by Lori Wilde
Nothing would ever be as much fun as making love with Tom.
“Mrs. Brunswick.” He murmured her name with awe as if it were a mystical incantation. “My wife, my love, my heart.”
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” She reached out and parted his shirt, opening buttons with fingers made deft by desire.
“On it, babe. I’ll never let you down.”
He undressed quickly, his body still a wonder to her—firm and strong with beguiling soft spots and places she could touch to reduce him to frantic eagerness. She’d lost track of how many times he’d melded his body with hers, each time deepening her pleasure and stoking fires she never expected to be extinguished.
Tom pulled her onto the bed and kissed her until her lips were ringed with the pinkness of passion and her wonderful pinkish-brown nipples were hard. He never knew what to expect; one minute she had to be coaxed, pulling a sheet to her chin and making a game of his urgency; the next she reached out to him, more exciting and erotic than he’d ever dreamed possible. He regretted every single night of his life not spent making love to her.
He couldn’t imagine life without her. She was gorgeous, sexy, alluring—and the nicest woman he’d ever met. He still got cold sweats when he realized how close he’d come to losing her. Knowing she was really his was like looking at the world with new eyes. Maybe his euphoria wouldn’t last, but his love would. There was nothing he wanted more than to make her happy.
Naked on the bed together, he moved over her, satisfied for the moment to admire her exquisite beauty—the smoothness of her skin, the lushness of her breasts, her graceful limbs and sleek little belly. When he parted her legs, he wanted to howl with happiness at her response.
Being inside her was like nothing he’d ever experienced. One moment she seemed lost in sensations, the next she caressed his shaft or ran her nails lightly over his buttocks. With any other woman, these were only erotic tricks, but there was so much love in Jude’s touch that he was humbled, grateful, and aroused more deeply than he’d ever dreamed possible.
“I love you.” He couldn’t say it enough, but when, sooner than he’d expected, her stunning climax triggered his own, he couldn’t stop saying it.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He cradled her against his chest, drowsy but not wanting to sleep, knowing how little rest he needed to be ready to make love to her again.
The wonder of it was, what happened between them wasn’t just sex or any of the other terms he’d been using most of his life. He could only call it making love because that was what it was.
Later, much later, they lay with their legs entwined, her hair dark and glossy on his chest and her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
He lifted her hand and looked at the sparkling solitaire—one diamond to represent one lifelong marriage, she called it—and the simple gold band she’d chosen, both more modest than he’d been willing to give her but more beautiful on her small hand than he could have imagined.
She admired it for a moment, then raised her head and smiled at him with heartwarming joy on her face and murmured, Mrs. Tom Brunswick.
“To think,” she said. “This all started with a bet.”
“Speaking of bets,” he said. “If you aim on winning, maybe you should change into that sexy lingerie while I call for room service. Sustenance is in order.”
As he watched his wife walk bare naked into the bathroom, Tom knew that while this was the absolutely best day of his life, there was so much more ahead of them.
Laughter, competition, boldness, learning. The possibilities were endless because of the love they shared.
Because at the heart of it all, their compatibility, their respect and admiration for each other, and their fun and playful spirits were what truly mattered most of all.
Love.
Pure and simple.
The answer was always love.
Dear Reader,
Readers are an author’s life blood and the stories couldn’t happen without you. Thank you so much for reading!
If you enjoyed The Makeshift Groom, Pam and I would so appreciate a review. You have no idea how much it means to us. You are the best! Keep reading and being your awesome, unique self.
If you’d like to keep up with our latest releases, you can sign up for Lori’s newsletter @ https://loriwilde.com/sign-up/.
To check out our other books, you can visit us on the web @ www.loriwilde.com.
Love and light,
Lori and Pam
About the Authors
Pam Andrews Hanson
Before teaming up with Lori Wilde, Pam Andrews Hanson co-wrote more than fifty novels with her mom, including romance and cozy mysteries. She is a former journalist and currently teaches freshmen composition in a university English department.
Lori Wilde
Lori Wilde is the New York Times, USA Today and Publishers’ Weekly bestselling author of 90 works of romantic fiction.
Her books have been translated into 26 languages, with more than four million copies of her books sold worldwide.
Her breakout novel, The First Love Cookie Club, has been optioned for a TV movie as has her series, Wedding Veil Wishes.
Lori is a registered nurse with a BSN from Texas Christian University. She holds a certificate in forensics, and is also a certified yoga instructor.
A fifth generation Texan, Lori lives with her husband, Bill, in the Cutting Horse Capital of the World; where they run Epiphany Orchards, a writing/creativity retreat for the care and enrichment of the artistic soul.
Also by Lori Wilde & Pam Andrews Hanson
WRONG WAY WEDDING SERIES
The Groom Wager
The DIY Groom
The Stand-In Groom
The Royal Groom
The Makeshift Groom
Excerpt from The Royal Groom—Leigh’s Story
My other car is a limo.
Leigh Bailey returned the heavy gas pump hose and glimpsed the bumper sticker on her shabby little convertible. Rain blew in her face, obscuring her vision for a moment and taking away her breath.
Her chances of ever owning a limo on her salary were nil, but wouldn’t it be nice to sit in a spacious back seat while a chauffeur braved the Florida storm to tank up for her?
Never mind that she shared the same last name as her wealthy cousins, the billionaire Baileys from Detroit. Her branch of the family was church mouse poor.
Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she? Meanwhile, she had a long trip ahead of her. She sprinted toward the convenience store, unsuccessfully dodging puddles.
The rain tried to follow her into the small building, adding to the water on the floor before she could shut the door. For a storm that was supposed to bypass Florida, Hurricane Jeff was delivering a deluge.
She stood for a moment, letting water run off her red nylon rain poncho, and brushed away the drops streaming down her forehead. Her car was less than twenty feet away at the pump, but she’d still gotten soaked.
In a hurry to be on her way before the storm worsened, she got in line behind a tall dark-haired man in a green jacket. By the time she located the right credit card in her oversized canvas shoulder bag, she realized he was reading, not paying for gas.
In fact, he was literally studying the front page of the Insider, one of the country’s sleaziest tabloids.
“Excuse me,” she said, stepping around him and catching a glimpse of his long, lean jaw and strong features— hardly the kind of profile she’d expect to see buried in a gossip rag.
He gave a small start and hastily shoved the copy of the Insider back on the rack, as though she’d caught him doing something dirty. Without meeting her gaze, he hurried over to the beverage case.
There was something unusual about the way he moved—a grace that was hard to define. She’d never seen anyone who looked less like a tabloid junkie, even though she hadn’t had a good look at his face.
“The power of the fake news,” she mu
ttered under her breath, annoyed by her own curiosity. What was so interesting in the Insider?
She ignored the bored-looking boy waiting to take her card and quickly scanned the tabloid headlines. She didn’t think it was the story on aliens landing in Ohio that had him so intrigued. It had to be the other page-one story: Soap Heiress Dumps Prince Max for Bullfighter.
Darcy Wolridge shocked friends and family by eloping with the idol of the Spanish bullring, Jose Perez, amidst rumors she was number one on Prince Max’s list of prospective brides.
The brokenhearted Maximilian of Schwanstein is believed to be in the U.S. shopping for a bride. Who will be the lucky lady now that lovely Darcy has shattered his hopes?
A huge grainy picture showed the heiress draped on the shoulder of a macho-looking guy in a snakeskin jacket. The article continued on page eleven, but Leigh had seen enough. Darcy and the prince had been an item for weeks in the fairy-tale world of the tabloids. Leigh didn’t want to read some sappy fiction about Maximilian’s broken heart.
Her article about the prince would be classy—if she could find him. And if he’d talk to her.
Her credentials from Celebrity magazine carried more weight than an Insider reporter’s, but only because she worked for the hippest gossip magazine around. A magazine that served up content in print, online, and TV. Both magazines chased the rich, the famous, and the ridiculous, but Prince Max could change all that for her.
If she could convince him to give her a serious, insightful interview, it might be her ticket to a better job. She’d have a good chance at moving to Issues, owned by the same media conglomerate as Celebrity, but a world away in content. Their writers didn’t ride in limos, either, but neither did they have to write about rock stars in rehab and supermodels’ skin secrets.
First, she had to find the prince. All she had to go on was a tip from her uncle Paul Donovan in West Palm Beach. An avid stamp collector, he’d picked up a rumor on the internet that the prince might pay a visit to the president of the Schwanstein Stamp Collectors Society. Max would supposedly stay at a plush Paradise Beach hotel, and that was Leigh’s destination. Her editor thought the lead was solid enough to authorize travel expenses.
Leigh hurried back to her car, trying to believe the weather report she’d heard just before leaving Miami, where she worked out of Celebrity's East Coast office. But if this was only a rain squall, she was Lady Gaga.
Torrential rain, driven by the wind, blanketed the windshield and swept across the on-ramp with the force of a giant fire hose as she crept back onto the highway. She wanted to wait out the storm in some nice dry place, but the prince was notorious for keeping on the move.
“If you’ll tell your real story to a sympathetic reporter,” she said, rehearsing her appeal, “it might stifle some of the silly rumors.”
She had a more immediate problem: the taillights ahead of her had vanished in a wall of water. She dropped her speed to a crawl, wondering whether it was worse to hit the car ahead or be rear-ended because she was going too slow.
Traffic was coming to a stop. Flashing red lights were visible through the downpour, and she realized cars were leaving the highway. A policeman in a tent-like slicker was waving everyone off to the right.
Never one to docilely obey, she rolled down her window far enough to shout at the cop.
“What’s wrong, Officer?”
“Highway’s flooded. Keep moving, please.” He made an impatient gesture and looked as if he wanted to give her car a kick to get it going.
She complied. She was an intrepid reporter, not a fool.
Her sense of direction was about as reliable as the weather, so she followed the taillights ahead of her, hoping the driver knew an alternate route north. She certainly didn’t, and she had no cell service for her GPS.
The cars gradually thinned out, making her wonder where all the highway traffic had gone. Apparently, this was an old state highway, neglected after the interstate was built. No traffic was visible in the oncoming lane, but she felt safer moving slowly through the downpour, not having to worry about passing.
Suddenly a great black shape streaked past her on the left, throwing up a ton of water. Her small car rocked sideways, and Leigh’s heart did crazy flip-flops. She saw the aggressively bright taillights of the dark sedan as it cut in front of her, then her right front wheel skidded off the pavement onto the rain-softened dirt shoulder.
Copyright © 2020 by Lori Wilde & Pam Andrews Hanson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
