Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5) (5 page)

Then there was Byron, her twin. She’d thought she’d known Byron better than any other person in the world, and vice versa. But in the matter of a few weeks, he’d gone from her brother to a married man with a son and another baby on the way. Well, if anyone would understand her sudden change in matrimonial status, it’d be Byron.

Everyone else—especially Chadwick and Matthew—would just have to deal. This was her life. She could damn well do what she pleased with it.

Even if that meant marrying Ethan Logan.

Six

E
than didn’t know if it was the wine or the woman, but throughout the rest of dinner, he felt light-headed.

He was going to get married. To Frances Beaumont. In two weeks.

Which was great. Everything was going according to plan. He would demonstrate to the world that the Beaumonts were behind the restructuring of the Beaumont Brewery. That would buy him plenty of goodwill at the Brewery.

Yup.
It was a great plan. There was just one major catch.

Frances leaned toward him and shrugged her jacket off. The sight of her bare shoulders hammered a spike of desire up his gut. He wasn’t used to this sort of craving. Even when he found a lady friend to keep him company during his brief stints in cities around the country, he didn’t usually succumb to this much
lust
.

His previous relationships were founded on...well, on
not
lust. Companionship was a part of it, sure. The sex was a bonus, definitely. And the women he consorted with were certainly lovely.

But the way he reacted to Frances? That was something else. Something different.

Something that threatened to break free from him.

Which was ridiculous. He was the boss. He was in control of this—all of this. The situation, his desires—

Well, maybe not his desires, not when Frances leaned forward and looked up at him coyly through her lashes. It shouldn’t work, but it did.

“Well, then. Shall we get started?”

“Started?” But the word died on his lips when she reached across the table and ran her fingertips over his chin.

“Started,” she agreed. She held out her hand, and he took it. He had no choice. “I happen to know a thing or two about creating a public sensation. We’re already off to a great start, what with the confrontation outside your office and now this very public dinner. Kiss my hand again.”

He did as he was told, pressing her skin against his lips and getting a hint of expensive perfume and the underlying taste of Frances.

He looked up to find her beaming at him, the megawatt smile probably visible from out on the sidewalk. But it wasn’t real. Even he could tell that.

“So, kissing hands is on the table?” He didn’t move her hand far from his mouth. He didn’t want to.

When had he lost his head this much? When had he been this swamped by raw, unadulterated want? He needed to get his head back out of his pants and focus. He had explicitly promised that he would not make sex a deal breaker. He needed to keep his word, or the deal would be done before it got started.

“Oh, yes,” she purred. Then she flipped her hand over in his grip and traced his lower lip with her thumb. “I’d imagine that there are several things still on the table.”

Such as?
His blood was beating a new, merciless rhythm in his veins, driving that spike of desire higher and higher until he was in actual pain. His mind helpfully supplied several vivid images that involved him, Frances and a table.

He caught her thumb in his mouth and sucked on it, his tongue tracing the edge of her perfectly manicured nail. Her eyes widened with desire, her pupils dilating until he could barely see any of the blue-green color at all. He swore he could see her nipples tighten through the fabric of her dress. Oh, yeah—a table, a bed—any flat surface would do. It didn’t even have to be flat. Good sex could be had standing up.

He let go of her thumb and kissed her hand again. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“I’d like that,” she whispered back.

It took a few minutes to settle the bill, during which every single look she shot him only made his blood pound that much harder. When had he been this overcome with lust? When had a simple business arrangement become an epic struggle?

She stood, and he realized the dress was completely backless. The wide swath of smooth, creamy skin that was Frances’s back lay bare before him. His fingers itched to trace the muscles, to watch her body twitch under his touch.

He didn’t want her to put her jacket back on and cover up that beautiful skin. And, thankfully, she didn’t. She waited for him to assist her with her chair and then said, “Will you carry my jacket for me?”

“Of course.” He folded it over one arm and then offered his other to her.

She leaned into his touch, her gorgeous red curls brushing against his shoulder. “Did you ever play football?” she asked, running her hands up and down his forearms. “Or were you just born this way?”

