New and…Improved? & Andrew in Excess

by Jill Shalvis; Jennifer LaBrecque

  Andrew lavished her thighs with kisses. Instinctively she parted her legs in supplication. But her wicked, wicked husband taunted her with a look that only promised, and pushed her T-shirt aside to nibble his way to the slight rise of her belly.

  Kat tugged her T-shirt over her head and tossed it to the floor. Her senses begged to indulge in him. She stroked the hard line of his shoulder and felt a faint shudder ripple through him at her touch. She stroked the sleek muscles of his back as he explored her ribs and the underside of her breasts, the faint rasp of the stubble on his face, stoking the fire he tended with his sensual exploration. With deliberateness, he bypassed the aching peaks of her breasts and moved on to the pulse tattooing a rhythm of desire at the base of her throat. Braced on his forearms above her, only his mouth touched and caressed her.

  His muscles bunched beneath her fingertips as her hands clutched at him, transmitting the fever building inside. Her breath grew ragged as he pushed aside her hair to sample the sensitivity of her neck and the shell of her ear. Trekking across a desert could not have left her with a greater thirst.

  She groaned in frustration and invitation as she pulled his mouth to meet hers. It was the sweetest of tortures. Rather than gaining some satisfaction from the taste and feel of his mouth, it only turned up the heat coursing through her.

  When his tongue touched hers, the last tenuous hold on her moderation slipped. She touched him as she’d wanted to the first time she’d seen him at his beach house. She purred her appreciation for the tight ripple of his buttocks when she slid her hands beneath his briefs and stroked and kneaded.

  Andrew had teased and incited her earlier, but she’d sensed he did so while fully in control of himself. She’d sensed his measure of restraint in his touch, the cadence of his breath. Now spiraling urgency replaced his control.

  He found her breasts and measured their fullness against his palms, intensifying the ache of his earlier neglect. She murmured a request on their behalf and he took one pearled tip in his mouth.

  Pleasure rocked her, rippled through her and left her wanting more. Impatient to feel the hard length of him against her skin, she tugged at the waistband of his underwear. “These have to go. Now.”

  “You’re the boss.” He took over for her and shucked his briefs.

  My, oh, my. Kat lay very still and closed her eyes. The cool cotton of the sheets against her fevered skin felt real.

  The heady scent of aroused male mingling with her own excitement smelled very real.

  “Kat, please tell me you’re not falling asleep.” The sexy thrum of Andrew’s voice sounded real.

  The questing probe of his hand down her belly to the slick wet between her thighs felt, oh, so very real.

  She moved against him in an age-old request, opening her eyes.

  No doubt about it. She wasn’t dreaming. She was in bed with her husband, who happened to qualify as the all-time sexiest man.

  “Do you know what redneck foreplay is?” Her voice sounded husky, even to her.

  His finger stroked against her silky fold. “Hmm, I hope not.”

  She nudged his shoulder and delivered the punch line. “You awake? You awake?”

  He chuckled as he slid his finger in her.

  Kat arched. No more jokes. Coherent thought lessened with each dip and stroke. She wrapped her hand around the length of his shaft. “And no, I’m not asleep.”

  His fingers found the sensitive nub of her womanhood. “If you are, you’re having one hell of a wet dream.”

  She writhed beneath his ministrations, excited by his touch and his comment. Could this man with his naughty talk possibly be the same stiff shirt she’d married? She rubbed her hand up his hardness. He was stiff all right, but it wasn’t his shirt.

  Kat lost herself in a kaleidoscope of sensation. Of touching and being touched. Of tasting and being tasted. Want became need—the need to feel him deep inside her.

  Then he was. And amidst the maelstrom of pleasure she recognized an emotional connection. She hadn’t sought it. She didn’t want it. But it was there, almost as tangible as the thrust of him within her. This was not some nameless, faceless sperm donor. This was stuffy, sexy, thoughtful, quirky Andrew.

  She gave herself over to a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. She panted and moaned, close to tears from the tension that mounted with each rhythmic plunge. And then she transcended to a place she’d never been before. She soared even as she shattered and became part of the kaleidoscope.

