Rachael Stewart adores conjuring up stories, from heartwarmingly romantic to wildly erotic. She’s been writing since she could put pen to paper—as the stacks of scrawled-on pages in her loft will attest to. A Welsh lass at heart, she now lives in Yorkshire, with her very own hero and three awesome kids—and if she’s not tapping out a story, she’s wrapped up in one or enjoying the great outdoors. Reach her on Facebook, Twitter (@rach_b52) or at rachaelstewartauthor.com.
If you liked Unwrapping the Best Man, why not try
No Strings Christmas by Clare Connelly
Turning Up the Heat by J. Margot Critch
Pure Satisfaction by Rebecca Hunter
Also by Rachael Stewart
Mr. One-Night Stand
Mr. Temptation
Naughty or Nice
Getting Dirty
Losing Control
Discover more at Harlequin.com
UNWRAPPING THE BEST MAN
RACHAEL STEWART
For Natalie,
Your love of Getting Dirty knows no bounds,
Here is your festive sequel…
Merry Christmas!
Rachael x
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Turning Up the Heat by J. Margot Critch
CHAPTER ONE
You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Lady Coco Lauren
and
Mr Ash Livingston
August 1st
Livingston Castle, Scottish Highlands
YOU KNOW WHEN you feel like you’re dreaming...not because you remember falling asleep, but because what’s happening before your eyes, within your grasp, is too good to be true?
That’s me right now.
I feel like a million dollars—I’m English, but pounds just doesn’t have the same ring—and it’s not the hefty price tag associated with my emerald silk floor-length dress making me feel that way, or the diamonds that sparkle in my ears. It’s the way my dance partner is looking at me as he sweeps me across the ballroom floor.
My dance partner, Jackson Black. Even my brain says his name all breathy and hitched.
Today he’s the Best Man to my Maid of Honour status, and the same man I’ve lusted after since the day we met six years ago. Six years of unrequited, mind-losing, toe-curling desire, without so much as a kiss to the lips... Oh, I’ve given him a fair few to the cheek, I’ve leaned in slightly longer than could be considered platonic, hugged him tighter than perhaps I should, all in an attempt to have him lower his guard, to see me as more than just a client. More than just a friend of his best friend’s girl.
But he doesn’t bite.
He has rules.
Rules he won’t break.
You see, as a client of his club, of Blacks—a sex club protected by non-disclosure agreements, and catering to the British elite—my membership status brands me as off-limits.
Only I don’t feel off-limits now. Not when we are hundreds of miles from the London club itself, celebrating the marriage of our best friends in the Highlands of Scotland with champagne swimming in my blood and his cologne swirling through my senses.
I could say it’s the drink going to my head, the seductive music that floats around us, but I swear his need is pressing between us, beneath the shield of his sporran. I want to make a joke of it, a tease—is that your sporran talking or are you just pleased to see me?
If I was myself, I would...hell, I’d even make it into a serious come-on.
But Jackson isn’t just any guy I have a crush on; he’s Jackson and he’s made it clear we can never be. It doesn’t stop me wanting it though.
It doesn’t stop me curving into him ever closer, tighter, head to toe. Forgetting how to breathe, or speak, or do anything other than follow his expert lead. He can dance, really dance, and I’m wrapped up in his hypnotic rhythm, following him step for step, sway for sway, arse grope for arse grope...almost.
A little giggle rises up within me. It’s nervous, ridiculous, but he only holds me closer, his hard, muscular warmth seeping into my sensitised skin, the delicate silk of my dress doing nothing to hinder its penetration. Nothing to ease his effect on me.
Tradition dictates that we have this dance—or rather it dictates that we have one dance, but that was three songs ago, after the Bride and Groom had shared their first. The fact that he hasn’t stepped away, that neither of us have ended this sudden intimacy, isn’t lost on me and hope swells.
I tilt my head back, intending to say something, anything, but my lips merely part, words lost in the darkness of his eyes way above mine. His impressive height and brawn make my petite frame feel all the more so.
I know his eyes are grey, steely grey and swoon-worthy, but right now they are as dark as the night outside and glittering with so much... I want to say passion, but I know my hope is soaring past the realms of possibility. I tell myself it’s the low light of the room, the ambient lighting from the low-hung chandeliers sparkling in their depths, giving the impression of it, rather than its existence. But the wild state of his dark, overlong hair only adds to the dizzying effect, convincing me, pushing me to believe he wants just as I do.
I wet my lips. His eyes flicker again and his fingers on my lower back flex.
‘Jackson?’
I’m not sure what the question is on the tip of my tongue, I only know one exists.
One I couldn’t ask of him in London.
One that has the power to end this night doing what I’ve dreamed of since I accidentally fell into his lap that first night at Blacks, six years ago.
His lips quirk to one side—strong, masculine, full, and so perfectly edible I can almost taste them.
‘Caitlin?’
