“No,” Francesca replied. “You never hurt me.”
He hoped he wouldn’t now, either. He leaned across her. “I’m going to turn the light on.”
She grabbed his arm. “I thought you said we needed to be in the dark.”
“But we’re safe inside now, Francesca.” And he needed to be able to see her face. He needed to gauge her reaction to his next move. To his every move. Because he never wanted to scare her again. He only wanted to bring her pleasure.
The bedside light clicked on to provide a dim glow. Brett rolled back into place and then cast a glance at Francesca.
And nearly fell out of the bed.
“Honey…” It came out of his mouth, unbidden, uncontrolled. Honey. Honey was the color of Francesca’s skin against the white sheets, yards of skin revealed by white, tiny, high-cut panties and a strapless bra.
Honey was the consistency of the thick desire infusing his bloodstream, making his heart beat harder to prevent him from expiring of arousal.
Honey was the sweet, sweet anticipation of having Francesca for himself.
Heart slamming in his chest, he flattened himself against the mattress and stared up at the ceiling.
“Brett?”
“What’s the square root of 167? How about 673?” Maybe using his brain would slow down his body.
She sounded confused. “What? I’m not sure I ever knew.”
Brett wasn’t sure he was going to make it through the night. Not when the woman he was supposed to make a gentle, treasured memory with was turning him on so hard and fast that his hands were shaking and his blood was deserting his brain for his groin.
“Are you…am I…okay?”
He groaned at the tentative note in her voice. “Francesca, you’re so okay that I’m bound to forget how inexperienced you are.”
The old sassy Francesca returned for a moment. She smiled. “So let’s forget that and go back to the ‘I’m so okay’ part.” One of her fingers reached out and touched a button on his tuxedo shirt. “There are parts of you that I think are okay, too.”
Afraid to touch her at the moment, he fisted his hands as she unbuttoned his shirt then spread the edges. Her breath sucked in as she looked at his bare chest, and then she swept her palm over his flesh.
His heart and his arousal leaped toward her.
“Honey.” He rolled to lean over her. His lips found hers, and she immediately opened her lips for him as her arms went around his neck. The heat of her mouth matched the heat of his blood.
The kiss went on, hungry and deep, as one of his hands ran over the silky skin of her arm up to her shoulder. She trembled as he traced the top line of her strapless bra then followed it back again. On his next path he paused at the deep valley between her breasts and then slowly slid two fingers down between them.
She moaned into his mouth.
Her hot, fragrant skin cradled his fingers, and he thrust against the insides of her breasts, echoing the movement of his tongue into her mouth. Francesca moaned again and twisted her hips against him.
The sound of her passion, the sweet taste of her mouth, her soft heat against his knuckles burned all notions of caution from his head. Hooking his fingers into the bra, he tore down the cups to fully reveal her breasts.
He broke the kiss, heaving in air along with her. He looked down at what he’d exposed, her generous breasts peaked by nipples as pink and tight as the rosebuds on the corsage still binding her wrist. The hand with the flowers fluttered up.
“Don’t,” he said quickly, catching that hand. “Let me look. You’re so beautiful, Francesca.” With a reverent touch, he circled one nipple.
“Brett?” His name trembled from her lips.
“Yes,” he answered. And knowing that she was asking for what he needed, he bent to take her into his mouth, licking the warm skin of her breast. Her body bowed, pressing against his mouth, and when he hollowed his cheeks to suck in her nipple, the scent of roses mingled with the scent of Francesca.
He shivered as her hand stroked his hair and cool rose petals brushed against his heated neck.
Desire pooled hotly in his groin and created an insistent ache at the small of his back. He slid one leg over Francesca’s and felt her hands stripping him of his shirt as he moved to her other nipple. He bit it gently—he couldn’t help himself—and he shivered again as she moaned, her voice hoarse and needy.
“Brett.”
She was aroused, too, and hungry, and now her hands moved insistently over his bare back. He lifted his head. “Soon, baby, soon.”
With shaking hands he slid her panties down her legs and then kissed her breasts again as he stroked her belly and thighs, each time lingering longer at the apex. With each kiss, each stroke, he felt the languor overtake her body. Her legs relaxed and inched apart and he didn’t hesitate to introduce his touch there. Light and sure, he pressed into her folds.
Hot.
Hot and ready for him. His head began to throb in time with his pulse. Francesca twisted under his touch, trying to get closer. He backed off for a moment, to make her wait, to make her crazy, to make her want him with the same intensity that was burning him.
“What is this?” she asked, her voice uncertain.
He pressed back into her, deeper this time, his finger encased sweetly and hotly, just like her breasts had held him. “This is passion,” he said. “Are you ready?”
He knew she was. She was wet and swollen and now her legs were fully open for him. Her thumb brushed across one of his nipples and he jerked.
In a quick movement he withdrew from her body then shucked his pants and boxers, tossing aside shoes and socks and diving right back to Francesca. As gently as he could, he took a breast in his mouth and then touched her between her legs again, stretching her body with two fingers.
Her hips tilted up to his hand. “Francesca.” He groaned and reached blindly for a condom from the drawer in the night table. She lifted on her elbows to watch him, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and her cheeks flushed.
