Coming in from the Cold

by Sarina Bowen

  “Sure, unless he’s a total dick. Like your ex-boyfriend.” Gently, he knocked his knit hat into her knit hat, just once. Like a special wintertime fist bump.

  She laughed, her eyes fixed on the plow truck. When this was over, she was going to ask for his phone number. He was quite a guy, Danger Hollister.

  Chapter Three

  As the light grew brighter, Dane knew he was supposed to feel relieved. But all it meant for him was safe passage to another lonely night in his room over on Main Street, keeping company with a copy of Sports Illustrated and some tunes. Or worrying about Finn, the last person alive who really knew him.

  Then, as Dane watched, the plow truck turned the corner, heading onto another road. “What the…?”

  The dome light was still on, and he turned to Willow, who did not look surprised. “I thought that could happen,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “We’re very close to the town line. We’re sitting in Westland, and I’ll bet the plow belongs to Hamilton. And he must not have seen us here.”

  “Or maybe the driver was your ex?”

  Those beautiful lips curved into a smile, and she punched him in the arm. “This one’s not on me. Maybe it was one of yours.”

  “Right,” he said, his eyes stuck on her feminine smile. He pressed the dome light off again, reluctantly.

  Jokes aside, one benefit of being a loner was that he didn’t actually have any ex-girlfriends. The other guys on the circuit had plenty of trouble with those. He turned off the headlights, and turned the key in the ignition. The car fell silent.

  “What do we do now?” Willow asked. He was pleased to hear that her tone was playful, not scared.

  “Oh, I think we have a beer,” he said.

  “It would be really nice if you weren’t kidding.”

  Dane felt around the lower part of the driver’s side door. His hands closed around the bottle. He took the keys from the ignition and fumbled with the church key he kept there, popping the top. “You can have the first sip. Give me your hands. We can’t spill a drop.”

  “Seriously? You have a beer?”

  He found her fingers, and curled them around the bottle. “Give you a dollar if you can tell me the brand.”

  Laughing, she took a sip. “Saint Pauli Girl.”

  “No fucking way!”

  She giggled. “You left the hazards on, and I know the label. The girl in the German costume, with the big tatas….”

  He hit the button to shut off the hazards. “Cheater.”

  “I can’t believe you just happened to have a beer in your car.”

  “The ski tech gave me a roadie. I forgot about it until the energy bar made me thirsty.”

  “Here,” she said, passing it back to him. He managed to put his hands on hers while taking the bottle, and again while passing it back to her after a swig. What was up with that? He hadn’t been so eager to touch anyone’s hand since about the eighth grade.

  “You don’t secretly have a six pack, I suppose?” she asked.

  “No,” he smiled. “I wish I did. But then we’d have to pee.”

  The joke caught her while sipping, and she choked a little.

  “Easy,” he said. “That’s precious liquid you’re holding.”

  She passed it back. “I didn’t spill. I swear.” With the lights off again, it was very, very dark. He couldn’t see her at all, and the effect seemed to sharpen his awareness of her sounds in the dark. Each exhalation, each word she spoke, sounded intimate.

  “A full bladder is only useful if you’re trapped in an avalanche, not in a Jeep,” he said, keeping the banter alive.

  “Why is a full…? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Wise girl.” He took a tiny sip and passed the bottle back, executing a full-contact hand-off.

  They sipped slowly to make the bottle last, but it went fast anyway. “You finish it,” he said, turning in his seat to face her.

  “Okay,” she said, downing the last sip. “But only because I have one more thing to add to this party.”

  This time, when she handed the bottle back, he caught her hand and did not let go. “What’s that?” he asked, wondering how she would react. Her fingers were slim and delicate.

  She paused before answering, and he wondered if he’d overstepped. But she didn’t pull her hand away. “My pocket is full of raisins,” she said eventually.

  “Your pocket?” She still didn’t pull away. So he put his other hand on top of hers.

  “Yeah,” she breathed. “They were supposed to be a treat for my chickens. But I promise there’s no chicken spit on them or anything.”

  He pressed her small hand flat between his two, rubbing her knuckles gently. “Do chickens have spit?” he asked.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Hopefully he wasn’t the only one who found their grade school touch exciting. “I didn’t know that,” he said. He turned her hand over in his, stroking it.

