The F-Word

In other words, just as we pull up at the inn, Coop’s voice is in my head.

Dude! What the fuck are you doing?

I’m supposed to be helping Bailey stand up to her cousin. A masquerade. A no-sex, no- involvement, no-nothing-but-me-playing-Good-Samaritan game.

Who am I kidding?

It stopped being that the first time I held my PA in my arms. Sure, I was only trying to comfort her…And I did. I have. The problem is that the more I comforted her, the more I got to know her, the more she became a woman, a very special woman, as opposed to being my assistant.

She whispers my name.

I take a deep breath.

Years and years ago, a saffron-robed monk taught me the concept of mindfulness. How to leave the body and reach for your center.

Breathe in. Hold for a five-count. Breathe out. Slowly. That’s it. Repeat. And again…

Bailey makes a little sound. She reaches for the door. “It’s okay,” she says in a small, shaky voice. “I understand.”

No. She does not understand. I know she’s thinking I don’t want her and, God, she’s all I want, all I’ve truly, honestly, deeply wanted in a very long time. I’m what she wants too, but is this the right thing to do? Will taking Bailey to bed be wrong? Cooper

would think it’s wrong. My sister would think it’s wrong. Yes, but Coop and Casey have nothing to do with this. This is about Bailey and me.

To hell with mindfulness, with logic, with sanity. I’m out of the car and around it so fast that she has no choice but to step into my arms.

“No,” she says, “no, Matthew, I underst…”

I kiss her. I cup her face and kiss her, gently at first and then harder and deeper. She responds and when she does, I clasp her hand and bring it between us. I need her to know, positively know, how much I want her.

The desk clerk gave me a key to the front door.

“We lock up at ten,” he’d said.

A damn good thing, because if I had to stop to get a key right now I’d probably vault the desk and grab the poor bastard by the throat if he took more than a second to give it to me.

I dredge the key from my pocket and fumble with it—my hands are not as steady as they might be. Then we’re inside and somehow we get up the stairs to our room.

The question of whether or not this is a bridal suite has been answered. At the very least it’s a suite for romance, and for this night.

The lamps on the bedside tables have been turned on. Turned on low, so that the bed is softly lit. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket beside one of the lamps. The comforter has been turned down and a long stemmed red rose lies on each of our pillows.

A dude with a thing for sarcasm might say all that’s missing is soft music, but I am not that dude tonight.

What I am is a man who wants only to make love to his woman.

I elbow the door shut and turn to her.

“Bailey,” I say thickly.

She smiles. Then she is in my arms, our mouths fused in a kiss so intense it almost drives me to my knees.

I peel off her black silk jacket.

She pushes my suit coat back on my shoulders. I shrug it off; it falls to the floor. I press my mouth to the hollow of her throat. She makes a little sound that sends my already racing pulse into overdrive. It’s a sigh, a moan, a primal admission of need that rocks me to my core.

I tell myself to move slowly. Not to lose control. That’s not going to be easy. What I want is to pull up her skirt, tear off whatever she’s wearing under it, unzip my fly and take her here, right against the wall.

But I don’t.