Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (42 page)

“We have to stop. God. We have to stop now.”

“I don’t want to stop, Michael.” Lord, she’d gone beyond bold to brazen. But this was Michael, and with Michael she could be her most brazenly vulnerable. She twisted around to slip two more buttons open, until his fingers caught hers, squeezing them into stillness where they rested against the heated skin of his abdomen. She could feel the silky prickle of his hair against her fingertips.

“Tris. Don’t.”

“You always tell me don’t, Michael. But I want to. I want to touch you. I want to know you, the feel of you without the shirt. Without anything between us.”

He let out a harsh, uneven breath. She looked up from the fascinating sight of her pale fingers against the hard, tanned flesh exposed by his open shirt. The shirt she’d opened. And in his eyes, she saw the bright, hot light of desire. Ah, Michael.

Maybe he knew then that it was useless to pretend that this was an innocent kiss between friends that had somehow gone astray. The look in his eyes said all too clearly that his body knew exactly what was happening, and what more it wanted to happen.

“I want you, Tris.”

That was supposed to shock her, she supposed. The bald statement, gruffly spoken with no embellishments, was supposed to frighten her off. “I want you, too.”

He shook his head, but she didn’t know if it was in denial of her words or in frustration at her reaction.

“Last night . . . Well, I don’t think I have as much self-discipline as I had last night. You’re not an innocent young girl anymore. You know what could happen—what will happen. If we don’t stop now we won’t stop at all.”

“I know.”

The hand that covered hers flexed, then loosened as if by force of will. She spread her fingers wide and flattened her palm under his to absorb as much of his skin as she could. He seemed unaware that his other hand stroked temptingly beneath the exposed line of her collarbone.

“Tris, you can’t—”

“I can . . . I do.” Something about the erratic beating of her heart must have affected her lungs, because the words came out breathless. Yet she knew there was no uncertainty behind them. There was only the rightness of being with Michael.

She was aware of a faint scent of soap that clung to his skin, aware of the smooth skin over taut muscle under her hand, aware of his breath against her skin. She leaned to him, brushing her lips across his, a sudden shyness keeping her from doing more. What if she were wrong? What if he didn’t share this feeling?

“You’re… God . . . I don’t want you to be sorry about this.”

His mouth came down on hers, hard, demanding, then he broke away abruptly.

If she could have laughed, she would have. Sorry? How could she be? How could she ever regret what felt so right?

“I won’t be sorry.” She kissed him gently, but he pulled away. Then immediately came back to her, kissing deeply before he backed away once more.

“Can’t take any more. Willpower . . . gone . . . God, I can’t…”

She had no time to assess the ragged words slipping out between kisses, to decide if they were meant as a yes or a no, because his lips were on hers, his arms surrounding her, and his weight bearing her back against the love seat’s arm. The heat of the kiss exploded her doubts, and wherever his hands touched, her skin felt as tender as if it had been singed.

Like a building brought down by a wrecker’s ball, the crumbling of his resistance set off tremors. She felt them deep inside herself, and she felt them in him.

His tongue plunged into her mouth again, bringing new heat and sensation. His hand traveled down her leg to the edge of her skirt, pulled halfway up by their maneuvers. When he slid his hand to the bare skin above her stocking, the meeting of fingers and thigh drew a murmur from both of them, exchanged mouth to mouth. He shifted, and even through the fabric of the tuxedo pants, she felt the swollen, heated length of him, as blatant a statement of his desire as his words had been.

She skimmed her hands over his chest as he unhooked her stocking with enough expertise to make her determine to tease him about it . . . later. When he twisted to strip the stocking off, she took advantage to shift her attention to his back, pushing the shirt out of her way. Impatiently, he shrugged the rest of the way out of it, as she touched her lips to a band of muscle just below his shoulder blades. He took less care in removing her second stocking, reminding Tris of the elements of determination and willfulness in this man that she had not always recognized.

“Damn. This dress . . . Where the hell . . .?”

