The Wedding Date: A Christmas Novella (10 page)

He reached one arm behind him, groped in his jeans and came up with a condom. “Exhibit A.” He ripped the packet with his teeth. Rolled it on as she wondered if they came in extra large.

Kneeing her thighs apart, he reached between them, handled her until she forgot to be nervous, until her breath came as rough and ragged as his. When her hips tilted instinctively, he forged in.

Gave her one slow inch at a time.

It wasn’t enough. She wanted more, wanted faster. She gave a grunt of impatience. He tsked his tongue. “Always rushing,” he chuckled, but the strain made him hoarse. She rolled her head to the side, sank her teeth in his biceps. He dropped his lips to her breast, sucked hard on her nipple.

All of which made things ten thousand times worse.

“Cody, please,” she got out.

“Tell me what you want.” His voice was thick.

She felt his control fraying. Gave him the words that would snap it. “Please, Cody. Please.
Fuck me hard
.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he ground out, and in he drove, grunting when she took him, lifting her hips to give her more. Stroking deep, stroking fast, all the way to the root.

She bucked as he pumped, met each stroke with her own, racing together, frantic and wild. He loomed above her, filling her gaze. She drank in his beauty. Muscle and sinew and bone. Sweat streaked his chest. She smeared her hands through it, raked her nails down his abs. Locked eyes and ate up the hunger she saw.

Then he dropped his chest down on hers. She welcomed his weight. He fisted her hair, panted hard in her ear. “Come with me, baby.”

“Yes,” she gasped out, snaked a hand in between them.

“Tell me when,” he gritted, riding hard, riding fast.

“Now!” She cut loose. “Oh God, now!”

Chapter Nine

C
ODY FLOPPED ONTO
his back, sucking wind like he’d done forty flights at a run. But he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Thank the sweet baby Jesus he’d swallowed his pride and hunted down Julie. He would have missed the best sex of his life.

He rolled his head to the side. She looked like she’d done the stairs with him, sheened in sweat, cheeks cherry red.

She’d never been prettier.

He rolled up on his side, propped his head on his hand. “The tighter, the better,” he said.

She let out a laugh. “I can’t disagree.”

He traced the line of her jaw. Her eyes were moss green in the firelight. “Told you I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Not true. You tortured me with extreme foreplay.”

He trailed a finger between her breasts. “Forgot to worry, though, didn’t you?”

She tracked her eyes down his chest, all the way to his groin. He followed her gaze, broke into smile. His dick wouldn’t scare anyone now.

She smiled too, a sweet curve of her lips that lured him in for a kiss. A gentle kiss this time. Slow and tender. With just a nip at the end to remind her who was boss.

She nipped him right back. The woman never gave him an inch.

He liked that about her.

She snuggled up to him. “I meant it when I told you it’s been a long time. Three years. Since David died.”

He couldn’t imagine going three years—even three months—without getting laid. But he’d never lived with grief like hers.

She reached up a hand, stroked a fingertip along his stubbly jaw. “Thanks for taking the trouble to make it good.”

Her tender tone made his throat tighten. “Don’t get me wrong, honey, I wanted you to love it. But I can’t take much credit, because I was out of my mind most of the time.” He captured her hand, brought her palm to his lips. “It was good because we’ve got something here.”

Her eyes had gone soft and mushy. A single tear trembled on her lashes. When it trickled down her temple, his heart rolled over in his chest.

Too moved to speak, he wrapped her up in his arms and rolled onto his back. Her head settled naturally in the notch of his shoulder. She looped her thigh over his, curling around him, and he gathered her in, cupping the curve of her shoulder in one palm, the curve of her bottom in the other.

Sleet slashed at the windows, but it was cozy by the fire. Cody watched the shadows flicker on the walls. Wondered how this woman had gotten so deep under his skin in only four days. Wondered if he was under hers too. If being her first lover in three years meant something, or nothing.

He didn’t know how to ask, or even if he wanted to hear the answer. He doubted that one night of hot sex would change her mind about him.

What he needed was time. Time to convince her that not every doctor was all about money. Most of them took up medicine because they wanted to heal people. But it was a hard business, because lots of patients didn’t heal. They suffered, and they died, and if you got too attached, took each loss to heart, you’d break into a million pieces.

