Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland

Chapter 18

 

It had been years since Chantelle had visited the Old Town; even when she came to Aix on business or for a few days away from the stress of work, she stuck to her estate. So she’d thoroughly enjoyed her morning out with Dustin. She even tried to convince herself that it had been the visit itself that lightened her mood so much, rather than the company.

Couldn’t possibly be that she’d simply liked walking next to Dustin, exploring.

“Did our connection go down?” On the other end of the video call, Sienna was frowning, peering at the screen. “Chantelle, can you hear me?”

Oh. Chantelle shook herself. She’d gone dreaming off into wonderland, so much so that she’d half forgotten she was in the middle of a conference call with her assistant. “Sorry,” she said, shuffling the documents on her desk and finding her place again. “I was asking whether you heard back from Grady about those contracts—”

Before Sienna could even respond, there was an unholy racket out in the garden. It sounded like Dustin calling her name. Even Minerva looked surprised, lifting her head and looking around, curious, alert.

What the hell?

“What is that?” Sienna asked, looking around as if the noise was coming from inside her own office.

“I have no idea,” Chantelle said, rising. Puzzled. “I’d better go find out.”

She ended the call and hurried toward the sound; it was definitely Dustin. She hurried outside with a mixture of concern and irritation. She was a busy woman, dammit.

But what if he’d hurt himself? Had he gone and done some damn-fool crap and gotten wounded? He’d already fixed her door this morning. Had he decided to repair the crumbling bricks on her artesian well, or maybe give the tractor a tuneup?

“Dustin?” she called. Trying not to convey her worry.

“Over here!” He yelled from behind the barn.

She hurried her footsteps, trying to quench her panic—and was immediately smacked in the face by something small, cold and wet. And then another colorful missile hit her on the shoulder. She reeled back from the impact and the feeling of cold water drenching her, and looked down onto the ground. Water balloons.

Her 30-something year old husband was throwing water balloons. She could even hear his laughter, see the thatch of hair as he peeped out from behind the barn to see where she was.

Irritated beyond measure, she stomped towards him, feeling the water trickle down her neck and between her breasts. “T’es fou, toi?” she demanded. “Are you mad?”

“Perfectly sane,” he yelled, peeking out at her again. Slipping his arm into view so she could see he was wielding another balloon, ready to bowl her flat. “I’ve got a whole bucket of these babies back here. Wanna play?”

“No, I do not wanna play. What the hell’s gotten into you? I was working back there!”

“That’s the problem,” came the disembodied voice. “You’re always working. Come take a break. Live a little.”

“I live just fine.”

“You live in a world of deals and documents, when you could be living in a world of sunshine and…” A third balloon hit her in the middle of her chest. “… water balloons!”

She didn’t even realize she was upon him until she was, palms smacking into his chest, trying to throw him to the ground. “Did you get those damn things in town today?”

“Yup.” He shifted, bracing himself to prevent being pushed over.

She let him go, then stopped, panting. “God, you’re immature.” She looked down at herself, noticing that her wet blouse was sticking to her like a skin, her braless breasts clearly visible through the fabric. “And you ruined my blouse. This was silk. It’s not supposed to get wet, jerk.”

He looked down at her blouse, but she wondered whether he was surveying the damage or taking in the sight of her nipples, which were already responding to the cold water. And that thought made them pucker even more.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. The effort to drag his eyes from her nipples to her face was evident. “Let me replace your blouse.”

“Huh,” she sniffed. “Hard to do, since it was bespoke, and made in Paris.”

“Is there any way….”

“You can start with an apology,” she said, face straight, lips pursed. “But there’s more retribution to be suffered.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then, with a puzzled look, asked, “but what do you mean by—”

He never had the chance to finish. Because he was struck in the face by two balloons in rapid succession. Before he could even react, Chantelle had reloaded and lobbed one to his chest and another to his midsection, causing him to double over to protect himself. He seemed to have intuited that the next balloon was headed about six inches lower than his belt. “What the—”

“Ha!” she shrieked. “That’s retribution! Take that! And that!” Hands deep in the bucket of balloons, she grabbed what she could and went at him, pleased with her aim and the smack smack smack sound that announced her success.

