Best Man's Conquest by Michelle Celmer Page A

something he had to do.
    He lowered his head and she rose up to meet him halfway. They came together swift and firm. With purpose. As though they both knew what they wanted and they weren’t afraid to take it, the consequences be damned.
    She took him into her mouth, against her tongue. She tasted warm and familiar and exciting.
    He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t for Ivy to grab his ass and drive herself hard against him. He was so surprised and so turned on, he just about embarrassed himself. He didn’t even know it was possible to get a boner wearing ice-cold wet denim.
    He bit down on her lip, the way he used to, and she moaned her appreciation. The sound slipped over him like exquisite Italian silk, cranking his level of arousal up yet another notch. Then she slipped her hand between their tightly fused bodies and rubbed it over his crotch, and he was the one moaning.
    He knew without a doubt that kissing her was not going to cut it. He needed to get her naked. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he was driving himself deep inside her. Watching her shatter in his arms.
    He tugged at her soggy shirt, trying to push it up and out of the way, so he could get his hands on some skin. She must have had the same idea, because he could feel her wrestling with the hem of his shirt. At least they were on the same page.
    But these wet clothes had to go.
    He nipped her lip again, and Ivy moaned. She fisted her hands in his shirt, her nails scraping his skin. Everything in her body language begged, take me now, and he couldn’t come up with a single reason why he shouldn’t. Not that he was trying all that hard to come up with one.
    Then he heard a door open and voices in the foyer. An obnoxious, earsplitting cackle of laughter rang through his ears. That was the laugh of a Tweedle. He could feel his hard-on instantly begin to deflate.
    Looked as if they were about to have company.
    Why the hell hadn’t he swept her up and carried her to his room? Or her room. Or the bathroom? Anywhere that they would have a little privacy.
    As abruptly as they had come together, they broke apart. Both dazed and breathless. And still soaking wet.
    Ivy blinked a few times, gazing around as if she’d completely forgotten where she was.
    The Tweedles and Blake’s brothers appeared in the hallway a second later, like crashers at a private party. His party. They were still dressed in their golf gear, and Dee, or was it Dum—he still couldn’t tell them apart—was laughing. Awfully jovial, weren’t they, considering what had happened to Deidre?
    He absently wondered which one had pegged her, and if she felt even a modicum of regret. If she cared about anyone but herself.
    All four stopped abruptly when they noticed Ivy and Dillon standing there. The one he was pretty sure was Dum inspected them from head toe, a look of revulsion on her face. “Oh, my God. What happened to you?”
    Ivy looked from Dillon, to herself, then back to their captivated audience. He couldn’t wait to see how she explained this one.
    She shrugged, the picture of innocence, and said, “We went swimming.” As if that was obvious, and not at all unusual despite the fact that they were both fully dressed.
    She always did have a way of making the ridiculous or unlikely seem completely rational.
    Not that he gave a damn what the four Musketeers did or didn’t know.
    Of course, at some point the news would have gotten back to his mother. He didn’t really give a damn what she thought, either. But the business of trying to explain and assuring her that there was no way in hell he and Ivy would ever try to reconcile would be a big pain in the behind. A hassle he didn’t need. Or want.
    If they were going to do this, it would be best to keep it to themselves.
    And they were. Even if Ivy didn’t realize it yet.
    â€œYou’re dripping everywhere,” the other Tweedle said, mirroring