The hem of the dress seemed to jump out at her. Its whiteness contrasted with the other fabric. Impulsively, she pulled the dress she was wearing off and stepped into the wedding gown. Unlike Allison’s gown, this one had a zipper and Cinnamon pulled it up her back to the base of her neck.
There was a mirror in the hall, near the front door. Cinnamon went to it. Without turning on the light, she stared at her reflection using only the subdued light from the porch that spilled through the moon window at the top of the door and through the cut glass angles of the beveled glass. She turned around, looking at herself from all angles. Then she waltzed back into the living room, her arms up and around an imaginary partner.
She didn’t hear Mac return until he spoke to her. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”
Stopping suddenly, she turned and faced him. He made a sound, but Cinnamon didn’t know if it was surprise or just an intake of air.
“Dance with me?” she asked, taking a step toward him.
Mac moved back. Cinnamon wondered if it was from fear.
“Not a good idea.”
“Come on, what can one dance do? You’ve danced with me before and you’ll have to dance with me at the next wedding we go to.”
She walked into his arms and they closed around her of their own volition. Mac said nothing about missing music. The two of them began to dance. Again Cinnamon experienced the sensation of being lost in his arms. She wanted to feel it again, wanted to make sure that what she’d felt in his arms in Boston would return if he held her again.
She wasn’t disappointed.
Mac’s arms moved. He relaxed and slipped them tighter around her. He pulled her securely against him. Her head rested against his chin. They moved together, swaying to the music of her heart. She wasn’t sure when things changed, when their feet ceased to move and their heads moved back so they faced each other. She wasn’t aware of time passing, of music stopping, of the soft buzz in her ears that blocked out any other sound.
She was aware of her heart, hammering in her chest. She wondered if Mac could hear it. She was aware of her lips, of the tingling sensation that covered them, of the soft warmth that was building inside her. She was aware when Mac’s head moved toward her. Aware of the moment when she knew he was going to kiss her. Of the exact moment when she knew if he stopped she’d die.
His hands came up and cupped her face. For an eon he stared into her eyes. She saw the need in his, saw the decisions he made. Cinnamon couldn’t move. Anticipation poured into her blood like a narcotic. She wanted him to kiss her as much as she wanted to take the next breath.
His mouth took hers, fast and hard. Hands dug into her hair as he seared his mouth to hers. Whatever was leashed inside him had been freed. His tongue dipped into her mouth, tasting, taking, sweeping aside any protests she might have made. Cinnamon had been here before. She wanted it again. She wanted the raw power of him, the unbridled wrath of his body.
Mac’s arms tightened around her, pulling her into full contact with him. She felt the tightness of his muscles, the bulge of his erection through the lace and satin of the wedding gown. Her back arched as torrents of sensation sailed through her. Her blood raged, stormed through her system as something new, something never tested, never seen before took over and drove her upward.
The snap happened in her, too. She felt Mac’s hands lowering the zipper on the dress. He moved slowly, contrastingly different from the forces within her, forces that drove her to tear at the fabric, pull it free of her body, so she could connect with the smooth, hardness of his.
Her hands found the bottom of his shirt and rushed under the material to find his skin. The need to touch him, to know his flesh, was overwhelming. Fingers that had turned into nerves, scoured over his back and around his belly. She looped them in his waist band and skimmed them around his body, feeling the tightness in him, hearing the sounds in his throat that added confidence to her actions.
He stopped her fingers, pulling her hands together, then slipping the mutton sleeves of the dress down the length of her arms until it fell to her waist and slipped in silence to the floor. Cinnamon wore only a bra and panties. Mac’s eyes moved over her slowly from tip to toe.
Cinnamon’s body tingled. She felt her breasts tighten as his mouth kissed her skin, his lips traveling to new points. Mac lifted her and carried her to the steps. Without thinking, Cinnamon let him take her upstairs. Mac went to his bedroom. He carried her across the threshold and let her slide down his body. Cinnamon slipped her hands up his shirt and continued until the fabric was no longer covering him.
