by Tawny Weber
“Do you have it?” she asked, her words as soft as a butterfly kiss. “Are you holding the key?”
Brow arched, Laramie glanced down at the rock-hard erection straining his zipper.
“Because you’re the first man who’s made me feel these things. You’re the first one who’s made me want them.”
God. She was killing him. Laramie shifted, angling his legs out straight in front of him to try to relieve the pressure against his zipper.
“Why do you think it’s different with you?” she wondered. “Is it because of your reputation? Because you’ve done so many things and my body knows you’re an expert?”
“You can feel the same pleasure without me,” he said, only half lying but not willing to let her pin all of her sexual faith on him and him alone. “You just have to trust and let go.”
“How?” She sounded as perplexed as if he’d suggested that she build a submarine to race across the Atlantic.
“Think about what turns you on.”
“You do.”
“Sammi.” Undone by her honesty, he closed his eyes, his head dropping back on the couch. “Okay, then. Imagine how I turn you on. Just think about what I do that makes you feel good. Imagine me doing them to you.”
He almost choked on his words when she gave a long, soft sigh. This was a mistake. He knew it was a mistake that he’d regret. But Laramie couldn’t help it. He lowered his voice to a husky murmur and told her what he’d do, how he’d do it.
“Imagine my lips on your breasts. Think about what it’ll feel like when I lick your nipples. When I nibble on one, then the other.” He heard the bedsprings creak again and waited a beat. “Touch yourself, Sammi. Touch yourself the way you imagine me touching you. Just close your eyes and feel.”
By the time he’d told her how he’d lick his way up her thigh, he heard her breath quicken, then shudder. It was all he could do not to reach into his pants and give himself the same pleasure. Except pleasuring himself while talking phone sex to Sammi was one step away from having real sex with her. And he was pretty sure the only resistance he had left was that single step.
Laramie’s fist constricted, his body screaming for release.
He wanted to show her how good it’d feel. He wanted to take her in every way he knew how and let her see for herself just how good she was at it.
But he wasn’t sure whom that would cause more trouble for. Sammi, who’d have to live with that knowledge while married to an ass like Barclay. Or himself, who’d have to live without Sammi.
“Look, I’m going to take a couple days, go to San Antonio to look for Barclay,” he decided on the spot before she could recover enough to speak. “He lived there for years. Whatever trouble he’s in probably started there.”
And he needed to put a little distance between himself and temptation.
Because if he made Sammi Jo come one more time, he wasn’t going to be able to stop until he’d stripped them both naked and satisfied them both at the same damned time.
* * *
MMM, CHOCOLATE.
Rich, decadent and oh, so fulfilling.
Sammi Jo eyed the slice of triple-fudge delight with all of the pent-up desire in her system. The glass display case held other baked treats. Glistening éclairs, cream-topped mousse and tarts ripe with sugared fruit.
But Sammi only had eyes for the cake.
She’d bet it tasted amazing. That each bite would bring its own special kind of satisfaction. She felt as if she’d discovered a whole new world of needs, of desires. And now she was desperate to gratify each and every one.
She breathed deep the sweet air, thinking of the source of all of those desires.
Laramie.
He was still away, but he’d called every night for the past three nights.
And she’d come.
Every night for the past three nights.
Each night their call had been more intense, more sexually focused. Each night he’d pushed her to explore her sensuality with suggestions on what she should do to herself. How she should touch herself. Ways to intensify the pleasure he’d taught her to build.
She gave a little shudder as the memory of last night’s phone call kindled a flame of desire low in her belly.
“Sammi Jo, are you paying attention?”
No, dammit.
Sammi drew in a deep breath, trying to control the urge to scream.
She was deliberately not paying attention. For all the good it was doing, she wanted to ignore everything that had anything to do with the wedding. Because thinking about it forced her to face the increasing surety that marrying Sterling was a mistake.