  As if her satisfaction had pushed him over the edge, Andrew found his own release. She had never heard a sweeter sound than his harsh rasp of her name as he spilled into her.

  STILL DAZED and somewhat befuddled, Andrew turned off his bedside light with a snap. He’d set out to teach his wife a lesson and fulfill an obligation. Somewhere along the way he’d lost sight of both objectives and given himself over to pleasure. And something else he couldn’t name. Or wouldn’t.

  Kat followed suit with her light, but instead of plunging the room into its customary nighttime darkness, a faint glow illuminated the bedroom.

  Andrew propped himself on one elbow, trying to find the source. The glow seemed to originate somewhere to the right of Kat. “What’s that?”

  Beside him, Kat faced him in a similar fashion. “That is a night-light.”

  The emotional intensity of their lovemaking still disconcerted him. “Why do you need a night-light?”

  “If I had my own room, it wouldn’t bother you.”

  “I didn’t say it bothered me. Not exactly. But why’s it on?”

  “Maybe Toto can’t sleep without it.”

  Andrew harumphed his disbelief. “Toto could sleep next to a freight train.”

  In the shadows, the vulnerable look on her face told its own story. Just because he was annoyed by his own lack of control, he’d tried to bait her. He kicked himself for being an insensitive moron, anticipating her answer before the words left her mouth.

  “I’m afraid of the dark.” Embarrassment tinged her defiance. “So, now you know. Go ahead and laugh.”

  The indomitable, unflappable Kat Hamilton Devereaux Winthrop feared the dark. He realized what the admission had cost her. He was an ass for asking.

  Without forethought, he reached out and smoothed his hand over her unruly hair, drawing her down to the bed. He settled beside her, rubbing her back with a soothing rhythmic motion. It had been a hell of a day for both of them.

  “It’s okay. I don’t like spiders.” He’d never divulged that to anyone.

  She relaxed. “The light won’t bother you?” Impending sleep slowed her speech.

  “No.” Beneath his fingertips she tempted him again, a bewitching heady mixture of feminine flesh and muscle, wrapped in the scent of satisfaction. He swelled a bit recalling his role in her satiation.

  “You sure?” She sounded one step closer to slumber.

  “Positive.” This impromptu back rub qualified as torture. He’d given in to an urge to comfort her and look where it had landed him—more than ready to make love to her again, but they were on a once a day ration and she was almost asleep.

  Snoring intruded on the quiet.

  “Kat?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Does Toto always snore?”

  “Uh-uh.” Though she verged on sleep, the smile in her voice wrapped around him.

  “A’drew?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thanks,” she slurred into her pillow.

  For the back rub? For marrying her? For his sperm donation? For being the kind of guy she wouldn’t fall in love with, one who’d walk away from his own kid?

  Kat snuggled her delectably plump rear against him, her even breathing punctuated by a gurgle of contentment. Andrew frowned into the dark of the night as his hand rested against her belly. Maybe even now in the aftermath of mind-boggling lovemaking, his numerous sperm were competing for a chance to form a new life—a red-haired little tyrant with serious gray eyes and a penchan
t for mischief.

  He’d never wanted a child. It wasn’t part of his plan. He was too dedicated to his career. Too remote. Too emotionally distant. He might be great at sperm donation, but he wasn’t good dad material. Was he? Could he be?

  His hand flexed in a protective gesture until sleep claimed him.

  KAT ROLLED OVER AND STRETCHED without opening her eyes, her face buried in Andrew’s pillow. The warmth of his body and his scent lingered. Still fuzzy with sleep, she breathed in the increasingly familiar combination of expensive aftershave and Andrew’s own masculinity.

  She turned her head and squinted at the nightstand. Six forty-five loomed at her from the digital readout. Closing her eyes, she snuggled deeper into the pillow, content to drift back to sleep.

  “Wake up,” a voice rang in her ear.

  Good God! The pillow not only smelled of Andrew, now it was sounding like him too! She jackknifed to a sitting position, slamming her head into a solid wall behind her.

  “Ugh.” A groan sounded in her ear.

  She whirled, now on her knees in the bed. The “wall” was Andrew. He stood by the bed, one hand nursing his right eye.

