Roxie Honeycutt loved designing bridal couture. She loved to make brides-to-be happy. As a wedding planner, she got to watch many of them walk down the aisle. Seeing the grooms’ faces when they saw their brides for the first time was one of her favorite parts of her job.

The concept of designing a bride’s trousseau had come about when her close friends, Briar Savitt, Olivia Leighton, and Adrian Bracken all married their significant others in rapid succession. She’d experimented with everything from chemises to baby dolls to negligees. She’d created prototypes of garters and hosiery, teddies and corsets.

She loved making women feel sexy and confident in their own skin.

Though, how could she expect them to feel sexy and confident in her lingerie if she didn’t?

She turned in front of the floor length mirror in the master bathroom of the grand Victorian she’d leased for the year. She’d had to fight for the stunning piece of real estate. She’d fought and won…for twelve months, at least. From that point on, she’d expect she’d be entangled once more in negotiations with the other interested party, tall, dark and handsome Byron Strong.

The man she just happened to be shagging at present.

Roxie smiled at her reflection. The effect was smug. A different look for her. Over the last year, she’d hit rock bottom after her husband’s affair with her sister. Make that her ex-husband. Richard had come back recently looking for answers—wanting to give the marriage another chance.

For a brief time, Roxie had thought that was what she wanted, too.

And then Bryon.

He had a habit of stepping in at the worst of times…or the best of times, depending on how she looked at it.

Since he’d come into her life, she had started to think of her cup as half-full again.

About time, she thought. Her optimism had been her boon companion since recovering from an eating disorder a decade ago. It had helped her create her business. She was who she was today because of her optimistic nature. If she could dream it, by God, she could do it.

Her optimism had taken a hit, naturally, after the shock of finding Richard in bed with Cassandra of all people…and over the course of her divorce proceedings. For the first time, fitting brides in dresses tailored to their styles and bodies and planning their weddings…watching them walk off into the sunset had been a challenge.

She’d missed the optimism, she realized. She’d missed who she’d made herself in spite of everything. She’d missed how much she dearly loved her job.

It had all come rushing back over the last few weeks. She’d told Richard goodbye. She’d helped plan Bryon’s sister Viviana’s nuptials and what a beautiful event that had been. Life-affirming, in a way, as Viviana had worked diligently to overcome her disability to be able walk down the aisle on her own two legs on her big brother’s arm.

Even Byron, the quintessential cynic, had been moved to tears.

“There’s something missing,” Roxie considered as she faced front again. She placed her hands on her hips and watched the scantily clad woman in the mirror follow suit. Tilting her head, she pursed her lips. “What is it?” The black bustier didn’t just display the curves of her breasts. It offered them up as bounty. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Teensy, playful red bows set off the garment’s sheer daring. In the back, she’d used red instead of black peek-a-boo lacing.

It set off her curves to perfection. Yet it needed something.

“Rox?”

She canted her head to the door and called back through the house, “Up here!”

Heavy footsteps followed. As the pocket door of the bathroom whispered across the track, she turned to face her…lover? Boyfriend?

She and Byron had yet to define their relationship. The last few weeks had been more about mutual enjoyment than anything.

He was a widower. It had been many years since his wife’s death, but he was still wounded in so many ways.

Roxie wasn’t sure he was ready to talk about things or make whatever this was between them—this heated sizzle, sizzle, snap they were caught in—transparent.

She would content herself in that if it meant him coming home to her every night. His leather briefcase was still firmly in hand and he hadn’t loosened his tie. In a suit, he was downright devastating with his long dark hair swept back from a face dominated by midnight blue eyes and a Greek nose. His skin was the color of pie crust fresh from the oven. Every inch of it, she’d happily discovered. He dropped the briefcase on the spot. “Jesus,” he muttered.

Lifting her hands, she asked, “What’s missing?”

He stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped. It took him a moment to pick it back up again, his lips firming as his brows arched skyward. “Aside from your clothes?”