She wanted some time, some distance to figure this out. To know if her doubts were real or if they were simply a reaction to everything that was happening.
But as with everything else to do with this three-ring circus of an event, it wasn’t about what Sammi wanted.
So, after one last little shudder of need, she reluctantly turned away from the glass display.
“You prefer the white cake with white buttercream and no filling,” Sammi said, repeating the coordinator’s choice in a monotone. She gave the baker a polite smile, not wanting the woman to think she had anything against her white cake with buttercream frosting. Except boredom, of course.
“It looks lovely.” And bland. “But we’re here for the tasting, aren’t we? So shouldn’t we consider the other options? Maybe actually taste them?”
“Of course.” The sprite smiled a little wisp of a smile, then gestured with a surprisingly large hand toward a lovely table set for two. On the rose-hued tablecloth were two plates, and between them a tiered crystal stand, each of the levels holding at least four slices of cake.
“Gorgeous,” Sammi declared, almost clapping her hands in delight. What better distraction from her crazy thoughts than dessert?
Sammi started to slide into one of the delicate ice cream parlor chairs. Before her butt could land, though, Mrs. Ross clapped her hands as if smacking the very notion from Sammi’s mind.
“You are not here to gorge yourself on cake, Sammi Jo. The flavors have been chosen. You are here to approve them.”
Her eyes locked with the other woman’s, Sammi inclined her head, then with great deliberation, sat. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the chair. Mrs. Ross’s warning was music to her ears.
“Would you care to join me?” she invited, gesturing to the empty chair.
“Oh, but this seat is for your fiancé.” Mrs. Dias flicked a glance at the frowning woman hovering over the vanilla cake. “Would you like me to bring a third chair?”
“No, thank you, though. My fiancé won’t be joining us.” He wouldn’t have joined them even if he’d been next door, she realized. Sterling had shown virtually no interest in the details of the wedding. Of course, she hadn’t been much better. Maybe that was part of the problem, she realized. Maybe if she were more invested in the event, she’d have fewer doubts about going through with it.
“Mr. Barclay was quite specific about which cake is to be served.”
Did the woman go to bed each night journaling the immortal instructions of Mr. Barclay?
Deciding discretion was the better part of valor and that a full mouth tended to shout less, Sammi accepted a fork from the baker. After careful consideration, she chose the lighter of the two samples of chocolate cake.
She didn’t even get her fork into it before Mrs. Ross whipped the plate out from under her and replaced it with the slice of vanilla.
“This is the cake that was approved. This is the cake you’re here to taste.”
For a brief, oh-so-satisfying second, Sammi imagined herself picking up that plate of dry white cake with its boring white frosting and smashing it in the other woman’s face. But the baker was staring with an avid expression, her eyes bouncing from one to the other as if she were taking notes.
Sammi stiffened, hot color warming her cheeks as her brief rebellion was smothered by the dread
of being gossiped about.
“I’m sure we can reach a compromise,” she said stiffly.
“This is a traditional wedding and the cake will be a classic white as is customary.” The woman leaned closer, her voice as quiet as the air so that only Sammi could hear as she continued, “I was hired to ensure that this wedding reflects the taste and breeding of the Barclay name. I will not allow anything to mar that image.”
Was that because the woman was hell-bent on protecting her vision of the wedding, and in doing so, her reputation? Sammi’s eyes narrowed. Or had Mr. Barclay indicated that he didn’t think Sammi Jo had taste or breeding? Was this how she was going to spend her married life? With someone watching over every decision, every move because she wasn’t capable?
But Sammi just nodded. After all, what else was she going to do?
“Of course I understand.” Her smile was tiny and stiff. Then she turned to the sprite in the white apron. “Mrs. Dias, can you box up all of the samples please?”
