Christmas In His Bed

“Okay. One night. I’ll crash here tonight and look into staying somewhere else while you’re in town.” He was staring at her again. “If you’re sure Brent won’t mind?”

She nodded. Brent so won’t mind. She headed into the kitchen, deliberately avoiding his gaze. She could sleep under the same roof; she could be an adult. But she wasn’t going to talk about her marriage or her divorce with him.

He followed her. “Why is it so cold in here? Pilot light go out again?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Brent couldn’t get it to work?”

“The heat won’t come on.” She pointed at the fireplace over her shoulder. “But at least I got the fire going, even if I did burn my thumb and singe some hair.” She held her thumb up.

She hadn’t expected him to cradle her hand in his or hold up her thumb for a thorough inspection. She wanted to yank her hand away and scowl at him... No, she didn’t. Which was worse.

His gaze locked with hers. “Some homecoming.” His hold went from reassuring to overwhelming. “I am sorry about tonight. Not the way I’d imagined seeing you again.” His words shook her. The rhythmic stroke of his thumb along her wrist turned her insides fluid.

Not the way I’d imagined seeing you again.

She blew out a deep breath. “It’s...it’s fine.” Her words were a raspy whisper but she managed to pull her hand from his. No touching. Touching was bad. And more space was good too. She stepped back, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I...I can call a repairman in the morning.”

He glanced at her hand, then back at her, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll fix it before we go to bed.”

We go to bed. She swallowed, staring at the floor so her face wouldn’t betray her thoughts. “Thanks.”

“What’s going on?” he asked softly.

“What do you mean?” She knew what he meant. But her life was none of his business. And, dammit, she was having a hard time thinking straight with him standing there staring at her that way. She needed to stay cool. And keep him at arm’s length. So she busied herself in the kitchen, pulling out the milk, a saucepan and some cocoa packets.

He followed her, standing too close. “You’re here alone, basically in the dark, without heat. Alone.”

She put the kettle on the burner, her hands and her voice unsteady. “Did you have to say that twice?” she asked.

“I guess that’s the thing I’m most hung up on,” he confessed.

He was standing behind her, his warmth rolling over her. “It is?” She glanced back at him, the questions in his gaze enough to turn her back to cocoa making. “I assure you, you don’t need to be hung up on anything that has to do with me, okay?” She tried to sound flippant but it didn’t work.

“Old habits die hard. I know how to read you. I always have.” There was an edge to his voice.

“Maybe. When we were kids,” she agreed. But they definitely weren’t kids anymore. And even if he had known what she was thinking—wanting—before she had, didn’t mean he did now. That was a long time ago. “Right now I want cocoa. And peace and quiet.” She spun around to face him, shoving the mug into his hand. “Good night.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” he asked, glancing at the mug she’d placed in his hands before leveling her with the weight of his gaze once more.

“I didn’t realize that was unclear.”

He chuckled.

She was very proud that she didn’t smile at him. Because his smile was hard to resist. He was hard to resist. Because, honestly, she would happily replace her swirly purple battery-operated love machine with this new manlier version of Spencer. She choked on her sip of cocoa. Please, God, don’t let him figure out what I’m thinking. And wanting.

“Brent’s not here.” He paused. “You’re alone.” He swallowed, his gaze searching her face as he leaned forward, placing his mug on the counter, his large hands on either side of her—effectively pinning her against the counter.

“So?” She didn’t deny it. She was alone. She was relieved her out-of-control hunger for him had somehow escaped his notice. But now that she was so close, that wouldn’t last for long. Her heart was slamming against her ribs and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. Because breathing drew in his scent, his tantalizing, captivating, enticing scent.

“And there’s this.” He pointed at her, then himself—stepping so close that his breath fanned her hair. “There’s still a hell of a...connection between the two of us.” He practically growled the words. Her body tightened, expectant, at the sound of his undeniable hunger.

For her.

His attention wandered to her mouth, leaving no doubt what he wanted. He felt it too. Of course he did.

She could sway into him, give in... But she should fight it. Even if his lips were so close. “Yes.” It took a lot of effort to form a coherent answer.

