Heated (Most Wanted 2)

Over and over, deeper and deeper, until I have no choice but to break the kiss, because I have to arch back simply from the weight of the pleasure that is shooting through me.

When I do, his mouth closes over my breast, and his teeth nip at me, the pain sending hot wires of pleasure down through my body to my cunt, to that deep place inside me that he's touching, thrusting against with every stroke, building a delicious pressure that grows and grows until finally we explode together, sending water flying out of the tub and me collapsing back against Damien's chest in utter satisfaction and release.

We stay that way until we fear that we will shrivel in the tub, then Damien lifts me out, dries me off, and carries me to the bed, tucking me gently under the cool sheets.

"You haven't told me what you're doing about your dress," Damien says moments later as we twine together in the bed, half drifting off to sleep.

"I went back inside after Mother left," I tell him. "It's not perfect, but they had a dress that was my size in the back."

"Do you like it?"

I shrug. The truth is that it's a lovely dress that any bride would be thrilled with. But it's not my dress, and what girl is happy with sloppy seconds?

"I'm sorry, baby," he says, kissing my bare shoulder.

"It's okay, really. I promise you'll think I'm stunning."

"I always do."

I smile, and I'm still smiling as I start to drift off. I'm just about to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep when I remember one other thing. "You still awake? I have a brilliant idea."

"I'm always awake for brilliance," he says.

"I got the idea from those tweets of us from Raven."

"Us?"

"Us girls," I clarify.

"Uh-huh. If this is about inviting the Raven men to the wedding, I'm going to exercise my veto power."

"Very funny. No, I was thinking about our photographer problem. I know I told you I wanted to make sure we had wedding portraits, but we can sit for a portrait anytime. Besides, I want to remember the day, not a pose. And I was thinking that we could do the same thing all those folks did in tweets."

"Which is?"

"Candid shots. We give each guest a camera as a wedding souvenir. And then we have them drop the memory cards in a bowl before they leave. We'll get a ton of fabulous pictures of our friends, us, dancing, eating. They won't be professional, but they'll be fun. And they'll be us. And not the kind of tacky pictures that the paparazzi will snap from the beach. What do you think?"

"I think you're brilliant," he says. "Brilliant and beautiful. And I cannot wait to be your husband."

I smile in contentment and love. "Me, either," I say, and then, finally, I close my eyes, snuggle closer to Damien, and let sleep tug me under.

Damien is already gone when I wake up on Friday. He's left word with Grayson that he has some business to attend to before we leave on our honeymoon and that he will either be at the office or looking at various properties with Mr. Black.

I put a waffle in the toaster--which pretty much sums up my culinary skills--and eat it without syrup on the patio while I make some morning phone calls. The first one is to Sylvia, and I explain my plan about the cameras. She thinks it's brilliant, and swears that she has plenty of time to handle it.

"I'll make sure they're delivered by morning. Seriously, Nikki, don't worry about it. Rest a little today. You deserve it. And you'll need it for your honeymoon."

I roll my eyes, but since she's right, I don't argue. Instead, I actually do the delegation thing and email her the names of three bands I auditioned, liked, but rejected. It's not a perfect solution, but it is a low-stress one. She promises to call them, see who's still available, and to pick the best one.

I thank her and sign off, then try to decide on the appropriate form of pre-wedding relaxation. I actually managed to finish Damien's scrapbook last night, so that's out. And while my own work has been stacking up, somehow the idea of getting onto the computer and programming just doesn't appeal.

About the only thing that does, actually, is a walk along the beach. And since I don't want to go alone, I head downstairs to the first-floor guest suite, knock, and then head into Jamie's darkened room.

Normally, I'd let her sleep. But since this is my last day as a single best friend, I figure an exception is in order. I pull the covers back and give her a little shake.

"Mmm, Ryan ..."

I lift my brows, because that's a very interesting development, but Jamie doesn't indulge me by talking in her sleep again. Instead, she bolts upright, springing awake.