  “Are you okay?” She reached forward to examine his face. Even dim-witted with sleep, she appreciated the still-damp crispness of his hair, the clean line of his freshly shaved jaw, the scent of soap and sandalwood. And the rapidly discoloring flesh around his eye.

  He stepped back and snapped, “You could’ve warned me you were lethal first thing in the morning.”

  “Only when I’m scared out of my wits!”

  He felt beneath his eye and winced. “What scared you about a wake-up call?”

  “I was asleep and the next thing I know the pillow’s talking.”

  A hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You thought the pillow talked?”

  “Go ahead and laugh, you’re the one with a heck of a shiner coming up.” She mustered a grin that turned into a big yawn. “Just the thing for a successful attorney about to make partner.”

  “Thanks, Kat. A new wife and a black eye, all in one weekend.”

  She wasn’t a morning person. Never had been. Never would be. Her brain was mush first thing in the morning—overcooked oatmeal. She flopped back on the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin, prepared to resume sleep. She spoke with her eyes closed. “Did you wake me up just to harangue me?”

  “No, I was hoping for a black eye.”

  She curled into a fetal position. “I’m going back to sleep.”

  “Kat?”

  The laughter in his voice irritated her.

  “What?”

  “Today’s Monday.”

  “Thank you. I’ll sleep better knowing that.”

  Within a matter of seconds, the implication penetrated her brain. She threw off the sheet and leaped from the bed, yanking down the hem of her T-shirt. “Monday. It’s Monday. Mrs. Fitzwillie!” Kat raked her hands through her hair.

  Andrew glanced at the bedside clock. “That’s it. Our first audience arrives in about ten minutes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she accused as she scrambled for the bathroom.

  “That just happened to be the pillow talk you heard.”

  Kat, incapable of a witty rejoinder at 6:50 a.m., contented herself with slamming the door on his smug, albeit swollen-eyed, countenance.

  “YOU SHOULD’VE ICED your eye while I was in the shower. It would have helped the swelling.”

  Andrew had never sported a black eye before. Although it hurt like the devil, he rather liked it. Stuffy guys didn’t walk around with black eyes. Not that he’d confess his surprising pride to his wife.

  He opened the bedroom door and waited for Kat to precede him into the hallway. “And deprive my loving wife the opportunity to tend to my wound? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She snorted as he fell into step beside her. “Keep it up—there’s still that other eye you mentioned.”

  Eight minutes flat. That’s how long she’d taken to pull herself together. Despite the frown tugging between her red brows, he realized his initial assessment of Kat had been wrong. He’d thought her plain. Actually, she enchanted him.

  He laughed. “Has anyone ever mentioned you’re not a morning person?”

  Andrew heard Mrs. Fitzwillie humming in the kitchen.

  “Not and lived to tell about it.” She tilted her head coquettishly. “If you’d really wanted to play the loving husband, you’d have brought me a cup of coffee to wake up to—not sneaked up on me.”

  The humming ceased.

  He slipped his arm around Kat’s waist, pulling her to his side. He’d memorized every curve in the past two nights—intimately and with great satisfaction. Those curves tantalized him now. Soft and full and womanly. What had previously appealed to him in Claudia’s race-horse lines?

  “Ah, honey, I love it when you say those sweet things to me.” His tone deliberately caressed for the benefit of Mrs. Fitzwillie.

  Stopping in the kitchen doorway, he nuzzled the top of her head, his black eye turned away from Mrs. Fitzwillie. Kat smelled like bottled sunshine—clean and fresh.

  Mrs. Fitzwillie beamed at the two of them from across the room.

  Still averting his shiner, Andrew introduced the two women.

  Kat disentangled herself and stepped forward to greet Mrs. Fitzwillie. “I’m delighted to finally meet you. Drew’s spoken so highly of you.”

  Andrew blanched at the nickname, sure she’d used it deliberately. He moved toward the coffeepot. The quicker she got a cup, the better.

  Mrs. Fitzwillie focused on Kat. “Oh, I just couldn’t believe it when the dear boy called me with the news.” Kat speared him a questioning glance over Mrs. Fitzwillie’s shoulder and he shrugged.

