MADISON'S POV
The raucous laughter around me grates on my already frayed nerves.
I'm sitting in the middle of a boisterous, half drunk crowd, staring with a mixture of excitement and trepidation at the large, very male hand on my thigh.
Although I'm no stranger to entangled limbs, I'm particularly fascinated by the contrast between this tanned, muscled forearm with its thick, coursing veins and a generous dusting of silky, dark hair against my smooth thighs.
We're at a wedding reception in Cancun, Mexico. A wedding I had no business attending since I don't personally know the bride and groom, but my friend Ella and her husband Jordan, practically dragged me here all the way from New York.
I'd just concluded a four week project where I had built a website for a client and was bitching about how stressful it had been when Ella invited me to tag along with them and unwind in Cancun.
Only, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I'd be providing prime entertainment at the wedding reception.
"Calhoun, you're not doing it right," a big, blond groomsman shouts. "Forget the hands man, get your head in there and use your teeth!"
The rest of the men heartily agree.
For an awful moment, I wonder if he'll do it. Usually, I would be enjoying this kind of public display, maybe even shouting suggestions of my own, only now I find it's not quite the same when I'm the one in the hot seat in front of a man I can't stand.
A man whose hand on my naked thigh is, quite unexpectedly, sending shivers of awareness up my spine.
Calhoun somehow senses my discomfort and takes his hand away, but the rest of the groomsmen are having none of that.
They wildly egg him on, including, to my utmost annoyance, Maxwell, the hot guy who'd been on my heels all day and whom I'd actually been making plans to fuck tonight.
I roll my eyes in annoyance. If the man was bothered in the least about trying to reclaim the territory that Calhoun is all but pissing over right now, I wouldn't be up here with goosebumps and a red face.
Could Maxwell not have insisted on doing it instead of Calhoun?
Well, there goes your fun tonight, pal.
I look down at Calhoun's bowed head, at the thick, dark locks of hair falling over his forehead, and I tell myself that the tightening in my belly is irritation and the tingles racing along my spine are due to the awkwardness of the situation.
I'm confused by my reaction, but I'm not about to break character and let him see how affected I am.
Calhoun looks up, and a furrow appears between his brows. Being only 5'2", I've had to tilt my head way up to speak to him all weekend, even with my heels, so having him kneeling at my feet throws me off.
Our gazes meet briefly; from this angle, I can see beneath the reflective, tinted lenses into his eyes for the first time.
My mouth goes dry. They're light blue with specks of bright gold and ringed with a darker brown.
It's so unfair that an asshole gets to have eyes like that.
His gaze is questioning.
Is he…asking for permission? To take the garter off of me?
I remain silent, watching him watch me.
When I say nothing, his hand returns and trails high against the skin of my outer thigh, searching for the garter, and fire licks at me. Why, oh why, did I have to shove that damn thing so high up?
For fuck's sake, Madi, it's not a tampon.
His palm presses flat, seeking the lacy fabric, and then his fingers finally curl around the edge of the garter. I can do nothing to stop the ripples of pleasure coursing through me. The elastic catches on the soft flesh of my inner thigh, and he palms my other knee with his other hand.
My breath hitches.
"Madison? Are you okay with this?" Calhoun suddenly asks.
I was right, he was asking permission. And I think he just heard my gasp. Fuck.
I hate that he's reading me so clearly, and I feel stupid for reacting this way to him, for reacting this way at all. It must be all the testosterone oozing off the raunchy audience. I'm clearly embarrassed and out of my depth here.
Am I okay?No, I'm not. I'm so fucking not. I need this wild strumming, vibrating thing to stop.Right now
He's still waiting for my response. Why wouldn't he just yank off the thing and be done with it? Why is the man getting all polite and making it such a big deal?
Because you're uncomfortable, and he knows it.
I shut out the voice of reason, and with a snarky confidence that I'm so far from feeling, I say, "What's the matter Calhoun? You're shaking like a leaf. What, the girls at Harvard never showed you their panties?"
His gaze narrows. I think he's angry. My confirmation is the tightening of his grip around my knee, then in a rough jerk, he spreads my thighs wide apart.
The men go wild.
You'd think they were a bunch of rowdy teenage boys, not some of the richest men in the country.
His eyes meet and hold mine again while his right hand snakes between my thighs, his rough palm grazing against the sensitive skin. His eyes are like hot coals, and I can't look away.
I feel a draft against my panties and realize that they're wet.
Geez.
My face pales in shock and mortification, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in his glasses. I look like a deer caught in headlights. Suddenly, I want to rip those glasses off.
"Hurry the hell up, Harvard. Taking a garter off is not rocket science!"
He grabs hold of the seam and pulls, his knuckles sliding against my thigh on their way down. As soon as the garter clears my foot, I'm off the chair.
"Gentlemen," Calhoun says, slowly rising and twirling the stupid garter on his index finger. He proceeds to give a speech about completing the mission, ending by thanking the excited audience for their unwavering support.
I can't watch anymore. I walk, more like stomp off, my face on fire. I'm more upset that I got so riled up. I never get riled up.
I need a drink,I think, settling back at my table, which is currently empty.And where the hell are all my friends?
It's all Ella's fault,I tell myself for the thousandth time.I never should have come here.
The wedding so far has been nothing short of interesting. The wedding planner suggested that instead of the groom tossing the bride's garter to the groomsmen, each bridesmaid was to wear her own garter, and the groomsmen would then select who among them would be taking it off the girl fortunate enough to catch the bouquet.
Great.Not that I really cared who did what to whom as long as I got to watch these sinfully hot guys do those activities. It seems unfair that men as wealthy as these would also look so good.
Ella, being the only married bridesmaid, didn't think there was any point in joining the others to catch the bouquet, so she'd handed over her garter, urging me to put it on.
I'd agreed and worn it on a whim but made sure to stay well out of the way of the other women. I figured since I wasn't even part of the bridal party, I shouldn't steal the show from those who were.
I only came here for the view.
Of course, the bouquet had to come flying at me like a nuclear missile while the other women who actually wanted to catch the thing dove in every other direction.
Seriously, girls, how hard can it be to grab a huge bunch of calla-lilies hurled at you?
Realizing with alarm what was about to happen, I'd turned away at the last second, but the damned thing still landed on my back.
Technically I didn't catch it, I'd protested, but Nora the bride, declared that the bouquet caught me, which was all the same, if not better than me catching it. And there's no arguing with a bride on her wedding day, is there?
And so, there I was, sitting with none other than Calhoun Kennedy's hand between my thighs while a group of rowdy groomsmen shouted suggestive tips.