practicing again, playing just for the joy of it, trying to emulate John’s improvisation some of the time, but spending most of her playing hours on audition material. She’d finally heard back from the Nashville Symphony’s conductor, and she had an audition appointment. Now all she needed to do was impress him just enough and hope he didn’t recognize her.

  Meg almost didn’t recognize herself these days. Mel and taken her to a hairdresser, who had cut and shaped her hair into a layered, breezy style. It was still long enough for her to pull it back into a pony tail—per John’s request—but it was shorter in front, and she couldn’t sit on it anymore, which made it a lot easier to take care of.

  Having John in the shower with me to wash it helps, too, she thought, suppressing a grin.

  They entered the Symphony Center through the offices as directed, and Meg was shown to an audition room, while John waited for her in the reception area. He gave her a quick kiss for luck as they parted, and she savored it, knowing he would be there for her when she came out again, no matter what happened in the audition.

  Meg told herself to relax. This was not something she hadn’t done before, though it had been some time since her last actual audition. Still, she had performed for more exacting audiences in her time. Of course, only one man’s opinion would matter today.

  And if he doesn’t like my playing, then I’ll learn to play fiddle, she told herself.

  Twenty minutes later, she was warmed up and pacing the insulated practice room nervously, waiting for the maestro.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, when he finally appeared. “Miss Baker, is it?”

  “Yes, Maestro Campagnone.”

  He was tall and dark, as handsome an Italian male as any for whom she had played in Rome or Florence, or Vienna. Only a slightly raised eyebrow indicated that he was favorably impressed by her correct pronunciation of his name. His own speech had very little accent.

  “I am afraid that I am a little pressed for time, today, but we do have need of a mid-season addition to our violins, so by all means, let me hear what you have for me.

  “Thank you for your time, Maestro.”

  Meg had spent years around men such as Maestro Antonio Campagnone, so she knew how to play the game. Without further delay, she began her prepared piece. She played Scheherazade, because it was more ensemble work than solo, but mostly because it was her piece. She put her heart and soul into the music, as though she were channeling Rimsky-Korsakov himself. She’d barely made it into the first solo, however, when she was interrupted.

  “Enough! Enough!”

  Meg broke off and stared at him, almost frightened by his fierce gaze.

  “Is this some kind of joke? Some kind of lark you’re on?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Meg said, falling back on the formal politeness that had been ingrained in her from a very early age.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you? The great Mademoiselle Marguerite Fournier? The toast of Europe?”

  Meg straightened her spine and took a deep breath. “I’m not that person anymore.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Meg Baker. I’ve recently moved to Nashville, and I need a job playing the violin. If I’m not good enough for your orchestra, then…”

  “Stop!” he commanded, when she turned toward her violin case.

  She did, but she returned his glare. “I was not trying to trick you, Maestro. I simply came to audition for you. I need a job.”

  He snorted, but when he continued, it was in a thoughtful manner. “I get it now. ‘Fournier.’ That’s French for ‘baker,’ isn’t it?”

  She sighed. “My former manager’s idea. My legal name really is Margaret Baker.”