There was something he was supposed to be remembering, something that was important about Frances. But he couldn’t think about anything but the way she’d looked in that green dress yesterday and the way she looked right now. The way he felt when she touched him.

He flexed under her hands and was rewarded with a little gasp from her. “I played. I got a scholarship to play in college, but I blew out my knee.”

They were walking down the long hallway that separated the restaurant from the hotel. Then it’d be a quick turn to the left and into the elevators. A man could get into a lot of trouble in an elevator.

But they didn’t even make it to the elevator. The moment they got to the middle of the lobby, Frances reached across his chest and slid her hand under his coat. Just like it had in the office yesterday, her touch burned him.

“Oh, that sounds awful,” she breathed, curling her fingers around his shirt and pulling him toward her.

The noise of the lobby faded away until there was only the touch of her hand and the beating of his heart.

He turned into her, lowering his head. “Terrible,” he agreed, but he no longer knew what they were talking about. All he knew was that he was going to kiss her.

Their lips met. The kiss was tentative at first as he tested her and she tested him. But then her mouth opened for him, and his control—the control he’d maintained for years and years, the control that made him a savvy businessman with millions in the bank—shattered on him.

He tangled his hands into her hair and roughly pulled her up to his mouth so he could taste her better—taste all of her. Dimly, somewhere in the back of his mind where at least three brain cells were doing their best to think about something beyond Frances’s touch, Frances’s taste—dimly, he realized they were standing in the middle of a crowd, although he’d forgotten exactly where they were.

There was a wolf whistle. And a second one—this one accompanied by laughter.

Frances pulled away, her impressive chest heaving and her eyes glazed with lust. “Your suite,” she whispered, and then her tongue darted out, tracing a path on her lips that he needed to follow.

“Yeah. Sure.” She could have suggested jumping out of an airplane at thirty thousand feet and he would have done it. Just so long as she went down with him.

Somehow, despite the tangle of arms and jackets, they made it to the elevators and then onto one. Other people were waiting, but no one joined them on the otherwise-empty lift. “Sorry,” Frances said to the waiting guests as she curled up against his chest. “We’ll send it back down,” she added as the doors closed and shut them away from the rest of the world.

Then they were alone. Ethan slid his hands down her bare back before he cupped her bottom. “Where were we?”

“Here,” she murmured, pressing her lips against his neck, right above his collar. “And here.” Her teeth scraped over his skin as she pressed the full length of her body against his. “And...here.”

She didn’t touch him through his pants, not with her hands—but with her body? She shifted against him, and the pressure drove those last three rational brain cells out of his mind. “God, yes,” he groaned, fisting his hands into her curls and tilting her head back. “How could I forget?”

He didn’t give her time to reply. He crushed his mouth against hers. There wasn’t any more time for testing kisses—all that existed in the safe space of this little moving room was his need for her and, given the way she was kissing him back, her need for him.

He liked sex—he always had. He prided himself on being good at it. But had he ever been this excited? This consumed with need? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think, not with Frances moaning into his mouth and arching her back, pushing her breasts into his body.

He reached up and started to undo the tie at the back of her neck, but she grabbed his hand and held it at waist height. “We’re almost there,” she murmured in a coy tone. “Can you wait just a little longer?”

No.
“Yes.”

Love and sex and, yes, marriage—that was all about waiting. There’d never been any instant gratification in it for him. He’d waited until he’d been eighteen before losing his virginity because it was a test of sorts. Everyone else was going as fast as they could, but Ethan was different. Better. He could resist the fire. He would not get burned.

Frances shifted against him again, and he groaned in the most delicious agony that had ever consumed him. Her touch—even through his clothing—seared him. For the first time in his life, he wanted to dance with the flames.

One flame—one flame-haired woman—in particular. Oh, how they would dance.

The elevator dinged. “Is this us?” Frances asked in a shaky whisper.

“This way.” He grabbed her hand and strode out of the elevator. It was perhaps not the most gentlemanly way of going about it—essentially dragging her in her impossible shoes along behind him—but he couldn’t help himself. If she couldn’t walk, he’d carry her.