After a brief glance at Mrs. Ross, the baker gave Sammi a quick nod and flitted behind the display counter. While she gathered boxes, Sammi pulled out her wallet.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Mrs. Dias went to a great deal of trouble to provide all of these lovely samples. Since you’ve deemed them all off-limits for my wedding, I’m taking them home with me.” Absently noting that outrage wasn’t pretty on the other woman, Sammi pulled out the inn’s credit card. “After all, if the Barclay Inn is going to feature weddings, we should have a variety of options, shouldn’t we?”
“But... But...” the woman sputtered, her face turning a scary shade of purple. “That’s ridiculous. If I’m to coordinate, I will provide whatever options are necessary.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded when Ms. Dias lifted up a white bakery bag to see if Sammi wanted the boxes in it. Then, her smile still in place thanks to her clenched teeth, Sammi looked back at Mrs. Ross. “Except your idea of necessary and the brides’ might be quite different.”
“My agreement is with Mr. Barclay. You have absolutely no say in it,” the older woman pointed out in a tone so bitchy that even Mrs. Dias cringed.
How well she knew that fact. Sammi had read the contract forward, backward and three ways sideways. She might be stuck with the woman, but only within certain parameters.
“Your contract stipulates that for the first year of Weddings at Barclay, you are the exclusive coordinator for said events.” Accepting the charge slip and pen the baker handed her, Sammi waited a beat before offering her sweetest smile. “But not everyone needs—or wants—a coordinator. Some people might have their own visions for their wedding. Some people might want their day to reflect their tastes. And as the one who will be explaining all of their options and choices to these happily-to-be-married couples, I’ll have firsthand knowledge of which to suggest.”
Sammi signed her name with a flourish before taking her bag of cake. A nod of thanks for the baker and she was done.
“Something to think about,” she told the gaping steamroller of a wedding coordinator just before she sailed out of the bakery, her bag of oral delight in hand.
8
ALL HE’D WANTED was his three weeks of peace and solitude. No people, no stress, no demands.
Instead, he’d walked way too many steps down memory lane to revisit a past he’d preferred to ignore, talked to more people in five days than he usually did in a month and spent three days driving halfway across Texas and back.
And become obsessed with a woman about to marry another man.
As he turned off the highway toward Jerrick, Laramie gave brief consideration to driving on through to El Paso and catching a flight home.
But Sammi Jo was waiting.
After their phone calls over the past three nights, he didn’t plan on keeping either of them waiting any longer. Because, damn, those had been some great phone calls.
He was surprised that it wasn’t the sexual elements of the calls that stood out in his mind. It was the conversations. The shared thoughts and laughter. Maybe it was because those had been the first phone conversations he’d ever had with a woman that lasted longer than three minutes, but he hadn’t realized that he’d had so much to say.
Laramie shook his head as Alan Jackson gave way to Luke Bryan on the radio. Finding out that he could talk for hours was nothing compared to the shock of discovering how interested he was in what Sammi had to say. And when she’d started talking sex again? Hot damn. Laramie turned up the air conditioner. Just thinking about it was getting him hard once more.
Knowing danger when he was getting off to the sound if its voice, he’d decided not to call Sammi the next night.
But when his cell phone had rung while Laramie was searching for sleep on the too-soft motel bed, he’d answered. Instead of Barclay, they’d talked about their jobs. About her dream of traveling someday, about his pride in being a SEAL. They’d discussed favorites and shared their taste in everything from food to music to holidays.
And then, of course, they’d had phone sex.
Laramie slowed as he hit Main Street, wondering what it was about Sammi that had him acting so out of character. Was it like an illness? Something short-term that he’d get over after some mutually naked bed rest? Or was it fatal?
Since thinking about it was giving him a headache, Laramie did the unthinkable. He ignored the problem. Instead, relying on gossip and a few vague memories for directions, he parked his truck in the lot behind Fiona’s Arts & Crafts, skirting through the alley toward the back of the inn. He checked cars as he went to be sure they were empty, then after testing the garden gate to ensure its silence, set foot on Barclay property for the first time in years.
And, dammit, lightning didn’t shoot from the sky.
