At the Billionaire’s Wedding (7 page)

“True. It would have to be a toga party.”

Harry stopped looking at the ceiling and rolled onto his side, propping his head on one elbow so that he could see her face, mysterious and shadowy in the dimly lit room that had, for much of its existence, been seen at night only by candlelight. Thus might his ancestors have enjoyed the centerpiece of their creation. He imagined Arwen clad in colored silks and pearls and hooped petticoats instead of her austere and devilishly sexy black dress. She was laughing and relaxed until she saw him looking and fell silent.

“I’ve always thought Venus and Mars looked ready to leave the reception and move onto the honeymoon,” he said softly.

“They do seem … eager.” Her gaze flicked to the ceiling and back to him. Her lips parted. He heard her heightened breathing along with the wild thud of his own heart. He touched her hair, releasing an expensive scent to blend with the acid tang of their wine. Sweeping back the tousled fringe from her forehead, he stroked her flawless skin, traced with wonder the cool taut chin and neck, and let his hand drift downward to the chest, warm and rising lightly beneath his touch.

Harry, my lad, this is a bad idea and could screw things up.

Even as he heard his inner voice he knew he would ignore it. His fingers slipped beneath the loose-fitting V-neck of her dress and a crisp lace bra. Her breast was a bit bigger than he expected—Tragedy!—and smooth as silk until he reached the crinkled point of her nipple. She stirred and arched into his touch.

Before it could say another word, he put a gag on his inner voice, kicked it in the arse, and locked it in a cupboard.

Harry the Handyman had very handy hands. They were big and slightly rough and her skin liked them a lot. Especially her breasts. Her pelvis too was beginning to twist in anticipation. She was hotter than hell and they’d hardly started. The fact that she was about ready to do it on the floor—although a floor covered with a priceless antique carpet—with a man she’d met yesterday and hadn’t even kissed said something.

What exactly did it say? Who gave a damn? Right now her brain was occupied by one problem and one that required neither sobriety nor logic. All she had to do was raise her arms, grab his head, and pull it down to hers, easy as pie. And they were kissing.

When it came to judging a kiss, Arwen considered herself a Justice of the Supreme Court and not one of the boring conservative ones. Harry was going to win his case unanimously, but only after extensive oral arguments.

Yes, the man knew how to kiss, strong and hot, taking no prisoners. Somehow he was on top of her, trapping her with his weight. He made her feel small and sweet and powerless and ready to be taken, dominated even. She parted her legs and thrust her hips upward, feeling denim-cased steel between her thighs.

“Such a deliciously bossy girl,” he said against her ear. “You can have whatever you want.”

She didn’t know what she wanted. Or rather she didn’t want to say. She relaxed into the priceless carpet and wondered if she looked like Venus who floated overhead with her mouth open, leering at her brawny Mars, naked but for a helmet and a bit of red drapery.

“I want…” The words stuck in her throat. It must be the historical surroundings that sent decades of progress in women’s sexuality out of the window, leaving her weak and wanting like a maiden in a mobcap. “Take me,” she whispered.

Harry grinned with wolfish humor and unbridled lust. “Does my lady want her humble servant to attend to her pleasure?” She nodded, mesmerized. He kissed her again, which was just what she wanted, then knelt back and surveyed her with a lazy grin that turned her into a puddle. “Stand up,” he said, with a laugh behind the stern words. She teetered on her heels and wondered if they’d damage the carpet. “Leave them on and remove your dress.”

When she hesitated he frowned, so she pulled the silk jersey over her head and tossed it away where it caught and hung drunkenly off the back of a chair. His eyes followed it lazily then returned to where she stood in her black lace bra, matching thong, and silver Christian Louboutin sandals. His inquisitive gaze burned into her as he inspected her from head to gold-painted toenails, sending molten lava through her veins. This was the hottest thing that had ever happened to her.

Then he nodded as though arrogantly accepting what he saw and calmly unbuttoned his shirt. Whether from manual labor or hours in the gym, Harry the Handyman was one buff dude. She licked her lips, closed her eyes and moaned.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Not a hardship to obey. She kind of wished he was wearing a tool belt, but the jeans—Levis, not designer—hugged his narrow hips, held by a brown leather belt polished like harness to a high gloss. Dropping her eyes an inch or two lower made her squirm again. She started to ask him if he was going to remove the rest, or if he wanted her to, but he cut her off. “Quiet,” he said, “and do exactly as I say.”

Yes please.

“Do you see that table over there?” He pointed to a desk-sized piece with plentiful gold embellishments. “Walk over and put the lamp on the floor.”

Oh my God, he was having her move furniture in a totally historic room. Couldn’t he be fired for this? The danger excited her even more.

“Now lean over the table, hands on either side and spread your legs wide.”

