Nine
What happened with the Rogues, stayed with the Rogues. What happened at Rock Creek Cove never happened.
Friday night, and Joe lowered himself onto a beach chair on the banks of Rock Creek, a hidden inlet notorious for skinny-dipping, naked neon Frisbee, and nude water polo. Night crowded him. Tightened his breathing. Tiki pole lights flared, their orange and red flames mirrored in the water. Inhibitions were left on the shore. Eagerness and expectancy sent naked bodies into the cool depths. Women shrieked, bounced, as the chill crept up their thighs. Nipples puckered. The ballplayers claimed “shrinkage.” Laughter and teasing filled the air. A good time—for all but him.
Joe took off his tennis shoes and socks, and let the rippling waves and wet sand suck his toes. Water swelled about his ankles, dampening the frayed hem on his jeans. A missed throw by Jake Packer into the opponents’ goal smashed the shoreline. Splashing him. The ball floated back into play, accompanied by giggles and profanity.
“Who is she, Zoo?” was asked of him. Impatiently.
One of the girls in his party posse passed him a beer. Alyssa was hottest of his twelve groupies. Wavy dark hair, exotic amber eyes, and a suggestive body. Men projected their fantasies onto her. She sat beside him on a beach blanket, her long legs curled beneath her. Her ample breasts and rounded ass nearly escaped her bikini. Tempting. Accessible. She was just waiting for him to unhook her top. To release the string ties at her hips. To get into the game. He had yet to make his move.
She rested her hand on his thigh, her fingertips straying toward his zipper. He took her hand, stilled her strokes. Asked, “Who’s who, ’Lyssa?”
“The woman who’s got you thinking about her when there’s naked water polo being played in front of you.”
He took a pull on his longneck Red Dog. “I’m watching.” Half truth. He’d seen enough to know the score. “Three to one. Pax’s team is ahead. Sam’s side would be doing better if the guys kept their eyes on the ball instead of on Cady’s breasts.”
Incredible double Ds. A total turn-on for his buddies. Joe was certain that Sam Matthews was sweating bullets in the cold water. His teammate was interested in the brunette, but he hadn’t acted on his attraction. Out of respect for Joe. Cady was part of his posse. Party girls he had personally selected. Babes who stuck by him. His teammates might come on to his girls, but they never took them home.
Wild Cady had recently written a children’s book. She’d shyly shown it to him. An inner glimpse of her softer side. She had a big heart. A love for kids. She deserved a decent guy. She glanced at Sam as often as he looked at her. Their gazes locked, and they lost the next point. The ball dropped between them. Sam retrieved it. Homed again on Cady, indifferent to the outcome of the game.
Alyssa nudged Joe. “Why aren’t you naked?”
“Why aren’t you?”
She drew his hand to her mouth, deep-throated his middle finger. Swirled the tip. “I’m waiting for you.”
It would be a long wait. His ass wasn’t leaving the chair until he cleared his head and came to a decision. One that involved Stevie. She staggered him. Stuck on his mind. The fact that he liked her, sarcasm and all, shook him. She gave him a hard time. And a hard-on.
He was a man of raw sex appeal. He raised women’s heartbeats. Stevie quickened his pulse. Gentle was new to him. Their practice photo-shoot kiss had nearly undone him. Soft and slow. She had wanted their kiss to continue. He’d heard it in her sigh. A significant longing. He’d put on the brakes. They had chemistry. A subsequent kiss with tongue and touching would’ve led to sex. Assuredly. He’d been a week without a woman and had been horny as hell, sporting a boner and blue balls. Not to his liking.
He wondered where Stevie would fit into his life. She was unique. Unbelievably gorgeous. Kind. Smart, too. A psychologist. That revelation had been mind-blowing, and, if he was honest with himself, impressive. Her career shouldn’t have mattered to him, but it did. He had a history with school guidance counselors and referral therapists that brought back difficult times and dark memories. Professionals had judged, criticized, and picked him apart, pointing out his faults and mistakes. Assuming reasons as to why he acted out. They never had a positive word for him. He’d grown combative, punching his way through his teens.
His life gradually improved with age. Sex brought him release. Calmed him. Women came and went. No woman stayed in his bed or in his mind too long. Up until Stevie. She conceivably knew him better than he knew himself. Whether that was a good or a bad thing, he’d yet to resolve.
