Page 16 of Rough Return

As far as first-dance-as-a-couple conversation went, Fiona needed some guidance. “I’m psychic, remember?”

She shook her head. “You said I was the psychic.”

At least, she was playing along. “Tonight, I am.”

“What am I thinking then?”

Hell if he knew. All he could say for certain was that when she flipped her hair like that, he could smell her shampoo, and no other fragrance excited him so much. “You’re thinking…” He leaned in close, put his lips against her ear and whispered, “You’re thinking how much you like dancing with me.”

“I was actually thinking I hope I don’t step on your toes.” She rested her head over his heart and let him guide their swaying bodies. And he knew she let him. Had no illusion to any other truth. Nor did he mind. Actually, it made him smile. And he doubted he’d ever be able to wipe that goofy smile from his lips ever again.

He whirled her in a quick circle—showing off for the crowd—and she gasped then giggled. “Like that?” He twirled her out then back in so she thudded against his chest.

“I would’ve never guessed you had moves.”

“Oh, I’ve got moves.” And they weren’t singular to the dance floor. Moves he’d be all too happy to show any other woman except Fiona. He just couldn’t wrap his head around having sex with her. No matter how badly he wanted her. And, safe to say, he’d never wanted anyone more.

They danced. And ate. Drank more than a few. And nothing wiped the naughty pictures of his wife—wife?—from his mind. Her touches lingered. Her smile brightened. Her words slurred. And finally, it was late enough, they’d done all the traditions, and they could leave. Max had gone early, the crowd had thinned, and they had a driver, so the time to take her home, and drop her off, wasn’t going to get any better.

“You ready to go?” She had one arm draped around his waist, and she snuggled under his arm with her other hand hovering just above his belt buckle.

She tilted her head to stare up at him, eyes glazed and dreamy. “Yes, please.” Her thumb dipped into his waistband, stroking his shirt just below his stomach.

Oh, God. He glanced at the spot where Max had sat most of the evening. Empty. But he half-expected Max to be sitting there wagging the no-no finger. He shook off his thoughts and nodded to Jez who stuck the first two fingers of each hand into her mouth and whistled.

“Come on, y’all. The bride and groom are ready to start their wedding night. Demon send-off.” She waved a finger over her head in a circle then pointed it toward the door.

The bikes had been lined up to make an aisle. Little bags of rice or birdseed had been set on each gas tank. Grier and Fiona stood at the edge of the aisle and waited for the symphony of engines to start, to rev, like a perfectly tuned orchestra before they rushed through, her soft, satin skin wrapped around his more calloused fingers.

Twice during the ride, Fiona dropped her hand into his lap and twice Grier thought about letting it stay, but twice lifted her wrist to move it back to his knee. The first time she’d laughed, the second she huffed out a little breath. She didn’t try again. Instead, she leaned her head against the seat and stared out the sunroof of Max’s Mercedes until the car pulled in front of her townhouse.

He hadn’t really thought this far ahead but climbed out of his side and came around to hers to help her out. She didn’t touch him, didn’t even take his offered hand. She stomped up the steps leading to her place, her heels an angry clicking sound against the stone walk. When they reached the door, she fumbled with her keys in the lock. “Let me.” He opened the door, and she waited on the porch.

“Are you coming in?” Her voice, as wary as it was weary, trembled until he shook his head. Then she found her power. “It’s our wedding night.”

“In name, Fifi.”

“If I didn’t want to get laid, I would’ve married Ham.” She cocked her head to the side and smacked it on the brick façade of her house.

Grier pulled her in and kissed the spot she’d injured. “All better.”

He would have expected her to pull away since her anger palpitated the air since he’d removed her hand from his crotch. Instead, she slid closer until all of his senses were filled by Fiona. Her perfume, her cheek under his palm—how the hell had that gotten there?—her gaze locked with his while her finger traced his lower lip back and forth. Her soft moan. This moment was all Fiona. Tantalizing. Tempting. Oh, so tempting. Enough he couldn’t form an entire thought.

“Come inside.”

How many times had Max told him? Guard her body but touch her and I’ll kill you myself. A potent threat. Of course, back then he hadn’t even considered… well, maybe considered, but never acted. His brain couldn’t separate the old days from now. And besides a couple of kisses, he didn’t need reminding of since they didn’t support his argument, this marriage was in name only… for convenience… not real. Although her warm breath at his throat felt real enough.

“I should go.” He worked to untangle her arms from where they’d slithered around his neck. Then his waist. Then she had a handful of his ass. “Fiona!” Wow, that was loud. He lowered his voice, “Fiona.”

“We’re married, Grier.” The hand on his ass slipped around to the front. “And I want you.” With his palms, he pressured her shoulders until she stepped back. “You know what? Fine, Grier. If you don’t want me, all you had to do was say so.”

Oh, God. She had it all wrong. So wrong. The kind of wrong he wouldn’t be able to undo until she was sober. “That isn’t it.”

“You do want me?”

“Yes.” She started to move in again. “I mean, no. And yes, but not… like this. Fiona…”

“Like what? On our wedding night?”