Postcards At Christmas

“Yes?” Breathless. Hopeful. Impossibly sweet.

“We don’t have to hurry.”

She groaned and then pressed her lips together.

He touched her hair. Like living silk. “Say it. Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t hold back.”

She winced. “Well, it’s just that, um, yeah, we kind of do have to hurry. I mean, it’s already Saturday morning. I’m flying home tomorrow. We need to get this done.”

He wanted to laugh at her total frankness, but he didn’t. He held her gaze. “As your friend, I must warn you against men who say ‘trust me.’ But trust me.”

She laughed then. “Oh, Dami.”

“Do you trust me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I do. Absolutely.”

“Good.” He caught her hand. “Come with me.”

* * *

Dazed, amazed, excited and very nervous, Lucy went where he led her.

To his bedroom.

It was a large room with a high, coffered ceiling from which hung a giant iron chandelier. The bed had an intricately carved headboard and finials shaped like crowns. The turned-back sheets were cobalt-blue satin, the bedding in deep blue and gold and red.

Unreality assailed her. Alone with Dami in his bedroom. Who knew?

He turned on a torchère lamp beside the bed nice and low. The chandelier was on, too, but also low. She could see clearly enough, but everything was soft and shadowed. Which was great. The pleasant dimness eased her nerves.

At least a little.

He took her shoulders again, his long fingers warm and sure against her bare skin. Still, she shivered at the touch, scared and also excited for what was to come.

“Second thoughts?” he asked.

Her mouth went dust dry. She swallowed to try to get some moisture going. “No. Really. I want to do this, I truly do....”

His smile was way too knowing as he stepped back from her and began to undress, first dropping to a chair to remove his shoes and socks, then sweeping upright again and getting rid of everything else. Quickly, so gracefully, all his beautiful clothes were gone in what felt to her like an instant, as she just stood there staring.

At least the saliva had flooded back into her mouth.

He was a magnificent man, honed and tanned, with a broad, deep chest and shoulders and a belly you could scrub your laundry on. Her gaze trailed down over hard, narrow hips. The muscles in his long thighs were sharply defined. Even his feet were beautiful, long and perfectly shaped.

She did more absurd gulping as she let her glance stray upward again. This time, she allowed herself to look directly at the most private part of him. He definitely wanted her. His manhood curved up, thick and fully aroused, from the dark nest of hair between those powerful thighs.

That he wanted her was good. Excellent— Well, except for the definite largeness of him. She couldn’t help it. She wondered what all virgins probably wondered.

“Seriously, Dami. Are you sure it’s going to fit?” The words were out and hanging in the air between them before she stopped to think how ridiculous they would sound.

But he didn’t laugh at her. He only brushed a finger slowly down the outside of her arm, bringing the goose bumps to bloom where he touched. And he said in a low rumble, “I promise you, Luce. We’ll take all the time we need. You’ll see. It will fit. That’s how it is with men and women. We are made to fit.”

“Well, of course I know that. But it’s still, um...yikes. You know?”

He went very still, waiting—and watching her so closely, his eyes that strange deep black-green right then, dragonfly green. He asked, “Do you want to stop? Any time you want to stop, all you have to do is say the word.”

“No. Uh-uh. I absolutely do not want to stop.”

One corner of his sinful mouth quirked up. How did he do it? How did he stand there in front of her without a stitch on looking so comfortable in his own skin he almost didn’t seem naked at all?

His finger started moving again, across the slim rolled-satin belt at her waist, pausing at the jeweled butterfly pin. He traced the shape of it and then he let his finger trail upward. He touched her breast just with that single finger. He found her nipple beneath the satin, inside the thin cup of her strapless bra. He rubbed his finger up and down until the nipple hardened.

Lucy gasped. She couldn’t help it.

And then he used his thumb, too, rolling it a little, until she felt a certain flooding of heat down low, felt a thin, shimmering cord of desire forming, connecting her breast to her core. She drew another ragged breath as he moved to the other breast and repeated the process.

Then he leaned close. He licked her at her temple. The moisture made a cool spot, right there where her pulse beat above her ear.