Joe leaned back in the chair, stared up at the sky. There were a few stars. No moon. He finished off his beer. Alyssa offered him a second, but he shook his head. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. He cupped her chin with his palm, stroked his thumb over her lips. She nipped his wrist. Her gaze softened, expectant. She was ready to strip down and play water polo. He wasn’t there yet. He had a question for her. “Who am I to you?” he asked.
She blinked. “A trick question?”
“No correct answer. Just be honest.”
“You’re my favorite Rogue.”
“Mine, too,” from Cady. Out of the water, she walked toward them, all shivering flesh and chattering teeth. She leaned over Joe, kissed him full on the mouth. Her nipples nearly poked out his eye. Alyssa tossed her a beach towel, which she wrapped around her full figure. The ends gapped at her breasts. Split between her thighs. “I like my party guy,” she added.
Roz of the red hair and low, sexy voice, the tallest of his posse, joined them. She slipped on a short terry-cloth cover-up that looked like a bathrobe and barely concealed her butt. She grinned. “You’re sex to me, dude. Pure sin.”
“Mmm-hmm,” the ladies hummed. Agreeing.
“We all love Chaos,” Roz said of his tattoo.
“You’re bar night to me,” brown-eyed, athletic-bodied Bo told him. Beach towel – wrapped, she wiggled her ass onto his lap. Settled square on his groin. No stirring. His dick sat still.
The remainder of his posse soon circled him. He looked deeply into the eyes of each of the twelve. All sexually hot, and altogether confused. They’d never seen him this serious before. Anxiety and concern had them shuffling their bare feet, clasping their hands, and gnawing their bottom lips. Tossing their dampened hair. Tightening their towels.
“What if I wasn’t a ballplayer?” he went on to ask. Curious. Needing to know.
“But you are,” said Alyssa.
“What if I didn’t drink? Didn’t close down bars? ” Seeking insight.
“Red Dog would lose their best customer,” Cady said. “You bring business to the Lusty Oyster and the Blue Coconut.”
“What if I was a lousy lover?”
“Impossible.” A small smile from Roz. “You were born for sex.”
“We’re grateful,” from Bo.
Their responses weren’t what he’d hoped. There was no depth. Regardless, a smile curved his lips. He’d created his posse to party. Shallow as it seemed now. He’d elected them for their looks, their sexual impulses and freedom. Intellect had never been a factor. Their time together was all about him. They lived up to his expectations. Feeding his ego. No jealousy. He could take any one of these women to bed tonight. Two, even. They offered passion. Pleasure. Satisfaction guaranteed.
He held the thought. Turned it over in his mind, like a coin flip. Heads: posse sex. Tails: principled Stevie. He felt an uncharacteristic loyalty toward her. Which freaked him out a little. Stevie was a psychologist. He wanted more than a mind fuck. He wanted her body. To make love. All night long.
His inability to commit to the ladies sent all but Alyssa back into the water for a second round of water polo. Sam, Pax, and his other teammates welcomed them with whoops and cheers. The guys had physically adjusted to the crystal coolness. Chests puffed. Cocks stood proud.
’Lyssa rolled off her hips and onto her knees. She leaned her elbows on his thighs. Licked her lips. Met his gaze. “Don’t you want me?”
“You’re my go-to, babe.” So often. If he was wanting a woman.
“I’m available now.” She spread her hands over his groin. Unbuttoned his jeans. She stroked his tat, then finger-walked his happy trail. His dick twitched. His balls pulled tight. A purely physical reaction. Painful as hell.
No more. He covered her hand. Gritted out, “Can’t, ’Lys.”
Unrelenting, believing he just needed further convincing, she snuck her free hand inside his Living Hard T-shirt. She palmed across his ribs to his nipple. There, thumbed and teased.
She turned him on.
He turned her down.
He caught her wrist. Shook his head. “Not going to happen.” He set her from him. Went on to button up his jeans. To straighten his shirt. To stand, towering over her.
He offered his hand, and she took it. He pulled her to her feet. They faced each other. He had nothing more to say, but his silence seemed to speak to her. Her gaze rounded. Her lips parted. “Oh, dude. Really? You’ve met someone special. Hard to believe.”
For him, too.
“Are you breaking up with us?”
“Short weekend break only.”
“I’m betting longer.”
Groom for an afternoon wasn’t a lifetime commitment.
A couple hours max.
He’d be back. No man got caught up in make-believe.
* * *
Ten a.m. Saturday morning. Joe was still sleeping. Noise and voices now rose from the first floor, echoing upstairs. He groaned. What the hell? No man deserved to be wakened from a sex dream. Especially one in which he was just about to undress Stevie. She’d stood before him, eyes dark with desire. A blush of longing on her cheeks. Her lips plump, swollen from his kisses. He’d left her breathless. She’d left him bone-hard.