"Holy fuck, Nikki," she screeches. "What the hell are you doing?"

I shrug. "Wanna take a walk on the beach?"

Fortunately, Jamie is easygoing. She shoots me a couple of dirty looks for good measure, throws in a curse, but gets dressed. We're down at the beach within fifteen minutes.

"So, do you have anything to tell me?" I ask.

She stares at me like I'm a loon. "The moon isn't made of green cheese. Masturbation doesn't make you go blind. Jethro Tull is a band, not a guy. How do those work for you?"

"Not bad," I say. "I was thinking more along the lines of Ryan."

She slows her step. "What about him?"

"Ever since Damien had him take you home that time, you've had this thing."

I expect her to deny it. Instead, she shrugs. "So?"

"So there really is a thing?"

"Not as far as he's concerned," she says, her tone frustrated. "As far as I can tell, I'm invisible to him."

I hook my arm through hers. "I can't imagine you being invisible to anyone."

"I know, right? I mean, what's up with that?"

I laugh. "So what are you going to do?"

"About Ryan?"

"About you."

She slows her pace. "I don't know. I didn't get that commercial that Caleb is directing, but it felt nice doing the audition thing again. But I don't want to get back on the same hamster wheel, you know? And I'm--" She glances at me, then clams up.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"James ..."

"Fine. Whatever. It's just that everything changes with you getting married."

"I'm still your best friend." I stop walking, and tug her to a stop, too.

"Well, duh," she says, in a way that sends a shock of relief running through me. "I just mean that I don't think I'd do that great living by myself. In case you hadn't noticed, I have a tendency to run a little wild. And you're off the roommate market. I thought about living with Ollie, but that might be weird."

"Ya think?"

She waves a hand. "Nah, that's over," she says, referring to their romps between the sheets. "But it still might be weird. Where is he, anyway? He's coming to the wedding, right?"

"He's supposed to be at the dinner tonight." Since we're not doing a big wedding, we're not having an official rehearsal dinner. But we are getting a whole slew of our friends together. "He's been in New York. Depositions, I think he said."

"And Damien's cool with him coming tonight?"

"Like you said, it might be weird, but on the whole it's okay. They aren't ever going to call each other up to go have a beer at the corner pub, but I think we can manage the occasional dinner and social event."

"Good." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Change sucks."

I think about the changes in my life since Damien entered it, and the ones that are coming. A wedding. Hopefully a family. I smile, then start walking again, tugging Jamie along beside me. "No," I say firmly. "You'll see. Change doesn't have to suck at all."

Le Caquelon in Santa Monica is closed tonight for our private party. Alaine, Damien's childhood friend and best man, owns the fondue-style restaurant, and has graciously offered it for this evening's party.

I love the place, with its funky decor and wild colors. The last time I was here, Damien and I shared a very private booth. Tonight, everyone is gathered in the main restaurant. We are laughing, talking, and toasting. And

, of course, indulging in the various fondue pots that Alaine has scattered throughout.

He has turned off the restaurant's normal New Age music in favor of piping Rat Pack tunes from the speakers. Apparently he is aware that Damien and I share a love of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the rest.

I smile at Damien, who is talking to Ollie and Evan across the room. He leaves them, then strides to me and pulls me close, easing me around the makeshift dance floor before dipping me, much to the amusement of the other guests. "I am a genius," he says.

"So I've been told."

"I also own a stereo," he adds.

"This is also a fact that I'm aware of. I assume there's some sort of connection coming."

He points to the speakers. "We don't need a band tomorrow. We just need a DJ."

I gape at him. "You are a genius. Except I already told Sylvia to hire a band."

"She didn't have the heart to tell you, but they've all been booked." He leans closer, nips my earlobe, then whispers, "I think you may be exhibiting signs of stress. My assistant was trying to protect you. I can't say I blame her."

I laugh and push him away, then immediately pull him back into my arms. "You're in a good mood."

"Of course I am. Haven't you heard? I'm getting married tomorrow."

"Lucky man," I say.