She obeyed and waited, night air cooling her exposed core. Staring down, her eyes focused on the surface, elaborately patterned in different colors of wood, while her skin tingled in unbearable anticipation. He came up behind and leaned his body against hers, the denim rough and the belt buckle cold against her ass. He unfastened her bra and his hands cupped her breasts, pinching the nipples lightly between his fingers. Her throat was so tight with longing she swore she could pass out. Ordering her to remain still, he played with her for a while, stroking the sensitive area of her ribs and waist, kneading the globes of her ass. The man was magic. How could he tell that his lips and breath on her nape, in the curve of her neck, and across her shoulders would drive her wild? She felt herself wet and swollen and wanting and still all the satisfaction he offered was an occasional finger instantly withdrawn. When she couldn’t stand it another second she moaned and he pulled back.

“Yes? Is there something you want?”

“You know there is, damn you.”

“All good things come to those who wait.”

Not her usual philosophy, but she’d go with it, for now, because the man made her feel great and she trusted him to make her feel even better. Soon.

After some more enjoyable teasing, which reduced her to an inelegant panting, writhing mess, he reached between her legs and held her hard. She almost came on the spot.

“Not yet.”

She heard unzipping and condom applying sounds—the genius must have had one in his wallet—and was pushed flat against the surface of the table. He pushed aside her thong, spread her wider and entered, hard. The interval till she exploded could be counted in seconds, but he kept up steady rhythmic thrusts, all the way so his sac swung against her labia, and she came again before he did the same and she felt him collapse against her and soften inside her.

Soon afterward she was curled up on his lap on the big Chippendale chair, her head on his chest, listening to the slowing beat of his heart. She couldn’t utter a word and he remained silent for some minutes. “Oh my word,” she managed finally. “Oh my word, Harry.”

“Is my lady pleased?”

“Are you?”

The way he stroked her head seemed tender. “You needn’t have any doubt.”

She gave a gusty sigh. “That was fabulous. The best.” She tilted her head for a kiss, just a relaxed, intimate exchange of breath. “You won’t get into trouble, will you? Having wild sex in the Gold Saloon?”

He grinned like a naughty boy. “Don’t worry, no one will ever know. I’ve fantasized about doing it here for years.”

“I’m glad to help you fulfill an ambition.” She tugged at her dress, which was crumpled up behind his back. “I’d better get dressed and go to bed.”

“Come to my room,” he said.

Harry woke up early, a little past dawn, with the sense of wellbeing that comes from a truly superior sexual experience. Correction: possibly the best night of shagging he’d ever had. Arwen was sacked out beside him, her fists tucked under her head like a child, sleeping the sleep of the just, the jet-lagged, the girl who’d had five orgasms the night before. Tempting as it was to wake her up for another, she might not appreciate being aroused at this hour. Besides, there was something he needed to do.

Pulling on shorts, a T-shirt, and trainers, he grabbed his phone and loped downstairs and set off for a run around the park, the short three-mile route he took when he had too much to drink the night before. He finished with the steep climb up to the Mausoleum and panted while he logged into online banking. It was a bloody nuisance not having Internet at the house, but he’d just as soon not have Arwen see this particular transaction.

Duke Austen had been good as his word. As soon as Arwen approved the wedding, the massive bonus had been transferred to his account.

The view from the top never failed to thrill him, especially at this hour in summer with morning mist hovering over the surface of the lake, the birds singing like a demented choir, the scent of a thousand flowers sweetening the cool air. And the great house itself, silent, golden, asleep. He could have sold it to a fat-cat banker or to a dreary consortium to make into a conference center, but he couldn’t bear to leave Brampton. His father had transferred the estate to him and now he had to make a go of it.

He ought to tell Arwen who he was; she was bound to find out eventually. But it was a lot easier to play the ignorant employee when it came to the awkward questions, and there were going to be more. It was thoroughly irresponsible of him to sleep with Duke Austen’s representative and it put her in a difficult position too. No, better go on as they were during the planning phase of this wedding bash. He might even get through the whole event incognito; he’d only visited New York once, for a week, and as far as he knew there wasn’t a single tech man, American or otherwise, among his acquaintances.

He was uneasy in his mind, but the other part of his morning routine would help.

Good sex trumps alcohol, Arwen decided, examining her head and finding it clear and her body slack and content. Also alone, which was a good thing. The first waking up together could be awkward, especially when you didn’t know the guy well.

Scratch that. Know him at all. She’d gotten drunk and slept with the handyman. Okay, a glorified handyman. But they’d spent about a day and a half almost constantly in one another’s company which, she could argue, added up to about six normal dates. Maybe it wouldn’t be awkward. Unfortunately if it was, she couldn’t just leave and never see him again, or refuse to take his calls—if he called—because she had to work with him in putting together the most important wedding of her career.

The enormity of the situation hit her. She’d committed Duke and Jane to holding the wedding at Brampton, largely persuaded by Harry. She’d drunk too much champagne and slept with Harry.