Sunshine sliced through his bedroom window, warming his face and prying his eyelids open. He blinked the room into focus. He’d returned to the Victorian on the morning side of midnight, after leaving his party posse at Rock Creek Cove. He had a key, and slipped quietly into the house, tiptoed up to his room. Not wanting to rouse Stevie, Turbo, and Etta. Dean Jensen had requested a weekend sleepover for his bulldog. To Turbo’s delight. The two were now inseparable.
Rumor in the locker room registered Dean and Lori at Sandcastle. Their sunburns had faded. Dean had left the practice field for marathon sex at the hotel. There was an exhibition game on Sunday, and sex could drain a man if he wasn’t careful. Dean would hit the field already played out. Advantage Joe.
He presently lay flat on his back, naked, alone. A scrunched-up pillow under his neck. The wrinkled top sheet wrapped his ankles. He scratched his belly. Balls. Jacked to a sitting position. Ran his tongue over his teeth. Dry mouth. Tooth brushing, a must. Which meant knocking on the bathroom door in case Stevie was inside, hopefully in a state of undress.
He drew on a pair of black boxer jocks—as decent as he was going to get. It was gifting time. He tucked her presents under his arm. Yellow panties and wedding thong. He knocked with purpose. Heard her gasp, and swore she jumped.
“Coming in,” he warned as he turned the knob.
“Stay out,” she mumbled.
“Already inside.” He found her at the sink, toothbrush in hand, toothpaste on her upper lip. He liked the view. She wasn’t naked, but her short gown dipped low over her breasts and flashed her ass. Cute bare feet. Nice.
Her gaze flicked over his face, chest, held on his Under Armour. A brand he endorsed. He bulged. Significantly. Unabashedly.
She held up her hand, palm out. “My time, not yours.”
“Bad breath. Share the sink.”
“Don’t breathe on me.”
He balanced the gift boxes on the corner of the countertop. Crowded her. She nearly spit on his hand. On purpose.
He stretched around her, located his Sonicare electric toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Added Crest. “Grumpy, babe? I thought you were a morning person.”
“I like mornings,” she said. “However, two in the bathroom is one too many.”
She rinsed her mouth, hung up her toothbrush, and twisted away from the sink. She grabbed her bathrobe off a hook, clutched it to her chest. “I should’ve locked the door,” she muttered as she struggled into her robe. Jamming her arms through the sleeves. She tied the sash. Unevenly. She’d yet to request that he put on pants. He remained in his boxer jocks.
“But you didn’t.” Obviously.
“I didn’t think you were home.”
“I got home earlier than planned,” he told her. “I didn’t want to wake you when I came in, so I didn’t shower.” The pipes rumbled. The vintage plumbing needed an overhaul.
“Weren’t you squeaky-clean after water polo?”
Word had spread. She was aware of last night’s activities. If he’d chosen to participate. “Salt water, babe.”
“You’re itchy?”
“I never got wet.”
His response obviously confused her. She crossed her arms over her chest, splitting the hem over her legs. Sexy thigh gap. “I’d have thought you—” She hesitated.
“What?”
“Would’ve been—”
“The first wearing only a smile.”
“You, or someone from your posse.” He heard the underlying hurt in her voice. Surprising, but there. She cared.
“Jealous, Stewie?” he guessed.
“Get over yourself, Joey.”
“I’d rather get over you.”
She pulled a face.
He winked at her in the mirror.
He switched on his toothbrush; it buzzed. He eyed her reflection as he cleaned his teeth. Rinsed. He replaced the Sonicare in the cabinet. Next gargled with Scope. He shifted his stance and saw her gaze slip from the back of his head, across his shoulders, down his back, then holding on his ass. She softly sighed, and her shoulders sagged. She liked what she saw, he was certain. A body bonus for him.
He eased around, looked her in the eyes. Honesty filled his words. “Naked water polo can get wild, and a helluva lot of fun. I could’ve stripped, screwed. Had a sleepover.” She flinched. “But a groom doesn’t cheat on his bride the night before his wedding shoot.”
“So you didn’t—” There was an expectant pause.
He shook his head. “Kept it in my pants.”
“Difficult for you?”
“A first for me.”
Her lips parted, her expression soft, appreciative, before reality reminded her, “We have no commitments.”
