“Women recognize me,” she clarified. “Who watched the show when they were kids.”
“I’m sure they do.” Did he sound tense? He did.
She was getting closer to that something. “Did you watch my show?”
“Frances did.” He sounded as if he was talking through gritted teeth. “My younger sister.”
“Did you watch it with her?”
The moment stretched long enough that he really didn’t have to answer. He used to watch the show. He used to watch her. “Did you see me in concert? Is that why you called me a rock star?”
In response, he honked the horn and jerked the car across two lanes. “Stupid drivers,” he muttered.
Normally, she wouldn’t want to know. She didn’t want people’s version of her past to project onto her present. But she needed to know—was this the reason why he’d run so hot and cold with her?
“Matthew.”
“Yes, okay? I used to watch your show with Frances and Byron. Frances, especially, was a huge fan. We never missed an episode. It was the only time when I could make time for them, make sure they didn’t feel forgotten by the family. Our father had already moved on to another wife, another set of new children and another mistress. He never had time for them, for any of us. And I didn’t want my brother and sister to grow up like I had. So I watched the show with them. Every single one of them. And then your concert tour came through Denver the week before their fifteenth birthday, so I got them front-row tickets and took them. Our father had forgotten it was their birthday, but I didn’t.”
She sat there, flabbergasted. Jo had said Hardwick Beaumont was a bastard of a man, but to not even remember your own kids’ birthdays?
“And...and you were amazing, all right? I’d always wondered if you really did the singing and guitar on the show or if it was dubbed. But it was all you up on that stage. You put on a hell of a show.” His voice trailed off, as if he was lost in the memory, impressed with her musical talents all over again. “I’d always...” He sighed heavily.
“What? You’d always what?”
“I’d always had a crush on you.” His voice was quiet, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying the words out loud. “Seeing you in person—seeing how talented you really were—only made it worse. But then the show got canceled and you went off the rails and I felt...stupid. Like I’d fallen for a lie. I’d let myself be tricked because you were so pretty and talented. I was in college by then—it really wasn’t cool to crush on a teen star. And the headlines—every time you made headlines, I felt tricked all over again.”
Okay, so how was she supposed to reply to that? Gosh, I’m sorry I destroyed a part of your childhood? That I never had a childhood?
She’d had people tell her they loved her before—had it shouted at her on sidewalks. Love letters that came through her agent—he forwarded them to her with the quarterly royalty checks. And she’d had more than a few people tell her how disappointed they were that she wasn’t a proper role model, that she wasn’t really a squeaky-clean rock star.
That she wasn’t what they wanted her to be.
“You weren’t— Last night...you weren’t mad at me?”
He chuckled. It was not a happy sound. “No. I was mad at myself.”
Why hadn’t she seen it earlier? He’d had a crush on her. He might have even fancied himself in love with her.
No, not with her. With Whitney Wildz.
“But you kissed me.”
True, it hadn’t been a let’s-get-naked kind of kiss, but that didn’t change the basic facts. He’d told her she was beautiful at several important points throughout the day, gone out of his way to reassure her, listened to her talk about her pets and...kissed her anyway.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then took an exit off the highway. It was several minutes before he spoke. “I did.” He said it as though he still didn’t believe it. “My apologies.”
“You’re apologizing? For the kiss? Was it that bad?”
Yeah, he’d sort of taken her by surprise—she’d been in a state of shock about her face—but that wasn’t going to be it, was it? One strike and she was out of luck?
“You didn’t kiss me back.”
“Because I didn’t know who you thought you were kissing.” Point of fact, despite all the illuminating personal details he’d just revealed, she still didn’t know who he’d thought he was kissing.
“You,” he said simply. “I was kissing you.”
She opened her mouth to ask, Who?
This was not the time for ambiguous personal pronouns. This was the time for clarity, by God. Because if he still thought he was kissing a rock star or an actress, she couldn’t kiss him back. She just couldn’t.
But if he was kissing a klutz who rescued puppies...
She didn’t get the chance to ask for that vital clarification, because suddenly they were at the guard gate for Beaumont Farms. “Mr. Beaumont, Ms. Maddox,” the guard said, waving them through.
Matthew took the road back to the house at what felt like a reckless speed. They whipped around corners so fast she had to hold on to the door handle. Then they were screeching to a halt in front of Phillip and Jo’s house. The place was dark.
Whitney’s head was spinning from more than just his driving. She couldn’t look at him, so she stared at the empty-looking house. “Who am I? Who am I to you?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hands flex around the steering wheel. After today she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d permanently bent it out of shape, what with all the white-knuckle gripping he’d been doing.
He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “Can I walk you inside?”
“All right.”
They got out of the car. Matthew opened the door to the house for her and then stood to the side so she could enter first. She had to stop—it was dark and she didn’t know where the light switches were located.
