The Wedding Band by Cara Connelly Page A

her.
    More afraid that he’d stop.
    T HERE, RIG HT THERE. The crook of her elbow was silky and tender, and he’d swear it was wired straight to her pussy.
    Once more Kota stroked it, the sweep of a feather, then drew his finger up and away, and saw her strain not to chase it.
    Over her shoulder he traced a path, then down the back of her arm, raising goose bumps in his wake. She shivered, and he cupped her elbow. Slid his thumb once more into the crook and felt her pulse going wild.
    He was half wild himself, hard as a nail and ready to yank her by that elbow into his lap, shred the dress she wouldn’t need anymore, and pull her down on his cock as he drove up hard.
    But he willed himself to cradle her elbow lightly, to slide his thumb back and forth. To stoke the flame that would, soon enough, scorch her panties right off.
    He only had to wait, the hardest thing he’d ever done. Wait for her to make the next move, to need him inside her like she needed her next breath.
    Then she’d tear off her own dress. Climb into his lap, onto his cock. She’d rake his shoulders with her nails, arch her back, cry his name—­
    â€œQuit it.” She shook off his hand. “I’m not one of your pets. I’m not going to roll over and beg you to scratch my belly.”
    Leaning back on his elbows, he pulled his knees up before she got a look at the tent in his briefs. He hid surprise and frustration behind amusement. “We’ll see,” was all he said.
    â€œNo, we won’t see . So you can wipe that smirk off your face.”
    He exaggerated a poker face, which seemed to irk her even more.
    â€œI’ve been around celebrities all my life,” she went on. “I know you’re used to women peeling off their clothes every chance they get. You expect it. Well, not me, buster.”
    She shook her head positively, her umbrage patently fueled by bottled-­up lust. “So don’t bother strutting around half naked, waving your muscles and your . . . everything else under my nose.”
    â€œMy everything else?” He wrinkled his brow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
    She glared.
    He shrugged. “Then don’t blame me if I keep waving whatever it is under your nose.”
    â€œVery funny.”
    â€œJust trying to be a good host.”
    â€œYou can be a good host by delivering what you promised. Peace and quiet.”
    If those were really what she wanted, she would’ve stayed in her wing. But for some reason she was denying herself—­and him—­the hot sex she craved.
    She couldn’t hold out for long.
    He rose, careful to keep his back to her, since his “everything else” hadn’t gotten the message that sex was on hold.
    â€œYou want privacy, you got it,” he said obligingly. “But if you’re hungry”—­he rolled it over his shoulder as he strolled through the door—­“I’m making pasta.”
    M MM, PA STA. H ER stomach growled. The mango had been a drop in a very empty bucket.
    Through the open window, she heard Kota banging around in the kitchen. Running water. Opening drawers.
    Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, her mouth watered.
    What harm could there be in sharing lunch? She’d straightened him out on the sex thing. As in, there wouldn’t be any. So what could it hurt?
    Not that she rushed to the kitchen on his heels. She waited a decent interval, then drifted in casually.
    Ignoring his bare chest behind the center island, she opened the fridge as if considering a cold drink.
    â€œGot some sav blanc right here,” he said.
    She pulled her head out of the fridge. The ice bucket sweated on the granite island; the wine gleamed pale gold in his glass.
    He tipped his head at a cabinet. She got a glass, and he filled it.
    What could it hurt?
    Settling on a stool, she leaned an elbow on the counter. On the other side of the island, he was busy kneading