Brad knocked on the front door of the store, then knocked again. His brows dipped. He’d seen her car in the parking lot. He knew Heather was here. Worried for her safety, he reached for the doorknob, and to his surprise, it turned. That only worried him more. If he could get into the store, then someone else could as well. He snatched his cell phone from his pocket and punched in 911, his finger one push from the "send" button.
Fighting the urge to call out to Heather, to ensure her safety, he eased the door open, careful not to jingle the bell, or alert an intruder that he was present. The sound of a television drew his attention, and he covertly moved toward it.
Several steps later, he froze in the entryway of the dressing room, his heart in his throat, his cock instantly thick and standing at attention. Standing before him was the Heather of his fantasies, wearing nothing but "fuck me" high-heels and two tiny strips of black lace, with her long, brunette hair draped over her shoulders. Hair that he’d imagined draped over his stomach a hundred times before.
His eyes dropped, to the creamy white, perfectly round and high cheeks of her backside. His mouth went dry. His zipper expanded yet again. A soft muffled cry slid from her lips, and he jerked his gaze upward. Their eyes collided in the mirror. She turned, and quickly crossed her arms in front of her chest, sliding them beneath her breasts, but she only managed to lift them, her nipples stretching the limits of lace until one rosy-red peak exposed itself.
“How did you get in here?”
He forced his attention to her face, to her red lips parted seductively in demand. Red lips he wanted on his mouth, on his body…around his cock. Damn it to hell, he was an asshole for thinking such a thing.
This wasn’t who he was with her–the guy who desired her, the guy who wanted her. Nor was this who he could ever be with her. “The door was unlocked. You know, you really should No matter how much he wanted to pull her into his arms, onto that pink couch, and have his wicked way with her, once and for all.
Chapter Three
She’d wanted a hot man and wanted him now, and here she had him–Brad was standing in her dressing room. And for just a moment, she’d been sure he was about to become her fantasy. She’d been sure she’d seen lust and desire in his face. But then he’d opened that damnable sexy mouth of his, and reprimanded her. She wanted to take off one of her sexy shoes and throw it at him. She let her hands drop to her sides, no longer hiding herself. Doing so had been instinct born of years of suppressing her sexuality. She darn sure wasn’t going to hide anymore.
“If you came here to act like my parent or even brother, go home, Brad.” She held her hands out to her sides, “As you can see, I'm all grown up, and I assure you I can take care of myself.”
He let one brow inch up as he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, an indiscernible expression on his face. A perfect display of that cool, casual thing he did so damn well.
As if he hadn't just been, and still was, staring at her in her underwear. “I couldn’t be more aware of just how grown-up you are.”
That wasn’t what she’d expected. And was that simmering heat in his eyes? “What does that mean?” she asked cautiously.
He ignored her question. “Good thing it was me and not someone else who walked through that unlocked door. You might have ended up in trouble.”
Her nerves prickled again because again he was turning on the brother routine. Laughter, and there was no humor in the tight sound, slipped from her lips. “I can't believe you. I'm standing here in practically nothing, and you still manage to lecture me as if I were a child.”
His eyes seemed to darken, but his voice softened. Gone was the reprimand. “I was only worried.”
She softened as his voice had. He cared about her. She knew that. Her stomach fluttered with the reality she'd always struggled to swallow. He cared, but just not the way she had always hoped he would. “Why are you here, Brad?”
His eyes narrowed and locked with hers. Neither spoke, but the room was far from silent. The sound of sex, compliments of Sharon Stone, wild and hot, danced through
Heather felt the warmth of awareness creeping along her skin, making her tingle all over. Her nipples puckered against the thin lace, and she was suddenly aware one of them wasn’t covered. It was all she could do not to reach up and cover herself. No. No, no, no. She would not. If this man could stand here with her damn nipple sticking out and manage not to touch her, then she would easily put this old infatuation to sleep tonight. She’d know it was never going to happen between them. Suddenly, she needed to know, she needed an answer to a question she’d not realized she’d still been asking for years.
Brad glanced at the television at the same time she did. Michael Douglas laced his fingers into Sharon Stone's hair, kissing her with a passion born of lust and need. Dampness pooled between her legs at the sexy scene, at the reality of being next to naked, with Brad a few feet away. With thoughts of Brad touching and kissing her in the most intimate of ways.
Again, their eyes moved in unison, toward each other, catching mid-air, electricity darn near weakening her knees. And that was when she knew, when she had the answer to her question. He wanted her, too.
Oh, yeah, this was different than anything she’d ever seen in his stare, this was a look of pure, unadulterated lust that he’d been hiding behind a big brother routine. No more. No more hiding. Before she could talk herself out of it, Heather walked toward the couch and directly toward Brad, slowly allowing her hips to sway, loving the empowered feeling of being a woman.
His eyes followed her, his expression tightening, his body stiffening with uncontrollable tension–desire, hunger. He cleared his throat, almost nervously. “Maybe you should put on some clothes before we get into my reason for being here.”
“I’m not in the mood for clothes,” she said, sitting down on the couch, crossing her legs. Spreading her arms wide as she rested them on the back of the couch, with one tingling nipple still right there, right in plain view, and begging for this man to look, and touch, and taste.