She rolled her eyes and whirled back to the mirror. “I can’t put my finger on it. There’s something wrong. Something just a little bit off balance.”

“Me,” he said. In the mirror, behind her reflection, he lifted his hand in indication. “You…whatever that is… I feel like I’m on a goddamn carousel.”

She reached for the bodice, absently running her fingertip along the scalloped edge. “Then maybe you should sit down…”

He hissed, shifting on his feet. “What are doing? Stop that. My God. Are you trying to make me lose my head?”

She studied him, fascinated. The snug smile came back to her mouth and she locked eyes with him as she dipped her fingers beneath the bodice in the dip between her breasts.

His jaw muscles punched outward as they flexed, flared. He pushed a breath out through his nose and a decidedly male noise with it.

“Hm,” she said, considering her own self in the mirror again. She reached back for the laces. “I’m glad you’re here. I was starting to wonder how I was going to get out of this one. Do you think you could…?”

“You planned this,” he said, taking a step forward without much reluctance. “Didn’t you?”

“Whatever can he mean?” she asked her reflection. “I was just trying on prototypes for my collection—”

“Shortly after quitting time,” he added. Close at her back…close enough to touch or rock back against if she wanted to… 

His face fell. “Wait a second, duchess. Prototypes? As in plural?”

“Mm hm.”

She’d never seen his eyes so round. “You mean, there’s more—than this?”

“Why, of course,” she said as if that much was obvious.

He nodded. His hands rose to her shoulders and his chin came down to rest on her head. “I’m going to need to see that.”

“The collection’s private until its launch in the spring.” She pouted at him. “Sorry.”

He considered. Finally, he dropped his eyes to the line of her shoulders. His fingers began to massage.

She tried not to whimper…and found she couldn’t control herself. Little mews of pleasure rose up her throat in earnest.

“What if,” he said, lowering his voice in a rusty timbre, “I offered an exchange?”

His thumbs circled the muscles in her neck that had grown rigid throughout the day’s fittings at her shop. She caught her eyes rolling into the back of her head. God, yes. Work it. “What, um…” She cleared her throat, started over. “What kind of exchange?”

“Anything you want.”

Her eyes snapped open. They fixed on his. “Anything?”

His smile was devastating. It shot straight to her core. “Anything.”

She smiled slowly as the answer came to her. “All right,” she agreed. “Be right back.”

“Where are you going?” he asked as she slipped out from under his kneading fingers.

“To the kitchen.”

“Why?”

She threw a look over her shoulder as she slipped out the pocket door. “You’ll see.” She waved a hand at his front. “Have all of that discarded by the time I get back.”

*

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Hold still.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s working.”

“It’s sticky.”

“Good.” She beamed at her progress as she set aside the bottle of caramel syrup. Sitting on her knees on the bed, she clapped her hands. “It’s perfect. Just like I dreamed it…”

“It being…” Byron trailed off, waiting for an answer as he perused the lines of syrup she had squeezed onto his flat stomach.

She picked up the bag of mini marshmallows. “Did I tell you about the dream I had?” she asked, tearing off a corner of the plastic.

“When?”

“When I moved in,” she said. “When you and I were at odds.”

“You dreamed about me?”

She nodded, taking out a single marshmallow. She stuck it in her mouth and hummed. “I’m blowing my diet, and I don’t care.”

“Rox,” he said. He lifted his hands. “Explain.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I dreamed about you. I blamed burn-out and exhaustion. But you and I were here…in bed.”

“Uh huh,” he drawled.

“You were sprawled out. Like so,” she added, gesturing to his supine position.

“And?”

“And I apparently had these,” she said, holding the bottle and the bag up for him to see.

“Okay…”

“And I was gleefully engaged in a game of tic-tac-toe,” she finished.

“On my stomach?” he clarified.

