Best Man with Benefits (Wedding Dare, #4, McCade Brothers, #3)(12)
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 f*cking 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.