“Here.” Matthew’s voice was close to her ear as he reached around her. She stepped back—back into the wall.
He flipped the light on but he didn’t move away from her. Instead, he stood there, staring down at her with something that looked a heck of a lot like hunger.
What did people do in this situation?
To hell with what other people did. What did she want to do?
She still wanted the same thing she’d wanted when she’d shown up here—a little Christmas fling to dip her toes back into the water of dating and relationships. She still wanted to feel sexy and pretty and, yes, graceful.
But the way that Matthew was looking down at her...there was something else there, something more than just a casual attraction that might lead to some really nice casual sex.
It scared her.
“I don’t think they’re home,” he said, his voice husky.
“That’s a shame,” she replied. He’d made her feel pretty today, but right now? That hunger in his eyes?
She felt sexy. Desirable.
He wanted her.
She wanted to be wanted.
Just a Christmas fling. The maid of honor and the best man. Something that’d be short and sweet and so, so satisfying.
He hesitated. “Is it?”
“No.” She turned until her back was against the wall.
His other arm came up beside her, trapping her in between them. “I’ll stop. If you want me to.”
She touched one of his cheeks. His eyelashes fluttered. But he hadn’t answered her question.
He seemed to realize it. “I don’t know what you are to me,” he told her, the words coming out almost harsh. He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers. “But I know who you are.”
This time, she knew the kiss wouldn’t be the soft, gentle thing he’d pressed against her lips before.
This time, it would be a kiss that consumed her.
She wanted to be consumed.
But he hadn’t clarified anything, damn it. She put her hands on his chest and pushed just hard enough to stop him. Not hard enough to push him away. “Tell me, Matthew. Tell me who you’re going to kiss.”
Now both of his hands were cradling her face—pulling her up to him. “Whitney,” he whispered. The length of his body pressed her back against the wall, strong and hard and everything she wanted it to be. “Whitney Maddox.”
She didn’t wait for him to kiss her. She kissed him first. She dug her fingers into the front of his sweater and hauled him down so she could take possession of his mouth, so she could offer up her own for him.
He groaned into her as she nipped at his lower lip. Then he took control of the kiss. His tongue swept into hers as his hands trailed down her cheeks, onto her neck and down her shoulders. Then he picked her up. The sudden change in altitude caused her to gasp.
“You need to be taller,” he told her as he kissed along her cheek to her neck, her ear. His hands were flat against her bottom, boosting her to make up for the eight-inch height difference between them. Then he squeezed.
She had no choice. Her legs went around his waist, pulling him into her. She could feel his erection straining against his pants, pressing against her. She trembled, suddenly filled with a longing she couldn’t ignore for a single second more.
Then his hips moved, rocking into hers. The pressure was intense—he was intense. Even though she had on jeans, she could feel the pads of his fingertips through the denim, squeezing her, pulling her apart.
His body rocked against hers, hitting the spot that sent the pressure spiraling up. She wanted to touch him, wanted to feel all the muscles that were holding her up as if she weighed nothing at all, but suddenly she had to hold on to him for dear life as he ground against her.
Her head fell back and bounced off the wall, but she didn’t care—and she cared a whole lot less when Matthew started nipping at her neck, her collarbone. His hips flexed, driving him against her center again and again.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, Matthew.”
“Do you like it,” he growled against her chest.
“Yes.”
“Louder.” He thrust harder.
“Yes— Oh!” She gasped again—he was— She was going to—
He rocked against her again, in time with his teeth finding the spot between her shoulder and neck. He bit down and rubbed and—and—
“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!” she cried out as he pinned her back against the wall and held her up as she climaxed.
“Kiss me back,” he told her, his forehead resting against hers. He was still cupping her bottom in his hands, but instead of the possessive squeezing, he was now massaging her. The sensation was just right. He was just right. “Always kiss me back.”
So she kissed him, even as the climax ebbed and her body sagged in his arms. She kissed him with everything she had, everything she wanted.
Because she wanted everything. Especially a man who put her first.
“Tell me what you want,” he said. Already his hips were moving again, the pressure between her legs building. “I want this to be perfect for you. Tell me everything you want.”
She cupped his cheeks in her hands. “Perfect?”
He gave her a look that started out as embarrassed but quickly became wicked. “Do you doubt me?”
After that orgasm? For heaven’s sake, they were still fully clothed! What was he capable of when they were naked?
She grinned at him, feeling wicked in her own right. “Prove it.”
Nine
“Oh, I’ll prove it,” Matthew told her. He hefted her up again. Then they were moving. He carried her through the house. He knew where they were going—his old room. If he didn’t get all these clothes off them and bury himself in her body soon, he might just explode.
She wasn’t helping. True, she didn’t weigh very much and, since he was carrying her, she didn’t trip or stumble into him. But the way she busied herself by scraping her teeth over his earlobe? He was going to lose it. Him, who was always in control of the situation. Of himself.