  He’d phoned Mrs. Fitzwillie with the news because she deserved to find out from him, not read it in some newspaper.

  “He’s been lonely so long. I’d almost given up hope. But now you’ve captured his heart.” She stared deep into Kat’s eyes and nodded, apparently satisfied. “I can see why.”

  Andrew realized with startling clarity that he had been lonely—until Kat bombarded his well-ordered existence. Damn if he needed Mrs. Fitzwillie letting Kat in on something he was just finding out himself.

  He pressed a steaming mug of coffee into Kat’s hand. “We’re fresh out of IVs today. This’ll have to do.”

  “Thanks, Muffin.”

  Drew, he could stomach. Muffin went too far. She’d pay for that. He sat down at the butcher-block table.

  Mrs. Fitzwillie turned, took one look at him and screamed, clutching her chest. “Dear boy! What in the world happened to you?”

  Andrew juggled his cup at her shriek. Occasionally he forgot Mrs. Fitzwillie’s affinity for melodrama.

  Kat jumped in with a mischievous smile. “I’m afraid it happened this morning in bed.”

  The little vixen, heaping fuel on Mrs. Fitzwillie’s fire.

  Sure enough, Mrs. Fitzwillie’s imagination kicked in. “Goodness. My Burt and I used to have quite the frolicking time but never a black eye. My goodness.”

  Mustering what he hoped was an I’m-so-in-love look, he gazed up at Kat. “You were just about to fetch some ice for it, weren’t you, Bunny?” He all but grinned at the grudging admiration that flickered in her eyes.

  “I’ll hop right to it.” Kat filled a sandwich bag with ice, wrapped it in a dish towel and moved to stand behind his chair. With a gentle touch, she held the makeshift ice pack against his swollen eye. The softness of her breast brushed his shoulder and her hip pressed against his arm, giving rise to an ache an ice pack wouldn’t assuage.

  Abruptly, Mrs. Fitzwillie threw open the kitchen door. “Yoo-hoo. Anton, come meet the new missus,” she bellowed at the top of her lungs.

  Kat nearly jumped out of her skin, jamming the hard ice against his tender eye. Andrew stifled a yelp of pain. He vowed to avoid Kat around kitchen knives and power tools. The woman was dangerous.


  “Sorry,” Mrs. Fitzwillie said. “Anton’s close to deaf.”

  The weathered, slight man ambled across the patio and entered the kitchen. Andrew settled into the background. Mrs. Fitzwillie clearly itched to handle the introductions. She dragged the wizened man across the kitchen.

  “Anton, the dear boy got himself married this weekend, and this is Kat, his wife,” Mrs. Fitzwillie boomed. “Kat, meet Anton Brock, master gardener and grounds-keeper.”

  Age-opaqued eyes studied her. “You are the one in my shed this weekend? You are responsible for this?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the mass of color gracing the patio. Though Andrew had known him for years, Anton’s harsh voice still sounded at odds with his kind face.

  Kat fidgeted with the ice pack on his eye. Andrew winced and stilled her hands. “Yes. I’m sorry if I—” she began.

  A broad grin split the lines of Anton’s face. “Finally! For years, I try to talk him into a little color here, a little color there, and always ‘No, Anton. Color goes away. Always count on the green.’ Now, after all this time, you bring color.”

  Andrew didn’t need his landscaping preference discussed with his wife, especially as if he weren’t present. He tried to quell Anton with a scowl. The man ignored him.

  “You don’t mind if I use the potting shed?” Kat smiled with charm.

  “No, no! Everything you bring in a pot.” He cast her a sly glance. “Maybe we will put some color in the ground, yes?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Kat glanced at Andrew. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  Once again, Andrew felt the odd man out in his own home. He hadn’t planned on Kat turning things upside down this way.

  The old man grinned. “I begin the plans now.” He waved a hand at Andrew’s frown. “Simple. A bed here. A bed there.” He turned and hurried toward the potting shed with a bowlegged gait.

  Andrew grimaced. “Something simple? I doubt it. Anton’s probably off to plan south Florida’s botanical extravaganza.”