“Not a single one,” he agreed. “Marriage isn’t my thing. This photo spread is as real as it gets for me.”
“Me . . . too.”
That he didn’t believe for a second. “I can see you married with a couple of kids.”
“Wish I had your vision.”
He could imagine her as a wife. A mother. Chasing after kids and Turbo. Turbo? His dog. The thought tightened his chest. He massaged his hand over his heart. Loosened the pressure there.
She looked away from him, her gaze lighting on the presents on the countertop. Time for gift-giving. He handed her the floral-wrapped box with the satin bow and berry potpourri.
Her breath caught. “What’s this?”
“A replacement.”
“For what?”
“The Turbo mishap.”
“You bought me panties?” Her tone was disbelieving.
“One pair for everyday; another for formal wear.”
No ripping off the paper. She took her time, savoring the presentation. Her fingers trembled as she carefully freed the bow and the dried berries. Then removed the flowered paper, smoothing out the creases before setting it aside. She lifted the box top, spread the tissue, and stared at the panties. Stared without a word.
“I guessed your size,” he admitted. “The color’s all you.” Natural blond.
She blushed. Her response was embarrassed, but yet polite. “Thank you.”
“Try them on, see if they fit.”
“I’m not modeling them for you.”
He passed her his second gift. “Bridal.”
She set the opened box on a small pink marble vanity table. “How bridal?” she asked.
“To be worn with our blue garter.”
* * *
Their garter. Stevie’s stomach filled with butterflies when she noticed the discreet gold oval sticker peeking beneath the gauze ribbon. Délicieux. Intimate apparel. Joe’s eyes undressed her without taking her clothes off. Apprehension swelled her chest. She fingered the folded ends of the silver foil, afraid to open the box.
“What’s inside doesn’t bite,” he teased her.
Joe, however, did. She self-consciously touched her fingers to her neck, recalled his hickey. The memory stuck with her, as fresh now as when he’d nipped her. Nerves had her tearing a corner of the foil. The paper was ruined. Emotion overwhelmed her. Tears filled her eyes. She felt ridiculous.
He reached out to her. “Let me help you.”
“I can do it,” she insisted.
“I can do it better.” He rid the box of the foil.
She lifted the lid. Crystals sparkled on white satin. “A bridal thong.” Her whispered words were barely audible. She’d never seen anything so beautiful. So innocent. So sexy. She read the designer label out loud: “Kiss the Bride.”
And Joe did. He angled in, around the box, set on kissing her. The stubble on his jaw scraped her cheek. He stared deeply into her eyes and his blue eyes darkened. Dilated.
Gentle and hesitant was a turn-on.
The unexpected, raw emotion on his face switched her inside out.
No tentative touch of his lips this time. He fully mated with her mouth. Parting her lips, touching her tongue, stealing her breath. He knew what he was doing. He consumed her senses. She was being kissed by the best. They tasted each other. Fusing toothpastes. His mint. Hers cinnamon.
More. She rose on tiptoe, leaned closer. Her shoulders pressed his chest. Her satin and softness submitted to his muscle and strength. The primitive beat of his heart aroused her own pulse. Quickening sensations. Tingling. Temptation. Willingness. Rays of desire. Taken into him, without his touching her.
The fantasy of a wedding settled deep in her soul. Too deep. There was nothing real about this day. Joe had initially agreed to the photo shoot in exchange for dog care and a place to live. A trade that benefited them both. Still, she embraced their pretend kisses with her entire being. Enjoying the man.
He tilted his head, grinned down on her. “I like your mouth.”
She touched her mouth with her fingertips. “You took advantage,” she accused.
“Your lips said differently.”
“How so?”
“They parted for me.”
That they had. There was no denying it. “Our kiss comes at the end of the shoot. If then.”
“Then and there on the stairs.”
She’d been warned. He eased back, allowing them air. She inhaled deeply. He expelled slowly. The gift box and dangling bridal thong were now crushed between them. Cardboard corners jabbed them both, marking his naked abdomen and indenting her hip where the robe parted.
He lifted the thong with one finger, held it up to the light. The crystals sparked prisms as bright and colorful as rainbow confetti. It was a fairy-tale garment. Very romantic.
His gaze lowered to her hips. Held. “Thong should fit.”
“It will.” He was a man of many women, and had easily guessed her size. She wondered how many others had received gifts of lingerie from Joe Zooker. Perhaps a camisole or a teddy. Flowered nipple petals.
