Chapter Seventeen
Chase
Annabelle burst out laughing and flung her hand toward Evers and Summer, champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass.
"Are you kidding me? Forgetting the fact that I've known Evers since I was a little kid, and he is so not my type, Evers is very, very taken."
My brain accepted Annabelle's logic. She didn't seem to have romantic feelings for any of the guys she'd grown up with and I trusted her. I could take her at her word. A part of me still hated that I couldn't stake my claim and make sure every single person here knew that she was mine.
She wasn't mine.
Not yet.
She sipped her champagne, still comfortably tucked into my side, her slight weight warm against me.
Across the room, Mrs. W danced with Abel. She looked like a queen, her mahogany hair on top of her head in a complex arrangement of braids, her dark gray dress severe, yet majestic.
Abel had packed his broad shoulders and bulky frame into a charcoal suit. They shouldn't have looked right together. Mrs. W was elegant from her head to her toes and Abel looked like exactly what he was: a former Navy man, burly and grizzled and gruff.
But he held Mrs. W as if she were the finest china. The flush in her cheeks gave away how much she liked it.
Leaning down and whispering to Annabelle, I said, "Abel asked Mrs. W to marry him and she said no. More than once."
Annabelle’s eyes went wide. "I heard there was something going on, but I didn't realize it was serious. Why won't she say yes?"
"I asked her the other day," I admitted, wanting to hear what Annabelle would say. Wondering if she would see herself in Mrs. W.
"You asked her? Like, came out and asked her?"
"Well, I kind of walked in on Mrs. W after they were fighting. I think she wanted me to pretend everything was fine, but I couldn't do it. So I asked."
"What did she say?"
"That she was scared."
I stared down into Annabelle's beautiful brown eyes and saw the wariness creeping in.
"She was married a long time ago, when she first came to Winters House."
"What happened?" Annabelle breathed.
"He died," I said gently, "and she's gotten used to being on her own. To being alone. She loves him, but she’s scared."
Annabelle said nothing, leaning into me, staring up into my eyes, emotions clashing in the depths of her own.
Fear, wariness, and the faintest hint of hope. I pinned every one of my dreams on that flicker of hope.
Annabelle cleared her throat and looked away, her gaze landing across the room on the dancing couple, the curl of Abel's thick arm around Mrs. W's slender waist. Her tentatively happy smile.
They looked like any other dancing couple, but everyone who knew them recognized what it meant for Mrs. W to dance with Abel here, in front of family. In front of the world. It was subtle and personal, but it was a statement all the same.
Annabelle sipped the last of her champagne, and I plucked the empty glass from her hand.
"Hungry?" I asked, looping my arm through hers and leading her around the dance floor to the hall outside the ballroom.
The catering staff had set up another bar, along with tables loaded with food ranging from savory appetizers to every dessert I could imagine. And, of course, the wedding cake.
The official cutting of the cake had come and gone an hour before, Jacob smiling down at Abigail, love beaming from his eyes as he gently and carefully fed her a bite. No smashing the frosting into this bride's face.
When he was done, he'd cradled her face in his hands, kissing each cheek before pressing his lips to hers.
I'm a guy. I have a limit on mushiness, and even I got a little tear in my eye at that. Jacob's tenderness, his open affection, was almost exclusively reserved for his bride. He was ruthless in the board room, yet treated her as if she were the most precious thing on earth.
They'd been too distracted by each other to take more than the ceremonial taste of their cake. I wasn't going to make the same mistake.
Originally taller than the bride, the cake had been tiers upon tiers of creamy fondant, covered in flowers of platinum and the palest pink, on vines of barely-there green.
Elegant and elaborate, each flower had been carved by hand and painted with delicate precision, resulting in a three-dimensional watercolor of a garden, reminding me of a Monet come to life.
Even better, the buttercream frosting hid layers of moist lemon-basil cake separated by strawberry jam.
When I first heard the cake was lemon-basil, I'll be honest, I thought it sounded revolting. It was supposed to be a cake, not a stir fry.
Annabelle had rhapsodized over the cake long enough that I had a feeling I was off base, but really. Lemon-basil?
If the way it smelled counted for anything, it was going to be delicious. The serious dent the guests had put in the rows of dessert plates on the table told me lemon-basil with strawberry jam was a hit.