Brett burned. His thigh muscles twitched as he kneeled between her legs. He pushed them wide, trying to stay gentle, trying to stay in control, but that darkness in her eyes was heady desire. Passion poured into his body like hot wine, and passion dictated he hold her thighs open with his palms so he could watch as he entered her.
Slowly entered her.
He felt the resistance, heard her quick breath, but then he looked into her eyes and the hot desire he saw there still matched his. “I want you, Francesca,” he said. And he spiraled into the darkness as he pushed into her.
She cried out.
But then her body arched upward and the glitter of tears didn’t cool the burning passion in her eyes.
“Okay?” he asked, gritting his teeth to remain controlled.
“You’re inside me,” she said. And there was wonder in her voice as one tear slid down her cheek.
He bent over to lick it away. “And you’re inside me,” he reassured her gently, not even certain what he meant, but certain it was true. Then he felt her inside muscles squeeze him tentatively, and then he had to move, forcing himself to be controlled and gentle. Over and over he thrust into her, watching closely as she wound tighter and tighter until it took just one quick press of his thumb and one long drive of his body to show them both how to turn Francesca into a woman.
FRANCESCA LAY curled against the cradle of Brett’s body, working to catch her breath and trying to ignore a welling feeling of panic.
This wasn’t going right!
Just minutes ago she’d made love to the man she’d always dreamed of. She was supposed to feel satisfied and satiated, triumphant and womanly, and she had, for several delicious moments. But now overwhelming her was embarrassment and awkwardness, not the least of which was caused by the fact that she was completely naked except for the strangling twist of strapless bra that was still caught about her rib cage.
There was something else going on, too, something deeper inside her
that she didn’t want to think about and that she had to get away from.
“Francesca?” Brett went on one elbow and peered into her face. “Are you okay?”
She’d be a lot better if she could think of a really clever way of dashing back to her apartment without having to look Brett in the eye. Preferably dressed in an enveloping terry cloth robe.
Her belly-flutters quickened. Darn those women’s magazines! They contained plenty of articles on the morning after, but nothing on the moments after. Especially not the moments after with the man whose touch tantalized and terrified you at the same time. How was a woman supposed to survive such heartbreaking intimacy?
“Francesca?” he said again, his voice concerned.
She swallowed. “I’m fine,” she said, hoping she sounded cheerful and casual. “Right as rain. All in one piece.”
One of his big hands stroked her shoulder. “Not quite.”
A wash of heat spread over Francesca’s face and those panic-flutters became out-and-out beating wings of anxiety. Yes. The irrevocable had happened here. And she wanted desperately to hightail it back in her apartment and hide from all the new feelings.
She eyed the distance from bed to the bedroom door. How was she supposed to manage a dignified exit? With her dress in the living room she’d have to skip out of Brett’s room wearing only her bare backside and this devil-possessed bra. Her gaze caught on the bedside lamp. At least turn that off first. Darkness could only help.
She inched away from the warm curve of his body toward the cool expanse of the sheets, her movement rolling the errant bra into a tighter twist.
Brett put his hand on her arm. “Where are you going?”
She froze, his fingers burning her with the kind of heat that sent a field of goose bumps blooming across her body. Someplace where I can think. Somewhere away from your touch.
She swallowed. “Just thought I’d turn the light off.”
“Let me.”
A hope that he’d get out of the bed to accomplish the task, leaving her to remove the bra unnoticed, was born and died in the same instant as he leaned across her. His chest flattened her shoulders against the mattress, then with a click the light in the room changed. Except not to blessed darkness.
No, the golden glow of the lamp was replaced by the silver shine of moonlight spilling through the bedroom’s high window.
Oh, great. Because that silvery light meant that when she ran away from him she’d be flashing one bright moon herself.
Her breath strangled again as she tried to come up with a plan. If she could just get the darn bra off! If worse came to worst she’d look better leaving the room naked than leaving it tied up in a piece of underwear.
Inspiration struck. “Could I—could you get me a drink of water, please?”
“Sure.”
Francesca held her breath. When Brett disappeared into the adjoining bathroom she could race to the living room for her dress.
Instead, he headed in the direction of the living room himself.
“Where are you going?” she asked quickly.
He paused at the foot of the bed, naked and unconcerned. “Water,” he said. “And glasses. They’re in the kitchen. Anything else?”
Francesca shook her head because she couldn’t speak. The moonlight silvered the angles of Brett’s body. Staring at the wide strength of his shoulders and the hard angles of his hip bones caused her mouth to go dry. She kept shaking her head.
After he left the room it took her a couple of seconds to collect herself. Then, with a mental slap to her forehead, she jackknifed into a sitting position and began to attack the bra. At least she could divest herself of that problem.
Fingers fumbling in haste, she tried working the twisted strip of fabric around her body to reach the hooks. The darn bra seemed pasted to her rib cage and she broke into a cold sweat. Which, of course, made the stretchy material stick to her skin even closer.
Just when she was wishing she was limber enough to attack the thing with her teeth, Brett’s voice sounded.
“You need some help?”