He blew on that spot, increasing the coolness. And then he whispered, “Take off your belt....”

She did it, fumbling a little, removing the vintage pin and unhooking the clasp beneath. He took them from her and set them on the bedside table.

“Luce.” He licked her temple again, caught a bit of her hair between his lips and tugged. Then he pressed his mouth to her hair. She felt his warm breath sift over her scalp. “Luce?”

“Yeah?” Her own voice sounded...different. Tentative. And breathless, too. She wished fervently to be more experienced, not to be so obviously out of her depth. Her wish was not granted.

And somehow Dami made that seem all right. “Please turn around.”

She remembered to breathe again and the air rushed into her hungry lungs as she ordered her feet to move. Three careful steps and she was facing away from him, staring at the shadows in the corners of the room, at the waiting blue satin sheets on the wide carved bed.

He touched her shoulder, as though to steady her. And then he took down her zipper in one long, slow glide. The dress dropped around her ankles.

He wrapped one of those big hard arms around her and kissed the side of her neck. “Step out of it. Careful, now....” She lifted one satin stiletto and then the other, cautiously stepping free of the gown. “Don’t move,” he warned softly. He let go of her long enough to scoop the dress up and deposit it safely over his clothes on the bedside chair.

Then he wrapped both arms around her. He pulled her against him, his heat and hardness all along the back of her, his manhood pressing into her, making her moan, making her little red panties wet.

He cradled her breasts. It felt...so good. She let out a long sigh, and her head fell back to rest against the hard muscles of his chest. “Should I...take off my shoes?”

He kissed her ear. “No. Leave them on. There is nothing so fine as a beautiful woman in red satin shoes.”

A beautiful woman. He meant her, Lucy. And she knew it was just Dami, just how he was. He had all the right words to make a woman want him, and he didn’t hesitate to use them—and somehow when he used them, he made her believe him. He made her absolutely certain that she was every bit as beautiful and desirable as he kept saying she was.

He continued to caress her, first dipping his thumbs into the cups of her bra, easing the semisheer fabric out of the way so her breasts came free. She looked down at his big dark hands holding her breasts, rolling the nipples. At the narrow white gleam of her heart-surgery scar.

And it was so wonderfully unreal, so perfectly erotic. So totally thrilling in an otherworldly kind of way. Her hips were moving, rubbing back against him. And he kept on touching her.

Her bra fell away. She let out a small cry of surprise. He only growled low in his throat and scraped his teeth along the ridge of her shoulder, easing his mouth into the curve of her throat, sucking a little.

She brought her hand up and back, hungry to touch him. Wrapping her fingers around his nape, she eased them up into his thick dark hair.

Time flew away. His hands were everywhere and she gloried in their knowing, hot glide over every inch of her. She had his strong, tall body at her back to steady her. And she was suddenly liquid and moving, rocking slow and loving it, as his hands moved lower, pressing at her belly, fingers easing under the elastic of her panties, finding the heart of her.

One finger drifted in where she was wet and hot and hungry. He worked such shimmering magic on her willing flesh. She was wild by then, completely outside herself. Her panties were gone, ruined—he had taken the narrow elastic on both sides and torn it so he could more easily remove them from between her shaking thighs.

And then she was naked except for her red shoes, naked with Dami, standing in front of him, her hips rocking back against his hardness, in the dim light by the wide bed.

He took her thighs and gently guided them wider, using his strong legs to support her as he did it so she didn’t stumble in her high heels. And then he was there again, his brilliant fingers stroking her, doing the most amazing things to her wet, needful flesh. He eased one finger inside. And then another, stretching her in the most delightful, thrilling way.

And she was...riding. Riding his strong hands, riding his big body behind her. She was making such a racket, moaning and sighing. And she didn’t even care. Didn’t care about anything but his hardness at her back and his fingers within her. And the low words he whispered to her. Hot, wicked encouragements, praise for her heat and her wetness, her body’s hunger, her greediness...

There was a light. A light that curled through her, burning, somehow liquid. It grew outward in a widening coil. It filled her and flowed out the top of her head, streamed from her fingertips, poured through the soles of her red shoes.