Tris pulled herself away from the fascinating havoc his fumbling attempts had on her senses to find the side zipper herself. She stood, and he stood with her, moving her toward the bed even as she let the loosened dress slip off her shoulders. His hands hurried it, so it floated down her body and pooled at her feet.

His hands under her silk chemise made her draw in her breath, and at the feel of them on her bare breasts she let it out in a moan. He cupped them gently, then with more strength. His thumbs stroked across the nubs until her back arched in silent response. Now even the rub of silk was too abrasive, and the stiff fabric of his slacks became almost painful against her thighs and abdomen. She wanted nothing between them. She wanted nothing but him.

As if he sensed that need, he skimmed the chemise over her head, dropping it behind him and nudging her down onto the bed. She watched him shed pants, briefs and socks in one efficient movement. But she had no time to consider it, because then he had joined her on the bed, his hands and mouth feeding the fever that seemed to rage just under her skin.

She found herself lifting her hips at his silent command, to aid him in stripping off the final, lacy barrier between them.

This wasn’t at all what she’d expected, this intensity, this hunger. This was Michael, her friend, her companion. Yet this wasn’t Michael at all. This wasn’t her reaction to Michael. This compelling need to have his kisses, his caresses, to have him inside her. To have him fill her. This was something she hadn’t known about herself.

He muttered again as he leaned across her body, but her mind could make nothing of the words, not when her body reacted to the imprint of his arousal, hot and pulsing against her hip. There was a distinctive crackle of foil, and that registered on the small corner of her mind left for rational thought. Ah, yes, this
was
Michael. In at least one basic, caring way.

But his hands sliding under her drove out every thought, leaving behind only sensation, the splendid sensation of his first, sure thrust into her. She clutched at his shoulders for a stability that eluded her as he withdrew and thrust again, stronger.

She rose to meet each stroke, needing to have him deep within her. But still he didn’t slow. The need became a frenzy as the tremors ripped through her. She felt his body tense, then heard his cry and echoed it with her own. Michael enfolded her as the tremors retreated, slowly, leaving behind an exhaustion so complete that only contentment had a share of her senses.

“Tris.”

She awoke to the sound of her name, murmured against her skin. The softness of both sound and touch contrasted with the slightly abrasive movement of Michael’s hair-coated leg against her thigh. The musk of their lovemaking lingered. In the faint moonlight brave enough to journey through the window and across the room, his face appeared taut and intense as he looked down at her.

The face she knew so well seemed as new and unknown in that light as the man who had been revealed in their lovemaking. She might have expected sweetness and patience, but she’d received power and passion.

The tightened muscle of the arm that supported him above her drew her fingers to test and explore it. He bowed his back to touch his tongue to her nipple, and she felt her response as a simultaneous tightening and lifting of breast and pelvis. His mouth closed on her, sucking until she arched to draw near the source of such pleasure. She wanted him again. As much, as urgently. As completely.

There were things they should say to each other. Questions to ask, thinking to adjust. But not now. She couldn’t now.

Five senses, that was all anybody got. But to accept all the pleasures her body was absorbing now would require fifteen, twenty.

She reached to him, willingly contributing to the overload that would short-circuit her senses in pinwheels of electricity.

“Michael.”

The bed seemed large and empty, the dawning sunlight overbright even before she opened her eyes.

He stood at the window, hands dug into the pockets of cutoffs that were the only thing he wore, staring out toward the water. She wished he were still in bed, near to her. But the next best thing would be standing by him. Sitting, she scooped up his Phantoms T-shirt from the nearby bureau, pulling it over her head as she eased out of the bed. He must have heard her. He didn’t turn, but something about his posture indicated a new tension.

“Tris.” His voice was low and a little hoarse, almost muffled as he continued to face away from her a moment longer. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” she repeated, unsure what he meant. Two more steps and she’d be near enough to run her hands down his back, along those planes and muscles that were usually so innocently masked in his conservative clothing.