“Yes?” he repeated, his nostrils flaring as his gaze locked with hers.

“Yes. I am alone.” Her voice wavered.

He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw hard as rock. “That’s all?” he asked. “I won’t touch another man’s wife.” He ground out the words. “But, dammit, I want to kiss you so bad it hurts.”

Kiss me. She stared at him, gripped by a crushing, desperate ache. Touch me. “I’m no man’s wife. But I don’t want you to kiss me,” she whispered.

2

SPENCER STARED DOWN at her, his nerves strung so tight he worried he’d pop.

Tatum was here.

And all he could think about was touching her, tasting her. Silk. Warmth. Pure temptation. And even though he had no right to touch her, to think of her tangled up with him, he couldn’t stop himself. His body responded to her without reason, as if they hadn’t been living separate lives for years.

Her quiver revealed her lie. She wasn’t immune to him.

“I don’t believe you,” he argued.

She drew in a wavering breath. “I don’t care what you believe.” There was an edge to her voice. She wasn’t immune to him—but she was going to fight it.

Her green eyes clashed with his and he smiled at her. This was Tatum. The girl who’d stolen his heart, the girl he’d lived for. The girl he’d crushed, shredding his own heart in the process. He’d missed her every day for the last eight years.

He reached up, smoothing an errant curl from her forehead. “Your hair is longer.”

She didn’t say anything as he threaded the curl between his fingers. The curl coiled around him, clinging to him the way he envisioned her clinging to him.

“So is yours,” she whispered.

A woman alone protects herself. He’d heard her. No man’s wife. For the first time, nothing was stopping them. Except maybe the defiance in her gaze.

He saw the way she looked at his mouth, the way her lips parted and her hands tightened on the counter’s edge. There was a restlessness about her he’d never seen in her before. She was nervous... That was obvious. Hell, he was nervous. But it was more than that. It was their past. What he’d done was reprehensible. Could she still hate him so much that she couldn’t bear to be close to him?

Or did she hate that she still wanted him?

From the look on her face, it’d be all too easy to assume it was the latter. Because that was what he wanted. Badly. The way she was looking at him now, flushed and dazed, focused on his mouth... He hadn’t been this hard since he was sixteen.

He stepped forward, erasing the small space between them. His thumbs ran along her jawline, tracing the soft skin of her neck and the shell of her ear. She closed her eyes, her lips parted, her breath escaping on unsteady gasps. He watched her response, her arousal driving him crazy. “How long?” he asked, his tone soft.

Her green eyes fluttered open. “How long?” she repeated, breathless.

“Since you’ve been...kissed.” He bit out the last word. “How long has it been since a man’s loved your body?”

“My body is none of your business.” But the tremor in her voice told him he wasn’t imagining this. Her hands gripped the counter edge as if she was holding herself back. She wanted him, even if she didn’t want to accept it.

“And it’s a damn shame,” he murmured, longing to pry her hands from the counter, to feel her fingers slide through his hair. Before he was through, she’d be holding on to him.

He smiled as his lips brushed her startled mouth—featherlight, a whisper of a touch. She shuddered as his nose traced the length of her neck. “You smell just as sweet,” he murmured. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, her little sigh making the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. “You taste the same.” It was true. And it was torture. When he pressed her back, pinning her hips against the cabinets, the feel of her curves against him almost brought him to his knees.

His mouth brushed hers once, still teasing. He tilted her head back, nipping her lower lip. Her lips were so damn soft. He pulled, sucking her plump lower lip until her lips parted. The tip of her tongue...stroking the curve of his lip. Damn.

He groaned, leaning into her, sealing her mouth with his and sliding his tongue into the hot recesses of her mouth. Her hand tangled in his hair, anchoring him firmly so she could deepen their kiss. And she did, the touch of her satin tongue making him groan. Her sudden hunger spurred him on. He gripped her hips, lifting her onto the kitchen counter. She wrapped a leg around his waist and pulled him close—arching into him.