He tipped up her chin with a finger, said, “You have a very expressive face.” He read her mind. “I’ve bought ladies rounds of drinks at the bar, picked up dinner tabs, and purchased passes on booze cruises. I’ve shopped for lingerie, I’m not going to lie. But you’re my first bridal thong.” He handed it to her.
She believed him. Her concern was ridiculous. She had no ties to the man. Other than the fact that he was the groom in her wedding shoot. For one afternoon.
“What time does the shoot start?” he asked her.
“Officially at one.” It was eleven now. “The creative director, photographer, and staff will arrive early.”
“Turbo and I are headed out. Jogging. Where is he?”
“In the backyard with Etta. Take her, too. The bulldog’s here all weekend. The two are inseparable.”
“Turbo and I have our own pace. We race. Hope she can keep up.”
“Your dog will walk beside her if she can’t.”
He ran one hand down his face. “Puppy love.”
“Could be worse.”
“How so?”
“He could still be incorrigible. Rough and rowdy. He’s manageable now. She’s calmed him.”
“Broken his spirit.”
“He surrendered on his own.”
“Hard to imagine.”
“Watch them together. See for yourself. Take their leashes. Hers is pink.”
“Pink.” He rolled his eyes. Scratched his belly. It was flat, muscled. “I’ll shower after our run. Don’t panic. We’ll be back in plenty of time. What’s happening with you?”
“I’m tied up here. A makeup artist from the magazine will arrive any minute.”
“I like you natural.”
“The camera won’t. I need a little color.”
His grin came slow, sinful. “I’ll stand behind you on the staircase. Press against you. Whisper something naughty in your ear. So wicked you’ll blush. Bright eyes, pink cheeks.”
“Behave yourself, Joe.”
“I’ve promised best behavior.”
Joe’s best behavior was still controlled chaos. “A bridal shop assistant follows makeup to help me into my gown.”
“I could’ve done that for you.”
“The back of the gown has forty tiny pearl buttons.”
“I have fingers.”
“The assistant is bringing a buttonhook. Works faster.”
“Never doubt the speed of my fingers.”
No doubt. No debate. He played ball. Sharp reflexes. Flexible fingers. Which would wander beyond the buttons. She couldn’t take that chance. He was six feet, four inches of foreplay. His kiss seduced. The gift of the panties was a sensual promise. He still stood so close he boxed her between his body and the door. Yellow bikini and bridal thong in hand, she half-turned, softly said, “Thank you, Joe. I needed you today.”
“What if I need you tonight?”
Sex snuck between them. Swelled. A hot flirtation. Common sense spoke for her. “We can’t follow a pretend wedding with an actual honeymoon.”
“It’s our sexual reality.”
“I thought your life was ‘all about baseball.’”
“It is, starting with the exhibition game tomorrow. Tonight, it’s all about us.”
A night with this man would be a commitment for her, a one-night stand for him. Memorable, but not practical. She left the bathroom with sex heavy on her mind.
* * *
“The bride has gone to the dogs,” quipped Liza, the creative director of the I Do magazine wedding shoot. Photographer Paige, a lighting technician, and Aronson, the dog handler, nodded their agreement. “The movie-wide staircase provides the perfect backdrop. Very Gone with the Wind. The bride is positioned perfectly. We just need some minor rearranging of the dogs.” Pause. “No groom.”
Of which Stevie was aware. Joe had yet to return. Ninety minutes was a long run. Unless he’d run away from her, and kept on going.
“He’ll show,” she promised Liza.
A tight smile from the director. “Soon, dear. We’re on a tight schedule. Two hours. Sadly we can’t use a male model, as this spread has been billed as an engaged couple’s shoot. I’d hate to cancel and have to draw another winner.”
Stevie would hate to have that happen, too. She presently stood halfway up the stairs. Her off-the-shoulder lace and satin gown fit tight across her breasts, pinched her waist, and shimmered over her hips. Beneath, the thong creased her butt. Crystal floss. The blue garter hugged her thigh. She peered beneath the gauze of her rhinestone circlet veil. Her long train was fanned out behind her, nearly reaching the second-story landing. She shifted on her five-inch glass fairy-tale heels. Narrow width. Squashed pinkie toes. She’d given up comfort for glamour.
Eight dogs surrounded her. Some higher, some lower on the flight of steps. All sizes. All breeds. All motionless. Almost surreal. Additional owners and their pets were gathered in the entry hall, forming two lines. Obedient canines were ready to hit their spot and pose.