Buit Dustin wasn’t easily thwarted. He soon regained his footing; he lunged at the bucket, arming himself, flinging his ammunition at her like a baseball hall-of-famer determined to strike out his nemesis.

“That stings!” she bawled. Truly irritated now. Way out of line, he was. Interrupting her day, getting her up from her desk in the middle of a… and then they both spotted it. The last water balloon, sitting at the bottom of the bucket. Red and wobbly and calling her name.

Dustin looked at her. She looked at him.

Each knew what the other was thinking.

“Like hell!” she snarled at him. “Would you really fight for a pregnant woman over the last balloon?”

Truth was, she was having a good day, and since she’d been keeping up with her prenatal exercises, she wasn’t even winded. But when you had a weapon to use, you used it. It was all the art of negotiation. 

He hesitated, his sense of chivalry getting in the way of his fighting spirit. That’s all the leeway she needed. Her hands closed around the balloon, then his killer instinct was back. A wrestling match began.

She got to her knees, and so did he. Pulling and tugging, they wound up rolling in the grass, both clinging to their lifeline.

“I touched it first,” he insisted.

“My ass, you did!” she retorted.

“You bring your ass into the conversation, I might not be responsible for what happens next,” he warned.

“You know that’s not what I meant!” She yanked on the balloon. He yanked back. And then the inevitable happened. A mini-fountain of water sprayed over both of them. “Look at what you did!” she chastised.  

“Me! You should have let go!”

She could have replied, but she realized she was lying on her back in the grass, soaked to her skin, and Dustin was sitting astride her hips, pinning her down. She wanted desperately to get up, shove him off, but her legs were too weak. Her arms were too weak.

Her resolve was too weak.

When he kissed her, she didn’t resist. She felt her mouth upon hers and any thought of shoving him away was chased out of her head by the jarring sensation, the wild excitement, and the almost instant boiling of her already heated blood.

She lifted her head off the grass to kiss him back properly, and Dustin cradled her head in one hand and her torso in the other, so she couldn’t withdraw again.

Not that she wanted to. “Dustin….” She heard the murmur escape her mouth, and any attempt at further speech was silenced but the tip of his tongue piercing her lips.

Then he laid her gently backwards, so she was prone again, freeing his hands to cup her breasts, swelling under his touch through the soaked silk. One thumb gently stroked a hard pebble of a nipple, causing her to groan, squeeze her eyes shut.

She lifted her hips, no longer feeling trapped under him, but welcoming her imprisonment. Feeling the clear signs of his own arousal.

Then Chantelle surprised herself by reaching up to stroke his chest through a cotton tee that was equally soaked, hating the fabric for the way it adhered to him. Why didn’t it just rip off under her hands? She wanted to see him bare-chested, hungered for the sight of that toned body bared to her.

The sun pounded down on them, even though it was late in the day, turning the sky around his head white, making his face a dark silhouette.

She found her grip on coherent thoughts slipping away; all she wanted right now was to strip off everything. Get bare-assed naked with this gorgeous man right here in the wet grass, among the litter of bright colored, busted balloons, and beg him to have her.

Except that this wasn’t what they’d agreed upon. Hands off, she had instead. A marriage in name only. And furthermore, he was leaving her in two days…. No, wait. That didn’t come out right. Not leaving her. Just leaving. Going home where he belonged.

She sighed in anguished frustration and turned her gaze away.

Immediately, Dustin was off her, sensing her withdrawal. Getting to his feet, and offering her a hand to get up. She considered refusing it, but then politely took it and came to stand before him. His expression was unreadable.

She was about to say she was sorry, but knew there was nothing to be sorry for. And the look he gave her confirmed that.

Soberly, and with great gravity, he said to her, “I enjoyed that. And, I think, so did you. Remember, Chantelle, my offer still stands. One night of pleasure, no strings attached. If you want that as much as I do, you know where my bedroom is.”

As he walked off, the surrounding air seemed to change. The temperature seemed to drop. And Chantelle felt a chill roll through her soul.