by Ash Harlow
That’s not going to happen because what’s even more remarkable is that it feels as if we’re moving as one. Luther dances well, and the way he guides me, it’s impossible to take a wrong step. My hand rests on the bulge of his bicep that I know is covered in tattoos. They’re hidden by his dinner suit, but I’ve spent a lot of time memorizing the designs inked on much of his body whenever I’ve seen it exposed.
I finally manage to tune out of my thoughts and into the music to discover the song is coming to an end. I take a short step back which makes Luther press more firmly against me before he has a chance to adjust his stride. The heat of him burns me and as we continue around the floor I’m sure he’s now maintaining the increased pressure I created. I notice how much my hand aches from gripping his arm, right when Luther speaks.
“You can relax that death grip, Ginger. I’m not going to let you fall.”
“Sorry, it’s just so hard, I like the feel of it...your bicep, arm muscle, thing.” Oh, god, kill me now.
Our eyes meet, and his mouth parts with the hint of a smile. I can read into it whatever I want.
“You look quite magnificent tonight,” he says.
A compliment. This is progress. The music changes to something more upbeat and Luther spins me away from him, then back again. This time, he captures me firmly around my waist. My smile is wide. He spins me again, lets go of my hand for just one moment, then I’m quickly coiled back into his hard body.
“I preferred the slower music,” he says.
My breasts are pressed against his chest, and if the cloth of his jacket wasn’t so thick, he’d feel the hard points of my nipples. We dance through another fast song and by now I don’t think my feet are even touching the floor. All the guests are dancing around us, but I’m oblivious to them.
When the song finishes he leads me to the edge of the floor. “I have to dance with the bride. Don’t go anywhere, and don’t let any of those randy, drunk men get their hands on you.”
I’m giddy, and thirsty as I take my seat.
Maraea, my friend and fellow bridesmaid, flops down beside me. “Cole should have gone to dance lessons with you and Darcy. My feet have been brutalized.” She nudges me. “You and Luther look to be getting along well.”
I try to give her a nonchalant shrug, even though I can’t keep the grin off my face. “He’s just doing his best man duties.”
Maraea holds up a finger. “One dance was his duty, the rest were his pleasure.”
I put my hand to my chest because my heart will not slow down. “My pleasure, too. He’s being utterly charming tonight.”
Cole appears at my shoulder. “Hot Spice, come and dance with me. Maraea can’t keep up.”
His American accent with a hint of southern drawl doesn’t have its usual effect on me.
“I’ve heard rumors about your lack of dance skills. Maybe I can sit this one out.”
“Nothing wrong with my skills, sweetheart. Maraea’s the problem, she kept trying to lead.”
Maraea shrugs. “Might have tried a couple of times.” She leans forward and says in a loud whisper. “Cole’s beat deaf which is really troublesome for someone like me.”
Maraea dances a lot. She teaches hip hop at the local school, and is in the regional kapa haka group.
Oliver appears. “Luther’s stolen my wife already. Come and dance with me, Maraea.”
Cole and I follow them to the dance floor. The band has just begun a slow song and Cole takes me in his arms, treads on my foot, and we both start laughing. “Mama paid for extra dance tuition,” he said, “but I spent every lesson sitting on the fire escape with Mary-Beth Henderson, trying to talk her out of her clothes.”
“Any success?”
“Finally, after I’d stomped all over her feet at the senior prom, she agreed to sneak outside with me when I promised her a foot massage. I lost my virginity that night. Happy memories.”
“Such a gentleman, Cole.” He treads on my foot again and I pray the song will be short.
Luther appears beside us. “Bumblefoot, give me back my bridesmaid.”
“Piss off, Luther, we’ve only just started dancing.”
“That’s not dancing, it’s assault.”
Cole tips a finger under my chin and tilts my face so that I’m looking at him. “Sorry, Ginger, are your feet okay?”
“Almost. If we stop now, I don’t think I’ll be needing one of your special massages.”
“Shame. Perhaps we should keep dancing.”