Stevie listened as Liza stood away from her crew to take in the scene. The director hung back, hands on designer jeans – clad hips, and sighed as if she was heavily burdened. Her gaze narrowed. Her brow creased. Her lips pinched. Absolute silence. Stevie herself held her breath, until Liza snapped her fingers, and the dog trainer appeared by her side. Leashes circled his wrist. “The white standard poodle fades into the wedding gown,” she noted. “Move Princess Pom-Pom two steps higher.” Aronson was quick to act.
Stevie thought the poodle might outshine her, as Pom-Pom was wearing a pink rhinestone tiara and necklace. The dog’s toenails were painted metallic silver. Shiny.
“What do you think, Paige?” Liza asked the photographer.
Paige crossed to the camera that was mounted on a tripod in the middle of the hallway. The lighting technician hovered close. She bent, studied the layout, taking significant time to check the shot. She eventually straightened, rubbed her lower back, and said, “I’d like to change out the Newfoundland and the mastiff on the landing, holding the corners of the train. They slobber, pant, and are too ‘weighty’”—she used finger quotes—“making the photo top-heavy.”
Aronson took the stairs and leashed the big boys. They lumbered down and were handed to their disappointed owners.
“Sleek dogs up top, Aro,” Liza instructed the handler. “Two trained not to tug or tear lace.”
“The Blue Ridge greyhounds,” Aronson called out. “Heel,” he commanded as he bounded up the stairs. His “sit and stay” staged the dogs. Descending, he suggested, “We’ll have them pick up the train at the last second.” “A runaway,” Paige called out.
Aronson went after a restless Jack Russell. The dog bounced up the steps. A minor interruption. Quickly suppressed.
Stevie felt like a mannequin. The dogs were like statues.
The director glanced at her watch. Tapped her foot. Her tone was sharp as she said, “Your groom—”
“Has arrived,” Joe loudly announced from the front door. Sweaty, winded, wild-eyed, he kicked it wide. Turbo shot through. Joe came in more slowly. He held Etta in his arms, her leash wrapped around his arm. He set down the fifty-pound bulldog, adjusted his T-shirt and gym shorts. Caught his breath, then took in the scene. Stevie wanted nothing more than to walk down and meet him. To hug him. The bridal assistant hovered on the balcony above. Jana had fidgeted and formed the gown into perfect angles. She’d ordered Stevie not to move an inch. Stiffness invaded her every muscle. Shallow breathing squeezed her lungs.
“Sorry we’re late,” Joe apologized at large. “I left on a run two hours ago. Back roads. We started at a good pace, reached our turnaround point, but then Etta gave out. She lay down. Stayed down. I couldn’t coax her up. Neither could my dog, Turbo. No iPhone to call for a ride. I had to carry her back. I got here as soon as I could. Would have been sooner, if she hadn’t gotten wiggly.”
The creative director crossed over to him. She gave him the once-over, her look long and lingering. Recognition was in her eyes. She politely introduced herself, “Joe Zooker, I’m Liza. You were worth the wait. We’ll give you some time to clean up.”
“Quick shower, shave—”
“Leave the scruff,” Liza insisted. “The look of the spread is coming clear to me. This shoot will play up the contrast between you and Stevie. Your bride’s as beautiful and as soft as her satin gown. You’re . . . earthy. Rugged. Muscled.” She looked to her photographer. “No tux on this man. He can wear his own clothes. Sports coat, T-shirt, and jeans. Boots.”
“I like,” Paige approved. “The magazine has a wide circulation and it’s known for its creative bridal shoots. Last month’s beach-themed spread got tons of attention. The bridal party was staged on the coast against an approaching thunderstorm. Wind, and an unexpected waterspout, literally blew everyone away.”
Joe headed upstairs. Turbo charged beside him. Etta dragged herself up, too. He stopped on the stair next to Stevie. Lifted her veil, despite Jana’s indrawn breath. Her total disapproval was obvious.
“You made it,” Stevie whispered. Boneless in her relief.
He winked at her. Then lightly kissed her lips. Jana cleared her throat. Censure. Which Joe ignored. He cut his gaze to Etta. “Turbo’s girl quit on us. Next time we’ll go a shorter distance.”
“‘Next time’?” she had to ask.
“Turbo wanted nothing to do with me,” he admitted. “He ran beside Etta, until she stopped. Then he kept jumping on me when I picked her up, afraid I was taking her away from him.”
“Separation anxiety.”
He grinned then. “I felt anxious being away from you.”
