There's a connection.
Only one woman could make Paul Levesque consider getting naked and horizontal in a choir loft. From the moment Stephanie McMahon stepped out of her custom-painted yellow Corvette and onto the steps of the St. Teresa of Avila Church, he could think of little else. The woman had the gravitational pull of the sun and was just as hot. And just as lethal. He made it through the wedding and as far as the reception without submitting to the urge to pin her up against the nearest wall, to feel those curves pressed against him, to kiss that mouth. Once, those full, pouty lips had begged him for everything he wanted to do to her. Because he was a man, he'd wanted to take her up on her offer. Because he was seven years her senior, he'd refused.
Paul stood at the bar with three of Stephanie's four older brothers while the fourth made the rounds with his new wife. Dinner was over, liquor was flowing, and dancing was in full swing.
"My sister's back in town," Shane, the eldest McMahon brother, said, nodding to Stephanie across the dance floor. Paul raised a brow at his friend.
"I saw that," he said, thinking a couple hours ago.
The doors of the McMahon's repurposed barn sat open, allowing in the late May breeze. A crap-ton of lights and white fluffy shit hung from the rafters. Despite the couple's insistence that they wanted a casual affair, Mrs. McMahon had brought in every white flower in the tri-state area and contracted some five-star Connecticut catering service.
"I wish she'd stick around for awhile," Simon McMahon grumbled.
"Get Mom off our backs." Sam, Simon's twin, grinned.
"She just wants us to 'Find nice girls who can have my grandbabies'", he said in a falsetto imitation of his mom.
Paul peeled his eyes off Stephanie's heels—he couldn't be sure from this distance, but he would bet they were red. Red heels and miles of leg. He clenched his hands, itching to touch. To strip her down to nothing but those shoes and explore every inch of her. And when his hands were satisfied, he'd start over again. With his mouth. With his tongue. If the men around him knew the thoughts he was having about their baby sister, they'd pulverize him. Only reason he was still standing here tonight was that he'd never acted on his fantasies—a feat that felt more than a little superhuman tonight. Stephanie's laughter floated on the breeze and her face lit up with a smile. Shit. Red heels and legs he could resist, but that smile… He was toast.
"God, that'd be great," Shane said. "If Stephanie stuck around she'd inevitably start dating someone completely inappropriate." Shane laughed.
"Like a Buddhist monk under a vow of celibacy."
"Or an 'adult cinema' producer who likes to tell mom about Stephanie's 'untapped potential,'" Sam chimed in. Or me, Paul thought.
"Mom would be so preoccupied we might get some peace," Shane said. Paul dragged his attention from Stephanie and looked at her brothers.
"She's not a kid anymore," he pointed out, wishing the words felt more like the truth. Twenty-three was still way too young in his mind. "Shouldn't much matter who she's dating these days."
The men burst into laughter, as if Paul had just cracked a genius one-liner.
"It will always matter to our father," Shane said.
"I'm sure," Paul muttered.
Stephanie's father, Vince McMahon, was Paul's boss. Five years ago, Vince had given an ex-con a chance when he'd hired Paul to hone and build custom world-class muscle cars and sell them at a tidy profit. When you owed your life to your boss and had your dream job, it'd be one dumbass move to give it all up for a piece of ass. Only Stephanie wasn't just a piece of ass. Never had been - not to Paul.
"How nice that Stephanie made it back for the wedding," said Serena, the younger sister of the brothers and Stephanie, joining Paul and her brothers at the bar.
"Real nice," Paul muttered, taking in Stephanie's legs.
"Didn't your mama teach you it's not polite to escort one lady to a wedding and make eyes at another?" Serena asked him.
"Make eyes at who?"
Simon punched Paul in the arm. "That's my baby sister. Stop staring."
Paul rubbed his bicep but didn't bother taking his eyes off Stephanie. Sweet, young, smart, and incredibly sexy. As if sensing him, Stephanie turned and their eyes locked. Her hair, the colour of dark, rich honey, fell past her shoulders in fat curls, brushing over her bare skin. Her black dress hugged her curves and ended just low enough that her ass didn't show, just high enough to make Paul have to work real hard not to think about the next few inches north. In the two years since she'd picked up and left for London, Paul hadn't forgotten her, hadn't forgiven her, and hadn't stopped wanting her. Fuck, but he wasn't prepared for this. He pushed away from the wall. He needed some air. He wove through the crowd, beer in hand. Before he realized what he'd done, he found himself five yards from Stephanie.
Gravitational pull of the sun, he reminded himself.
He stood rooted in place, unwilling to take a step closer, unable to take a step back. She caught sight of him and treated him to a grin, the kind that changed her whole face and lit up the room like a thousand-watt bulb. He wanted so damn badly to kiss her, his mouth went dry. She smiled and gave a little wave. Paul didn't wave back but nodded toward the exit.
If you're going to burn, might as well go down smiling.