His voice is low, husky, as unrecognisable as his jawline is, devoid of its usual stubble. I want him to say my name again, in that exact same tone, with that exact same fire burning in his gaze. He’s never looked at me this way, never given me this much of himself in a simple look, a simple word—my name.
A tiny tremor runs down my spine as my brain replays it, inserting all the meaning I believe exists within it and I lean into him closer, stroking my hands up his chest to entwine them behind his neck.
‘I never knew a kilt could be so sexy,’ I say, my smile all sultry as I toy with the hair at his nape.
His laugh is gruff, the cock of one eyebrow so sexy and sure, and my stomach somersaults, my every response to him magnified this close.
‘You know, it’s polite to offer a compliment in return...’
Another chuckle rumbles through him and he looks away with a shake of his head. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘Oh, I gave up ages ago, Jackson.’ I see no reason to lie. ‘But now we’re hundreds of miles from London, your argument has lost its hold.’
‘My argument?’
I tilt my head to the side and wait for him to meet my eye. He does so, eventually, and I don’t miss the betraying little pulse that ticks away in his gritted jaw. He doesn’t want to want me...but he does.
‘That you won’t sleep with the clientele.’ I run my teeth over my b
ottom lip, savouring how his eyes darken over the gesture, his arms tensing around me. ‘Club rules and all that frustrating jazz.’
He scoffs. ‘You’re still a client, Cait. That hasn’t changed.’
‘Well...’ I stroke a hand into the hair at his nape as I bring us to a pause on the dancefloor. ‘There’s a simple fix to that.’
He doesn’t prompt me. I sense he’s holding his breath, waiting, wanting. I’m so close I can almost taste victory. I wet my lips, swallow past the need choking up my throat and blink up at him. ‘I can revoke my membership, Jackson, effective immediately.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ he rasps.
‘And why not?’
‘It’s just not.’ I hear the strain, the desperation even, and start to smile anew. ‘You have to give notice, Cait, and there are payments, arrangements...’
‘Excuses, excuses, Jackson. Surely those things only apply when one has behaved well and stuck to the pesky rules...’ I catch the rising heat in his gaze and victory pumps hot and fast in my veins. ‘You see, I have no intention of being good...’ I reach up on tiptoe, brush my lips beside his ear, all breathy. ‘In fact, I have every intention of being bad, Jackson. Very. Very. Bad.’
‘Jesus, Cait.’
His hands are on my hips so fast, their grip flexing and pulsing as he forces me down and spins us back into the music.
‘What, Jackson?’
He shakes his head, diverts his gaze, but I see enough to realise this isn’t about the club at all. It hits me, winds me, makes me frown. Something else is coming between us, something so profound he’s tormented by it.
‘What’s going on, Jackson?’
‘It’s not just the club, Cait.’ He shakes his head like he doesn’t want to be saying any of this. ‘There are other reasons I won’t...that we shouldn’t.’
‘Then tell me. Explain it to me, because right now I have a thousand wants and every one of them involves you and a shitload of debauched fun.’
His eyes spear me; they flash wild with hunger, fringed with panic. ‘Don’t do this.’
But I’m past putting the brakes on. I’m too close, we’re too close to acting on this heat that’s plagued us for so long. ‘What? Don’t push you into admitting what’s there between us? Don’t make you dance another track up close and personal? Because believe me when I say it’s not just my desire that has us dancing long after our duty is done.’
‘It will never end well.’
‘The dance?’ I tease, but he doesn’t laugh and his eyes don’t sparkle with amusement. They’re still plagued and hot with a desire I can feel right down to my toes.
‘Or...’ I rise up, his hands on my hips failing to restrain me now as I pause close enough to feel his breath brush over my lips, to see his own part ‘...do you mean the sex, Jackson? Because I beg to differ: sex always ends well when the spark is as powerful as this.’
I lift my lashes, my eyes lock with his and the truth sears me to the bone: no one has ever triggered a spark in me as powerful as this. No one but him.
And that realisation should have me running, not pushing for more. Because this will never have a future. I know that as much as I know he wants me now.
Whatever the demons that haunt him, they will always put a stop to anything more. He’s a self-professed bachelor and I may be confident in my appeal, but I’m not so naive as to think I can break him.
No matter how much I long to.
* * *
Do you mean the sex, Jackson?
Sex—sex with Cait.
Fuck.
She’s wicked. Wicked, seductive and too damned attractive for her own good.
A tiny bundle of carefree fun... Only Cait’s eyes have lost their usual carefree sheen, their striking ring of blue as they darken and intensify, projecting a wildness that my body is only too willing to respond to.
I should have ended this after the very first song. The proximity, the closeness, the whole fucking dance. All I had to do was one track. A tick in the dutiful Best Man box.
And run.
Hell, the second I caught sight of her at the entrance to the aisle this morning I should have shut my body down and mentally run, because I knew what trouble lay ahead.
Yes, the bride was stunning, Coco was perfect in every way, but Caitlin—fucking Caitlin. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. She is my every fantasy. The reason I fuck my fist too often to admit and why I don’t ever go there. Not with her. Never with her.