Francesca froze again, even though she was horribly aware of how she must look, sheets tumbled about her waist, everything above bare and propped up by a twist of fabric that wouldn’t let go.
It was all too much.
The anticipation of the evening, the sexual tension, the “lesson” Brett had tried to teach her, the experience he had shared with her. All too much. Tears stung Francesca’s eyes and to her everlasting mortification she had to place her hands over her face to staunch the flow.
Brett swore.
And even before one tear could roll to her chin, she found herself in his arms. “Baby,” he said. He was warm and his heartbeat thumped reassuringly strong beneath her cheek. “Don’t cry.”
She hiccuped. “Not crying,” she said, her face buried against him. “It’s just that your shoulder is wet.”
He stroked her hair with his hand. “You’re right. It’s all my fault.”
“Yes.” From within the circle of his arms, nothing seemed quite so terrible. “You should have taken off my bra.”
He didn’t laugh. “You’re right,” he said, and she almost instantly felt relief as he reached down and quickly released the hooks. “Better?” he asked.
She nodded, rubbing her face against his skin to dry the last of her tears.
He continued to stroke her hair and his other palm swept across her back. In a hoarse whisper he spoke soothing words against the top of her head.
Francesca relaxed, melting into the warmth of his body. With the embarrassing bra situation handled, it didn’t seem so imperative she go home right away. Though there was still some nervousness, some knowledge, flopping around deep in her belly, she could ignore it as long as Brett touched her with his sure, tantalizing fingers.
She blew out a deep sigh and Brett tilted up her face with a hand under her chin. He kissed her wet eyelashes and then her nose—sweet kisses of understanding.
Francesca’s stomach went full-blown panicky again.
“Okay?” he asked, smiling down at her.
Déjà vu. She’d been here before. Or probably dreamed this moment. Naked in Brett’s arms, his smile warm and knowing after their night together. But the dream couldn’t hold a candle to the sweet burning fire of reality.
Her stomach roiled again, the walls behind Brett tilted dizzily, she put one hand against the mattress to prevent her whole world from toppling over.
Then the movement stopped—stomach, walls, Brett, world settling into a new order.
“Better?” he asked.
No. She smiled back, though, wide enough to show her molars. Because there couldn’t be any more tears. Nothing even close.
Brett had given her the night together she’d asked for. The one she said would satisfy her. I’m not asking for forever. She’d said those very words.
But here in his arms, warm and comfortable and comforted, she couldn’t ignore the truth that had been rolling around in her stomach all night. The truth that had nothing to do with twisted bras or bare-naked embarrassment.
The bare-naked truth was she loved him. She was in love with him.
That she wanted forever with Brett.
9
BAM! BAM! BAM! The banging on his front door woke Brett.
Blinking, it took him a few moments to orient himself. Weak sunlight washed into his bedroom. Francesca was in his arms, her face pressed into the hollow of his shoulder.
Morning already. The last he remembered, she’d fallen asleep, all damp eyelashes and warm skin. He’d held her, watching her breathe for hours, vigilant against another flurry of uncharacteristic tears.
Bam! Bam! Bam! More banging. Francesca’s eyes fluttered open.
“Yo! Brett!” A deep voice reached all the way to the bedroom.
“Oh, my God.” Francesca immediately sat up, clutching the sheet to her throat. “Oh, my God, it’s Carlo.”
Brett reached out to pu
sh a tendril of hair off her cheek. “Don’t worry. The front door is locked.”
The banging resumed and Francesca pushed on his shoulder. “You’ve got to go answer him.”
“No way.” He and Francesca needed to talk about what had happened between them last night. He wanted to know exactly why she’d cried and what they were going to do now.
The banging started again.
Francesca’s eyes widened. “Brett!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll get rid of him.” He slipped out of bed and slipped into his boxers, then tripped over Francesca’s shoes on his way to the front door.
Leaning against the cool wood he called through it to his friend. “Carlo! What do you want?”
There was a pause, then Carlo’s voice, puzzled. “You’re not going to let me in?”
“Give me a break. I just woke up. You just woke me up.”
More silence. “Fine. Whatever. Want to shoot some hoops? Then we’ll go for a heart-attack-on-a-plate breakfast at Judy’s Diner.”
Brett opened his mouth to refuse. He should take Francesca out for brunch. At a small table in some quiet place where they could talk through what had happened.
From the corner of his eye he saw something move. Francesca, creeping into the living room wearing only her panties and bra. On tiptoe, she dashed over to her dress and snatched it from the floor.
“Brett! What do you say? Hoops and a heart attack?”
He figured he already had the heart attack covered, seeing Francesca in her skimpy underthings again. “N—”
“Say yes!” Francesca hissed. “If you say no he’ll suspect something.”
Brett continued to stare at her, her words failing to register. Not when her hair was mussed and her lips were red from his kisses and he could see the pink scrape of his beard against her neck.
“Say yes,” she whispered.
“Brett!” Carlo again.
He turned his head toward the door. “Give me a second,” he called out. Then he turned back to Francesca. “We need to talk,” he whispered back, his mind made stupid again by everything that had entranced him the night before. Every bit of her.
With a Stetson and a Smile & The Bridesmaid’s Bet Page 27
