Four Weddings and a Fireman (29 page)

Cherie found a bottle of ibuprofen in her purse and brought two tablets along with a glass of water. While he was downing them, she disappeared into the bathroom, then returned with a wet washcloth. “I'm going to clean the rest of the blood off you, then you can sleep,” she told him, all business.

Fuck
. He'd screwed up. He'd thrown Cherie's declaration of love back in her face. But hell, it wasn't fair. She shouldn't have sprung it on him when he wasn't fully functional. And hadn't she said before that she was going to prove how much she loved him? That's all he needed. A little proof.

Under Cherie's gentle dabs at the mostly dried blood on his face, the drowsiness came back for real. He nodded off, then woke partway to find his arms over his head and his T-­shirt being stripped off.

“He's really strong, isn't he?” Trixie whispered.

“No looking. He's asleep, so that's cheating,” answered Cherie.

“Oh pooh on you. I can see him on YouTube anytime I want.”

“Shut up and help me with his shorts.”

The two sisters got his board shorts off and maneuvered him under the covers. He probably could have helped them, but he was incredibly exhausted and it was entertaining listening to them bicker with each other in whispers. He could tell that Cherie was still mad at Trixie. But he was beyond anger himself. How could he be too angry about a situation that inspired Cherie to tell him she loved him? Her words, and the completely serious expression on her face, kept coming back to him in quick, surreal flashes.

As he'd instructed, Cherie woke him up several more times. Once when a pizza arrived and it smelled so good he thought about trying a bite, but fell back asleep before he could mention it. The next time she woke him, his favorite
Friends
episode was on, the one with Ross and Rachel's wedding in the bombed-­out old chapel in London. Trixie was watching like a kid, crouched on her knees about a foot from the TV. Cherie lay back down in the next bed over.

He beckoned to her, wanting her in bed with him. She shook her head, glancing toward Trixie, but he gestured again, more urgently.

She slid off the bed and padded over to his.

“I'm cold,” he said, pathetically. “Someone should keep me warm. It's in all the manuals.”

As soon as she slid under the covers, he nestled her up against him. Her delicious warmth immediately seeped into his body, relaxing him like a drug. Sleep tried to tug him under, but he resisted. “What was that you were saying earlier about proving your love?” he whispered into her hair. “Rooms 11 to 31 might have jumbled things up a little in my head.”

He felt her snort. Then her mouth traveled up his neck, using kisses like stepping stones. When her lips reached his ear, she breathed, “We'll talk about it tomorrow. Now go to sleep. I promise I'll stay right here in bed with you.”

Talk about it tomorrow?
What kind of answer was that? That “talk” better include some of that proof she'd promised. And “proof” better include . . . He fell asleep.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Eight

C
herie spent the night tangled up with a deeply slumbering Vader. She didn't sleep much as she ran through everything that had happened in the course of their relationship. How every choice Vader had made was based on the generosity of his big heart. While every choice she'd made was based on fear.

Okay, maybe not every choice. She'd been trying to protect her sisters. And she'd had the good sense to let Vader into her life in the first place. But after that she'd pretty much made a mess of things. Worst of all, she'd let her fears from the past hurt the most important person in her life. Because that's what he was, she realized as she basked in the warm, reassuring rumble of his snores. Vader, somehow, without her realizing it, had become the person who mattered to her the most.

Trixie stayed up late watching the
Friends
marathon, then crawled into the other double bed. “Don't you dare do anything sinful,” she said, before laying her head on the pillow and virtually passing out.

Cherie wanted to point out that Trixie's deceptions weren't exactly earning her a pass into heaven, but snuggling next to Vader made her feel too good to complain. But her sister did have a good point, so she wore a nightgown to bed and tried to think chaste thoughts.

That effort ended when she woke up to find Trixie's bed empty except for a note written with eyeliner on a piece of hotel stationery.
Cherie—­The free continental breakfast is calling my name. I'll be in the lobby. No rush. Hint, hint. P.S. You deserve to be happy. Love, Trixie
.

Cherie glanced over at Vader, who was still asleep. He looked good. Not only in his usual manly way, but in the sense that he didn't look so pale and he was breathing easily. She went into the bathroom, and washed her hands and face. Then, remembering Mackintosh's denim-­clad arms grabbing her, she stripped off her nightgown and hopped in the shower. As she let the hot water wash over her, as she scrubbed every bit of him from her skin, she thought about Vader's reaction to her words of love yesterday.

He hadn't believed her.

It hadn't gone at all the way she'd expected. She'd imagined him lighting up with joy, his whole world transformed by the fact that finally,
finally
, she was giving him the same loving words he gave her. As if she were a fairy granting him his heart's desire.