Is Cole flirting with me? He often calls me Hot Spice, teasing the words out in a sexy drawl, but that’s all it’s been. Teasing.
“Enough,” Luther growls. “As best man it’s my job to look after the bridesmaids, and you’re damaging this one, Cole. Step aside, or I’ll challenge you to a duel.”
I snort.
Cole releases me. “Save another dance for me, Hot Spice.”
“I don’t think so,” Luther says. He wraps me in his arms as Cole walks away. “Watch him, he’s a total whore.”
“Cole?”
“That’s right. He’s just trying to get into your pants.”
“And you?”
“I’m protecting you.”
A happy shiver runs through me.
3 ~ LUTHER
Darcy has a lot to answer for. This fucking dress Ginger is wearing, for a start. She looks as though she’s been dipped in rose gold. She might as well be naked. The back opens to her waist, and the entire thing clings like shrinkwrap. All the men are ogling her. Cole had his hands on her. Cole! He isn’t a manwhore at all. He’s a thoroughly decent person, but he is also too good looking, and has too much of that southern American charm that makes women stupid.
Not that Ginger is stupid. But she does seem to enjoy molding her body into her dance partner and I don’t want Cole having any of what I had when I danced with her. A fucking hard dick, for a start.
I managed to get rid of that by dancing with Darcy, then with Darcy’s mother who appeared pleasantly uptight. I’m not good with mothers. Particularly Ginger’s mother who is one helluva piece of work.
The band stops for a break.
“Let’s have a drink,” I say, tugging Ginger away from the dance floor. I need a bottle of scotch to drown my cock into submission. Signaling a waiter, I ask for champagne and a large scotch, pointing to the private patio. “We’ll be out there.”
The guy’s back in seconds. Waitapu might be a small town but the Lodge where we’re having the wedding trains its staff well and pays them top rate. I should know. I’m one of the owners. Right now, though, I’m impatient so I take the champagne bottle off the waiter and send him away. Pouring a glass for Ginger will give me a moment to gather myself. For some insane reason I’ve deliberately placed myself in a position I promised I would never be. Alone, with Virginia Hough.
I pass Ginger her champagne, and down my scotch in a single gulp. It neither burns nor has any effect on my cock which jumped to attention when Ginger leaned forward to take her drink and gave me a view of her stunning breasts.
How can I explain Ginger to you? She’s one of those women who’s both tall and curvy, and I mean starlet curves. She’s impossible to keep your eyes off. Her hair is blonde, tinged with rust red. It goes more blonde in summer, darkens up a little in winter. Yeah, I’ve watched her through all the seasons.
Our attraction to one another is off the charts. Fucking electric. We could light up the grid we generate that much energy. If she was anyone else but Virginia Hough, I’d have fucked her the moment it was legal. Now I’m stuck with only being able to look at her because of a promise I made.
Not a stupid promise. It was a good, honest, decent promise to protect Rachel, and Rachel deserves the best in a life that’s dealt her a rough hand. I’m making that life as good as I can, and in doing that, I have to keep my hands off Ginger.
She’s staring at my empty glass. “Do you drink scotch?” I ask her. Maybe she wanted one, too.
Her
laugh is even prettier than usual. “No, champagne is good. I’ve probably had too much already anyway. It’s just the way you tackled your drink makes me wonder if you have to be drunk to tolerate being around me.”
That’s how good my act around Ginger has been for the past five years. She thinks I can barely tolerate her company. I’ve schooled myself to think of shit that makes me angry whenever I’m near her, but I can’t pull it off right now. Oliver isn’t around to give me his usual warning looks, and I’m losing the will to be an asshole.
The waiter—I remember his name now—has filled my empty glass with another scotch. “Thank you, Glenn,” I say. He adds an inch of champagne to Ginger’s flute and leaves, or vaporizes, or something because, honestly, the guy has this ability to physically disappear.
Oliver’s probably slipped him a fifty to make sure I’m not alone with Ginger for too long. Knowing he’s keeping an eye on us should help me keep my lust in check. Ginger gives a little shiver and I take one of the throws from the back of a chair and reluctantly cover her bare shoulders.
