Roxanne Claire - Barefoot by the Sea

“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.”

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?”

He shook his head and gave the bottle another nudge. “No stone crab for you until you drink. And make a toast.”

She raised the wine and dropped her head to one side, thinking. “I would like to toast to the first man who made me…ahem…in the dirt.” Lifting it to her lips, she winked. “Guess yours will have to be in the kitchen, since we’re doing each other on our home turfs.”

He didn’t answer, watching her bring the bottle to her lips and sip. After a second, she handed it to him. “Your turn.”

“All right.” He lifted the bottle. “To…” My children, lost and waiting for me to deceive this woman just so I can get them back. “Us.”

He closed his eyes when he drank, deep and long, letting the dry Cabernet cover his tongue and, hopefully, take the sting out of his thoughts and the guilt out of his soul.

“Never been married, John?”

The wine clogged his throat and made him choke softly. “No.” He managed to cough out yet another lie. Then he lifted the bottle and drank again, this time to wash it away.

Tessa settled back on her elbows, relaxed as she studied him. “How’d you go so long without getting snagged?”

He hadn’t gone so long. He’d met Kate in college, at a pub. She’d beat him at darts and downed a pint faster than he had.

“Haven’t met the right person,” he mumbled, the wine good and stuck in his esophagus now. He gave her the bottle and busied himself by opening the box of stone crabs, presenting the array of pinkish claws. “Here we go, all pre-cracked and ready to eat with our hands. It’s like I knew we’d have a picnic.”

“Have you been looking?” she asked.

“For stone crabs?”

She gave him a playful kick with her foot. “For the right person.”

He shook his head, grateful to be honest. “I’ve been focused on me,” he admitted. “Learning how to cook, doing my thing, traveling. What about you?”

“I told you, I was married for ten years.”

“I mean since then?”

“Nah, just working.”

He had to keep the conversation off his past. “What about your parents?” he asked.

A reaction flickered over her face, impossible to read in the dim light. “What about them?”

“Tell me about them.” He handed her a stone crab. “Just peel the shell off the outside and dip it in this.” He popped the lid on the tangy mustard sauce he’d prepared.

It was her turn to pretend to be so involved with the stone crab that she didn’t answer his question. She dipped the edge of the crabmeat in the sauce and slowly put the claw in her mouth, sucking the meat and closing her eyes as the taste hit. A soft moan of delight followed, a lot like the ones he’d heard a few minutes ago.

“Mmm. Perfection,” she finally said, dabbing at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t suppose you included a napkin in your bag of fun.”

He got on his knees and leaned close to her face, giving a swift lick to her lips. “We’ll be each other’s napkins.”

She smiled, running her tongue right over the spot where his had been. “You’re determined to take me to places I don’t want to go, aren’t you?”

“Yep. Your parents?”

Looking down, she played with a piece of the shell, breaking it off to reveal more meat on the claw.

“You don’t want to talk about your parents?” he urged.

“I don’t…” She made a face, obviously struggling with something. Then she reached for the wine bottle, which he’d balanced next to his leg. “Lubrication, please.”

He gave it to her and she took a solid swig. Then another.

“Whoa. Must be some story.”

She eyed the bottle as if she was considering a third, but gave it back to him. “I don’t talk about my parents, to anyone. And I mean anyone.”

He lifted a brow and held his stone crab still without biting. “Even your close friends?”

“Nope.”

“Says the woman who hates secrets.”

She flinched, acknowledging the truth. “It’s not that I want to keep secrets from them, but I don’t like to talk about my mother.” She gave a dry laugh. “The irony is that my mother is the reason I dislike secrets and she’s the reason I made up a story about having parents.” She draped her arm over her face, covering it completely. “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this.”

He leaned closer, holding the bottle with one hand so it didn’t spill, but using the other to lift her arm and see her face. “Why not?”

“Because it’s letting you…in.”

“I want to be in,” he admitted, a little taken aback by how much truth there was in that statement. Right that moment, looking at her with moonlight on her hair and conflict in her eyes, he wanted to be right inside that whirlwind of emotions.

Where he really had no fucking right to be.

“I don’t tell people this bit of my history. I say my parents were nice and normal but we’re not close at all. End of story.”

“Did you tell your husband?”

“Of course. He met her.”

“Did he meet your father?”

She closed her eyes. “My father is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stroking her face. “Were you close to him?”

Giving her head a negative shake, she brushed off his touch. “Long story. And, honestly, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to…” She bit her lip, reaching up to touch his cheek as he’d touched hers. “Damn it, yes I do. How did you do that? In this short time? How did you get me here?”

He turned to kiss her palm. “Same way I got you to drink with no glass and eat with no napkin and have an orgasm under the stars.”

“How did you do that?”

Lowering his head, he kissed the answer. “Now that’s my secret.”

She curled a hand around his neck, nestling her fingers into his hair. “You’re a professional apple-cart upsetter,” she said with a smile. “You know that?”

“Mmmm.” He kissed her. “That I am.”

She pushed him before he could deepen the kiss. “You did it again.”

“Did what?”

“That accent. ‘That I am.’ The way you said it was…English.”

Actually, it was British, and troubling. She made him relax and forget and share far too much. “You’re imagining things, pretty Tessa.” He got the kiss accomplished, and kept it long and slow and a little bit dirty. But she pushed him back one more time.

Damn it, he didn’t want to keep making up any more lies. “Tessa, please I—”

“I want to tell you.”

He stopped the plea, looking at her. “About your parents?”

“Yes. I want to tell you,” she repeated. “I don’t want any secrets between us. None at all. I’m going to tell you everything and then…”

He would tell her nothing. “And then?”

“Then I’ll feel better about that fake wedding business.”

And he’d feel worse when he somehow made it real. But he forged on, kissing her again. “You keep letting me in and you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

She shook her head.

“It might not be a fake wedding.”

Her eyes popped open and he kissed her long and hard, until he was certain they were closed again.