Annabelle picked up one of the small plates with a narrow slice of cake, pinched off a bite and popped it in her mouth. She tasted, rolling her eyes to the ceiling before she closed them, humming a little in the back of her throat.
"Are you eating that cake or communing with it?" I asked, snagging a slice of my own before I tugged her down the hall and around the corner into an alcove. Annabelle barely noticed, so intent on the cake.
Finally, she swallowed and said, "I wanted to get all the flavors."
"I thought it was lemon-basil. With strawberry." I looked at the slice of cake on my plate, wondering what secrets it hid.
"It is, but there's more. Something else. Maybe thyme?" She broke off another tiny piece and set it on her tongue, closing her eyes again as she absorbed the nuances of the cake.
Doing that cute humming thing again, she swallowed and murmured to herself, "Not thyme. Maybe lavender. Just the smallest bit."
"Can't you ask Abigail?" I interrupted.
"I will, but I want to figure it out for myself."
She took a third bite, bigger this time, and closed her eyes again, breathing in slowly through her nose to let the scent and taste wash over her senses. I did the same, wondering if I could pick up the nuances that seemed so apparent to Annabelle.
I tasted sweet, then vanilla, reminding me of Annabelle, the green of the basil and the tart of the lemon. But lavender… I wasn't getting that. Clearly, I was not cut out to be a pastry chef.
I'd finished my entire slice by the time Annabelle was on her fifth bite, this time carefully savoring the frosting and murmuring to herself, "No basil? Not with…"
I swiped a finger full of frosting from the side of her slice and held it up to her lips. She closed her mouth around my finger so easily I knew she hadn't thought about what she was doing. Her eyes shot up and locked on mine, her tongue swiping across my fingertip.
I waited for her to back away, to pull her mouth from my finger. She didn't.
She sucked harder. My cock went rock hard. I lay my palm along her cheek, feeling the muscles flex in her jaw as she took one last lick of frosting from my finger.
She swallowed. I turned her face to mine and drew my finger from her mouth.
I brushed my lips against hers, giving her all the time, all the space in the world to back away.
I wanted this. I needed it. I lay awake every night dreaming of this. I had so many fantasies of Annabelle, and every one started with a kiss.
She froze for a second, for a heartbeat, her lips parted slightly. Every muscle in my body was drawn tight, my hand still cupping her cheek. I tugged her forward the tiniest bit, sliding my other arm around her back, urging her closer.
She let me pull her body to mine, let me tilt her face to the side and part her lips with my own, inviting me in. I took her mouth, tasting sugar and vanilla. Lemon and basil. Strawberry.
And Annabelle. Underneath it all, the sweet, perfect flavor of Annabelle.
Backing up until I hit the wall of the alcove, I pulled her into the shadows, fitting her between my legs, plastering her to my body, surrounding her until she was finally, finally mine.
She made a sound of want, her breasts pressed to my chest, nipples sharp points through her dress. I could have stayed there all night, and all the next day.
I might have if a tipsy wedding guest hadn't stumbled down the hall, taking a wrong turn into the alcove and elbowing Annabelle in the back.
She jumped like a scalded cat, only my tight hold keeping her from losing her balance and tumbling to the floor. The guest murmured, "Oops!," and laughed raucously as she tottered in the other direction.
Annabelle leaned back, trying to put space between us, and I reluctantly, regretfully, let her go. She took a step away, wobbling on her heels. I reached out to close my fingers over her elbow, steadying her without making her feel trapped.
Our kiss felt like a victory, but I knew better than to press my advantage. The last thing I wanted was to send her running scared. Eyes wide and a little confused, she lifted her hand to her mouth and touched her lower lip with her index finger
"I–"
"Can we do that again?" I asked softly.
Annabelle started to shake her head abruptly. She stopped and touched her finger to her lower lip again, swollen and red from our kiss.
"I don't know."
"Do you want to?" I asked carefully, knowing that if she said no I was going to find the biggest bottle of whiskey I could and drink every drop. Nothing else could drive this need from my body.
If Annabelle didn't want me after that kiss, she never would.
"I do," she admitted, her eyes dropping to study her toes, brightly polished in her spike heel sandals. Under her breath, so quietly I almost couldn't catch the words, she said, "I do want to, so much."
"Will you?"
