Page 39 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

Chapter Ten

Brooke didn’t cry at weddings. She didn’t. The moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes as she watched David and Chris exchange vows wasn’t tears. It was her damn ragweed allergy acting up again. In March.

“Here,” Eli whispered, dangling a handkerchief from his fingertips.

“A handkerchief? Who still carries a handkerchief?” She took it, running her thumb over the “EWJ” embroidered in the corner. “And monogrammed, no less.”

“They’re extremely handy. Perfect for lending to damsels in distress.”

“Do you come across a lot of those?”

He took her free hand and weaved his fingers with hers. “Only one, recently.”

She dabbed at her eyes—stupid allergy—and turned her attention back to the ceremony. As happy as she was for David and Chris, who had finished with the vows and were exchanging rings, she couldn’t help feeling a little wistful.

Things were finally starting to go her way. Her agent had loved the last set of revisions. She lived in a great neighborhood, surrounded by good friends. And she had a hotter-than-hell guy in her bed every night who made sure she never went to sleep unsatisfied.

But how long would it last? Her book might never sell. Any day now, she and her friends could be out on the street. And as much fun as she was having with Eli, watching David and Chris stand before their family and friends and swear to have and to hold from this day forward, seeing the love and promise in their eyes as they slipped the rings onto each other’s fingers, made her wonder if maybe she and Eli could have that, too.

“You okay?” he asked under his breath.

She nodded and stared straight ahead, not daring to look at him. Her face had always been an open book, and she was afraid of what he might see there now. “Allergies.”

“Right.” He drew out the word like he was savoring it.

“Screw you.”

He chuckled and turned her hand over in his, running his thumb over her palm. The slight touch reverberated all the way to the tips of her toes in her high-heeled Roman sandals. “Later.”

“Shh,” Mr. Feingold hissed loudly, rapping Brooke on the shoulder. “I can’t hear.”

“Neither can anyone else now, thanks to you, old man,” his wife scolded, her voice only slightly softer than her husband.

For the rest of the ceremony, Brooke kept her mouth shut and her eyes on the happy couple. No easy task with Eli refusing to release her hand, his thumb continuing to draw slow circles on her palm. How could such a simple, seemingly innocuous touch create such a tidal wave of sexual pleasure? It was a good thing they were sitting down because she didn’t think her legs would support her.

Only when the service was over and David and Chris shared their first—almost obscenely long—kiss as spouses for life did she sneak a glance at Eli. He looked right back and mouthed, “Later.”

“One-track mind,” she mouthed back. But at that moment, as David and Chris continued to kiss and Eli stared at her with a bittersweet smile, something deep inside told her they were talking about more than sex.

Cocktails and dinner passed in a sort of blur. By the time they’d eaten Mallory’s fabulously prepared food and Charise’s boyfriend du jour had started spinning tunes on Eli’s sound system, Brooke had a nice little champagne buzz. She shook her booty to Beyoncé and Britney Spears and taught the Feingolds the Electric Slide before a slow song came on, one that called for lots of touching and swaying and romance. PDA of the highest degree.

“It’s about time.” Eli intercepted her at the edge of the makeshift dance floor and held out his hand. His jacket was long gone, and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows. “Dance with me.”

It was a command, not a question. Brooke looked at his outstretched hand then met his gaze. It was what she saw there that made her overcome her deep-seeded aversion to public displays of affection. Not need or desire, but a kind of quiet desperation, as if his world would end if they didn’t share this dance.

She took his hand and let him lead her past the other swaying couples to the center of the floor. His grip tightened, and he tugged her closer so he could slide his other arm around her waist. The heat of his palm on her back scorched her skin through the crepe of her dress. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and flattened her free hand against his chest.

“It was a beautiful wedding,” she said lamely, her eyes fixed on one of his shirt buttons.

“Thanks to you.” The hand at her back pressed more firmly against her until their hips brushed with every step.

“And you.”

He dipped his head so his lips skimmed her earlobe. “What do you say we get out of here?”

She pulled back far enough to look at him. “Wouldn’t that be rude?”

She followed his gaze to David and Chris, locked in each other’s arms on the opposite side of the dance floor, oblivious to everything but themselves. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll miss us.”