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Liza pacing the hallway. The lady was impatient. “Get going, get ready. I’m tired of standing. Save me from locked knees.”
A second quick kiss. “I’m saving you for later,” he said, and was gone.
Leaving her anxious. He shook her to her core. Her hands trembled. She clasped them before her. Her mind was reluctant; her heart ready. She’d thought only of him during her makeup session and fitting. Resolving that sex with Joe would be the perfect ending to an amazing day. As long as she could let him go afterward without questions or pain.
Her aunt Twyla entered through the back door. She leaned her crutches against the wall and eased down on a dog bone – shaped bench. She waved at Stevie. Stevie gave her a short nod, not wanting to muss her veil.
Joe returned, hair tied back, looking undeniably sexy in a navy sports jacket, white T-shirt beneath, scripted with I Do You. Liza was quick to suggest he pull the button side of his coat over the word You. He obliged. I Do fit the magazine’s theme. He was himself in ladder-ripped jeans and worn boots.
Jada held up her makeup kit. “Powder, blush on the man?”
Joe curled his lip. Resistant.
Liza shook her head. “His hard face, broken nose, craggy cheeks appeal. He’s a guy’s groom, and a girl’s perfect wedding night.”
Joe started down the staircase. “Where do you want me?”
“The steps are wide. Snug in behind Stevie,” Liza requested. “Let’s show oneness on your wedding day.”
Joe got in place. He defined closeness. His groin aligned with her bottom. Nearer still, he parted her legs with his knee, without disturbing the flow of her gown. The contact was sexual and erotic. His knee fit her thigh gap. Stevie shivered, nearly fell off the step. He splayed his wide hand over her hip, steadying her. She laced her fingers with his. More contrast: his calluses; her lotion-soft skin.
Turbo and Etta appeared suddenly, bounding down the stairs. Turbo sniffed nearly every dog, rousing them. The canine statues came alive, arching their backs and stretching.
“Stop!” Aronson yelled at Turbo. “You’ve disrupted the gallery.” Leash in hand, he went for the rottie.
Joe eyed the handler sharply. “Don’t touch my dog,” he warned, deadly soft and dangerous.
The trainer drew back. “He’s messed up the shoot.”
“Turbo’s being a dog,” said Joe. “This whole scene sucks. Animal lovers have their pets at weddings. Dogs are as important as any other guests. They shouldn’t be posed. Obedience shouldn’t be a prerequisite. It’s not natural. They should be barking, tails wagging, as happy as the couple is.”
Aronson was horrified.
The lighting technician blinked.
The photographer looked piqued.
The creative director was stunned silent.
Stevie smiled to herself. Joe called it as he saw it. Fine by her. She felt stiff, like a plastic cake topper. She’d want to be relaxed and in love on her own wedding day. She squeezed his hand, approving his comments. Encouraged, his fingers strayed along her hip, discreetly feeling for the outline of her thong. Easily found. She sensed his smile at the back of her neck. Felt his breathing deepen.
“Garter?” for her ears only.
“Left thigh.”
Low, animalistic growl.
Heightened color on her cheeks.
Liza soon motioned to Paige. Their heads went together. Discussion ensued. Until Liza tapped her fingertips on her lips and stared into space. Envisioning.
Her decision came on an exhaled breath. One that appeared difficult to admit. “Cancel the dramatic layout,” she said to Paige. She looked up at Joe and said, “We’ll title the new layout ‘Woof, Woof Wedding.’ Not quite what I’d envisioned, but eye-catching.” Pause. “We’ll see how it plays out.”
Kudos to the director, Stevie thought. The idea hadn’t been hers, but it was a great one. Joe had imagination. He’d put the whole shoot in perspective. He brought real life to an imaginary scene.
“No restrictions,” she told the dog trainer.
“Free.” Aronson moved among the dogs, putting them at ease. They wiggled, barked, then dropped and flopped where they were the most comfortable. There was no order. No pretense. A dappled dachshund rolled over, paws up, near the bride’s glass slippers. Fell asleep with soft snores.
Aronson’s jaw clenched when Turbo parked himself next to Joe. Etta sat, too. “They’re not contracted for the shoot,” he complained. “We’re only using dogs from my obedience school.”
“Turbo’s with me. Etta’s with him,” Joe stated.
“I’ll need releases on both dogs,” said Liza. She sent the lighting technician up the stairs with the paperwork. Joe signed, his signature unreadable. “Magazine offers a flat fifty dollars. Checks payable to the owners.”