Desperately wanting to reach out and take her hand, to pull her back into my arms where she belonged, I held back, knowing if I did I risked scaring her away.
She looked up at me, eyes swimming with tears. Remorse stabbed my heart. I wanted her. I wanted this. More than sex, more than attraction, in the past few weeks she’d become one of the best friends I've ever had.
I knew her past, knew she had hurdles to overcome if she ever chose to be with me.
Knew that breaking down her barriers might hurt along the way.
But knowing that and seeing the cost, seeing those tears, seeing the war between fear and desire and something more than affection in her eyes left me desperately uncertain.
I wanted her to say yes. To admit that she cared for me, that she wanted me, that we should ditch the reception and go straight upstairs to strip each other's clothes off and have each other until we passed out from sheer exhaustion.
I didn't want her to cry.
I didn't want this to hurt.
"Annabelle," I breathed, lifting a hand to wipe away the single tear that spilled over her lashes. "Don't. Don't cry. Forget it happened. We'll go back to the way it was and forget this happened. I swear—"
Her tears welled deeper, spilling over her cheeks faster than I could wipe them away. Her eyes locked on mine, searching for something.
If I'd known what it was I would have given it to her.
I would have given her anything.
Her tongue peeked out from between her lips and she surged forward, knocking my hands aside, grabbing my shoulders and dragging my mouth down to hers.
Relief was a blade slicing through me, slicing through my restraint.
My arms were too tight. My mouth too hungry.
Annabelle didn't seem to care.
She molded her body to mine, her lips, her tongue, kissing, nibbling, tasting, biting. Absorbing me, taking everything I had to give and returning it in even measure.
I kissed her until I was lightheaded and halfway to pulling down the zipper of her dress, peeling away the silk to finally see the woman beneath.
Reason filtered down the hall in the form of somewhat drunken laughter, reminding me that we were anything but alone.
I pulled back just enough and whispered, "Let's go upstairs."
Annabelle said simply, "Yes."
That was all I needed to hear. Sending Jacob and Abigail a silent thank you for insisting that their closest friends and family use the rooms they'd reserved in their names, I held Annabelle's hand tightly in mine and pulled her, a little impatiently, down the hall to the back staircase.
No way was I taking her to the elevator bank, beyond the main bar. I wasn't running the risk of her changing her mind, and I knew she wouldn't want everyone to see her with kiss-swollen lips and tear-reddened eyes.
Neither of us wanted to make explanations. We just wanted each other.
Fortunately, my room was on the second floor, a mere two flights up from the ballroom. The metal fire door clanked shut behind us, and Annabelle slid off her sandals, looping the straps over her fingers, laughing as she ran up the stairs with me close behind.
Annabelle crying was a stab to the heart, but Annabelle laughing…
Annabelle laughing was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. Especially since she was laughing on the way to bed with me.
We chased each other down the hall like children, tumbling through the door of my room only to skid to a stop at the sight of the bed. Annabelle flashed a look at me, part desire and part nerves.
It almost killed me to say it, but I had to, the memory of those tears too fresh to forget.
"We don't have to," I started.
Annabelle gave a hard shake of her head, sending her gleaming cinnamon hair flying.
"I want to. I want to, Chase. I want you. I'm tired of thinking and being afraid. I just want you."
I was already reaching for her, ignoring the twinge in my chest that she'd said I want you. Not something else.
What had I expected? For her to profess her undying love to me? We'd only just kissed.
Deep inside, where I shoved emotions too messy to think about, I needed so much more than simple want from Annabelle.
I needed everything.
Reminding myself that this, right here, was more progress than I'd made in weeks, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her again, shoving all my unruly feelings and wayward thoughts deep down where they couldn't get in my way.
This was not the time to doubt. This was the time to revel in finally having Annabelle exactly where I wanted her.
In my arms and under my mouth. Under my hands.
I didn't reach for the zipper on her dress until she tugged at my tie, pulling roughly at the silk, tearing it free and pitching it to the floor so she could go to work on my buttons, yanking until she parted the fabric and shoved the shirt off my shoulders.
I undid the cufflinks, hearing them drop to the floor, not caring where they rolled, helping her drag the shirt down my arms.
Careful not to snag her hair, I eased the narrow zipper down the inseam of her dress, the dark silk parting to reveal creamy, smooth skin beneath.
She dropped her arms and the fabric fell away.