His kiss wasn’t gentle; his tongue demonstrated exactly what he wanted from her. And the soft moan, her grip on his hair, told him she wanted it too. His hold on her hips tightened as he ground against her. He tore his mouth from hers, groaning against the hollow of her throat at the building friction between them. She cried out when his mouth latched on to her neck. He devoured her, holding her tightly, wanting more.

It had always been this way with her. All that mattered was the feel of her, her response, the way she touched him.

But as quickly as she reached for him, she withdrew. Her hold went from clinging to pushing against his chest. “Spencer,” she gasped. Fighting this—fighting him. He heard her deep, unsteady inhalation as she attempted to put some space between them.

Space he didn’t want. He stepped back, breathing hard.

“Spencer,” she repeated. Her voice was low and husky.

He looked at her. God, he wanted her. He hurt from wanting her. He was breathing heavy and losing control. He knew it, but he couldn’t apologize for it. She drove him crazy, made him lose his head. She always had.

“If we’re doing this... It’s one time.” Her eyes bored into his. “Only once.”

He frowned, cupping her face in his hands. “Once?” He’d been half expecting her to tell him to leave. Now she was telling him they were going to have sex. But only once?

“I don’t want to think...” She paused, her voice unsteady. “I want to feel alive...to feel something.”

Her words cut through him. He didn’t know what had happened with her marriage. Had she been mistreated? Heartbroken? She wanted one night, nothing more. And could he handle that, with the history they had, the feelings he still harbored? He knew one thing: refusing her was impossible.

Her green eyes bored into his, waiting, searching—and hungry.

Still, he had to be sure. “Tatum, I’m not sure—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “If the answer’s no, just say it. Otherwise, I’d rather we didn’t do much talking.”

He raised an eyebrow. Because talking meant thinking. And she’d already made it clear she didn’t want to overthink this. He should tell her no and walk away. Instead, he was going to give her what she wanted, what he wanted. “I’m not saying no.” He tilted her head back, making sure she was listening. “You want me to kiss you, Tatum? To touch you?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Yes.” The quiver in her voice shook him, stirring a possessiveness he hadn’t felt since they were young and in love. He swallowed back the wash of memories—and regret—and focused on the job at hand.

She wanted to feel alive. He’d give it his all. And enjoy every damn minute of it.

His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tracing her lower lip before he pressed his mouth to hers. His lips parted hers, sealing their mouths and mixing their breaths. When she trembled, he smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him. She was soft and warm, moving against him and gripping his shirt. He kissed her until she was clinging to him, her body molding to his, her tongue making him dizzy. Whatever she wanted, he’d give her.

He paused long enough to turn off the stove and swing her up into his arms. She twined her arms around his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair as he carried her into the living room. He set her on her feet long enough to toss the couch cushions onto the floor in front of the fire, then knelt in front of her.

His hands settled at her waist, working the fabric of her top free from the waist of her leggings. Her skin contracted beneath his fingertips, quivering. He looked up at her as his mouth brushed across her bare abdomen. She gasped, her fingers running through his hair. His lips skimmed her stomach, her waist. Her fingers tightened, tugging. He was mesmerized by the wonder on her face and the feel of her skin. Soft as silk. His hands slid up her sides and around her back, his fingers exploring every bump of her spine.

Her hands moved, settling on his shoulders to fist in the fabric of his shirt.

He lifted her hands, kissing each finger before pulling his shirt off. Her reaction was unexpected. He wanted her to touch him, hoped she would. Instead, she stared at him, slowly dropping to her knees. Her breathing was erratic, so rapid he worried she’d hyperventilate. Her hands stayed put, pressed flat against her thighs.

“Breathe, Tatum,” he whispered.

She nodded, staring at his chest.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, still staring at his chest.

Tatum had never shied away from telling him what she wanted. There’d been times he’d had to put on the brakes. But now she seemed hesitant. “Want me to put my shirt back on?”

She shook her head. “No,” she croaked.

“Talk to me,” he encouraged, taking her hand. How many times had they ended up twined together, too caught up to know where one ended and the other began? It had been natural between them, easy. But now she seemed uncertain and it tore him up inside. “Tell me what you want. What you like.”

She looked at him, blinking rapidly, but said nothing.

