“Invaluable help.” He held the door for her and then followed her into the room. “You’ve got all the embarrassing childhood stories.”
“Maybe, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy. The thing about older brothers is they have equally embarrassing dirt on their younger sisters. There’s a little something called mutual assured destruction that prevents me from talking.”
He held up the champagne and shot her a deliberately calculating grin. “Have a drink, Sophie.”
She took the champagne bottle and grinned back. “The vault stays locked, no matter how hard you liquor me up.”
There was no way she realized it, but she stood directly under the recessed light in the entryway of the suite, which put a spotlight on the front of her damp shirt. He looked his fill, imagining he could see the dusky outline of her nipples through the layers, before his conscience piped in with a helpful “note to self.” Stop staring at her tits like a fucking pervert.
He forced his eyes to keep moving and his attention strayed to her hands. One gripped the base of the bottle, while the fingers of her other moved restlessly up and down the foil-encased neck. Holy shit. If she kept fondling the bottle, she was going to jerk him off by proxy.
“Why don’t I take that?” He reached for the champagne. “I’ll pop the cork while you change into dry clothes.” Baggy, shape-concealing clothes I’d need X-ray vision to see through, because I can’t stop fantasizing about getting you naked, draping you across the bed, and finding out if you prefer soft kisses along the underside of your breast or my teeth grazing the sweet curve of your ass—or both.
“Deal.” She handed over the champagne and scurried into the bathroom so quickly he wondered if she’d read his mind.
When the door closed, he quickly adjusted himself, and then headed to the cabinet containing the minibar. He found two flutes, popped the cork, and filled them. Effervescence fizzed and subsided, leaving him in silence. Except for the slap of a wet garment hitting the tile floor in the bathroom. Her shirt? Her pants? An image of Sophie standing in the bathroom in nothing but underwear formed in his mind. Would she reach behind her back to unclasp her bra and then lean forward to shimmy it down her arms? Once the bra hit the tile, would she bend over a little more to step out of her panties?
The sound of the shower invaded his musings, and next thing he knew, he was picturing her under the spray, tipping her head back and letting warm water run in rivulets down her chilled skin. His mind’s eye filled with the vision of drops beading at the tips of her breasts, his hand cupping one perfect white globe, guiding the peak to his mouth and catching the droplets with his tongue.
The water shut off abruptly and he realized he stood in the middle of her room with a glass of champagne in each hand and a boner the size of the Cathedral Spires in his shorts. His wet clothes felt like steam on his body. He downed one of the glasses. No help.
An empty ice bucket sat on the top of the cabinet. He put the glasses down and picked up the bucket with the idea of doing something useful and, hopefully, cock-softening, like making an ice run…to Siberia.
He took a step toward the entryway when the bathroom door swung open. Sophie stepped out in a sugar-scented cloud of heat, wearing a white terry cloth “Beaver Creek” robe that, thank you God, covered her from chin to toes. Still, propriety had him lowering the ice bucket to a strategic waist level.
Her eyes found his. She offered him a hesitant smile. One that, for some inexplicable reason, grabbed him right by the balls. Then her lips parted, and that low, soft voice said, “Would you like to get out of those clothes?”
Chapter Four
The stunned look on Logan’s face had Sophie replaying her words. Holy crap, she’d just asked him if he wanted to get naked. “I-I mean, there’s an extra robe in here.” She pointed behind the bathroom door. “You’re welcome to it…and the shower.”
He cleared his throat and looked down at the ice bucket in his hands. “I was about to go get some ice—”
“I’ll do that. You go get”…naked… “cleaned up.” She hurried to the side of the bed and slipped her feet into the matching white Beaver Creek slippers the hotel supplied. Then she walked back to where he stood and held out her hand for the ice bucket.
His chest expanded as he inhaled and it took all her restraint not to flatten her palms against his pecs and revel in the strength emanating from him even when he did something as unconscious as breathe. He exhaled and her attention moved to his diaphragm, and then to his hard, flat abs. What would it feel like to run her hands down his torso, over those ripped muscles, and under the waist of his shorts? Would his breath catch if she released the button and pulled the zipper down?
His voice echoed in her ears, but she was so distracted by the mental picture of him reclined on her bed, with his head back, his eyes closed, and his breathing choppy as she slowly kissed her way past his unbuttoned, unzipped shorts…she completely missed his words. Had he muttered something about a cold shower?
She jerked her eyes back to his face. “What?”
He gave her a blank look and then shook his head. “Nothing. Here.” He handed her the ice bucket and strode toward the bathroom. At the door, he stopped, glanced back at her, and said, “Thanks, Soph. I’ll be out in a second.”
The door clicked shut. She stifled a groan and resisted the impulse to stuff her head in the ice bucket like an ostrich. Instead she picked up the champagne flute resting on the cabinet and downed it in two gulps.
The bubbles tickled her throat, her nose, and her useless brain. Yes, a part of her had wanted to try her hand at seducing the best man, but, come on. Would you like to get out of those clothes? She cringed and poured herself another glass of bubbly, drank half in an effort to wipe the stupid blunder out of her mind, and then picked up her key and headed down the hall to get the ice because standing there like an anxious puppy while Logan showered would do nothing for her nerves.
The chore took no time, and soon enough she was back in the room, sipping champagne and trying to look casual and relaxed. She wandered over to the reading area, sat in one of the two cushy armchairs, and placed her feet on the ottoman. The chair seemed to swallow her. She felt like a four-year-old sitting in her father’s recliner. Not sexy. Not seductive.
She climbed out of the chair, opened the curtains, and attempted to look absorbed by the natural beauty on display through the floor-to-ceiling French doors. Unfortunately, even with the enormous moon glowing down on the pine-studded peaks, there wasn’t much of a view at night. The pose felt contrived.
Her gaze wandered to the bed. Did she dare? She glanced at the bathroom door. The sound of the shower pattered behind the wooden barrier. Give it a try, her inner vixen insisted. She put her glass on the nightstand, shucked off her slippers, and crawled onto the bed, then leaned back against the pile of pillows stacked at the headboard. Okay, that felt fairly normal. She looked down at herself. Her arms lay by her sides and her legs stretched stra
ight out in front of her. More virgin sacrifice than va-va-voom. She adjusted the front of her robe so it wasn’t bundled up all the way to her throat, and bent one leg until the robe draped to either side and left everything from mid-thigh to ankle exposed. For a minute she wished for a mirror on the ceiling, so she could see if she looked sexy or just plain stupid.
She took a fortifying gulp of her champagne and considered the room. Maybe she’d feel less on display if it wasn’t so darn bright in the suite. The entryway light burned, plus the nightstand light, and a standing lamp by the chair in the reading area.
The shower stopped.