But there she was. Her flaming red hair, usually free and wild, tied back at her nape, exposing her shoulders and the flimsy shoestring straps that hold her dress in place. The presence of a bra, something to debate, to torment myself over. I do it now, just as I did this morning, my body overheating as she stepped ever closer, provoking me with all her grace and poise. The delicate green silk of her floor-length dress sets off her auburn hair and clinging to her every curve, the split to her thigh teasing with a hint of leg. The dipped V meets with a slash of tartan at her waist, unveiling the freckles that run a teasing path down. Freckles that I stared at for far too long as she walked up the aisle, but snapping my eyes up only led me straight into hers.
And that look.
I close my eyes and squeeze the image out. I switch direction on the dancefloor out of time and cause her to stumble. She leans into me further and I tighten my grip.
Like that’s going to help.
‘Come on, Jackson,’ she coos softly. ‘You know I’m talking sense.’
I refuse to answer. I refuse to even look at her as I scan the room, desperately seeking distraction. But the challenge in her eyes across the aisle and in my arms now, the want, desire, need—the sight is burned into my brain. I continue to see it. I continue to feel the effect of it all the way to my disobeying dick, which wants nothing more than to seek satisfaction for the last six years of denial.
Around us I take in people dancing, talking, laughing but all I really see is her: her body and eyes aglow, enhanced by the intimate lighting of the room, the amber strands that have escaped the twisted knot at her nape and fall over her flushed cheeks. The combination makes me think of a thousand different reasons she could look like that. Every one of them as debauched as me. More debauched than any fun she has offered...
There’s the sex she’s accustomed to, and then there’s sex with me.
Dark, twisted and fucked up.
Never going to happen.
It’s not just how she looks either. It’s how she feels. Her warmth beneath my palms and the way she curves into me, her thighs, her stomach, her breasts gently touching.
She tilts her head back and I can’t resist a glimpse.
Fuck, she’s perfect.
Her cupid’s bow lips flush their own shade of pink and I see the tiny gap between her two front teeth that I’ve wanted to probe with my tongue for so long. Then there’s the easy smile that lights up her face, the room, me. She gives it to me now as she eases herself up my body.
Her lips brush against my ear again and I have to stiffen to stop the teasing tremor that threatens to run through me. Worse still, I know the only reason she can reach so high is because I’ve bowed my head, my body defying my every intent to resist.
‘Come on, Jackson, live a little.’ Her mouth caresses my ear, her breath sweeps inside—fuck. She may as well have tongued the sensitised flesh for what it does to me and now I’m actually relieved that her body is pressed against me, the sporran too. Anything to stop the way my unrestricted erection is free to set up camp under the kilt.
‘What happens in the Highlands stays in the Highlands,’ she murmurs.
Yes, fuck, yes. Listen to her. Screw your conscience. She wants you. You’ve never been a saint, so why now? Why with her?
But I know why.
I take her hand and fling her out, en
couraging her to twirl beneath our fingers above her head and remember too late my predicament down below. Panic, a surge of colour to my cheeks, and I’m yanking her back just as swiftly. Her length comes up hard against my body, her palms too, as she gives a flirtatious giggle.
‘Miss me?’
‘You could say that,’ I grind out, relieved that my kilt is back in place, not so relieved that she’s overpowering me anew.
Christ, if you do it, maybe you can move on from this impossible attraction.
Hell, maybe she’ll move on and then it will no longer be an issue.
Yes, take her to bed, give her a glimpse of the real you, and it should see her run a mile.
Because if she knew me—the real me—if she knew what had gone before, this wouldn’t be up for debate. Not that I’ll tell her. That’s my cross to bear and mine alone.
But a night, one night so far away from home—
‘Excuse me, Black, may I have this dance?’
I still at the plummy-toned intrusion. It’s Philip. Philip Lauren, Coco’s brother. I flick him a look that takes in his hand on my shoulder and he snaps it back.
‘I think you’ll find it’s the Best Man’s duty, Lauren.’
I struggle to hide the contempt in my voice, but loyalty is everything to me and he has yet to earn any of mine. Coco may have forgiven him. Hell, Ash too. But me... I’m not so easily won around. Not when the guy tried to destroy his own sister’s reputation less than two years ago and managed to tap a hole in the protective shield I have in place over my club, Blacks. He crossed too big a line for me.
I release Caitlin but my arm wraps around her waist—merely a protective gesture, of course, nothing more—and I’m grateful that Philip’s presence works its magic below my waist.
‘Of course.’ Caitlin speaks before I can respond, and I lift my brow as I look down at her. He can’t have won her around too. There’s no way. Caitlin is as fiercely protective of Coco as I am. ‘I was clearly wasting my time here,’ she murmurs, and then a hardness creeps into her gaze. ‘I know when I’m not wanted... Come on, Philip, let’s show them how it’s really done.’
Unwrapping the Best Man Page 1
