Roxanne Claire - Barefoot by the Sea

“Cheating? I barely know you.”

“We’re getting married,” he shot back. “Or did you forget?”

“We’re talking about a stunt on the beach to help build business,” she corrected, trying to ease out of his grasp. “So there’s no ‘cheating’ involved.”

“Then why did you turn and fly away into the night?”

“I didn’t want to…” Relive old pain. “Watch.”

He stroked her chin with his thumbs, a sure, warm touch that sent a thousand sparks to every nerve ending in her body. “Like I was saying, I know that your husband ended your marriage by cheating on you. So I’m taking a wild guess that you had a little flashback and a very understandable moment when you doubted me.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“No, I’m that keen.”

Keen. Another word spoken more in England than the US. Had she ever noticed that before?

“And you are not transparent.” He came an inch closer, erasing space and doubts and common sense. “You’re beautiful and sweet and smart and good.” His voice got so soft it almost sounded pained. But Tessa’s eyes were closed and she couldn’t read his expression. All she could do was feel his hands, his breath, his…lips.

He kissed her so tenderly she could barely feel it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. And he sounded truly sorry. Really sorry. Like—she pulled back from the kiss to study the misery on his face.

“You’re too sorry,” she said. “If that was as innocent as you say, you wouldn’t look quite that sorry.” Or was he sorry for something else? God, he confused her.

“I’m apologizing in advance for all the stupid things I’ll do in a clumsy effort to”—he closed his eyes—“get what I want.” Another kiss, this one slower, deeper, and hotter. “And what I want, woman, is you.”

She barely heard those last words, the blood rushing through her veins, pulsing in her head and a whole lot of other places. Everything felt so good, so alive, so real.

But was everything real? Was he? Here in the moonlight, the smell of oranges and oak, the touch of salt air and sweet lips, was anything real? His tongue traced her lips and he finally let go of her face, dragging his hands down her throat, onto her chest. She bowed her back into the kiss, dropping her head back to offer him whatever he wanted to touch.

He kissed his way down her throat, lingering there to suck gently, tangling one hand in her hair and letting the other slide lower until his palm grazed her breast.

More nerves tingled, tightening every inch of skin, twirling a ribbon of desire through her body until she had to moan with the need for him to untie every bit of her.

Who cared if he was real? She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted everything.

As he caressed her breast, she dropped back and he came with her, both of them falling to the soft earth as they kissed. Her nipple budded under his palm, drawing a moan from her throat, or maybe it was his. Everything was connected.

He slid on top of her, a solid, huge erection pressing on her stomach and stealing her breath.

“Tessa,” he whispered into the kiss.

“Mmmm.”

“I’m still waiting for an answer.”

What the heck was the question? She turned her head, letting him nibble at her neck and ear, squeezing his mighty biceps and finally giving in to the urge to rock her hips into his.

“Do I believe you?” she asked.

He slipped his hand under her T-shirt, up her belly, and onto the thin silk of her bra. “The other question.”

She rocked again, the knot between her legs twisting tighter with need to ride his long, hard ridge. What other question? Did it matter? “Just…don’t stop.”

He chuckled softly, purposely holding still. She rolled against him anyway, the shock of arousal electrifying her whole body.

“I need an answer.”

“Ask again.”

He laughed once more, lifting his head to look into her eyes. “Are you going to marry me?”

She held his gaze for so long, it felt like the world shifted on its axis. If only this were real, she thought. If only this were love and not pretend. If only…

He ground against her, harder this time, giving her full access to his hard-on, grunting as the pleasure hit him, too. “Come on, say yes.” He pounded into her, torturing her with the exquisite feeling.

“Well, not for real.”

“Then for pretend.”

She finally held him still, grabbing his shoulders, looking into his eyes. “I’m lost,” she admitted. “I don’t know what’s real or right or pretend or play. I don’t know what to say except…”

Harder and faster he rolled against her, pulling her right into a vortex. She couldn’t think. All she could do was slide against him, sounds of sex and need whimpering in her throat.

“Don’t say anything,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and gave in to the first helpless hitch of pure pleasure, an orgasm building so fast she knew it couldn’t be stopped.