And then it intensified. It was all heat and wet and it was centering down in the core of her, gathering tight where he stroked her, where he made her body open for him, open and burn.

She felt the moment. She knew it, the secret thing she’d never shared with a man before: her climax. It shuddered through her, over her, drowning her in waves of glory.

Dami stayed with her, those wonderful fingers seeming to know what to do, when to keep stroking her. And when to go still, to hold her, to press just the right spot as the pulsing became a shimmer again, a slow, lovely fade into something so perfectly, wonderfully easy and loose.

He had his arm around her waist again. And then he was turning her, scooping her up high against his chest.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and offered her mouth to him. He took it in a slow, thorough kiss as he laid her down on blue satin and then stretched out beside her, easing an arm under her head, gathering her into him, her cheek against his chest, her hand over his heart.

His lips touched her hair again, a kiss both tender and firm.

She closed her eyes for a time. The room was so quiet. His body was big and warm, her own personal heater.

When she looked again, he was watching her through eyes that were black now, limitless and so deep.

She lifted up on an elbow and gazed down at him. He returned her look out of the center of some wonderful stillness. She marveled, “Dami, this is just how I pictured it, only better. I mean, what you did to me was so hot. And now I’m lying here naked with you in this big manly bed of yours.”

“My bed is manly?” He seemed pleased.

“Oh, definitely. Yes. But the point is, it’s okay, you know? You and me, naked, together. It’s comfortable, easy. Good.” By then she was waving the arm she wasn’t leaning on. One wide sweeping gesture bopped him on the nose. “Oops.”

He only laughed. “I’m glad you’re happy. But please don’t break my nose.”

“Sorry. I promise, I’ll be careful.” It seemed only natural to let her hand drift lower. He was still hard. She traced the muscles of his belly—but hesitated to touch that most manly part of him. She couldn’t help asking, “Does it hurt to be so big and hard?”

He gave her that beautiful half smile of his. “In a good way, yes.”

“Do you need...?”

His smile went full-out. “Over the years, I find more and more pleasure in this particular sort of suffering. I enjoy the ache. I find that getting there really is a lot of the fun, that sometimes the longer it takes, the more satisfying the conclusion.”

She really did want to touch it. “Is it all right if I...?”

“Yes.” Gruff. Low. Like the purr of some big sleek wild animal, no less dangerous for being easy and loose, relaxing in his lair.

She explored at her leisure, loving the smooth, silky feel of his skin there, the flared mushroom shape of the head. He lay very still as she touched him and his breathing changed, becoming faster, shallower. When she bent to kiss him, he let out a low groan.

That made her smile as she lowered her mouth on him and took him inside. He whispered encouragements. She knew she wasn’t doing that good of a job. But he never complained. He eased his fingers into her hair, curving them around the back of her neck as she took him in and then let him out nice and slow. He didn’t try to take control. His hold was loose, gentle. And she liked that so much.

It made her feel powerful and sexy and womanly. Her mouth surrounding him, her hand wrapped around him, she was running that show.

Running it all the way to the finish, as it turned out. Beneath her hand, she felt him pulsing. His body stiffened. He let out a low, deep moan. “Luce, you should let me...”

No way. She was doing this and she was doing it right. She stayed with him, swallowed him down. He tasted like sea foam, musky and salty. He held her tighter against him right there at the end, and he growled out her name in a way that sent a hot thrill zipping through her, because she had done it, given him pleasure, just as he’d done for her.

She kissed her way up the muscular center of him, feeling naughty and bold.

He took her and turned her and tucked her against him. “Sleep.”

“Huh? But we only just got started.”

He chuckled. “Greedy.” He sounded pleased about it.

“Dami, there’s only so much time and I have so much to learn.”

“Sleep,” he said again.

So she closed her eyes—not for long, she told herself. Just for a little while....

* * *

When she woke, he was kissing her.

She looked down and his dark head was tracing the length of her scar as he feathered kisses along it. He kissed her breast, found another scar—a small horizontal one from years ago when she’d needed a temporary pacemaker after surgery.