“Well, you see…” She sighed as she leaned over him, digging her elbow into the bed. She traced the lines of his abs in the air as not to upset the gooey grid she’d drawn on him. “You’re so cut, you have these perfect lines here…here…here…and here…”

“And your mind immediately went to tic-tac-toe?” he asked, bewildered.

“My subconscious mind,” she amended.

“Huh,” was all he said in response.

She chose another marshmallow. “You said I could do anything I wanted…”

“I did say that,” he weighed.

“So…” She placed the marshmallow in the center of the grid. “Your turn.”

When she handed him the bag, he took it reluctantly. Amusement sparked behind the wariness of his expression. “You continue to bemuse me, duchess.”

“I am a woman of many talents,” she informed him.

“Don’t I know it.” He placed the marshmallow in the top left square. “What happens if I win?”

“You get to take a shower,” she revealed before placing her second marshmallow beneath her first one.

“And if you win?”

She smirked. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” That yummy, yummy bridge, she thought. Anticipation curled low beneath her navel. The sheet was at his waist, hiding his accouterments. Her blood quickened. Her thighs were already singing.

He began to place his marshmallow in the right bottom corner. He made a noise—half grunt of frustration, half laugh—when she knocked his hand out of the way. “You cheat at this game,” he accused.

“I really do,” she purred.

He let his gaze caress her face. It skimmed, light and loving, across her features. The expression, so unguarded for him, made her ache. Finally, he chose to place his marshmallow under his first one.

She dropped hers into the middle spot on the top row and grinned. “I win!”

“I’ll be damned.”

She rolled onto his thighs. Still clad in the bustier, she placed her hands on either side of his waist. She observed his answering smile and how his eyes dropped to her overflowing cleavage. Dropping his head back, he raised his hands. “Have your way with me.”

Drawing her hair back from her shoulders, she eyed the bounty before her. Then she dipped her head to his stomach and traced a line with her tongue.

He groaned. When he spoke again, it was through his teeth. “You minx.”

She scooped a mini marshmallow as she went. Stopping to swallow, she saw that his neck muscles were tense, drawing his collarbone into distinction. “This is better than I imagined,” she realized.

“This might kill me,” he decided as she went back to her clean-up job, licking lower—toward the sheet.

She hadn’t thought he’d make noises like this. She hadn’t imagined his muscles locking, his laugh rocketing toward the cathedral-style ceiling.

She hadn’t expected him to writhe. Not like this. He was breathless, his eyes burning.

She plucked another marshmallow into her mouth.

He dropped his head back.

“Is this too much for you?” she asked, giving him a momentary break.

“Best damn game I’ve ever lost,” he muttered, shaking his head listlessly.

She lit up inside—like a frickin’ chandelier and went back to licking what she’d done with abandon that drew his knees up under the sheet on either side of her hips. His hand fisted in the pillow above his head. The other took her hair in a firm grip.

She could feel his excitement. Not far below the line of the sheet, he was hard for her—for her wicked games.

She drew the Egyptian cotton aside. There was a little glob of caramel on her thumb. She smeared it across the head of his erection.

He cursed. Then, “Taste it, duchess,” he said. “Taste me.”

She didn’t disobey. She used her mouth to tease and torment, to bring him up to the high point of surrender. Then she pulled away. When he protested, she touched a finger to his lips. “I need you to focus,” she told him.

His nostrils flared and his eyes were slightly glazed. He blinked several times to clear them. “Tell me what you want,” he told her. “You know I’d do anything. Don’t you?”

Her pulse leapt. Tell me you love me, a faraway voice in her head whispered. Begged. Don’t run away when I tell you first.

It was coming. She knew it was coming. She felt it coming, as certainty as she felt the changing of the seasons. She’d been falling in love with Byron—one of her best friends—for a while now. Maybe since that first kiss. It seemed so long ago.

Had she known then, somehow, it would all come to this—her, on her knees, asking him to love her?

