Best Man With Benefits

by Samanthe Beck

  His long, capable fingers seemed to burn right through the terry cloth. She inhaled sharply, from mortification, but also the pure, unadulterated thrill of the accidental contact.

  His fingers stilled. “Sorry.” Slowly, he lowered his hands and let her do the honors. He occupied himself smoothing the robe down over her legs. She re-tucked and retied her robe, but couldn’t help noticing that his crouched position did all kinds of interesting things to his robe. The front hung open to show a smooth expanse of bronze skin and a sculpted groove been his pectorals that came from having amazing musculature and a BMI of zero. The bottom of the robe formed a vee between his parted thighs, but left a shadowy question as to whether he wore anything underneath.

  “No, really, it’s my fault. I’m sorry I’m so”…horny…“clumsy.” She pushed her hair back with a shaky hand, and hoped if he noticed he’d assume the fall left her less than steady, and not the feel of his palms running down the fronts of her thighs and over her knees.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, until an exasperated inner voice spoke up. Stop acting like a bobblehead. Use your words. “Yes. Of course. The carpet is surprisingly soft.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Is that what you were aiming to do? Give the carpet a bounce test?”

  She fought back the urge to say, I was aiming to give you a bounce-test. “If you must know, I thought it was bright in here. I was trying to turn off the lamp without getting my lazy butt out of bed.”

  “Ah.” He reached over and turned the light off, and then looked at her. “That better?”

  The “better” sent a puff of breath along the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. She couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth. The shape of his lips, their smoothness juxtaposed against the rough texture of his five o’clock shadow. She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Uh—hic!”

  Good God, the hiccup blasted out of her like a bazooka and reverberated in the otherwise silent room. She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at him in horror.

  The corners of Logan’s eyes crinkled and the groove beside his mouth appeared. “Tell me something, Sophie.”

  “What?” She said the word quickly, to avoid another cataclysmic hiccup.

  “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

  She licked her lips again and rubbed the tip of her nose, which was tingly and numb at the same time. “Not that much.” The hiccup that followed her statement was much more contained. She wasn’t even sure he heard it. “I’d love a little more.”

  He rose with the grace of someone who never found himself on the wrong side of the laws of physics, and crossed to the cabinet where the champagne sat in its Beaver Creek–emblazoned ice bucket. He took the bottle and a plastic bottle of water supplied by the hotel. Then he disappointed her by handing her the water.

  “Hey…hic!”

  He toasted her and then disappointed her even more by settling into the oversize chair nearest the bed and resting his feet on the ottoman. “Give me a chance to catch up.”

  They sat in silence for several moments. Uncomfortable moments where she frantically searched her mind for something…anything…to talk about. She was about to resort to the weather when another massive hiccup exploded from her lungs and practically shook the room.

  “Oh, goodness,” she slapped her hand to her chest. “Excuse me.”

  He pointed to the bottle of water in her hand. “Down that, or I’m going to be forced to scare you.”

  She gulped down half, swallowed, and swiped her fingers over her lips to catch a stray drop. “You might be surprised to learn I don’t scare that easily. Ask Colt…or Reed, or Brock.” She gestured for the champagne bottle and he handed it over. “Which one of us was first to dive into the river from the high branch of the big oak tree that grew along the bank?” She swigged the champagne directly from the bottle, and then pointed the neck at her chest. “Me. Who got the garter snake out of the shed while those big, tough boys screamed and ran like scaredy-cats? Me again.” She punctuated the statement with another drink.

  He held out his hand, and she passed the bottle over. “I had no idea you were such a thrill-seeker.”

  He was teasing her, but not in a mean way, and she sensed a glimmer of admiration in those gray-green eyes of his. Then he tipped his head back to swig the champagne. The movement of his throat as he swallowed captivated her. Would he scream and run if she told him he was the thrill she sought right now? “I have a wild side.”

  “Clearly. So tell me, little Miss Wild Side, why does a woman who stares danger in the face without blinking get the jitters at the prospect of being a bridesmaid?”