A delicious heat coiled through her, spinning at the most tender spot as she rubbed and rode and rocked against the sexiest body she’d ever held. “I…want…you…to…be…”

She came fast and hard, biting her lip to keep the word from slipping out. But as she fell over the edge of pure, raw, crazy pleasure, she lost control, one word tumbling helplessly from her lips. “Real.”

“It can be real.” His voice was rough in her ear.

What did he mean? Sex? Love? This farce of a wedding? What did he mean by that? She closed her eyes as he rocked again, relentless and rhythmic, firing arousal through her, letting that orgasm flow and then subside.

“I said I want you to be real.”

She felt him sigh. “I’m real enough, Tess.”

Real enough. Real enough. And once again, he’d deflected her questions and probing with kisses and heat. And she let him. So maybe, deep inside, deflected questions and nonanswers were what she really wanted.

Was that a lie? Was he real enough?

Ian didn’t know and, at that very second, didn’t care. His own release was far too close at hand, forcing him to clench his jaw and hold back while Tessa melted under him like butter in a smoking saucepan.

He allowed his body one more hard press against hers, the move firing more blood to his already aching hard-on. After a second, he lifted his head to look into her eyes, glittering in the moonlight, bright with arousal.

Still clutching his arms, her breathing as strangled as his, she held his gaze. “John,” she whispered.

John. What would it be like to hear her call him Ian? Could it ever be that real?

Not unless he was insane. Wasn’t it bad enough she’d overheard him slip into his native accent when he thought he was alone?

“I can’t think straight,” he admitted. “No blood in my brain.” Slowly, he rolled off her and sat up, leaving her lying on the leaves, looking sated and sexy while his boner strained his jeans. He was lying in every way already—he wasn’t about to throw salt on the wounds he’d leave by screwing her, too. “I think we need food and wine.”

She repositioned herself, pulling down her top and brushing some hair back, trying to get composed but only managing disheveled and sexy.

“You really want me to drink from the bottle?”

He took his time getting the corkscrew, letting his arousal subside. “Yeah. I think it’d be hot.”

“Making out in the garden, drinking wine from a bottle.” She drew in a breath, then smiled as she exhaled. “And I’m giving Ashley a hard time. We’re as bad as they are.”

“Not quite.”

She sat up. “What does that mean?”

“It means I think there’s more than what we just did going on between them.”

Tessa closed her eyes. “Ugh. I don’t know what to do. Should I tell Lacey or not? I can’t stand lies. I can’t stand secrets. Absolutely nothing drives me crazier, except…I totally get what she’s going through.”

He popped out the cork with one easy pull and handed her the bottle, happy for the chance to talk about something other than lies, truth, and his slip of the accented tongue.

She eyed the bottle. “I don’t generally do things like this.”

“See? I’m good for you.” He wiggled the bottle.

“I like to do things in their proper order. You know, wine in glass and then in mouth. Kiss like crazy in the house. Or maybe fall in love then get married, not fake it for an audience.”

He swallowed hard. She’d want love, of course. What woman wouldn’t? And he was offering her nothing like that. Self-loathing roiled through him. “Drink up, pretty Tessa.”

Frowning, she reached for the bottle. “I’m not that pretty.”

“Speaking of ‘Ugh.’” He looked skyward. “I hate when pretty women say that.”

“No, honestly, it wasn’t a ploy for compliments. I don’t see myself like, you know, Zoe. Now she’s pretty.”

“Not my type. Have a sip.”

Still, she didn’t put the bottle to her lips. “What is your type, John Brown?”

He thought for a moment, expecting an image of Kate Shaw Browning to burn his brain. But for one second, he couldn’t remember what his wife looked like. Oh, hell.

“John?”

“I’m trying to think of all the ways I could describe you,” he said, hating his glibness but he had no choice. “If you want to know my type, look in the mirror.”

“Mud-brown hair, too-high forehead, unimpressive cup size.”

He leaned back and scrutinized what she’d said. “Your hair is about fifteen shades of hot fudge. Your forehead, cheekbones, and chin are heart-shaped, which I read once is the sign of a person with a big heart. And as for your cup size…” He let his gaze fall on the chest he’d caressed. “Those are…sweet and they do exactly what they’re supposed to do to me.” He leaned over and kissed right above her breast. “Make me want more.”