The Love Child. Catherine Mann
cheekbone. Her pulse quickened, her body tingling, and she tipped her head into his caress.
She swallowed, holding his gaze. Feeling the air become heavy with awareness until—yes—her lips found his. That spark exploded as she tasted him.
His hands felt like magic gliding down her back, the silk of her dress caressing her skin along with each stroke of his fingers.
With a whispery moan, she angled closer to him, the warm wall of his body a perfect fit against her. He deepened the kiss, his hold both strong and careful, the taste of him delicious. Her thoughts scrambled as Trystan’s touch drove her need higher, made her want more.
Want everything.
There was something about weddings that just made people do crazy, impulsive things. All that emotion running high with the promise of lifelong happiness.
Apparently she wasn’t immune.
She’d noted the effect of weddings on others more times than she could count during her early days as a wedding planner. Bridesmaids and groomsmen hooked up after their walk down the aisle, as if that moment had somehow made them yearn for marriage. Those feelings usually faded for at least one of the people, once endorphins from the orgasm waned.
Married couples who arrived at the event bickering and plucking at their formal wear soon got that nostalgic look in their eyes.
Others just got drunk and stupid.
Isabeau wasn’t sure what category she fell into.
None of them seemed to quite fit. But here she was, in the boathouse with Trystan Mikkelson, desire firing through her veins, both of them ditching their essential clothing. Her panties. His pants unzipped and inched down. Their legs tangled as they backed toward a wall-long bench covered in a blue canvas cushion with cute white anchors woven into the pattern. What a strange detail to notice, but all her senses were in hyperdrive.
Slim stripes of light slanted through the vents along the ceiling. The window was sealed tight and shuttered. The door closed. The dim lighting added to the anonymity of the impulsive moment.
She knew better.
And right now couldn’t find the will to care.
She just wanted this man. Here. Now. And yes, maybe part of that wanting was a mourning for the future she couldn’t bring herself to hope for—home, family, kids.
Her trust had been too damaged when she was too young.
Perhaps that’s why this sexy cowboy oil mogul appealed to her. He was a lone wolf. A man more at ease away from people. He didn’t need her and made his lack of concern about getting married very clear. He was content to leave propagating to all his other siblings.
So she could indulge in some of that wedding event magic for tonight.
* * *
Her soft skin made him ache to touch more of her, but the chill in the air meant it was unwise to ditch all their clothes—not to mention there were dozens of people outside partying beyond the locked door.
He hadn’t expected things to go so far between them, but damn if he could bring himself to stop. She’d lit a fire in him since she’d touched him during that simple clothes fitting.
Simple?
Nothing with this woman was simple. She was a complex blend of bold and reserved, poised but with a wildness to the intense grip of her fingers sliding under his shirt, her nails scoring along his back.
Her passion seared him.
She shook her shoes free and they thudded to the floor. She sketched her foot along his calf, her legs gliding higher.
No question, this was escalating fast. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Trust me. I want. Oh so much.” She pushed aside his suit coat.
“We can find somewhere less rustic.” He slid his hand up her dress to her low-cut panties, simple strings along each hip holding the satin together.
“That would mean waiting and I am one hundred percent against waiting.” She loosened and freed his tie.
Her voice was husky but sure. A very, very good thing. Persuading her to be his date to a wedding had been a good idea after all, a plan that was going to lead to a much more pleasurable month than he’d originally expected.
“My wallet.”
“What?” Her hands paused along his suit pants.
“Get my wallet from inside my jacket. Condom.”
“Oh. Right.” With a speed and deftness he applauded, she fished out his wallet, found a condom and tossed his billfold on the floor.
Sheathed and very much ready, he stroked up her thigh and settled between her legs. Her soft arms looped around his neck and rational thought fled, replaced with a frenetic chemistry. Pleasure. Perfection. A coupling he hadn’t even known was on his bucket list.
But now he knew he couldn’t imagine having missed this moment with Isabeau.
And damn, but she was eager and more confident than he’d expected. She guided him and then... His mind was a blur of sensation and movement and this woman. This fluid goddess of a woman in his arms. So elegant and yet totally at ease in this earthly boathouse.
His heart pounded in his ears in time with their bodies moving against each other like the lap of the water against the dock, the roll of the waves. Her breathing hitched faster with little gasps as she urged him on, close already and sounding so earnest and honest. Her hands slid into his pants, her nails digging into his hips.
And just when he thought he couldn’t hold back any longer, her back arched upward, her soft breasts pressing against his chest and reminding him he had so much more of her to explore when they made love again.
And there would be more, damn it.
The thought sent his release slamming through him like a wave crashing free from under an iceberg. His arms clenched around her tighter as they rolled to their side, aftershocks rippling through them both.
The end of their lovemaking came in the form of ragged breaths growing steady. Quietness descended in the boathouse, despite the roaring elements of the wedding band filtering through the air. He gathered her close, noting the light scent of her perfume as he stroked her hair, fingers trailing down her shoulder.
Trystan could feel her heartbeat rattling in her chest as she leaned against him. Half-dressed, he wanted to keep this moment going. The taste of the chemistry leaving him intrigued—determined.
Isabeau moved slightly, and in the din of half-formed melodies...she winced against him. “Ouch!” she exclaimed softly.
He shifted up on one elbow, looking down at her pained face. “Ah hell, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you? The last thing I wanted to—”
“Charley horse.” The throw blanket clasped to her, she sat up, curled over and rubbed her leg. “In my calf. Ouch, ouch, ouch—it’s so fierce.”
He reached for her, and she pulled back, but he insisted, cupping her calf and massaging along the tensed muscle. “I want to help.”
Blanket clutched to her chest, she flopped back, surrendering her leg. “I’m embarrassed enough already. Just let me deal with this on my own. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
He soaked up the feel of her and searched for some of his newfound verbal skills. He needed to convince her to give them a second chance to be together like this. “Really, let me. It’s no different than rubbing a real horse.”
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