  The muscles holding her smile in place gave out. “That’s different.” Feeling unduly exposed, she pulled her legs up, crossed them, and arranged the big robe so not even her toes stuck out.

  Logan dropped his feet to the floor and leaned toward her, forearms resting on his knees, the champagne bottle dangling from his fingers. “Why?”

  She picked at the ragged cuticle on her thumb. “You know why.”

  He touched her leg, pulling her attention back to him—his patient eyes and slightly baffled grin. “No. I don’t. I know you’re shy, and I can extrapolate from that you don’t enjoy the spotlight, but it’s not as if you’ll be at the front of the church all by yourself. Colt and Kady will be there. Tyler, Reed, Brock, me, the bridesmaids—”

  “The other bridesmaids make being up there worse, not better.” As soon as the admission left her lips, she wanted to crawl under the blankets and die.

  Logan blinked and ran his palm over the back of his neck. “Um…you lost me.”

  Of course she had, because she was a freak and he was Mr. Perfect. He’d probably never had an insecure thought in his life—never worried about suffering by comparison. But right now Mr. Perfect’s obtuseness worked her very last nerve. Or maybe the alcohol loosened her tongue.

  She grabbed the bottle from him and took long, defiant drink. “Oh, come on, Logan. Four girls standing in a line, wearing the same blasted dress, while the entire church plays a real-life version of ‘Who Wore It Best?’ How would that possibly make me, the short, chubby, awkward girl, feel less self-conscious?”

  He moved over to the bed and sat beside her. “You’re not chubby.”

  “Thanks.” She pulled her legs up under her and twisted so she could look at him. A giddy part of her brain piped in with, Good lord, Logan McCade is sitting in bed with you. Start the seduction now. Say something hot! “That still leaves short and awkward.” Fail.

  “You are short. I’m not going to lie to you. But the awkward is all in your head. Anyway”—he crossed his long legs and faced her, smiling the sexy smile that put the groove in his cheek—“cut me some slack. My mind is still reeling from what you just told me. I had no idea I signed up for the Pageant of the Groomsmen when I agreed to be Colt’s best man.”

  She leaned closer to try and hit him with a smoldering gaze, and then had to grab the bedspread to keep from toppling over. “It’s not like that for guys, and you know it.”

  He took the bottle back. “I don’t know anything anymore. You’ve upset my entire perception of the world with your insights into the secret thoughts of wedding guests. What if, while I’m standing there trying to be the best man, the guests are thinking Reed’s got better shoulders than me, and Brock’s got better hair, and Tyler’s got a better ass?” He drank deeply, and she suspected he was trying to finish the bottle so she didn’t drink anymore.

  “Nobody’s going to think that.”

  “Have you seen Tyler’s ass?” He buried his head in his hand and sighed dramatically. “I can’t compete with that. Not now that I realize everyone has come to judge us rather than to enjoy a time-honored tradition—not to mention a host bar—and wish the happy couple well.”

  She whacked him on the knee, and he raised his head and grinned at her. The grin looked a little bit off-center and it occurred to her maybe he was feeling the champagne,
too, and the late hour.

  “All right.” An answering smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Point taken.” Was she especially smiley tonight? Maybe, but her facial muscles seemed to have a mind of their own. It took too much effort to control them, or her eyelids, which kept drifting down. “I didn’t say my self-consciousness came from a rational or logical place.” She paused to yawn, and belatedly remembered to cover her mouth, because, after all, she was trying to seduce the man, not bray at him like a donkey. “Deep down I understand the only important thing is Colt and Kady feeling the love from their friends and family on their big day.”

  The lure of the pillows could no longer be ignored. Would he pick up on the invitation if she leaned back and made herself comfortable? Only one way to find out. She settled into the fluffy backstop. Okay, it might have been more of a flop, but being horizontal felt so good she snuggled deeper. Her eyelids drooped again. The rest of the room faded until all she could see was Logan, sitting there, smiling down at her like an unbelievably good dream. “People probably aren’t going to notice me at all. I should get over myself.”