His suite was at the end of a long, quiet hall. The only noise that punctuated the silence was the sound of his blood pounding in his temples, pushing him faster until he was all but running, pulling Frances in his wake. Each step was pain and pleasure wrapped in one, his erection straining to do anything but walk. Or run.

After what felt like an hour of never-ending journeying, he reached his door. Torturous seconds passed as he tried to get the key card to work. Then the door swung open and he was pulling her inside, slamming the door shut behind them and pinning her against it. Her hands curled into his shirt, holding him close.

He must have had one lone remaining brain cell functioning, because instead of ripping that dress off her body so he could feast himself upon it, he paused to say, “Tell me what you want.”

Because whatever she wanted was what he wanted.

Or maybe she wasn’t holding him close. The thought occurred to him belatedly, just about the time her mouth curved up into what was a decidedly nonseductive smile. She pushed on his chest, and he had no choice but to let her. “Anything I want?”

She’d pushed him away, but her voice was still colored with craving, with a need he could feel more than hear. Maybe she wanted him to tie her up. Maybe she wanted to tie him up instead. Whatever it was, he was game.

“Yeah.” He tried to lean back down to kiss her again, but she was strong for a woman her size. She held him back.

“I wonder what’s on TV?”

* * *

It took every ounce of her willpower to push Ethan back, to push herself away from the door, but she did it anyway. She forced herself to stroll casually over to the dresser that held the flat-screen television and grab the remote. Then, without daring to look at Ethan, she flopped down on the bed. It was only after she’d propped herself up on her elbows and turned on the television that she hazarded a look at him.

He was leaning against the door. His jacket was half off; his shirt was a rumpled mess. He looked as though she’d mauled him. She was a little hazy on the details, but, as best she could recall, she had.

She turned her attention back to the television, randomly clicking without actually seeing what was on-screen. She’d only meant to put on a little show for the crowd. If they were going to do this sham marriage thing in two weeks, they needed to start their scandalous activities right now. Kissing in a lobby, getting into the elevator together? She was unmistakable with her red hair. And Ethan—he wasn’t that hard to look up. People would make the connection. And people, being reliable, would talk.

When she’d stroked his face at dinner, she’d seen the headlines in her mind. “Whirlwind Romance between Beaumont Heir and New Brewery CEO?” That was what Ethan wanted, wasn’t it? The air of Beaumont approval. This was nothing but a PR ploy.

Except...

Except for the way he’d kissed her. The way he’d kept kissing her.

At some point between when he’d sucked on her thumb and the kiss in the lobby—the first one, she mentally corrected—the game they’d been playing had changed.

It was all supposed to have been for show. But the way he had pinned her against the door in this very nice room? The way his deep voice had begged her to tell him what she wanted?

That hadn’t felt like a game. That hadn’t been for show.

The only thing that had kept her from spinning right over the edge was the knowledge that he didn’t want her. Oh, he wanted her—naked, that was—but he didn’t want
her
, Frances—complicated and crazy and more than a little lost. He’d only touched her because he wanted something, and she could not allow that to cloud her thinking.

“What—” He cleared his throat, but it didn’t make his voice any stronger. “What are you doing?”

“Watching television.” She kicked her heels up.

She cut another side glance at Ethan. He hadn’t moved. “Why?”

It took everything Frances had to make herself sound glib and light. “What else are we going to do?”

His mouth dropped down to his chest. “I don’t mean to sound crass, but...sex?”

Frances couldn’t help it. Her gaze drifted down to the impressive bulge in his pants—the same bulge that had ground against her in the elevator.

Sex.
The thought of undoing those pants and letting that bulge free sent an uncontrollable shiver down her back. She snapped her eyes back to the television screen. “Really,” she said in a dismissive tone.

There was a moment where the only noise in the room was the sound of Ethan breathing heavily and some salesman on TV yelling about a cleaning cloth.

“Then what was that all about?” Ethan gruffly demanded.

“Creating an impression.” She did not look at him.

“And who were we impressing in the elevator?”