The Wedding Band (8 page)

His jeans were lead weight. He dropped them on the sand.

His sweaty underwear strangled his nuts. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband . . . and paused.

God
damn
it. The island was for skinny-­dipping, free of long-­range lenses angling for a shot of his junk. His usual companions were good with that, and just as happy to get naked themselves.

But Christy would freak.

The devil on his shoulder hissed,
So what? She doesn't like you anyway.

But Ma's son had promised Christy she had nothing to fear. And a naked man, especially a naked man who outweighed her two to one, was bound to make her nervous.

So he waded into the waves in his boxer briefs, warm saltwater lapping his thighs. When it tickled his balls, he dove under, surfacing in a crawl.

Paralleling the shoreline, he stroked until his shoulders begged for mercy, then rolled onto his back and floated, bobbing on the swells, his gaze following a lone fair-­weather cloud drifting lazily above him.

And he wondered what Tana was doing. Well, not
exactly
what he was doing. He had a pretty good idea about that. But what he was doing in general, with his new, married life.

Making plans with his wife, most likely. Plans to build a new house, probably outside of L.A. Plans to get pregnant and start a family.

He should be happy for Tana. And he was. He really was.

So why did he feel so sad?

Damn it, this was why he'd begged Em to come with him. She'd have teased him out of his melancholy by now.

Instead he had Christy, who thought he was boring.

Well, he wasn't boring in bed, and he had the testimonials to prove it. If he got her in the sack, she wouldn't be thinking about conversation, that's for damn sure. What she'd be thinking about was his body, and all the things he could do to her with it.

Hell, she was already thinking about that, and she hadn't even seen the good stuff yet. She'd melted down over his arms. Wait'll she got a load of his chest, not to mention the rest of the goods.

A gull circled overhead, checking him out. He waved at it to prove he wasn't carrion, and it lost interest and flew off.

Yep, he was just a meat suit to birds and humans alike.

Well, if his body was Christy's weakness, it was his strength. He'd been working it for years, on screen and off. It was his ticket to stardom, and into any bed he wanted.

Right now, that was Christy's bed.

Striking out for shore, he spotted her sitting on the porch swing in a bright fuchsia dress. Bare arms and bare feet, hair piled in a loose knot.

She pretended to look out to sea, but he felt her gaze on his skin.

Oh yeah, he knew just how to play this scene.

Hang onto your panties, baby. It's showtime.

 

Chapter Eight

K
OTA WALKED OUT
of the waves like Poseidon surfacing from the sea; bronzed, built, and seriously godlike.

Chris tried not to look.

Yeah, right.

Pausing on the beach, he slicked back his hair with both hands. The move spread his elbows into a perfect V that tapered down to his granite chest, past his ripped abs and narrow hips, to end in a conspicuous point, shrink-­wrapped by his clinging wet briefs.

Oh God
.

She dragged her gaze away from that point, but not until she'd gotten an eyeful.

It would fuel her fantasies for months to come.

She made herself focus on the dogs going nuts at his feet, as if he'd been lost at sea for a month and they'd surrendered all hope of seeing him again. They circled him like planets as he strode toward the porch, water sluicing down his gleaming chest.

Why, oh why, hadn't she taken her mango and run back to her room? Because she felt bad about hurting his feelings, that's why. Her conscience couldn't handle being a bitch on top of everything else.

Besides, it was simply too beautiful here to stay inside. The scenery was spectacular.

And getting better all the time.

But that was beside the point. She wasn't here to pant and drool. She was here to be civil, even friendly. And if his body made it hard to think about anything but sex, she'd just have to brazen it out, as if she encountered Poseidon daily and wasn't impressed.

At the foot of the steps he bent over to pick up a rubber ball. His quadriceps flexed, long and powerful. Then he turned and hurled it into the waves, making deltoids bunch and ripple.

Cy bounded after it, or at least Chris assumed he did. Her attention was riveted much closer to home, on the muscled back blocking out the sun. Kota planted his hands on his hips, and her eyes followed them, then dropped lower, to white cotton stretched over marble-­carved buns.

She licked her lips. Swallowed. Tugged on her neckline with one finger and blew down her dress.

Cy came bounding back and dropped the ball at Kota's feet, but instead of throwing it again, Kota stepped up on the porch, tossing it from hand to hand.

“Nice dress,” he drawled.

“You'll be sick of it before I leave. I'm short on clothes.”

“That's okay, they're optional here.”

“So I see.”

Grinning, he leaned his butt on the railing—­a mere arm's length in front of her—­and crossed his ankles.

She kept the swing swinging with one foot, and her eyes nailed to his face.

Don't look down. Don't look down.

He tossed the ball to her, so she had to look down.

Wow.