Long seconds passed, before he finally said, “We need
“You have my full attention,” she assured him, the proof of the statement in the ache between her thighs. “So talk.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Get dressed, Heather.” He grabbed a robe hanging on a nearby rack and tossed it to her. “Put that on.”
She set the robe aside. “No.”
Their eyes met and held, smoldering sexual tension charging the air. She wasn't going to put on the robe and he knew it. Her message was spelled out clearly in her actions, or lack thereof.
Checkmate.
Chapter Four
What in the hell was Heather trying to do to him?
Never mind. He'd figure it out later. After she got dressed. She needed to put clothes on her way-too-tempting body. Now. “Put the damn robe on.”
Her expression darkened and she pushed to her feet, breasts bouncing with the movement, that damnable deliciously sexy nipple poking out of her bra. And he looked. He couldn't help it. He was a man, pure and simple. A man she was freaking killing.
Eyes blazing with the heat of anger, she said, “Don't order me around, Brad.” Her well-manicured finger pointed at him. His gaze fixed on her delicate little hands, trying to focus on something safe, something other than her nearly naked body. Instead, he thought of those hands on his body, around his cock.
In a swift move forward, a last, desperate effort to do what was right, he grabbed a robe on the back of the couch and shoved it toward her, arm outstretched. Distance being the objective. Reaching for a calm, unaffected voice, he said, “Put the damn robe on.”
She stared at the robe a moment, then finally yanked the piece of silk from his hand, and a silent thank you whispered in his head. Giving himself an imaginary pat on the back, he prepared to reel in his body, to move back to proper neutral ground. Then, the robe pooled at their feet. He sucked in a slow, calming breath that failed miserably to be calming. “Hea
ther..."
She turned on her heels with a flip of her hair, in a very uncharacteristically diva-like manner he saw as all show, as a way to hide her anger, her nerves. It also gave him a view of her very round, very perfect butt. Heat rushed through him, heat quickly turning to a raging fire. Battling for self-control and complete lust, he clenched his teeth.
After several steps, she turned, stumbling slightly. Instinctively, he moved forward, reaching for her as she wobbled precariously on her too-high heels.
She tripped and grabbed his shirt. Brad's hands slid around her waist, pulling her upwards, trying to stop her from breaking an ankle.
“Ohhh,” she said, as she steadied herself, her voice frustrated. “Damn these shoes.” Then, her eyes lifted to his, and they stared at one another.
He could feel her soft curves pressing against his body, and his hands begged to move, to slide down her waist and cup that perfect pert little butt of hers. His eyes went to her mouth. God, he wanted to kiss her.
Slowly, her fingers eased on his shirt, her palms flattening on his chest. Her body seemed to inch closer.
He started leaning toward her. Not consciously. Instinctively. His mouth inched toward hers, eyes half-closing with the anticipation of the first brush of lips.
“Brad.”
It was the soft purr of her voice, the reminder that this was Heather, that shook him to his senses. He pulled back, hands going to her arms, still aware enough to steady her.
Accusingly, he demanded, “What's going on with you, Heather?”
“You tell me,” she whispered. “What’s going on with me?” Her bottom lip trembled, and her pretty pink tongue slid over the delicate skin.
A rush of adrenaline shot through his veins. A small part of his mind, a far off piece, said he would be sorry if he acted on his desire. The rest of him simply didn’t give a damn. Without a conscious decision to do so, his hand laced through her hair, the other sliding to her lower back, molding her closer. And then he kissed her. First a soft drag of his lips against hers—that he told himself would be it, the end. He’d pull away, he’d stop himself from going too far.
She moaned at the contact, her fingers laced behind his neck, her chest pressing into his, and "too far" was not even close to "far enough." His tongue pressed past her teeth, stroking hers with a deep, hungry caress. The taste of her flooded his mouth, his body, and it was his turn to moan. He pulled her closer, molded her tighter against him, drinking her in, with the thirst of a man who’d waited a decade for water.
And with every passing second, he promised himself just one more second, just one…more…second. And another–one more second. She tasted so sweet, so perfect, he couldn't seem to remember anything but the moment. He wanted her naked, beneath him, those long legs wrapped around his waist. It would be so easy with only a few pieces of lace between them. Heather. Heather…
Shit.
What in the hell was he doing? He had to stop kissing her. Now. So why was he still kissing her? He tore his mouth from hers, pressing his hands to her arms, and setting her back from him. “I'm sorry, Heather. God. I’m so sorry. I don't know what came over me. This was a mistake. My mistake. I take full blame.”
Her expression flooded with hurt a second before she turned away from him and snatched the robe from the ground, keeping her back to him as she slipped her arms inside and tied the sash.
Brad scrubbed his jaw. Damn, he was doing nothing but screwing up here. “Heather–”
She barely glanced over her shoulder. “I think you should go, Brad.”
“No, I–”
“Please,” she said. “Please go.”
He’d never felt so helpless in his life as he did in that moment. He’d hurt her. He’d said and done all the wrong things. He didn’t know how to fix it–and all he could manage to think of doing was pulling her into his arms and stripping that damn robe right back off of her.