Instead, he'd had a perfectly reasonable reaction. After everything that had happened between them, he was going to need more than pretty words. And how had she responded to that? She'd shut down and nearly pushed him away. The same exact thing she always did. She'd responded out of fear.

No more. With sudden determination, she turned off the water. After she'd dried herself off, she walked naked into the bedroom. Just to be safe, she opened the door a crack, turned the door hanger so it told the world, “Do Not Disturb,” and adjusted the blinds so they were completely closed. Then she slid back into bed.

She began by placing her hand on the left side of his chest, where solid muscle formed a sort of shield of flesh. Maybe he had his own defenses against hurt: the spectacular conditioning of his body. She let her hand sit for a long moment as warmth seeped into it and the pulsing of her own veins tangled with the steady rhythm of his heart. Vader might rely on his muscles, but she knew his true strength lay in the vital organ beneath.

She ran her hand down the rippling pattern of muscles covered in warm, silky skin. As much as Vader prided himself on his toughness, his belly was tender to the point of being ticklish. Even asleep, his skin gave little flinches as she dipped her hand into the valley between his hipbones. His hips were narrow compared to the breadth of his shoulders. She wondered what his physique would have been like if he hadn't started lifting weights as an overwhelmed teenager. She wondered what sort of person he would have become if he hadn't had to take care of his mother alone.

She couldn't imagine him becoming anyone better than he was. He'd taken a crappy turn of the dice and made something beautiful out of it.

She pressed her lips to his shoulder. It felt like kissing a sun-­warmed boulder. Those huge muscles were a work of art, honed to their peak. She darted her tongue against his skin and sucked in quickly, adding a little nibble. Not for the first time, she wondered what someone as obsessed with fitness as Vader saw in her. She wasn't one of those tight, athletic girls. Her shape was more womanly, always had been. As much as she loved to dance and move her body, she'd never felt compelled to lose a lot of weight. Tango didn't require it, neither did movement therapy.

But maybe her relative softness was what drew him. If he wanted someone to lift weights with, he could have hooked up with one of the girls at his gym, Toned. She'd walked in there one day, turned right around, and never gone back. Not her world at all. She liked moving to the music, losing herself in the rhythm, letting the melody sweep her away.

Dancing was the closest she let herself come to singing. Well, maybe not the closest, she thought with a dreamy smile as she sealed her naked body against Vader's.
This
might come even closer.

Hearing the opening beats of her favorite tango number echo in her head, she subtly undulated her body against his side. Her hand drifted to the iron curve of his upper thigh. Even in repose, the power of those legs took her breath away. She spent some time running her hand back and forth across the mountainous territory from outer to inner thigh. The slight covering of little hairs made the motion pleasantly, mildly abrasive. The sensation of growing heat in her palm inspired an answering glow deep in her belly.

Was any of this having any effect on the Sleeping Beast? Time to find out. As if her fingers were curious explorers hiking across familiar terrain, she inched her hand into the thicket of curls between his thighs. Ah yes, there it was, that rigid rise of flesh soaring skyward. She glanced down, seeing the definite tent that had formed under the bedsheet. Then she let her gaze travel upward, across the dunes of his chest to the smile hovering over his mouth. His eyes were closed, but something about that smile . . .

She wrapped her hand around his shaft. Saw his eyes shift back and forth behind closed eyelids, the corner of his mouth lift. So he was secretly awake, just as she'd suspected. And he wanted to play.

In one swift movement, she stripped the sheet from his body. She took a moment to appreciate the thick, eager erection rearing between his legs. Then she swung her body on top of his and straddled him.

His chest rose as he drew in a sharp breath. She squeezed her legs around his hips, so the soft flesh of her inner thighs clung to his erection. She watched his lips tighten, then relax as he let out a snore.

A
snore
? So he was going to play it that way, was he? She leaned forward until her breasts pressed against his hard chest. She nipped his chin, trying to surprise a reaction out of him. When that didn't work, she eased her tongue across the coffee-­dark stubble on his chin. Sucked his Adam's apple. Pressed her lips into the divot between his collarbones. As she did so, she turned her body into a full-­length, life-­size Magic Hands, massaging with her breasts, her hips, her skin.

These detailed sensual attentions usually came from him as he worshipped her body with his. This time, it was her turn to swirl kisses along the swoop of a rib, to bring his nipple between her lips, flick it with her tongue. Each muscle received its own careful delineation from the steady march of her mouth. No inch of his upper body escaped her avid, appreciative suckling.

