Married Till Christmas. Christine Rimmer
parts desire and impatience.
She kept the sofa between them, resting her hands on the back of it. “I need your agreement that this isn’t going anywhere, that it’s just for now, for while we’re here in Vegas.”
He dropped into a big white chair. Spreading his knees wide, he rested his arms on the chair arms, like some barbarian king holding court. “How many times do we have to go over this?”
“Until I’m sure that you agree and understand my, er, terms.”
“Your terms.” He seemed to taste the words and to find them not the least to his liking. “We don’t need terms. Just do what you think you have to do. I’ll do the same.”
She was suddenly absurdly glad for the fat sofa between them, as if it was any kind of real barrier, as if it could actually protect her from what she would do with him here tonight. “I just don’t want you to get any ideas about how things could change when we go home. They won’t. When we’re home, I’m not getting near you. I’m going to pretend that tonight never happened.” She waited, expecting some sort of response from him.
Sprawled back in the chair, he just stared at her. She felt her skin heating, her resolve weakening. It was absurd—she was absurd. But something had happened since last night, when she’d given in enough to have a drink and dinner with him. Something had happened as she’d spent the afternoon and evening with him today. She’d had the advantage before.
But that advantage was gone. She really ought to miss it more.
And still he said nothing.
Oldest tactic in the book: the one who speaks first loses.
She spoke. “Yeah, okay. I want you, Deck. I want you a lot. And I’m starting to get that this is something we just need to do. We need to get it out of our systems, find closure between us once and for all...”
Dear God. What was the matter with her, spouting all this tired psychobabble? Talking about “getting it out of our systems,” like sex was a juice cleanse. And “finding closure,” as though closure was something a person could misplace.
Those phrases were meaningless, really. Just the stuff people said when they were about to do something stupid.
And facing him now across the nonbarrier of the sofa, she knew absolutely that having a Vegas fling with Deck was a giant bowl of stupid with several spoonfuls of trouble sprinkled on top.
But she was going to do it anyway, whether she could get him to agree to her terms or not. She was going to do it because she couldn’t bear not to. Because she was almost thirty and he was the only man she’d ever been in love with. Because one thing had not changed: when he touched her, it all felt perfectly, exactly right.
He said, “I want you, too, Nellie. I always have.”
Bitterness rose in her. Too bad that didn’t stop you from throwing me away.
Then he held out his hand to her. His eyes were soft and yearning, wanting her the way she wanted him.
And in the space of an instant, her bitterness turned achingly sweet. She couldn’t scoot around that sofa and grab on to him fast enough.
His fingers closed around hers and he gave a tug, bringing her up flush between his spread knees. Already, he was hard for her, the ridge of his arousal obvious beneath his fly. The sight of it thrilled her, almost had her dropping to her knees to get closer, to make short work of his belt and his zipper, set him free to her eager touch, her hungry mouth.
He brought her hand to his lips, licked the bumps of her knuckles, causing havoc inside her, bringing up goose bumps along her arms. “I have a request.”
“Yeah?” It came out on a hungry hitch of breath.
“Take everything off. I want to see all of you. I’ve waited so long...”
* * *
Breathless moments later, she stood before him wearing nothing but the rhinestone comb.
“Nellie,” he said, low and dark and wonderfully rough. “You are more beautiful even than I remember. That shouldn’t be possible. But you are.” He commanded, “Bend down here.”
She bent from the waist. It felt like heaven, to bend to him, to give in to him. For now, for tonight and tomorrow, she had no need to resist him. She would have this night and tomorrow. Then on Monday, she would go home and set about pretending that none of it had happened.
Did that make her a liar and a coward and a fool?
Absolutely.
Her hair brushed his cheek. He framed her face with his strong hands. “Kiss me.”
She didn’t have to be told twice. Their lips met in a kiss that burned her down to her core. His tongue came invading. She welcomed the tender assault on her senses. He made her belly quiver. Without even touching them, he made her nipples ache and tighten.
As he kissed her, he slid the comb from her hair and dropped it to the little table by the chair. Freed, the red waves fell around them. He speared his spread fingers up into the thick mass of it, rubbing it into her scalp as though bringing up a lather, then closing those big fingers into fists, pulling a little, drawing her mouth even closer, sealing their lips together hard and fast, dipping his tongue in deeper.
When he finally loosened his hold on her, she had to remind herself to breathe. Lifting away a little, she stared down him, dazed with want. He gazed back at her, pupils dilated, black holes she could get lost in, never to be found.
They were both breathing hard. She felt herself falling into him, wrapping herself in his heat and his hunger that so perfectly matched her own, vanishing into him, though neither of them had moved.
“You won’t get away, Nellie,” he whispered. “I won’t blow it this time. You and me. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“Don’t go there.” She made her voice as low and rough as his. “Or I am leaving.”
They glared at each other, a battle of wills.
And then he gave her that slow, dangerous grin.
Suddenly, they were both laughing.
His hands clasped her waist and he came up out of the chair. She gasped at the speed of the move, canting back, making room for him—and let out a shriek of surprise as he boosted her high and laid her over his shoulder. “Deck!”
But he wasn’t listening. He put his hand on her bare bottom, spreading his fingers, holding her where he wanted her. “Steady. I’ve got you.”
And then he was moving, headed for the open bedroom door.
* * *
He laid her down on the turned-back bed. “Don’t you dare move.”
She only chuckled, grinning up at him, bringing her arms up and sliding them under the pillow beneath her head.
His eyes blazed down at her and he muttered a string of dark, delicious promises—of what he would do to her, how much he wanted her, all the ways he was going to drive her wonderfully, totally insane. And then he got out of his clothes, tossing them every which way, over a shoulder, in the general direction of the bedside chair. He threw that fancy watch at the nightstand. It dropped to the carpet. He just left it there.
When he came down to her she grabbed him close, her mind and heart and body ready, so ready, to be with him. There was no past or future tonight.
There was only right now.
And then he was kissing her, a thousand kisses or maybe a million. He said he needed to put his mouth on every single inch of her body.
She indulged him that. Gleefully, eagerly, she braced her hands on his shoulders and pushed him lower, murmuring huskily, “Wait. I think you missed a spot. Oh! Yes. There...”
Was it as good as she’d imagined it might