She reached for the snap on his pants and pulled them free of any closure. Pushing them down his legs, he stepped free of them for the space of time it took to free himself of the fabric. Then she was back in his arms, as if he couldn’t live without the touch of her, without being so close that air didn’t pass between them.
Fingers deftly unhooked her bra and Mac’s mouth covered her nipple. Sounds issued from her, new sounds, utterances that Cinnamon had not heard before and was surprised to find coming from her throat. It was all Cinnamon could do not to scream. She was ready. She wanted him now!
Through some unspoken communication, Mac understood. Hot hands slipped her panties over her hips, and he lifted her onto the bed. Joining her there, he continued the love-torture, lying with her, running his hands over her nerve-laden body, bringing to life zones of need that she’d never felt before.
Cinnamon didn’t see him get the condom. She heard the soft explosion of air as he tore the foil package. Protecting them, he swung his body and joined with hers. A cry of pleasure, uncurbed, unchecked and howling, burst from her at his entry. He began the timeless rhythm, but she quickly reversed their roles. She rode him, rode him hard, holding his shoulders and pumping herself over him as if her life depended on it. And her life did. She had to have him, had to have this man. She understood that. Somewhere in her sex-blurred mind was a sense, a tonic, an elixir that reached out for him, one that let her know, with massive amounts of infusion, that they had the chemistry.
Mac shouted her name. His hands took her waist, his hips pumped upward into her with powerful strokes. Her body took him, took all of him. Time after time the ritual continued, went on and on until Cinnamon thought the two of them could no longer stand the pounding. Yet they went on. Like the forces of a hurricane, their bodies swirled around in strong circles. And then Cinnamon felt it. The roar within her, the rush of rapture like a huge wave building and building until the pressure was so great it had to be released.
The explosion happened in a burst. Mac shouted out and together they collapsed against each other. Their bodies glistened. The room smelled of sweat and sex, a combination so heady it added to the high their joining had produced. Pushing her hair away from her face, she lay in Mac’s arms, unable to tell if the thumping she heard was her heart or his.
She closed her eyes, contented, sated, cradled against him and wondered if anyone in the world had ever felt the way she did.
Cinnamon’s eyes popped open at the sound of the doorbell ringing. She sat up in bed, holding the covers to her naked breasts. Mac lay beside her, his eyes wide open, his body as relaxed as if he were scheduled for a massage.
Cinnamon jumped out of bed and ran to her own room. Pulling on jeans and a heavy T-shirt over her bare body, she grabbed a brush and headed for the stairs. Pushing the brush through her hair, she entered the foyer and set it on the small table. She refused to look in the mirror. If her reflection said she’d spent the night making wild love to Mac, she didn’t want to know it was visible to the naked eye.
“Good morning, Cinnamon. Glad you’re home.” Conner Anderson, called Connie by everyone in town, stood on her porch. Cinnamon wasn’t fully awake, her eyes were open, but her body was still upstairs, in bed with Mac, warm and ready for him to make love to her again. But Connie didn’t know that.
He brushed by her, carrying a black package of stackable boxes. Cinnamon dreaded wh
at she knew was in them.
“Connie, is that what I think it is? Are you crazy to be carrying that stuff around?” She sank into the sofa.
“Calm down, Cinnamon. You’re not in Boston anymore.” He set the boxes on the coffee table. Taking a chair in front of her, he opened the top one.
Cinnamon gasped when she saw the glittering stones. Connie proceeded to open and set one ring set after another in front of her.
“What are these?”
“They’re engagement rings and wedding bands. For your wedding.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Cinnamon saw Mac coming from the kitchen. The dining room doors were closed. She hadn’t seen him close them, yet she was grateful that their discarded clothes from last night were concealed behind them. Cinnamon wanted to kiss him for his thoughtfulness.