Immersed as she was in his physicality, she knew when his pulse quickened, when his shaft hardened in the tight grasp of her thighs. But a surreptitious glance upward showed he was still holding firm. His breath might be hissing through his teeth, but his eyelids were clamped shut.

“This means war, big guy,” she murmured. She shifted her body downward, her knees on either side of his. A light stroke of her fingertips along his erection brought a groan that he quickly tried to mask as another snore. She smiled, followed her fingertips with her tongue, from root to tip, then blew on the wet trail she'd left. His hips flexed, as if greedy for more.

“Something you want to say?” she said, her lips brushing against his penis.

This time his fake snore had a pleading quality. She could relate. Handling his body like this had set off a hum of arousal inside her. Her nipples were swollen from brushing against the rough hair on his chest. Her inner thighs tingled, her sex quickened. Even her mouth throbbed from the contact with his hot skin.

“I see what's going on here. You want me to do the talking. Fair enough.” She swirled her tongue around the flange on the head of his shaft. “I love you, Derek ‘Vader' Brown.” Taking the entire head in her mouth, she closed her eyes, savoring the intimate connection, his vulnerability. When she drew her mouth away, his erection, wet and glistening, sprang toward his belly. She spread butterfly touches along it, along his thighs, his springy hair, his sensitive belly.

“I know I wasted a lot of time and I hope you can forgive me. It's okay if you don't believe me right away. Just give me a chance, that's all I ask. I'll keep saying it and trying to prove it until you just have to believe me. And if it turns out you don't love me anymore, well, I don't know. I'm not going to worry about that now. I'm going to throw everything I have into showing you how much you mean to me.”

She raised herself on her knees, risking a quick check of her pretend-­sleeping lover. A broad smile had spread across his face and his eyes had opened just a slit. Enough so a brown ray of warmth shone through. Her heart stuttered, then resumed in a kind of joyfully skipping rhythm she didn't recognize. She felt . . . free. Unafraid. Open. In love.

She reached up and gave him a playful flick on the uninjured side of his head. “Is any of this getting through or do I need to break out the signpost?”

“Follow the signs. Into the fire,” he murmured, which might have sounded like aftereffects of a concussion if it hadn't made sense to her. When it came to love, you just had to make the leap into the fire. Anyway, there was no need to be afraid of the fire between them. He was a fireman; she'd be safe with him.

“Into the fire,” she agreed, shifting her knees closer together. “Or onto it.” And she took his erection into her hand, guiding him into her body. Not that he needed direction; his shaft settled into place like an arrow into a quiver. Everything in her world settled into place along with it. If he had doubts about her love, he would have stopped her. But he hadn't, and a sweet sense of harmony rippled through her. She let out a long, luxurious sigh as she clasped him in the clinging depths of her core. “I've got you now, Vader Brown. Don't even think about going anywhere else.”

She lifted herself up until his slick length nearly left her, then lowered herself back into place.

“Sweet Lord,” he breathed, his hands going to her breasts, those big thumbs teasing her nipples. It felt so good she groaned, which didn't sound at all graceful. “You are the sexiest woman in the world.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Hey. You're the sexiest woman in
my
world. You know what else happens in my world?” Taking charge, he thrust his hips upward. The sudden surge of masculine power shot through her like a bolt of lightning.

“What?” she gasped.

“In my world, you take your compliments and smile nicely and say, ‘Thank you, Vader, you know best.' ” He transferred her hands to her hips so he could intensify the rhythm of up and down. “Bend closer.”

She lowered her torso and braced her hands on either side of him. With quick, glancing flickers of his tongue that sparked little shocks of pleasure, he lapped at her nipples.

“That feels insanely good, Vader,” she said, in a not entirely steady voice.

“This is only the beginning, Cherie,” he answered, hot breath whispering across her sensitized breasts. “I'm going to love you so hard, you'll be looking at insane in the rearview mirror.”

Flames rushed from her face to the backs of her thighs, where his hands were now playing. “Promises, promises,” she muttered, arching her back to give him more flesh to work with, to tease, to consume.

“Oh, it's a promise all right.” He ran his hands along the globes of her ass, his big palms making her feel beautiful. Not too big, not too small. “I never break a promise. You can ask anyone.”

She didn't have to. Some things were like bedrock, and that was one of them. Vader, strong as a ram, loyal as a hound dog. Lovable as a kitten, though she'd never tell him that. Instead she let her body do the rest of the talking. Let her moans and quivers show him how much he moved her. Gave herself over to him, her breasts to his talented mouth, her hips to his powerful grip, her core to the intimate invasion of his shaft.