He pressed her hand against his chest. Her gaze fixed on her hand, her lips parting as her fingers traced the valley between his pectorals. “Whatever you want, Tatum...” He couldn’t finish his sentence. The way she was looking at him made it impossible for him to say a word.

Her breathing echoed in the quite room, her attention focused solely on his bare chest and stomach. He was spellbound by the fascination on her face.

One second she was sitting there, facing him, her touch tentative. The next he was lying back on the pile of pillows, her hesitation replaced by desperate curiosity. He watched her expression, aware of every move her hands and fingers made. She bent over him, her long golden hair spilling onto his stomach as her lips and tongue explored the super-sensitized flesh of his nipple.

He reached up to thread his fingers in her hair, absorbing every caress and stroke. She took her time, exploring every inch of him with her soft hands and mouth. Her teeth nipped his side, her nails ran the length of his arms, and she kissed and sucked her way down his abdomen. He could barely breathe. Her tongue dipped into his belly button and he arched into her, groaning as her warm mouth brushed across his skin. “Dammit, Tatum.”

She unfastened his pants, clasping the waist of his jeans and tugging his boxers off with them. She sat back on her heels then, staring at his prominent erection. No way could she miss the way he was throbbing, aching, for her. He shuddered as her fingers lightly stroked the length of him. But the noise she made, a strange broken cry, drew his focus back to her.

She tugged her shirt off, standing to remove her pants. She wavered on unsteady legs, so he sat up and helped her frantically peel off the two pairs of leggings and more socks. When she was as naked as he was, he had to touch her. He buried his face against her side, pressing a kiss against the swell of her hip, before pulling her down with him. Her lips found his, their tongues touching and stroking. He slid his hand through her hair, holding her close, savoring the taste of her as every curve and angle of her body fitted against his.

He didn’t know how much more he could take. He needed her, needed to be inside of her, now. But that wouldn’t be fair. He’d barely touched her. He wanted to touch her. And clearly, she needed to be touched. He wanted to make her fall apart, to lose control, to find a release. Again and again.

His hand cupped her breast, drawing her nipple deep into his mouth. She made that strange little cry again. He looked at her, at the way she bit her lower lip.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured. “I want to know when you like something.”

He rolled her nipple between his fingers and thumb, watching her. His tongue flicked the tip. She groaned, crying out when his mouth latched on to the other nipple.

He lifted her arms over her head, kissing along her sides, sucking the skin until he knew he’d leave marks. His hands were busy too, stroking the curve of her hip, the underside of her breast, the soft skin of her inner thigh. When his fingers traced the slick flesh between her legs, she made that strangled cry.

“Don’t hold back, Tatum,” he demanded, stroking the nub of nerves at her core. “Not with me.” His finger parted her, sliding deep. He groaned at the feel of her, closing his eyes at her tight heat gloving his finger. He moved, stroking her skin, filling her. His thumb set an urgent rhythm against the taut bud, his finger doing the job his body ached to do. And the sounds she made... Pure torture.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as she arched into his touch. He cupped her breast, gently running his teeth over the tip as he added another finger. She was so tight around him. He groaned, burying his face against her breast and gritting his teeth against the need to bury himself inside of her. “You feel so good.” He all but growled the words.

She cried out, long and ragged. He watched her face as her body contracted around his fingers. She grabbed his arm, holding his hand in place as she rode out her climax. It was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen. She was beautiful. So damn beautiful. And he wanted to see that look, that stunned, frantic release, on her face again.

She opened her eyes, gasping. “That was so...so much better than a vibrator.”

He was so surprised, he laughed. And then she was laughing too.

3

TATUM STARED AT the boxes of decorations she’d pulled from the attic. They’d been buried, covered in junk and a layer of dust. But now the wreath hung over the fireplace, its colored glass balls aglow from the white lights inside. The Christmas village was arranged on the side table and she’d unpacked the train that would go around the Christmas tree. These were the things her father had delighted in... Seeing them made her think of him and happier times.

Now all she needed was a tree.

The repairman had arrived first thing. Nothing like working heat and electric, Christmas decorations, carols and a solid night’s sleep to help dispel some of her moodiness.