“I’ll call you later,” he finally said. “We’ll talk. We’ll make this right.” He had to make this right. He had to make sure he didn’t lose her over a damn kiss, over his weakness, his mistake. But she didn’t turn around, she didn’t speak, and damn it, he wanted to go to her, wanted to fix everything he’d just broken. But he knew when to retreat and regroup, and he knew he wasn’t thinking straight.
With effort, he forced himself to turn away from her, and rushed toward the door. Running away. He never ran away. But as the hot Dallas night air rushed over him, he knew that was a lie. He’d been running from his feelings for Heather for far too long, and they’d caught up with him.
Chapter Five
Near nine on Friday evening, Heather walked toward her car behind her boutique. Nearly a week had passed since she’d melted in Brad’s arms only to have him call her a "mistake." Since Heather had ignored his calls, and had both prayed he wouldn’t show up at the store again–and prayed he would. She was conflicted like that where he was concerned. Conflicted and hurt, and for most of the week, right back under her non-orgasmic rock, trying to pretend she didn’t have needs or wants. She’d refused future "man hunting" excursions despite Brenda’s protests, though she’d secretly decided sexier lingerie and higher heels were new indulgences she planned to maintain. Tonight, she was going to indulge as well. In a pizza and an entire bag of chocolate she’d bought at lunch. She hit the clicker to her car and reached for her door.
“Not so fast.” The all-too-familiar masculine voice of Brad came from her left, a moment before his big body was framing hers from behind. “We never had that talk we were supposed to have.”
Her heart thundered in her ears. “I don’t want to talk or I would have returned your phone calls.”
Silence–a second, and then another, but he didn’t let her go. In fact, there was a subtle shift of his body around hers. Or maybe she wanted there to be, maybe she wanted all kinds of things he’d call "mistakes."
“I hurt you,” he said, his voice soft, raspy. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt you.”
Her lashes lowered, her breath thick in her chest. He wasn’t holding her out of attraction and lust. He was holding her because he didn’t want to lose her, because she mattered to him. Just as he did to her. She didn’t want to lose him over the other night, over sex. “I know. I do. I know.” She turned in his arms, but she didn’t miss the way he held her close, refusing to allow her escape, had she wished one. And she should, but she didn’t. “I think the circumstances…well…”
“Yeah,” he said. “The circumstances.” He slid a finger down a strand of her hair. “Do you want to go grab a pizza?”
Pizza with him, rather than alone, pretending nothing had ever happened. “Actually,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “I have a date.”
Silence fell between them–a second, two. He opened her car door. “Have a good time.” No questions about who she was going out with, no demand to know details, as she would normally expect from him. Not only were they not okay, they weren’t even in the ballpark of okay.
***
The phone calls had stopped. In the week leading up to the wedding that they would both attend, Heather’s phone had not rung one time–at least, not by way of Brad. Anticipation and nerves over seeing him again had made the week miserable.
Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, Heather inspected her reflection, pleased that her outfit—the pale green strapless dress, the color of her eyes, with a nice slit that showed lots of leg, and sexy diamond-studded sandals—had come together looking like the sophisticated, sexy package she’d hoped for. Even her hair, worn long, rather than neatly pinned on her head, as such an occasion would normally have seemed to merit—it hung straight and sleek, brushing her bare shoulders but for the spaghetti straps, covering her skin in a demure, subtle way.
Satisfied she was ready for the evening wedding, she glanced at her bedside table and the clock that read 6:15 P.M. Any second now, a car would arrive, compliments of the groom’s father who owne
d a limo service. This way, no matter how much anyone drank, they were getting home safely. A knock sounded on her door, and she grabbed her small silver shoulder purse, and rushed toward the door.
Not more than a minute later, the driver held the door of the black sleek limo. She climbed inside, and to her total, complete shock, found herself face to face with Brad, who, in a light grey suit and a blue tie that matched his eyes, looked like sin itself. Her breath hitched, the sound thankfully captured by the slamming door that left them alone, a solid panel separating them from the front of the car.
“You look amazing,” he said, his eyes half veiled, his expression unreadable.
Amazing. He’d not only said she looked amazing, he’d said it while holding her gaze, in the back of a car where he’d intentionally chosen to be alone with her. Silently, she warned herself not to let her imagination run wild. She tried to laugh, to tease him as she normally would. “And you look like an attorney forced to go to a wedding.” A really hot attorney every woman at the wedding will be pining for. “I didn't know we were sharing a ride.”
“I volunteered to share as long as I was sharing with you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I guess that’s one way to get us past the awkwardness of…well, you know.”
“Awkward has nothing to do with it,” he said. “All day today, I listened to Brenda talk about "man-hunting," and how certain she was you’d join her once you got a glass of champagne down you. Then, you climb into the car, wearing a dress that says she’s right.” He grabbed her and pulled her across the seat, next to him.
Heather gasped, her hand flattening on his chest for balance, her body twisted around to face his. His hand slid into her hair, his lips hovering just above hers. “And then I realized that we weren’t going to forget that kiss we shared, so I might as well volunteer to be your little wedding adventure.”