“You dance well,” she says, then takes a nervous sip of her drink. Her smile is coy when she looks back at me.
“So do you. Mrs. Sneddon earned her fee.”
She nods, looks around then back to me. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go.”
“Why are we out here?” Her hand flutters above the table between us.
“We might be alone, but it’s safer for you, here, on opposite sides of the table than when we’re dancing.”
“You’re safer to dance with than Cole.”
She raises her foot as if checking for damage, and the dress slides above her knee. That glimpse of leg shouldn’t have given me the jolt of desire it did. I’ve seen Ginger in a bikini often enough, but that reveal was excruciatingly sexy.
I have this urge to confess. I’ve watched it with other people. Clients. They come to you when they’re in trouble, professing all kinds of innocence when you know they’re hiding something. You only have to wait, pretend you’re not that interested, all the while, watching their discomfort. You can see the moment they’re going to offer it all up. If Ginger knew what to look for, she’d see that urge in me right now.
I have the urge to confess. That doesn’t mean I’m going to. Instead, I lean towards her, resting my forearms on the table. She angles towards me, and there again, those luscious breasts taunt me. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, Virginia?” Her cheeks color when I use her proper name.
“No,” she says quietly, glancing away then back at me.
“How remiss of me. I should have told you that immediately, because that’s what I thought when I saw you coming down the aisle.”
She cocks her head. “You made me think the opposite. I’d swear I lip-read you saying ‘fuck’. I thought, as usual, you didn’t approve of what I was wearing, or I’m an irritant in your space, or whatever else it is I do that annoys you. That seems to be a perpetual state. I enter a room, you scowl.”
“I’m an asshole. I was born that way.”
She straightens. “I don’t believe you. Oliver wouldn’t give you the time of day if you were an asshole.”
With a few words I could change her opinion of me, but I don’t. “Let me tell you something. I like you a lot.” I’ll blame the drink for letting that secret out. “But, I’m not the person for you—”
Her chin lifts. “Oh, so that’s the reason you brought me out here. You want to warn me off. Sorry, Ginger, I’m being nice to you because we’re at Oliver and Darcy’s wedding. Tomorrow, it’s back to normal.” She stands quickly, bumping the table and spilling her drink. The wrap slides to the floor and her gorgeous shoulders are on display again. “Well, here’s the thing. I think I liked you better when you were being Asshole Luther. At least it was genuine.”
That’s where she’s wrong. I stood when she stood, and now I’m blocking her exit. She goes to step past me, and I step with her. She stops, about a foot from me, and glares.
“Excuse me, this isn’t the dance I wanted,” she says, and tries to skirt around me.
I block her and shake my head. My civilized voice tells me to stop being a dick and let her pass, but my feral side makes me stand my ground. “Asshole Luther…that’s the guy you think is genuine?” If I’m honest, right now, he is.
Ginger takes a step backwards and I keep following. Two more steps and she’ll be against the wall.
“Well, that’s all you’ve ever been to me. And do you know what? I don’t deserve to be treated like that. What have I ever done to you?”
She’s reached the wall and I’m standing so close we’re burning each other with body heat. “Let’s see. Tonight, you’ve done nothing to me but turn me on.” I stroke her cheek and she leans slightly into my touch. Her hair’s pinned up, elegant, sophisticated, and I want to pull it all down so I can grab a handful. She swallows, and I trace the line of her throat as it contracts. Her eyes are that rare green, flecked with grey, like a favorite marble I had as a kid. Our thighs touch the way they did when we danced. She tilts her hips and my hard cock brushes her.
The fucking scotch has made me stupid, I think as I cover her mouth with mine. I’m cautious but I want to kiss her hard. Her mouth stays closed and I stroke the seam of her lips with my tongue. Ah, there, that got her. She opens, tentative, and I feel her breath and the softest lips. Her hand slips up to my shoulder and I take it back to her side, giving her wrist a squeeze. Ginger responds with a sound of pleasure. One more moan like that and I’ll hitch up her dress and fuck her against the wall.