  * * *

  What the hell was happening here? Willow had never thought of her palm as a sexual organ before, but the sensation of his fingertips on her skin was electric. “Do you like raisins?” she asked, stupidly.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Willow put her free hand into her pocket. “So…How about you tell me something…I know—something that you’ve learned from life experience. And I’ll give you one.”

  He chuckled, dragging his thumb slowly down her palm. “Something I’ve learned the hard way. How about this: gravity never takes a day off. You learn that pretty quick in my line of work.”

  “Hmm,” Willow said, distracted by his touch. “That’s a bit obvious, but I’ll give it to you.” She pulled a raisin out of her pocket, passing it into one of his hands.

  He briefly let go of her to pop it into his mouth. “Thank-you,” he said, finding her hand again in the dark. “Now you tell me something wise.”

  “All right,” she said. “I never planned to raise chickens, but watching them has been fascinating. You can take three-day-old chicks, who have never seen a hen, and never been out of a cardboard box, and they’ll peck at the cornmeal you feed them. But if you put a worm in there, they go nuts, fighting over it. They’re crazy for worms, even though they’ve never seen one before. Instinct is real.”

  “Well, that is cool,” Dane said. He was still massaging her hand, his thumb warming her palm. “If I get to judge, I’d say you win a raisin.”

  Willow popped one into her mouth. “Your turn.”

  “Okay,” Dane said, “I’ve learned that airplane food is universally bad, no matter where you go in the world. That’s not just a cliché.”

  This time, when Willow brought a raisin toward him in the dark, he caught her hand and raised it to his mouth. Her palm brushed his chin as he guided the raisin to his lips. “Thanks,” he whispered. “So it’s your turn.”

  She laced her fingers in his. His hand was so much bigger than hers. So warm and strong. “Hmm…I’ve learned that you can keep guacamole from turning brown by pressing plastic wrap across the surface.”

  “There you go again, mentioning food,” he scolded.

  His fingers brushed the sensitive skin above her wrist, and Willow was glad that the darkness prevented him from seeing her face. The sensation made her close her eyes. “But you mentioned food,” she whispered. She was beginning to feel giddy. Being trapped in a car in a storm should have made her feel stupid. Instead, she was pointlessly and inappropriately happy.

  “Big difference. I mentioned bad food. Your homemade guacamole versus airplane food—in a cage match, who wins?”

  “My guacamole, of course,” she giggled. “But you have no way of knowing that. Come on. Tell me something empirically true, and I’ll give you another raisin.”

  He sighed, and the sound of it made her wish she could feel his breath against her face. “Okay. If you don’t look at the needle, it really does hurt less.”

  Well, that was a bit dark. “Sure…” Her pulse
began to race. It was crazy to touch this stranger. It was crazy, and she really wasn’t the type. But something about him made it difficult to stop. Willow reached into her pocket and retrieved another raisin. This time, she raised it to his mouth herself, sweeping her finger very deliberately across his lower lip before slipping it onto his tongue. He closed his lips, catching her two fingers in his mouth. He sucked the tip of her forefinger as she pulled it away.

  Good God, it was sexy.

  “Your turn,” he whispered.

  Willow felt light-headed. That was the only explanation she could give for what she said next. “Lately,” she whispered, “I’ve learned that not all bad days end that way.” It was too dark to read his expression, even if she were brave enough to look.

  In answer, he squeezed her hand. Then he tugged gently on it, pulling her toward himself. Willow held her breath, wondering if he was about to do what she hoped he was about to do.

  It was very, very dark.

  She felt his breath on her face before his lips found her cheekbone. He paused there, for two beats of her heart, his mouth offering a sensuous brush against her skin. Then, with a sigh, he turned his chin to find her mouth. The first kiss was small, a sweep of soft lips across hers, coming to rest at the sensitive corner of her mouth. “Is this okay?” he whispered. The words vibrated on her face. “If you tell me to fuck off, I’ll understand.”

  Willow answered him by brushing the tip of her nose very gently up the length of his face and then down again. Dane’s next kiss brought his soft mouth over hers. And again he paused. But it was less a hesitation than a moment of heightened anticipation. Her heart practically stopped beating while she waited for his next move. And then his lips parted her own, his tongue sliding inside. And when she met him there, tasting him, he gave a low moan, and the sound made her heart skitter.

