Barefoot by the Sea

“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.

Chapter Twenty

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.”

Still holding the bottle of wine poised to her mouth, she smiled. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

For a second, he thought “like that” meant “like an American.”

“You said you didn’t go to college, and I doubt they teach you romantic poetry in culinary school.”

No, but they did in the Humanities classes at Cambridge. “I read a lot.”

“What do you like to read?”