The wedding party fades. It’s just Ginger and me, the heat of our mouths, and a battle for restraint that I’m about to lose. But, fuck, the way she tastes, the way we breathe into each other, as if we’re giving life to something new, astounds me. I’m kissing Virginia Hough, and I have to stop.
I break the sweetest kiss I’ve ever experienced and cannot keep from smiling even though it was a fucking careless move.
“I forgot. You’re not just an asshole, you’re arrogant, too.” Ginger shoves my shoulder and ducks away from me.
“That’s the spirit,” I mutter, watching her stunning ass disappear through the narrow gate of the private courtyard.
4 ~ GINGER
What the hell?
Luther kissed me.
I’ve got this ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod mantra pounding in my head. The band’s switched to rock covers and the dance floor is packed. I’m jostled as I skirt the edge and hurry towards the restroom. Behind me, the door slips closed and the sounds of wedding celebrations are muffled.
I lean against the vanity and peer into the mirror. I don’t know these new lips I have, even though they look the same as my old ones. They feel so different. So kissed. I’ve fantasized about the kiss for five years, but never had I imagined it accurately. Yes, I’ve kissed other men in that time. I’ve had a boyfriend. I’ve tried things. But, everything was in preparation for the kiss.
I don’t think I was that great. I was so shocked I pretty much froze. Luther probably isn’t struggling with the same cacophony of overwhelm and feels that I am right now.
I need to get my act together. I expect Luther must be terribly drunk to have kissed me. It was gentle, almost cautious, but so filled with lust. Oh, hell. My one chance with Luther and I blow it by running away. Freeze and flight just because our lips touched. I’ve confirmed I’m as silly as he thinks I am. The one opportunity I have to make him change his opinion of me, to show him how sophisticated and mature I can be, and I blow it by running away.
That is not the way cool, classy women behave.
I need to fix my lipstick but I can still feel Luther’s mouth, and I don’t want to change that with a fresh application of Lady Danger. Darcy and I had laughed so hard at the name of my lipstick color earlier today. Lipstick names have always been a thing with me. Other people quote poetry, I quote lipstick brands. Once, at high school, I actually wrote a poem us
ing only the names of lipstick colors. I thought it was highly creative but Miss Cresswell told me it was a form of plagiarism and lacked originality.
I want to plagiarize the latest romance novel I read and quote the love scene to Luther. I’m thinking about the part where the female character, Tiffany, describes Troy’s cock to her best friend, when the restroom door flies open.
It’s Darcy, looking flushed. She snips the lock behind her and joins me at the vanity. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Her face is pink, and she needs a fresh application of Ruby Woo.
“Everyone wants to dance with the bride,” she says. “I think I’ve lost five pounds tonight from so much booty shaking.”
“You still look amazing. Are you happy?” It’s a silly question. Happiness is pouring off her.
“Couldn’t be happier. Except, I still don’t know where we’re going for our honeymoon. I told Oliver he had to keep it a secret in case Luther thought it might be fun to drop by. You know what he’s like.”
My face turns the same color as Darcy’s.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“Nothing, why?”
“Your face just went all weird. Sort of guilty-looking when I mentioned Luther’s name. You two were noticed disappearing through to the private courtyard, you know?” she teases.
“He kissed me.” I blurt it out because saying it out loud makes it real, and saying it fast makes it sound less embarrassing.
Darcy beams at me. “And? Good? Bad?”
“It was heavenly.”
“I don’t think ‘Luther’ and ‘heavenly’ have ever been used in the same breath. So, he kissed you, and then what?”
“I ran off. I lost my nerve and sort of shoved him away and left him in the courtyard. Now, I’m confused.”
Darcy slings her arm over my shoulder and pulls me close so that we’re cheek to cheek. “Look at us. Two of the most beautiful women here tonight. One with the best husband in the world, the other lusting after the best man. I know Luther’s difficult, and he’s particularly scowly around you, but I reckon that’s because he actually fancies the hell out of you.”