It hit her in the chin. The ball, that is.

“Oops,” he said. Twisting from the waist, he reached out one arm and snagged it as it bounced. “You okay?”

“Yes.” She made herself stare at the ball. Red rubber, hollow. She memorized its detail. Anything not to look at the bait he was dangling.

“If I toss it again, can you catch it?”

That irked her. “Of course. You took me by surprise.”

“Daydreaming?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

She drew a blank.

He laughed, pulling her gaze from the ball to his face. Poseidon never looked so good.

“Admit it,” he said. “You were thinking about me.”

“Oh please. What an ego.”

“Well, I
am
standing right in front of you.”

“Blocking my view.” She leaned left to look around him.

He took it as an invitation to sit on the swing, which was built for two normal-­sized ­people who liked each other a lot.

His thigh hairs prickled the bare part of her leg. His arm rubbed against hers as he tossed the ball from hand to hand.

Cy pestered him until he hurled it, an explosion of muscle power that juddered the swing.

“Geez, you'll bring the whole thing down.”

“I doubt it.” He tugged one of the chains supporting the swing. It could have moored a cruise ship without feeling the strain.

She used it as an excuse to abandon the swing anyway. Taking his place at the railing, she slapped at the damp spot he'd made on her dress. “Look at this. You got me wet.”

His smile grew slowly this time, giving her space to think about what she'd said. She felt the flush start at her nethers and rise like the tide to her cheeks, firing her skin all the way.

Still, she pretended not to catch on. “I've only got two dresses with me. I don't need you dripping on them.”

His smile widened. He rose.

With both of them barefoot, he had eight inches on her. She sidestepped—­not a retreat, just a change of position—­and Tri let out a blood-­curdling squeal.

“Oh God, oh no.” Chris dropped to her knees, patting the small body, terrified she'd paralyzed him.

He rolled over to give her his belly.

Laughing, Kota squatted and scratched Tri's fun spot. “He's a drama queen. Any excuse.”

She sat back on her heels. “The men around here.”

“Lovable, right?”

“Not the word I was thinking of.” Cy chose that moment to bump her with his socket. “More like needy,” she said, rubbing his gnarled head.

“We're easy. Scratch us in the right place and we'll follow you anywhere.”

She rolled her eyes. “Speaking of following me, an earless black cat snuck into my room and tried to hex me.”

“That'd be Van Gogh. He lost his ears somewhere.”

“He wasn't born that way?”

“Nope.” Kota dropped down cross-­legged, putting everything on display. She buried her face in Cy's neck. Any port in a storm.

“Van Gogh had a tough life,” Kota said. “He was next up for the needle when I got the call.”

“Your friend at the shelter again?”

“Mmm-­hmm. Black cats don't get adopted too often. Earless black cats, never.”

“And now he's in paradise.”

“Shows you never know from one day to the next.”

So true. Twenty-­four hours ago, Chris had no idea she'd wind up here on Kota's island.

“Are there more?” she asked. More like her and Van Gogh. More refugees.

“Eight cats, last I counted. Probably under the porch.” He knocked on the floor. “They'll come around when they get used to you.”

“And the horses?”

“Starving to death on a farm outside Sacramento.”

“How'd you get them here?”

“On a ship.”

“I see.” But she didn't, not really. It seemed a soft heart beat beneath those iron pecs. Not what she'd expected.

His body wasn't what she'd expected either. He was big, oh yes, but not bulky like a juiced-­up bodybuilder. Defined, God yes, but not cut to shreds like a cartoon character.

His body, in all its glory, looked one hundred percent authentic, like it was built by beef and hard work, and he wore it like he owned it, not like a costume he put on for the camera.

It was who he was. It suited him down to the ground.

And she wanted to touch it. Just a squeeze here and there.

And yes, there too.

As if he read her mind, he leaned back on his hands, a devastating move that contracted his abs, flexed those pecs, and displayed his arms at a new and interesting angle. She could study them all day and never get bored.

Tempting fate, she flicked a glance at his face. Indigo eyes caught hers and held fast.

He wasn't laughing now.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Touch me.”

She licked her lips. “Pfft. Get over yourself.”

“Then I'll touch you.” His gaze was steady, intense. He reached out and traced a fingertip up the back of her arm.

She should stop him. Immediately.

She moved her arm.

Closer to him.

Over her shoulder he skimmed, then down the front of her arm, adding fingers along the way.

In the crook of her elbow, he drew a circle with the pad of his thumb, a barely-­there touch, lighter than a breeze, warmer than the sun. Sensual as sin.

She held herself still, afraid to move. Afraid he'd keep touching her.

More afraid that he'd stop.