  You should get over him—all over him—right now. This is your chance, don’t blow it. She wouldn’t. She’d make her big move…in a second. Just as soon as she worked up the energy to open her eyes…

  …

  Sophie really wanted to get off the bike, but no matter which way she shifted, the seat seemed to be right there, lodged in an extremely personal place. Weird thing was, she didn’t even own a bicycle.

  She squirmed, and a low, very male, very sleepy groan filled her ear. The noise cleared her dream-fogged mind quicker than the loudest alarm. She forced her eyes open and, for a few disorienting moments, stared at an unfamiliar nightstand, in an unfamiliar room, where an unfamiliar digital clock reflected 10:30 a.m. in rude red digits. Then memory flooded back. Beaver Creek, Colt’s pre-wedding wine-and-dine, too much champagne, and…Logan. A heavy arm flopped over her side and tightened, holding her against a wall of muscle pressed along every inch of her back and something hard and insistent poking her backside.

  Sweet heaven, Logan McCade was asleep behind her—his deep, even breaths assured her he was still asleep—and, by all accounts, having a good dream. He scooted closer. She closed her eyes and bit her lip as the enormity of the situation became even more apparent. A really good dream.

  Bashful or no, she couldn’t shy away from this temptation. She held her breath, and then slowly, carefully, started to turn so she could look at him. He mumbled something and rolled onto his back, freeing her from the weight of his arm. Helpful.

  She completed the turn and took a moment to inhale the morning “man” scent coming off his warm skin. Then she propped her head on her hand and looked down at him. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed. Her fingers itched to trace the outline of his lips, to detour along his raspy jaw, over his chin, and down to the softer, smoother skin of his throat.

  She lowered her eyes to see what came next, and momentarily lost her breath. His robe had come undone, and presented her with an uninterrupted view of every majestic inch of him. All the lines and planes of his chest, the rugged terrain of his abs, and the long, smooth, proudly jutting part of him that had prodded her right out of dreamland. She swallowed to try to ease the dryness in her throat. He was just so…perfect.

  A wild, reckless voice in her head said, Go for it, and the next thing she knew, she was licking the shallow gully bisecting his chest. It led to the first horizontal cut of his abdomen, and then the next, and the next, like a thrilling little roller coaster. She knew she should stop, but her tongue had other ideas, and kept dragging her down, down, down his body.

  Chapter Five

  Logan smiled to himself and complimented the limbic system of his brain for treating him to best dream he’d had in ages. First Sophie had been rubbing her lusciously round backside over his lap, teasing his cock to attention. Now she was kissing and licking her way down his body, taking a quick detour around his navel, and then continuing on an unswerving mission to her final destination.

  Sick and wrong of him to cast his best friend’s shy, adorable, strictly off-limits little sister in his X-rated dream, but hell, it was just a dream—a rules-free zone where there was no point denying the attraction that had lassoed him by the dick the second he’d seen her in those ass-hugging pants. Besides, dream Sophie wasn’t shy at all. At all, his dazed mind reiterated when she boldly went after the bull’s-eye.

  He slid his fingers into her silky hair and sank deeper into the dream. Those soft, plush lips closed over him, and slowly descended his shaft, sucking him into the hot haven of her mouth. No point minding his manners in a dream. He fisted his hand in her hair and lifted his hips, thrusting deeper. And because it was a dream, she rewarded the ungentlemanly behavior by grabbing his ass with both hands and taking him deeper. Her little moan of pleasure vibrated along his throbbing cock, and he couldn’t resist groaning, “That’s so fucking good.”

  Oddly, what he heard sounded more like, “…sofuckingood.” Huh?

  But he didn’t have time to think about the disconnect between what he’d said in his dream and what he’d heard with his ears because now she was getting down to it and all he could concentrate on were those incredible lips sealed tight around him, and the suction of her mouth pulling at every nerve in his body. Her fingernails dug into his ass, and those little points of pain only added another dimension to the mind-numbing pleasure. Then her tongue joined the fray, and, Jesus, her teeth.