He went lower. He kissed the little cluster of drainage-tube scars.

And lower still...

The things he could do with his mouth, with his tongue...

No doubt about it. She had made the right choice to come to him to get up to speed on making love.

He did it again, brought her all the way to the top of the world and then over the edge, with his mouth that time. And then he took her hand and pulled her up out of the bed and led her into the kitchen. He made them more of his delicious hot chocolate. They sat together at the table sipping cocoa without a stitch on. It was strangely erotic, like those dreams you sometimes have where you’re naked someplace you would never go without your clothes on.

Once she’d finished her chocolate, he told her to get dressed, and when she had everything back on but the panties he’d torn, he said, “Now I want you to return to your room and get some sleep. I’ll come for you at eleven.”

“But, Dami, we haven’t... I mean, it’s been amazing. But we’re not finished yet.”

He bent close and whispered in her ear. “Don’t wear any panties.”

Her breath caught on a gasp. “You mean...?”

“For all day and into the evening. No panties. And don’t cheat. Wear a dress or a skirt. No tights, either.”

The place where her panties should have been was suddenly damp. “Oh, Dami. You are very bad.”

“So I’ve been told. No knickers, and whenever you notice that you’re without them, think of me.”

Chapter Seven

All that Saturday, Lucy did think of him.

And not only because she was walking around without her panties.

How could she not think of him? He was the best friend she’d ever had, not to mention the hottest, smoothest guy she knew.

He sat across from her at another café, where they had coffee and a real breakfast. She ordered a mushroom omelet and toast with jam.

“Eat everything,” he commanded. “You have to keep your strength up....” And he gave her a look. Intimate. Teasing. That look said he knew she had no knickers on. That look made promises concerning what he would do to her as soon as they were alone.

She couldn’t wait, though he seemed quite happy to make her wait.

“Eat,” he said again.

And she did. She ate every bite of her omelet. Both pieces of toast, too. Slathered in jam.

After that he took her where she really wanted to go: his studio, in a villa on one of the hills surrounding the harbor. He kept a flat on the lower floor. They didn’t even go in there.

Upstairs in the studio, he’d had all but the load-bearing interior walls removed. His sketches and oil paintings were everywhere, some tacked to the remaining walls, some on easels or spread out on the rough worktables. It was a beautiful space, full of light even in the cool month of November. It was also chilly, though, and dusty. He turned on the heat and admitted he hadn’t been there in months.

That gave her another opportunity to remind him that he should be making time for the things that mattered.

He only backed her up against a wall between a drawing of a small dark-haired girl in traditional Montedoran dress and another of a white goat chewing on a straw hat. “No lectures. Not today.” And then he kissed her, a slow, lovely kiss during which he eased his clever hands inside her coat and caressed her breasts through her sweater. He also trailed his fingers up her thigh, taking her skirt along, too.

When he touched her where she wasn’t wearing any panties, she moaned into his mouth as her body instantly responded. He went on touching her, stroking her. She went over the top right there while he kissed her, by the window that let in the pale late-autumn light, against the white wall.

As the fierce pleasure faded to a happy glow, she laughed and dared to put her hand down between them to feel how what he’d done to her had excited him, too. She was just running her fingers up and down the long tight bulge at his fly when the cell phone in his pocket started to vibrate.

He muttered, “Ignore it,” and captured her mouth again.

But she turned away, grinning and more than a little bit breathless. “Go on, answer it—at least check and see if it’s anything important.”

“It’s not.” He bit the side of her neck and then stuck out his tongue and licked where he’d nipped her.

By then the phone had stopped its soft buzzing. She gave in and turned to him again with a willing sigh. His warm lips settled on hers.

And the phone started vibrating a second time.

He swore against her mouth—and then he lifted his head, took the phone from his pocket and switched it off quickly. But not before she saw that it was Vesuvia. He glanced up at her as he shoved it back in his pocket again and must have seen something he didn’t like in her expression. “Don’t you start in on me.”