Resigned to disappointment when it came to this town, Laramie paused inside the gate to listen, then, his senses on full alert, he moved silently through the night-darkened garden, taking care to stick to the shadows. As far as he was concerned, he’d already seen too many people. The last thing he wanted was to be seen by anyone. Especially not visiting Sammi’s place late at night.
No point screwing her life up when he was pretty sure he’d recover from whatever this thing was that had a hold on him.
He made his way toward what had once been a garage. The same creamy white as the inn, the space that’d previously held two cars in a tight fit was now apparently Sammi’s apartment. He knocked, but there was no response. Laramie scanned the perimeter one more time before checking the door. When the handle twisted open he stepped inside and looked around.
Damn. The last time he’d seen a place this small was when he’d spent the better part of two years living cramped like a sardine in a submarine. It sure smelled a lot better in here, though. Like a mix of spiced flowers, something sweet and that scent that was Sammi’s own.
The base of the walls was a rich golden yellow that faded into the color of butter by the time it reached the ceiling. He’d stepped into the kitchen, if the stove and fridge were anything to go by. A bottle of wine stood breathing on the counter and a bowl of fruit sat on top of the fridge but there was no table. Instead, a long counter spanned the length of the room. At this end, there were a couple of bar stools tucked under it; halfway down it held a flat-screen television and at the other end a sensual twist of metal that, since it curved toward the bed, was a reading light.
His gaze lingered on the bed. The iron headboard featured two entwined nudes in a soft green patina that contrasted with the rich purple spread and enough pillows for a platoon scattered in inviting disarray.
Even as his body tightened, hard and wanting, he had to laugh. From the framed watercolor of a bleeding sunset to the plush, backless couch in vivid red to the sex-inviting bed, the place screamed sensuality.
And Sammi thought she’d be okay in a bland marriage to a dickless wonder like Barclay?
With perfect timing, the door at Laramie’s back swung open and i
n came Sammi. Balancing a huge tray in her hands, she looked guiltily over her shoulder before nudging the door shut with her foot.
Laramie grinned, warm pleasure surging at the sight of her. With her hair piled on top of her head like an autumn rose and tumbling around her face, she looked ready for bed. Which was fine with him. In a threadbare white T washed so many times that he could see every detail of her bra, right down to the tiny yellow flowers along the cup, and frayed cutoffs it was obvious that Sammi hadn’t been expecting company.
Good. His eyes lingered on her cleavage, the shadowy fullness making his mouth water. Less chance they’d be interrupted.
“I hope whatever you’ve got on that covered tray is enough to feed two.” Laramie stepped away from the shadowed side of the fridge. “I’m starving.”
Sammi’s shriek shot through the small space. Laramie stepped forward in case he had to catch the tray—he really was starving—but Sammi’s reflexes were solid. Instead of tossing it high, she gripped the handles in a way that told him if she hadn’t recognized him, she’d be using it as a weapon against his head.
“Laramie.” She dropped the tray onto the two-burner stove with a loud clatter, then pressed both hands to her chest as if trying to stop her heart from jumping right out. “You scared me. I didn’t know you were back.”
“I just got into town.” And had had to see her. Wanted to touch her. Desperately needed her.
For the first time in his life, suddenly Laramie wasn’t sure of himself. What did he say to her? How did he approach her? Sure, they’d shared a few orgasms. But those had been some unusual circumstances and the fact was that this was Sammi Jo, who was technically engaged to another man.
When she opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying anything, his discomfort increased. That’s when Laramie noticed how swollen and red her eyes were.
Tension slammed through his body, putting his senses on full alert. Fists tight, he put himself between Sammi’s body and the door.
“What happened?” He’d checked the perimeter and the premises when he arrived, but Laramie did another scan before inspecting Sammi from head to toe. That he didn’t see any signs of violence didn’t mean she hadn’t been assaulted. “Are you okay?”