For sure, some doctors went too far the other way. Their hearts hardened. They got too caught up in the perks. But the truth was, doctors had to detach. It didn’t always mean that they didn’t care. It meant that they were human.

In time, he could explain all that to Julie. He could make her understand.

But not tonight. For tonight, he wanted her to forget that he was a doctor and see him only as a man.

And as a man, one thing was bugging the shit out of him. He kept his tone casual. “So, what’s the deal with Brad?”

She snorted. “Another blind date, courtesy of Amelia.”

“She set ’em up for you?”

“Mmm-hmm. She wants me to have a date for her wedding. She threatened to get my mother involved.” She shuddered. “Even going on three blind dates is better than that.”

“How’s it working out for you?” An insouciant drawl.

“Exactly as I expected. Brad was the last of them.”

“So . . . all rejects?” He faked a yawn like he wasn’t hanging on her answer.

“Yep, every one.”

Relief was a lungful of air after sixty seconds under water. He smiled, smugly, and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “You had me going for a minute with the gay thing. I didn’t know which one of us you were trying to get rid of, him or me.”

She laughed. “Amelia said Brad and I have a lot in common. She was right, he was perfect for me.”

His smug smile evaporated. “So what happened?”

“Turns out perfect doesn’t do it for me.” She snuggled closer. “Besides, I got a stalker-y vibe from him, so it’s probably good that he thinks I’m involved with you.”

“Are you? Involved with me?”

She slid her hand over his shoulder, played with the ends of his hair. “Do I seem involved?”

It wasn’t really an answer.

Then her leg began to move, a slow, deliberate slide that stroked along his cock. Amazingly, he started to stiffen again.

Three erections in an hour—what was he, seventeen?

J
ULIE SLUMPED FORWARD
onto Cody’s heaving chest.

“Uh,” she grunted out, her own chest heaving. Her thigh muscles sang from the unaccustomed strain. Then he threaded his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp, and her already gelatinous body went liquid. She couldn’t have moved if someone yelled “Fire!”

His hands traveled down from her scalp to her neck. She moaned pathetically. He melted her shoulders, stroked the length of her back . . .

Her own snore startled her awake. She pushed up, wiped her lips with her hand. “Sorry,” she said about the drool on his chest. He rubbed it in with his palm. Bodily fluids didn’t seem to bother him at all. Good thing, since they were both covered with them.

“I need a shower,” she said.

“Sounds good.” His hands slid up her thighs. His thumbs met in the middle. “I’m done for now, but you don’t have to be.” He stroked lightly, but with deadly accuracy. “Tell me you’ve got one of those removable shower heads.”

She nodded, unable to form words.

“I promise you’ll never look at it the same way again.”

An hour later she was sprawled on her bed, boneless, when Cody strolled out of the bathroom, towel slung around his hips—exactly like her Plaza-lobby vision. Her eyes walked from his feet to his face, taking in the details. Muscled calves. Hipbones sharp enough to hold up the towel. Corrugated abs. Chest carved from marble, arms roped with muscle.

His stubble was dark, his hair finger-combed back. And his eyes, when she met them, were eye-walking her right back. They crinkled as he smiled that outrageous smile.

If she could move, she’d jump him. Again.

His smile widened as if he read her mind. “We need food, Jules. The night’s young.”

“It is?” she said faintly.

He nodded slowly. “I told you, you gotta keep up your strength.”

Oh boy.

He stood her up, pushed her arms into her robe and tied a knot at her waist. Then he prodded her into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, scanned the contents doubtfully. “Steak?”

“Uh-uh.” He moved her gently to the other side of the island, sat her on a stool, and went back to the fridge, pulling out eggs and cheese and spinach.

She propped her elbows on the counter, chin in her hands. “I thought men loved steak.” David certainly had.

“I don’t eat meat,” he said.

She sat up straighter. “You’re a vegetarian?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He broke six eggs into a bowl.

“But . . . you’re a guy.” All the vegetarians she knew were women. “And you grew up on a ranch.”

“Call me a sissy, but I never liked the idea of raising up creatures just to eat ’em.”