She’d stripped that control away from him the moment she’d walked into his life.
“This is my old room,” he told her when they got to her door. He managed to get the door open. Then he kicked it shut.
Then he laid her out on the bed. Normally, he took his time with women. He was able to keep a part of himself back—keep a certain distance from what he was doing, what they were trying to do to him. Oh, they enjoyed it—he did, as well—but that level of emotional detachment was important somehow. He didn’t know why. It just was.
Besides, being detached made it easier to make sure the women he was with were getting what they wanted from him.
But seeing Whitney on his old bed? Her hair was mussed now, her red lipstick smudged. She was no longer the perfect beauty he’d tentatively—yes, detachedly—kissed in the salon.
She was, however, his. His for right now. And he couldn’t hold back.
He stripped off his coat while she tried to wriggle out of her jeans. Then, just as he had his sweater over his head, she kicked him in the stomach.
“Oof,” he got out through clenched teeth. He stepped out of range and jerked the sweater the rest of the way off.
“Sorry! Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry.” Whitney lay on her back. She had one leg halfway out of her jeans, the other stuck around the ankle. “I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to— Oh, damn.”
He caught the jeans, now practically inside out, and yanked them off her. Then he climbed onto the bed. Her blush was anything but pale or demure. An embarrassing red scorched her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking as if she might start crying.
He straddled her bare legs as he pinned her wrists by her head. “None of that,” he scolded her. “Nervous?”
She dropped her gaze and gave him a noncommittal shrug.
“Look at me,” he told her. “Do you still want to do this?”
She didn’t look. “I’m such a klutz. I’m sorry I kicked you.”
“Look at me, Whitney,” he ordered. When she didn’t, he slid her wrists over her head so he could hold them with one hand and then he took her by the jaw and turned her face to his.
There was so much going on under the surface. She was trying to hide it by not looking at him, but he wasn’t having any of it. “Apology accepted. Now forget it happened.”
“But—”
He cut her off with a kiss, his hand sliding down her neck. “One of the things I like about you is that you get clumsy when you’re nervous. It’s cute.”
Defiance flashed over her face. Good. “I don’t want to be cute.”
“What do you want?”
She sucked in a tiny breath—and was silent.
Oh, no, you don’t, he thought. He snaked his hand down her front and then up under her sweater until he found her breast.
God, what a breast. Full and heavy and warm—and so responsive. Even through her bra, her nipple went to a stiff point as he teased her. “Is that what you want?”
She didn’t answer. Not in words. But her breathing was faster now, and she’d tucked her lower lip into her mouth.
What control he had regained when she’d kicked him started to fray like a rope. He rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb. Her back arched into him, so he did it again, harder. “Is that what you want?”
She nodded.
“Say it,” he told her. “Say it or I will tie you to this bed and make you say it.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he wondered where they’d come from. He didn’t just randomly tie people up. He wasn’t into that kinky stuff. A
nd when he’d dreamed of making it with Whitney Wildz, well, hell, back then, he hadn’t even known people did that sort of thing.
But she didn’t reply. Her eyes got huge and she was practically panting, but she didn’t utter a word.
Then she licked her lips. And he lost his head.
Challenge accepted.
He let go of her breast and pulled her up, then peeled her sweater off her. The bra followed. She said nothing as he tore her clothes off, but when he kissed the side of her breast, when he let his tongue trace over her now-bare shoulder, she shuddered into him.
He couldn’t stop whatever this was he’d started. He’d made her cry out in the entry hall. He’d make her do it again. He wrenched his tie off, then looped it around her wrists. Not tight—he didn’t want to hurt her. But knowing her, she’d hit him in the nose with her elbow and nothing ruined some really hot sex like a bloody nose.
The tie secure around her wrists, he loosely knotted it to the headboard. Then he got off the bed.
Whitney Maddox was nude except for a thin pair of pale pink panties that looked so good against her skin. Her breasts were amazing—he wanted to bury his face in them and lick them until she cried his name over and over.
And she was tied to his bed.
Because she’d let him do that. Because she’d wanted him to do that.
He’d never been so excited in his life.
He stripped fast, pausing only long enough to get the condom out of his wallet. He rolled it on and then went to her. “I want to see all of you,” he said, pulling her panties down. She started to lift her legs so he could get them off her ankles, but he held her feet down. “I’m in charge here, Whitney.”
He trailed a finger down between her breasts, watching her shiver at his touch. Finally, finally, she spoke.
“I expect perfection.”
“And that’s what you’ll get.”
He climbed between her legs and stroked her body. She moaned, her head thrashing from side to side as he touched her.
He couldn’t wait much longer. “You okay?” he asked. He wanted to be sure. They could play this little game about making her say it, but he also didn’t want to hurt her. “If it’s not okay, you tell me.”
A Beaumont Christmas Wedding Page 9