Several minutes later, Mac carried three mugs of coffee, two in one hand, as he entered the room. Cinnamon was fighting to understand what Connie was saying and getting her heart under control. She’d learned tonight that it took her a while to come down from the point Mac carried her to when he made love to her. She wanted his warm body pressed against hers. She wanted Connie to leave so they could have the house to themselves, so they could return to the warm bed upstairs that was holding the remnants of their joining and beckoning them to return for another session of life as it had never been known.
“Morning, Mac,” Connie said, setting the tray on one of the unused chairs. “I heard you were down for the week.”
“Allison and Paul are back,” he said.
Cinnamon clamped her teeth together. She wondered if Connie’s comments meant that Mac was here, in Zahara’s house, her house.
“I’ve seen them. You can just see how much they love each other.”
“True,” Mac said. He looked as fresh as if he’d taken a shower and carefully dressed himself, except for his bare feet. He nodded at Connie and passed the cups of coffee to them. Cinnamon gripped her cup as if it were a lifeline. Testing the heat, she sipped the liquid and felt its warmth go down her throat and spread out in her chest.
“Glad you’re both here.” Connie went back to business, although they had no business. “Cinnamon, we’d like you to choose a setting.”
“Connie, you understand I’m not getting married. That I’m not engaged. The newspaper story is a joke.”
“Sure, sure,” he said. “But you will get married someday and our store is willing to give you and the lucky man…matching rings.”
Did he look at Mac when he said that? Cinnamon wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw it. Was it an innocent acknowledgment of him being in the room, or was Connie making a subliminal suggestion?
Still Cinnamon couldn’t resist looking at the tray when Connie lifted one and set it in front of her.
“They’re so beautiful,” she whispered as if the occasion called for reverent voices.
“Cinnamon, you’re not getting married,” Mac said. His voice was stronger than she’d heard it before. It seemed to snap her out of admiring the stones.
She closed the lid on the box she was looking at and faced Connie. “Mac is right. I have no need to choose a setting yet. Maybe when and if I get engaged, I’ll choose a wedding ring, but not now.”
“You seem to like these.” Connie closed one tray, but did nothing about the others that were lying on the table. “Why don’t I leave these for you to look at later?”
“Thank you, Connie, but no. Even if this isn’t Boston, I’m not going to be responsible for this jewelry.”
“And shouldn’t the bride and groom choose the rings?” Mac asked.
“They do it both ways,” Connie said. “Some guys like to surprise their fiancées. They study stone sizes and settings, trying to determine what is best. Other couples choose the rings together. I thought Cinnamon would like to see some of the choices available.” He glanced at her. “You don’t have to make a decision now. I can leave these for a while.”
“They are beautiful, Connie.” She took a moment to admire them again. “But I’m not having them here. I wouldn’t sleep thinking something could happen to them.”
“I understand,” he said. “I work around them all the time. But people who don’t can get nervous.”
Connie was holding an engagement ring with a stone that must be five carats. “Try this on. It only came in a week ago.”
Cinnamon gasped again. The size of the diamond was overwhelming. And it wouldn’t hurt anything to try it on. She took the ring and looked at it. “I don’t think it’s the right size.”
“That’s easily fixed,” Connie said in a voice that sounded like he was making a sale.
“Cinnamon.”
She heard the warning note in Mac’s voice, but ignored it. Looking at him, she saw strange emotions flitter across his features before they settled into an unreadable mask. Her fingers slipped and the ring dropped. It rolled to where Mac stood. He reached down and retrieved it. Two steps brought him to where she sat. He offered her the ring.
Cinnamon didn’t know why she did it, but she stuck her finger out. She heard his soft sigh as Mac set his coffee cup on the table in front of her. He slipped the ring on her finger.
“There,” Connie said. “Maybe you’ll have a groom sooner than you think.”
Chapter 9
“Take them off, Cinnamon.” Mac stood in front of the fireplace. Connie had just left and Cinnamon returned from the foyer.
“What?”
“The rings. You should have given them back, but since you didn’t, take them off and put them away.”
