Wedding Party Collection: Always The Bachelor: Best Man's Conquest / One Night with the Best Man / The Bridesmaid's Best Man. Michelle Celmer
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strokes and grabbed the rail. For a second he thought she might try to dunk him, but she only pulled herself up from the water. Her wet skirt stuck to her legs and was considerably more transparent than it had been before.
Was that a pink thong she was wearing?
Her eyes were rimmed with red, her mouth pulled into a rigid line.
“Hey.” He reached out and grabbed her arm but she jerked it away. Without a word she walked across the patio to the house, wet feet slapping, clothes dripping.
He knew every one of Ivy’s expressions and he could swear he’d just seen her on-the-verge-of-tears face.
Of all the reactions she could have possibly had, why would she cry? Anger he could understand. He’d expected her to be furious. But tears?
Or May be she was crying because he hadn’t drowned.
No. If she’d wanted him dead, she wouldn’t have jumped in to rescue him. May be she was just embarrassed that once again he had bested her. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to apologize, even though she’d started it, then May be rub it in her a face one more time for good measure.
He jumped up and went after her, his feet squishing in his sodden boots. “Ivy, hold up.”
But she didn’t stop moving. If anything, she walked faster. She flung open the door, but, thanks to a much longer stride, he caught her just inside the threshold.
“Come on, Ivy, stop.” He reached for her, wrapping his hand around her wrist. Once again she jerked free and marched through the living room. She wasn’t just a little angry that he’d gotten the best of her. She was seriously peeved.
“Come on, Ivy, it was a joke. Lighten up.”
She stopped abruptly and swung around to face him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale, and tears hovered just inside her eyelids.
“A joke?” she asked incredulously. Her lower lip quivered and her hands were trembling. “You call that a joke?”
He shrugged. “I was just fooling around.”
“Fooling around?” She took a step toward him, raising both her arms. For a second he thought she was going to deck him, or wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. Instead she planted both hands on his chest and gave him a good, hard shove. Because he was prepared and outweighed her by almost half, he didn’t go very far.
“Fooling around?” she repeated. Then she gave him another shove, harder this time, knocking him back a couple of inches and darn near forcing the air from his lungs. “You scared me to death, you idiot! I thought you drowned! I thought you were dead.”
The tears flowed over and rolled down her cheeks, and whatever pride remained of his victory fizzled away. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
An explosive combination of fear and fury burned hot and lethal in her eyes. She wound up again, but before she could shove him he grabbed her wrists. She tried to jerk away, but this time he held on.
“Let go of me!” She twisted and yanked, struggling to break free, and he began to worry that she was so hysterical, she would hurt not only him, but herself.
“Ivy, calm down! I didn’t mean to scare you.” He pulled her against him, managed to get his arms around her, pinning her close to his body to protect them both. She was cold, wet and trembling all over. “I’m sorry.”
Has your ex frustrated you to the breaking point? Physical violence, though tempting, is not the answer. Try a punching bag or a voodoo doll instead.
—excerpt from The Modern Woman’s Guide to Divorce (And the Joy of Staying Single)
Ivy wrestled with him another second or two, then went still in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, since that seemed to do the trick. He pressed his cheek to the top of her soggy head.
Her body went lax, as if she’d burned up every last bit of energy, and she all but collapsed against him. Her arms circled his waist and she clung to him, a dripping, trembling, emotional catastrophe.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The game had gotten way out of hand this time. Hadn’t they hurt each other enough?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and her arms squeezed him tighter. He would say it a million times if it would take back what he’d done.
“I th-thought you were dead,” she hiccupped, her cheek pressed against his wet shirt. His throat felt tight with emotion.
Jesus, what was wrong with him?
May be it was a little crazy—or a lot crazy—but he liked her this way. Soft and sweet and vulnerable. She was usually so independent, so driven, he’d rarely had the opportunity to play the role of the hero. The protector.
He stroked her soggy, tangled hair, and for one of those brief, fleeting moments remembered all the reasons he’d fallen in love with her. And wondered why in the hell he’d let her get away.
But it was tough to keep someone around who didn’t want to be there.
“You’re going to wish you had drowned, because when I stop shaking, I’m going to kill you,” she warned him, but she didn’t let go. Didn’t even loosen her grip.
Why would she get so upset if she didn’t still care about him, didn’t still love him somewhere deep down?
And what difference would it make if she did? They’d had their go-around, and it had been a disaster. They may have loved each other, but that didn’t mean they could get along.
That didn’t mean there hadn’t been good times, too.
He cupped a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. She gazed up at him with watery, bloodshot eyes, mascara running down her face, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
“I must look awful,” she said with a sniffle.
He rubbed his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away the last of her tears. “Not at all.”
In fact, he couldn’t remember her ever looking more beautiful, more appealing than she did at that very second.
He brushed his thumbs over her full lips. Her mouth looked soft and inviting. He tried to recall what it felt like to kiss her, and not that taunting little peck she’d laid on him earlier. A real, honest to goodness, I’ll-go-nuts-if-I-can’t-have-you-this-second kiss.
When he looked in her eyes he could swear she was thinking the exact same thing.
In that instant he knew he needed to kiss her. Not wanted. He needed to.
It wasn’t about revenge or breaking her spirit. It wasn’t even about sex. It was just something he had to do.
He lowered his head and she rose up to meet him halfway. They came together swift and firm. With purpose. As though they both knew what they wanted and they weren’t afraid to take it, the consequences be damned.
She took him into her mouth, against her tongue. She tasted warm and familiar and exciting.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t for Ivy to grab his ass and drive herself hard against him. He was so surprised and so turned on, he just about embarrassed himself. He didn’t even know it was possible to get a boner wearing ice-cold wet denim.
He bit down on her lip, the way he used to, and she moaned her appreciation. The sound slipped over him like exquisite Italian silk, cranking his level of arousal up yet another notch. Then she slipped her hand between their tightly fused bodies and rubbed it over his crotch, and he was the one moaning.
He knew without a doubt that kissing her was not going to cut it. He needed to get her naked. He wouldn’t be satisfied