Then he turned to her, and she stopped. Her movement, her breath, her blood—all stopped. Frozen by his expression. She knew that only the strength of his will had forced his muscles to obey the command to face her. The clarity of her knowledge stunned her, but that emotion was lost in the sweep of pain; he could barely force himself to look at her. If he’d been any less of the man he was, he wouldn’t have. He would have turned away from her for good.

“Last night—last night shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”

Shouldn’t have happened. . . sorry.
Through the pain she tried to make sense of it. “Sorry!” The repeated word came out a hoarse cry.

She remembered his words of the previous night.
I don’t want you to be sorry about this
. . . She wasn’t, but he was.

He was sorry he’d given in to her . . . to her seduction, there was no other word for it. He’d made his reluctance clear, but she’d refused to hear it. And now he was sorry. Sorry he’d loved her.

He reached for her in what could have been an involuntary move, but she jerked her arm away just before his fingers would have touched her. She couldn’t bear pity in his touch. Not after last night.

She couldn’t bear it in his face, either. She wasn’t as strong as he was. She turned away.

“You’ve always been . . . I shouldn’t have—” His voice faltered, then started again, stronger. “I should have stopped it before . . . Last night was my fault.”

The sound that came from her throat was supposed to be a disdainful laugh. Pain distorted it.

She’d been transported. He was sorry.

She’d felt the loose threads of her life coming together in a pattern that meshed with him to create something real.

He felt regret.

He ground out a curse under his breath, and somewhere deep in her mind Tris recognized she’d never heard him swear that way before. “This was exactly what I never wanted to happen, Tris. I never wanted our friendship to suffer. Your friendship means too much to me—”

A slight sound behind her told her he was driving his right hand through his thick hair in that familiar gesture of frustration. But suddenly, he was a stranger. A stranger she had shared passion with through the hours of the night. A stranger she didn’t know anything about now, here, in the light of a summer day’s dawn.

“It was a mistake. I never wanted to risk your friendship. I never— Tris! What are you doing?”

She continued gathering her clothes, bundling them to her like pieces of her pride. Her heart would be harder to put back together.

Not to put them all on—that would take too long, and she couldn’t bear to breathe the air that reeked of his pity and regret—but to ensure that no shred of her remained behind to remind him of his “mistake.”

“I’ll send the shirt back.” Her words were jerky, mechanical.

He caught her at the door, and even though his hold on her arm kept her still, she wouldn’t look at him.

“Tris, please . . . I didn’t—”

“I know. You didn’t want our friendship to suffer.” Her voice shook a little on the last word. “Don’t worry. It didn’t suffer at all. It died a quick, painless death.”

She jerked her arm away and was gone.

“I don’t understand why you’re leaving today, anyway,” Grady grumbled. “And especially so early.”

“Shut up and drive.”

She saw the look he shot her from the corner of his eye, but felt perfectly safe ignoring it. Slightly hung over and more than a little short on sleep, he’d take the path of least resistance. That was what she’d counted on when she shook him awake and demanded he take her to the airport. He hadn’t even realized what time it was until they passed the billboard digital clock flashing the numbers on the way to O’Hare.

“Don’t park,” she ordered as they came up to a fork in the entry road. “Just drop me off at Departures.”

He didn’t argue. But when he pulled to a stop in front of the terminal, he leaned over and clamped a hand around her wrist.

“Tris, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Really.” She turned to direct a smile at him, but it faltered at the concern in his eyes. “I will be fine. Honest. I just need to get away right now.”

He continued to look at her. “I know I’m not always the most perceptive person, but it seemed like you and Michael were working on something this past week. If there’s something I—”

“Nothing.” She softened the curt word with a touch of her fingers to his cheek. God, wasn’t this great for irony? Twelve years later, here was Grady consoling her over Michael. “But thanks. Thanks for your concern.” She looked at him again, dark smudges of sleeplessness somehow managing to make him look even more handsome. But that wasn’t what she saw. She saw a friend. “You know sometimes we don’t give you enough credit, Grady.”