“I Do can be added to your dog’s résumé, should he continue doing shoots,” added the technician. “Dog food companies, pet toys, and miscellaneous products are always holding auditions. Aronson’s looking for a new furry face to represent his obedience school.”
Turbo barked.
The trainer choked on the thought.
The photographer eyed each dog with a practiced eye. She commented to Liza, “Let’s add the Shar-Pei puppy. Wrinkles would be a nice contrast to the smooth drape of the gown. The red Irish setter is distinctive. The black Scottish terrier. Interesting face. The hair is lightly trimmed and brushed forward.”
The creative director smiled, pleased. “You’ll be shooting in color, black-and-white, and later adding Photoshop sepia tones for an antique look. The magazine editor can decide which works best.”
Aronson unleashed the chosen dogs, and they scampered up the steps, choosing their spots and settling.
“Finalizing,” from Liza. She pointed to Jana in makeup. “Give Stevie her bouquet.” Yellow roses and baby’s breath. “The couple’s just gotten married—we need wedding bands.” Two gold rings were provided. Loose on Stevie’s finger, tight on Joe’s. “Toss white rose petals on the staircase.” The floral scent was fresh and pure. Turbo bit a petal. Spit it out.
Paige got behind her camera. Gentle lighting set the mood, making the scene romantic, yet natural. “Talk, joke, smile, kiss, fool around,” she told them. “A feature editor will call in a day or two and set up an interview. She’ll cover the fashion and human-interest angles.”
Joe breathed near her ear. “I like interviews.”
“You like talking about yourself.”
“I’m interesting.”
“To you.”
They smiled easily for the first formal photographs. A few were taken straight-faced. Up until he poked her in the ribs. Startled, she gasped, giggled.
She playfully pinched his thigh. Felt his muscle flex.
He lifted one side of her veil. Kissed her on the neck.
She angled her head back against his shoulder. Closed her eyes, lost.
He next brought her hand to his lips, nuzzled her palm. His facial scruff tickled. More smiles.
She teased him, too. Squeezing his hidden knee between her thighs. Heat and moaning from the man. He raised his knee, almost to her thong. She shifted, and her hip brushed his groin. He groaned low in his throat.
Liza gave them a thumbs-up. “Love the chemistry. More.”
Joe eased to her side, turned her to face him. He raised her veil in heart-racing foreplay. He cupped one cheek, went in for a kiss. So tender, she softened to him. Her knees went weak. His arm circled her waist, secured her to him. They grafted themselves to each other, as close as humanly possible. Her lace and satin gown embraced his sports coat and jeans. Her glass slippers kissed the steel toes of his scuffed boots.
“You getting this?” Liza asked the photographer. Her words reached the couple. Super-excited.
“Oh . . . yeah,” replied Paige. “They are hot.”
Joe teased the camera. He broke their kiss, then slid his hand over her hip, along her thigh. She eyed him questioningly. His purpose soon became clear. He carefully grasped her gown with two fingers, drew it up her calf, beyond her knee. High on her thigh. Flashed her blue garter.
Stevie blushed.
Joe was all sinful satisfaction.
The creative director clapped.
The lighting director cheered.
The photographer put her hand over her heart. Sighed.
Turbo howled. Joe, too. Not surprising. He threw back his head, his own howl raw, carnal male. Barking ensued. Even prissy Princess Pom-Pom yipped. Dogs began wagging, moving about, and becoming playful.
“A few more shots,” called out Liza.
Joe had his own agenda. He skillfully removed her circlet veil and placed it on Etta’s head, hooking it behind the bulldog’s ears. Turbo immediately sniffed the gauze. Etta cocked her head. Stevie swore she smiled.
Unexpected, yet as romantic as a fairy tale, Joe scooped her in his arms, held her high on his chest. His gaze held hers. “We’re done here, babe.”
Fine by her. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, buried her face in his neck. Breathed in the man. Earthy arousal. She trembled. Lost a glass slipper on the stairs.
“Catch it!” the director shouted.
“Got it,” from the photographer.
Joe took the steps easily. He paused on the landing, turned toward the camera with a wicked victory smile. He walked along the balcony toward her bedroom. The door was cracked, and he kicked it open.
The bridal assistant hurried toward them. “I’m here to assist Stevie out of the gown,” she said anxiously.
“I’ve got it covered,” from Joe.
“Sir, there are dozens of pearl buttons. Difficult to undo.”
“Bill me for the gown,” said Joe, as he carried Stevie over the threshold. “I’ll undress her my way.”