“I will not.” She stretched her hand out in front of her and admired the glittering setting. “They’re beautiful.”
“It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”
“What’s getting to me?” She looked at him with skepticism.
“The wedding. The whole idea of the rings, the gown, the flowers. It’s getting in your blood.”
“Mac, you’re just jaded.” She gathered the coffee cups and walked past him to the kitchen.
“I’m not jaded.”
“Sure you are. I’ve been expecting this.”
“Expecting what?”
“You.” She paused. “The closer we get to this wedding, the more uptight you get.”
“Uptight? You think what we did last night was uptight?”
Cinnamon slammed a cup on the counter. “I’m not talking about last night and you know it.”
“Do you see that you’re only helping them along with this…this charade.”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “But you have to admit, it’s a lot of fun.” She looked at the rings again. “I have the rings, the dress, the invitations. I’m sure we can make a deal on the flowers and the church. Wanna marry me, Mac?”
“No!” he shouted.
Cinnamon jumped at the force of it. “Okay,” she said. “It was a joke, and I forgot that you have no sense of humor.”
“I have a sense of humor.”
“But not where weddings are concerned?”
He said nothing, only gave her a pointed stare.
“What is it hurting, Mac? A few shop owners get a little publicity and it brings business into their stores. In the long run, it keeps Indian Falls healthy and you apparently love living here.”
He seemed to weigh her words before he spoke. “Until something goes wrong.”
What could go wrong, Cinnamon asked herself. She turned to the sink and rinsed a cup. Mac came up behind her and circled her waist. He pulled her back against him and slipped his hands under her T-shirt. Immediately, they cupped her breasts. She sank back against him, weightless. Every ounce of resistance left her. Emotions flooded her with the memory of the miracle that had happened last night. Could they do it again? Or were you only allowed one miracle in a lifetime?
Cinnamon’s head fell back on his shoulder. Her eyes closed. Arousal flowed over her like a sun bursting into existence. Her hands were butterfly wings as she tried to find the handle to turn off t
he running water. She found the handle. The sound ceased in her head and she whirled in Mac’s arms.
Her mouth found his and she anchored herself to him. Cinnamon had never been forward, but now she couldn’t stop herself. Her legs curled around Mac’s. She rubbed them up and down his jean-clad limbs. Cinnamon went up on her toes, Mac lifted her off her feet and she circled his body with her legs. His hands cupped her bottom and caressed her. He pressed her against the sink while his mouth continued to devour hers. Cinnamon found the magic of the night before. It came to her the same and yet differently. A new day, new sensations, a new boldness to their discovery of each other.
Mac sat her on the edge of the sink and moved back only far enough to pull the T-shirt over her head. He threw it behind him. Cinnamon didn’t see it fall to the floor. Mac lifted her again and took her upstairs, where she discovered a second miracle.
“What could go wrong?” Cinnamon had been confident when she’d asked herself that question. Now she wasn’t so sure. Usually as soon as those words were said, something was bound to backfire. In Cinnamon’s case, it took a week before it happened. Mac didn’t return to Washington at the end of the weekend. And he didn’t move out. Cinnamon could have made a point of it, but she didn’t. She thought of broaching the subject of their living arrangement, but quickly let the thought go.
She liked knowing Mac was there, even though they hadn’t been to bed together since that night and the following morning. That magical, crazy, wild time when he’d rocked her world. Thoughts of them together stole into her mind at odd moments. She’d find herself looking for him to join her for a meal or sit out on the porch. When he wasn’t around, she’d fantasize about him.
She’d been fantasizing several moments ago, when he’d walked into the living room, dressed in a dark suit and with an even darker expression. It was wedding day, the culmination of a week of him dreading all things nuptial. Cinnamon had been dressed for an hour, and she’d called to Mac several times letting him know they were going to be late. She thought he was intentionally avoiding going, but he was in the wedding party.
Wrong Dress, Right Guy Page 11
