In Over His Head

Chapter 42

A few days later

Kevin was fiddling with his tie in a mirror in the main area of the suite, utterly distracted by the vision of Sharla standing in the bedroom, in her underwear.

She was staring down at her sage green bridesmaid's dress, laid out on the bed. An attendant had brought it in fifteen minutes ago, freshly pressed, but she had yet to put it on. She was in a strapless bra and odd high waisted shorts that took her five minutes to yank on, cursing the entire time.

"Aren't you going to put it on?" he asked.

"I'm currently feeling incredibly fat and worried it isn't going to fit," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous," he called back to her, and then growled as he tugged one way too far on the bowtie. She padded out of the bedroom towards him, waving his hands away from his neck, adjusting it for him, her tongue stuck out at a funny angle as she did.

"There. Better?"

He nodded, noticing her artfully swept eye makeup, and a luminescent dusting of powder made her cheeks glow. He'd never seen her in makeup like that, and it was both breathtaking and jarring.

The salon was just up the street and she had returned slightly buzzed earlier, which as he studied her, was gone now. She and Gretchen, along with a gaggle of other women had toasted with bottles of champagne. It was all Kevin could do not to pin her to the door when she waltzed in, her cheeks pink, a happy smile on her face. She danced up to him and called him her sexy British man, then patted him on the ass, flopped to the couch, and lay motionless for half an hour.

He slid his hands along the smooth fabric of the shaping shorts as she tugged on his collar to even it out. Even that was a turn on, the way it accentuated her curves, her bottom a perfect slope to fit into his palm.

"I really want to kiss you right now," he murmured. "These panties really lift your bum. I like them."

"They're supposed to. Need all the help I can get," she said. She pushed on his chest in mock protest when he attempted to pull her closer. "Uh uh. No kissing. This face cost me seventy-five bucks, mister. I am not messing it up before we're all done with the ceremony."

He pouted, trying to lighten the mood. She was anxious. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and pecked him on the lips carefully.

"That will have to hold you," she admonished, then walked back to the bedroom.

What he wanted to do was strip her out of her underthings and have his way with her. Like he'd been doing for the past two days, almost nonstop. They'd not slept their last night in St. Anthony, skipping dinner to test every surface of that tiny room. The bed squeaked loudly, so it was also out of preservation for the rest of the place listening to them make love.

Months of pent up frustration had exploded out of both of them that night, and in the nights since. As always, she gave herself over completely, teasing him, submitting to him. He adjusted himself in his tuxedo pants when an image of her plastered up against the shower tile in their suite here, with him buried to the hilt, her fingernails digging into the muscle on his chest, her legs up around his—

"Damn," he muttered and attempted to think of something else. They could not make love now. She needed to be unrumpled when he delivered her to Gretchen. He wanted to, very badly, and couldn't wait until they were back here after the reception.

He felt as if the world was his for the taking, and at the same time, overwhelmed by the emotion that would catch him at the oddest of moments. She would look at him and he'd want to sweep her off her feet and make love to her wherever they were standing. It was almost as bad as when he first acknowledged he wanted her. Randomly turned on like a freshman noticing women for the first time and learning to control his libido in public.