His hand framed her cheek, bringing her back to him. “Rox? What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, seeing concern bleed through the midnight blue of his eyes. She closed hers and shook her head again, faster this time. “I just… I need you to take this off of me. I wasn’t lying when I said I couldn’t do it myself.”

“Okay,” he said, shifting to do so.

“You can’t tear it,” she warned. “It’s handmade. One of a kind. If you rip anything, I may cry.”

His lips came to rest on the sensitive space beneath her ear. His pledge blew soft across her ear. “It won’t come to that. Just hold still for me.”

He untied the laces gently, parting the bustier over her spine. He traced the lines it left in her skin and lowered his head to trace each with kisses.

Oh, God, she thought, closing her eyes.

She felt the straps slip free of her shoulders, guided by his hands. She let the bodice fall away and wiggled a bit to loosen it at the waist.

Byron laid it safely aside. “See?” Behind her, he nuzzled her shoulder, rocking against the back of her hips. “I told you I wouldn’t make you cry.”

Not yet. Unwilling to let the voice inside her ruin this moment, she rocked back against his arousal.

His breath blew harsh across her cheek. “What are my orders now, duchess?”

“Love me,” she said before she could think about it. Just love me, please.

The bed dipped to cradle them. He drew her chin sideways until her mouth met his.

He kissed her into complacency. It was like sinking into a hot, luxurious bath. The sheer heat of his body radiated through her. She sighed against his mouth, awash with sensation. He palmed her breast, and her mouth dropped open on a sound of surprise. His fingertips closed around her nipple, rolling it effectively. She moaned, drawing up tight around the fire inside her.

His lips lowered to her cheek. “If I did this enough, I could make you come. Couldn’t I?”

Her hips moved against his in answer. He cupped his free hand around the side of her face, offering her mouth to himself. As her tongue sought his, he moaned. “You taste better than any syrup I’ve ever tasted.” Nipping from one corner to the other, he seemed to tease himself as much as her. “I could kiss you until we both flame out.”

Yes. She was a melting pot of elicit wishes. When he breathed her name like a prayer against her mouth, she nearly came undone.

She felt the hand on her cheek move down over her throat, arrowing down the center of her body. When it passed over her navel, she pressed her hand to his wrist, anchoring.

He trailed his fingers over her hip to knead the outer muscle of her thigh.

“Let me…” he plied, massaging his way around to the inside of her leg. She lifted her knee, opening for him.

He daubed her slick response and she arched, the keen blade of desire driving her. His fingers worked her nipple as he kneaded the aching knot at the apex of her thighs and his erection pressed like a hot brand against the back of her hips. “Come,” he told her.

He was in charge now, she realized. She’d given up her command to burn, pant..helpless. She craved this kind of weakness. 

Cursing, he lowered his head over her shoulder and took the peak of her breast in his mouth.

She flew apart with an errant scream, anchoring the convulsions of her body with an arm around the back of his head. He growled, satisfied, before coaxing her onto her back. Like a wave, he rose over her, heat, sinew, strength. Head falling back, he seated himself inside her.

An unwashed ache took her by surprise. She held on as he lost himself, too, in the sensuous cadence of their slick bodies. 

Soon, she shuddered again over climax. Not long after, he followed.

She found herself coming to rest in the circle of his arms as he flipped so she lay, limp, across his chest.

Quiet took over as their breathing eased gradually. Still, her pulse tripped and she didn’t move, savoring this. Savoring being here with him.

She wanted to tell him. Of course, she wanted to tell him. Love was meant to be shared.

But doubt existed. It was lodged, stubborn, in the recesses of her mind, and she couldn’t ignore it.

Was he ready? God, was she? Would either of them be able to love free of doubt again?

She pillowed her cheek in his shoulder as he shifted once more, gathering her in. Determined to lose herself in the afterglow, she tuned out everything else and let herself drift.

© Amber Leigh Williams