T
HERE, RIG
HT THERE.
The crook of her elbow was silky and tender, and he'd swear it was wired straight to her pussy.

Once more Kota stroked it, the sweep of a feather, then drew his finger up and away, and saw her strain not to chase it.

Over her shoulder he traced a path, then down the back of her arm, raising goose bumps in his wake. She shivered, and he cupped her elbow. Slid his thumb once more into the crook and felt her pulse going wild.

He was half wild himself, hard as a nail and ready to yank her by that elbow into his lap, shred the dress she wouldn't need anymore, and pull her down on his cock as he drove up hard.

But he willed himself to cradle her elbow lightly, to slide his thumb back and forth. To stoke the flame that would, soon enough, scorch her panties right off.

He only had to wait, the hardest thing he'd ever done. Wait for her to make the next move, to need him inside her like she needed her next breath.

Then she'd tear off her own dress. Climb into his lap, onto his cock. She'd rake his shoulders with her nails, arch her back, cry his name—­

“Quit it.” She shook off his hand. “I'm not one of your pets. I'm not going to roll over and beg you to scratch my belly.”

Leaning back on his elbows, he pulled his knees up before she got a look at the tent in his briefs. He hid surprise and frustration behind amusement. “We'll see,” was all he said.

“No, we won't
see
. So you can wipe that smirk off your face.”

He exaggerated a poker face, which seemed to irk her even more.

“I've been around celebrities all my life,” she went on. “I know you're used to women peeling off their clothes every chance they get. You expect it. Well, not me, buster.”

She shook her head positively, her umbrage patently fueled by bottled-­up lust. “So don't bother strutting around half naked, waving your muscles and your . . . everything else under my nose.”

“My everything else?” He wrinkled his brow. “You'll have to be more specific.”

She glared.

He shrugged. “Then don't blame me if I keep waving whatever it is under your nose.”

“Very funny.”

“Just trying to be a good host.”

“You can be a good host by delivering what you promised. Peace and quiet.”

If those were really what she wanted, she would've stayed in her wing. But for some reason she was denying herself—­and him—­the hot sex she craved.

She couldn't hold out for long.

He rose, careful to keep his back to her, since his “everything else” hadn't gotten the message that sex was on hold.

“You want privacy, you got it,” he said obligingly. “But if you're hungry”—­he rolled it over his shoulder as he strolled through the door—­“I'm making pasta.”

M
MM, PA
STA.
H
ER
stomach growled. The mango had been a drop in a very empty bucket.

Through the open window, she heard Kota banging around in the kitchen. Running water. Opening drawers.

Like one of Pavlov's dogs, her mouth watered.

What harm could there be in sharing lunch? She'd straightened him out on the sex thing. As in, there wouldn't be any. So what could it hurt?

Not that she rushed to the kitchen on his heels. She waited a decent interval, then drifted in casually.

Ignoring his bare chest behind the center island, she opened the fridge as if considering a cold drink.

“Got some sav blanc right here,” he said.

She pulled her head out of the fridge. The ice bucket sweated on the granite island; the wine gleamed pale gold in his glass.

He tipped his head at a cabinet. She got a glass, and he filled it.

What could it hurt?

Settling on a stool, she leaned an elbow on the counter. On the other side of the island, he was busy kneading dough with the heels of his hands.

“You're making it fresh. Color me impressed.”

“Fettuccini okay?” He lifted his glass with a floury hand. She watched his throat move as he swallowed.

“Sure.” She dropped her gaze to the dough. He worked it expertly. His hands were big but not clumsy. They knew how to exert precisely the right amount of pressure.

As her elbow knew from experience.

Other parts of her body were pretty sure of it too.

Leaving the dough to rest, he lifted a pasta maker from a low shelf, displaying an ass she was—­okay—­sorry to see he'd dressed in board shorts.

Still, it was riveting.

She kept her eyes on it as he moved around the kitchen, setting a pot of water to boil on the stove, chopping broccoli, then stir-­frying it on a second burner, melting butter in a saucepan on a third.

That was three times more burners than she'd ever used at once.

Tripod tapped her leg with his foot.

“He likes to watch,” Kota said. So she picked him up and put him on the other stool. He jumped over on her lap. Kota laughed. “Given a choice, guys take lap every time.”

She sipped her wine. “That's why it's best not to give them a choice.”

He smiled, wickedly.

“I'm serious,” she said. “I'm not here for sex.” Unfortunately.

“I hear you.”

“But you don't believe me.”

Patiently, he rolled out the dough. “I believe you believe it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He fed the dough into the pasta maker, catching strands of fettuccini as they came out the other end. “It means I believe you think you didn't come here for sex.”

“Oh, you think I deluded myself? That I subconsciously knew I wouldn't be able to resist you?”