Or the mind-blowing orgasm courtesy of Spencer. But last night had been wrong. A huge mistake. He’d caught her when she was vulnerable and needy... And it had been the single most erotic moment of her life.

Not that it would ever—ever—happen again. She’d been arguing with herself all morning. What had she been thinking? Why had things gotten so carried away?

And then she’d remember the feel of him, the things he’d done to her, and all her arguments faded away.

She’d been gasping, still clinging to him, when his cell phone chirped. His posture had changed instantly, his forehead creasing. “Shit,” he’d muttered.

“Something wrong?” she’d asked, wishing she was still in touch with her inner teenager enough to ask him to stay and give her another orgasm—or two.

“Work,” he’d groaned, nuzzling her breast again.

Her fingers had slipped through his tangled black hair. “If you ignore it, will they go away?” Please tell me they’ll go away.

He’d chuckled, then groaned again, his breath brushing her nipples and his hand stroking along her belly. “I wish. They call, I go. Dammit.”

She tugged the plaid throw over her nakedness, watching him dress with a mixture of appreciation and disappointment. In that moment, disappointment won. She hadn’t wanted him to go. From the bulge in his pants, she knew he didn’t want to go. And when he’d looked at her, there was no denying how badly he wanted to stay. He’d kissed her, once, so hard and deep she moaned. Which made him mutter “Dammit” again before stomping out.

She’d lain on her nest of pillows hoping he’d reappear. But he hadn’t come back and she’d eventually crawled into her bed, buried in quilts and oh so lonely.

She’d woken up with the echo of his fingers on her skin. She could still feel him, taste him... All morning she’d thought of things she wished she’d done. It wasn’t the regret she was expecting, but it was still regret. He’d been her own personal playground and she’d only been allowed on one ride—a ride that had been cut short.

After living in a state of denial, her body was ready to give in, let go and thoroughly enjoy what Spencer was willing to offer her. Too bad she’d said once.

Of course, they hadn’t actually slept together so...

No. God no. What was she thinking?

“Tatum?” She heard the singsong voice through her front door. “Are you decent? It’s Mrs. Ryan, dear, from across the street.”

She blushed. Spencer’s mother. “Coming,” she called out, smoothing her red tunic into place and running a quick hand over her hair and the long beaded necklace she wore. Appearance was important. First her mother, then Brent had insisted she always look her best. And now that Spencer’s mother was on the front porch, she was glad of it.

She pulled open the door to find Mrs. Ryan and Lucy Ryan, Spencer’s cousin. Lucy was the one person she’d kept in contact with from Greyson—the one person Tatum had always counted a true friend. But after Lucy had come to visit her and Brent, their emails and phone calls grew further apart. Brent hadn’t liked Lucy and made it clear he didn’t approve of their friendship. And, sadly, Tatum hadn’t fought to preserve or defend their friendship.

“Tatum!” Lucy squealed, her gray eyes widening at the sight of her.

“Lucy? Oh, Lucy,” she answered, laughing when Lucy hugged her tight.

“I hadn’t heard from you in a while.” Lucy’s voice was muffled. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I guess I’ve sort of been in hiding.”

Lucy let go of her and Mrs. Ryan hugged her gently. “Well, you’re home now and that’s all that matters,” the older woman said.

“We brought you cookies,” Lucy said, offering her a huge basket overflowing with cookies, breads, some wine and fruit.

“Well...thank you,” Tatum said, taking the basket. “Come in, please.”

That was when she saw Spencer coming up the path. It hadn’t been her imagination. He really was the hottest thing she’d seen in real life. And watching him stroll up her path, all bad boy and muscled body... The phantom heat of his fingers inside her body had her throbbing for his touch and aching for more. Sticking to “once” was going to be hard.

Especially if one of them didn’t move out.

“Hurry up, Spencer,” Lucy called. “It’s cold.”

Spencer took the steps two at a time, striding into the living room before Tatum could react. He hugged her, casually, his scent flooding her nostrils. “Morning, Tatum,” he said tightly, his blue eyes staring into hers.