She watched him whip the eggs. He didn’t look like a sissy. Not with the muscles jumping in his forearms. Not with three days’ scruff shading his jaw, and that towel slipping lower.

It sagged another inch and she caught a glimpse of something unnaturally white. Leaning over the counter, she gave the towel a tug. It hit the floor, exposing an eight-inch scar as wide as her thumb, slashed diagonally across his left cheek.

“What’s that?” She felt personally offended, like she had rights in that cheek.

He looked over his shoulder, followed her gaze. “That,” he said, “is the end of my rodeo days.”

She goggled. “Seriously? Rodeo?”

“Seriously. Rodeo. Saddle bronc riding.”

“Give a Boston girl a hint. What’s saddle bronc riding?”

He looked at her like she was a dummy. “Just what it sounds like. You sit in a saddle and hang the hell on while a wild horse tries to pitch you into next week.”

Okay, that
was
pretty obvious. “So, were you any good?”

“Hell yeah, I was good! Didn’t you see my belt buckle?”

She scratched her head. What did his belt buckle have to do with it?

He picked up his towel, strapped it over his junk before he poured the eggs into the pan. They sizzled and popped. He swirled them around, flexing that forearm again. She practically drooled. A man in the kitchen was hot. Cody in the kitchen was porn. She put him in chaps and a Stetson and her eyes glazed over.

Then he set the omelet in front of her. The scent drifted up her nose.

She could get used to this. She could get used to him.

He took the other stool and half of the omelet, set her straight about the buckle. “In rodeo, the champion gets a belt buckle instead of a trophy.”

“So you were a champion saddle bronc rider?” She added a denim shirt and jeans to the Stetson and chaps, had him hold a shiny buckle above his head, displaying it to the cheering crowd.

“Yes, ma’am.” He forked in some omelet. “Gearing up for nationals when I landed on a fence while I was training at the ranch. Splintered it, and a big one went deep. I’d have bled out if my brother Tyrell hadn’t heard me holler.”

“You almost died?” That killed her fantasy. Cody gushing blood made her own blood run cold.

“Like I said, Ty found me in time.” He forked in more omelet. “Scared my Mama, though. She put her foot down, shipped me off to college.” He shrugged. “I like to compete, so I went back to running.”

He pointed his fork at the calendar on the fridge, her running schedule penciled in the large blocks. “Training for the marathon?”

“Mmm-hmm. I’ve tried before, but it was always half-assed. This time I mean it.”

“We could train together.” He lilted it into a question.

She met his gaze, let herself steep in his whiskey eyes. For the first time, she noticed an emerald ring around the iris. Was that what made them unique? Because these were no ordinary brown eyes. These, she could look into every day and never get tired of them.

“Um.” A question was pending, but she couldn’t recall what it was. His eyes crinkled. Oh no. How was she supposed to function under the influence of The Smile?

Then The Smile morphed into The Laugh. She dropped her fork and went for him.

He caught her up in his arms, pulled her onto his lap. His hand was inside her robe before she could untie the knot, her breast in his palm before she could pull his head down to kiss him.

And just like that, they were going at it again. Off came her robe. His towel hit the floor. He swept the plates aside with one arm, sat her up on the counter. “Condom,” he got out, and vaulted the sofa to grab his jeans, still crumpled on the floor by the fire.

Then his cell rang.

Oh, he wanted to ignore it; she saw the struggle on his face. But he checked the display, cursed under his breath. And answered it, “This is Dr. Brown.”

It hit her like an arctic blast.
Dr.
Brown. That’s who he was.

Sliding down from the counter, she pulled on her robe, cold everywhere she’d been hot. Carefully, she scraped the omelets into the trash, then put the plates in the sink and turned the water on hard, trying to drown out the rushing in her ears.

When his arms wrapped around her from behind, she stiffened like a flagpole. He kissed her nape. “Sweetheart, I gotta go. Pileup on the Expressway. They’re calling everyone in.”

Through frozen lips, she managed to say, “Do you know how to get to the hospital from here?”

“I can find it.” He squeezed her lightly, then let her go. She shut off the water, made herself turn around. He was moving faster than she’d ever seen him, scooping up his clothes, hopping one-legged as he stepped into his jeans.