  His heart pounded like a fist against his ribs. His lungs worked like bellows, and a jolt of white-hot energy shot up his thighs, into his balls…

  He clamped his hand along the back of her head and rocked his hips, helpless to do anything but obey his body’s imperative to thrust for all he was worth. She moaned. Her lips loosened, and even though it was his dream, he wondered if her moan was one of protest or surrender.

  “Harder,” he whispered, or maybe he just thought it. But she sealed her lips around him again, and ran the tip of her tongue down the back of his shaft while he bucked and strained like a bull rider determined to go the full eight seconds. She kept her hands as busy as her mouth, trailing down between his legs to cup and squeeze his balls. The energy gathered there surged straight into his cock. “Jesus. Fuck me, I’m going to—”

  The flat, slurred sound of his own voice hurtled him into full consciousness at the same moment the orgasm tore through him. He had enough time to open his eyes, jerk his head up, and watch his best friend’s shy, adorable, strictly off-limits little sister annihilate him with the most incredible blow job of his entire life.

  Guilt should have been his immediate reaction—a flood of it—but the only thought filling his mind as he watched her gently release his extremely satisfied cock from her deceptively innocent mouth, was My turn. Fair enough, he decided. Guilt would have been misplaced, and belittling to Sophie. She was an adult, and what went down—so to speak—between two consenting adults was nobody else’s damn business.

  She knelt between his spread legs, slid her hands off his thighs, and finally looked up. Swollen lips and flushed cheeks greeted him, as well as a stirring mix of defiance and contriteness in her huge brown eyes. She swept the hair back from her face, and said, “Good morning.”

  There he lay, sprawled out naked on the bed, with her saliva drying on his dick, and she greeted him with a polite, civilized good morning? He laughed and resisted the urge to bundle her into his arms, hug her just for being her…and then toss her on the mattress, throw her legs over his shoulders and show her a good morning.

  “Shit, Sophie. Good morning doesn’t begin to cover it.” He sat up, enjoying the way her eyes widened as he closed in on her. “And we’re just getting started.”

  A knock at the door froze them both.

  “Who—who is it?” Sophie called as she scrambled off the bed.

  “Guest Services, Miss Brooks,” came a feminine voice in reply. “I have y
our dresses.”

  Logan tied his robe while Sophie dashed to answer the door. A short murmur of conversation later, the door closed. He walked to the entryway and lifted the Beaver Creek garment bag from her fingers.

  “All present and accounted for?” He hung the bag in the closet.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  But she didn’t look relieved. She looked nervous. He had just the cure. Hooking two fingers into the belt of her robe, he tugged her closer. When they stood toe-to-toe, he flattened his palm at the small of her back, bringing her even nearer. Her fingers latched onto the front of his robe. Her terry-covered breasts settled against his chest like they’d been made to rest there.

  Pupils as wide and dark as eternity locked on him, and then dropped to his mouth.

  Her lips parted. “I have to—”

  “Yes?” He squeezed her ass—the one he’d been dreaming about.

  She blinked up at him, like a woman coming out of a trance. “I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back.”

  Next thing he knew she’d wriggled out of his arms like a double-jointed escape artist and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

  Well, hell. That wasn’t exactly what he’d expected her to say. He sat down on the bed and waited.

  She emerged a couple minutes later with her hair neatly brushed, cheeks glowing from a quick scrub, smelling like mint toothpaste and a light, sweet fragrance he recognized as her perfume, and he realized she’d primped for him. The self-conscious thoughtfulness of the effort melted his heart at the same time it tightened his groin. He reached out and pulled her to him, positioning her until she stood between his knees.

  Leaning in, he rested his forehead between her breasts and inhaled. “You smell good enough to eat.”

  Her fingers tunneled into his hair. “Thanks, but that’s not really me.”

  He smiled but didn’t raise his head. Instead he tried to nose his way into her robe, where the scent promised to be stronger. “Well, it’s not me.”