“What? I didn’t—”

He stopped her from saying more by kissing her again, a long, thorough kiss, more artful than passionate. She accepted that kiss. Like all his kisses, it was too good to pass up. But the mood was pretty much trashed.

In the end, even a lover as skilled as Dami had trouble getting back into a sexy encounter after dual interruptions from the ex. He braced an arm against the wall above her shoulder and leaned his forehead against hers. “Sorry, Luce.”

She tipped her head up and kissed him again, but quickly that time, brushing her lips across his. “Does she...call you a lot?”

He pushed away from the wall—and her. Impatiently, he insisted, “It honestly is over with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I believe you. I was only...” She found she didn’t know how to go on.

“What?” he demanded.

“Well, I mean, I just feel bad, that’s all.”

“For her?” His eyes flashed dark fire.

She held his gaze and shook her head. “No, Dami. For you. Because it didn’t work out with her and I think that you really did want it to. And, well, yeah, maybe a little for her. Before he found Alice, Noah had a couple of girlfriends like that. They just wouldn’t let it be, you know? They wanted more from him than he was willing to give them and they kept calling him and he was frustrated and angry and didn’t know how to get through to them that over was over.”

He braced his arms on the table behind him, leaned back on it and studied his fine Italian shoes. “Yes. Well, it is over.”

“Got that. Truly.” Also that you want this subject dropped. And really, it wasn’t a bad thing for her, she thought. To be so sharply reminded of all that the beautiful man before her wasn’t willing to give.

They had this brief magical time together. He was being so good to her, so thoughtful and tender and brilliantly instructive—not to mention very, very sexy. He was giving her what she hadn’t even really understood she needed so much: to discover all the things she’d missed about passion and sex and to feel safe and cherished and free to be her whole self while it was happening.

She promised herself that tomorrow when it came time to say goodbye, she would definitely remember not to cling. And no matter how much she wanted to hear his voice, she wouldn’t start calling him all the time.

He looked up, one dark eyebrow lifted. “Shall we move on?”

“Yes, we shall.”

“Have you been to Casino d’Ambre?”

“No, and I really, really need to see that.” She gave him a big smile and held out her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Half an hour later, as he took Lucy on a tour of Montedoro’s world-famous casino, Damien was feeling more than a little guilty about his behavior at the villa. He’d been gruff with her when he’d had no reason to be—other than he’d been kissing her and touching her and thoroughly enjoying himself. And then the phone had gone off twice and ruined the moment.

He’d felt rotten—about V and her games. About Lucy witnessing once again what a bad choice he’d made in getting involved with V in the first place. About how his life seemed somehow rudderless lately, without direction.

Which was absurd, really. He’d always taken life as it came and had a fine time of it. He was still having a fine time of it, and he didn’t plan to change.

Lucy took it all in stride. She didn’t let his earlier bad attitude put a damper on the day. She didn’t push; she didn’t sulk. She was as lighthearted and full of fun as ever, wide-eyed at the beauty of the legendary casino, clapping when some tourist won a bundle at roulette.

After the Casino d’Ambre, they strolled the shops of the Triangle d’Or, the area of exclusive stores, restaurants and hotels surrounding the casino square. Workers were everywhere that day putting up the Christmas decorations around the square, ushering in the season. Holiday music filled the air.

Damien took Lucy’s hand as they walked. He leaned close and teasingly reminded her to pay no attention to the ever-present paparazzi. He made an effort to be extra attentive after the uncomfortable moments at the villa.

They’d stopped to watch a couple of burly workmen hang a giant lit wreath above a shop door when she sighed and sent him one of her dewy-eyed smiles. “Christmas in Montedoro. I’ll bet it’s almost as beautiful as Christmas in Manhattan.”

He squeezed her fingers, twined with his. “I know your brother is angling to get you to go home to California.”

“He can angle all he wants. I’ll be in New York City for the holiday season. Just wait and see.”

He let go of her hand so he could wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. She laughed, a happy, carefree sound. And so he bent his head and kissed her, right there on the Triangle d’Or for the two workmen and the crowds of busy shoppers and everyone else to see.