  She felt both of his hands rise to the nape of her neck, his fingers detouring under her knit hat, into her hair. Then she was pulled closer, his kisses drinking her in, nibbling her lips, scorching her tongue. The effect was exhilarating, and suddenly her body was too far from his, the damned car too constraining. She wanted to feel her own arms encircling him, to know more about him than quick glimpses had allowed. But Willow had to content herself with a half-decent grip on his shoulders, which felt powerful under her hands.

  Her conscience gave her a half-hearted poke. Willow, you are making out with a stranger in his Jeep.

  No, she told herself. She was making out with a sexy snow god during a blizzard. And yes, she was sure there was a difference.

  Around them, the night was utterly silent. The wind had died. Willow cocooned against him, under their makeshift blanket, while the Jeep became covered with snow. The whole world fell away, except for the slide of his lips on hers, the strokes of his tongue against her own, and the sweep of his hands through her hair.

  “Willow,” he breathed when they eventually came up for air. “I love your name.”

  “Mmm,” she said, enjoying the tickle of his hair against her forehead. “I’m not sure what they were thinking when they gave it to me.”

  He gave her a tiny kiss. “You never asked?”

  “Never got the chance,” she breathed. “I haven’t seen my parents since I was four.” But that was a potential mood killer right there, so she raised her hands to his face, sweeping her thumbs gently across his cheekbones, and then down onto his lips, until he shivered.

  “Possibly,” he said, kissing her again. “They were thinking, willows bend, but they don’t break.”

  She smiled in the darkness. “You know, I’ve heard that one before.”

  He kissed her, laughing. They could just not keep their mouths off of each other. “You aren’t afraid to call me on my bullshit. Most people don’t do that.”

  “They don’t?” In spite of the cold night, Willow felt hot all over. “They should.”

  He kissed her again, and she felt it everywhere. “Willow,” he breathed. “I would move this party to the back of my Jeep,” he said, “but that might be a bad idea.”

  “Why?” she panted, hating the sound desperation in her question.

  “I’m not boyfriend material,” he said. “I’m just passing through, and I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’d regret.”

  He kissed her again, his mouth trailing from her lips to under her ear, to her throat, which made her head spin. She reached both hands under his cap, knitting her fingers into his curls.

  His hands found the zipper of her jacket, drawing it partway down. But then he stopped. “I don’t mean to be blunt,” he whispered. “But it would be a one-night-only offer.”

  Ouch. “How pragmatic of you. Settling for me,” she said.

  “What?” he pulled away, his voice cautious.

  “Since you can’t ski the fresh powder, you might as well go with the sex.” She put her fingers on his lips so she could feel him smile.

  “Christ,” he laughed. “I really shouldn’t have said that,” he said, kissing her fingers, then taking them into his mouth.

  “Here’s a tip,” Willow said. “If you ever decide to be somebody’s boyfriend, don’t mention your preference.”

  He leaned in, his lips finding her neck in the dark. “And in the meantime?” he half kissed, half spoke. His tongue on her collarbone sent a shiver of longing down into her core.

  Willow was finding it hard to think. So far, her biggest mistakes in life had been made by giving her heart away for keeps. Her last relationship had been a disaster because she had expected way too much. Dane’s offer was, at least, very honest. And she wanted him. It was crazy, but she did.

  “In the meantime,” she whispered, shocked at herself already, “we steam up your Jeep.”

  He chuckled, pushing the coat off her shoulders. Then he kissed her again, his mouth smoldering hers with more heat and longing than she had felt in a good long time. By the time she found the zipper on his jacket, nobody was laughing.

  Willow tried one more time to conjure some sort of remorse over her actions, but found she could not. A long tangle of life’s events had conspired to lead her here, to this very moment. She didn’t know why that was. She only knew she didn’t want to run away.

  Breaking off their kiss, Dane gathered the sleeping bag off their laps and tossed it into the back. She heard a rustle while he kicked off his boots, and then pulled his seat as far forward as he could. “You go first,” he said.

  With a shaky breath, Willow scooted between the seats and into the back.

  She was straightening out a corner of the sleeping bag when he very awkwardly climbed back to join her. “Where’d you go?” he whispered. “Having second thoughts?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I just can’t believe where the night ended up, that’s all.”

  “No pressure,” he said.

  She slid nearer to him and stole his knit cap. This she tossed into the front seat, and then she scooped her hands into his hair. He wrapped her into a kiss, lifting the hem of her sweater. The sweep of his hands across her bare back combined with his tongue in his mouth was an exhilarating combination. He worked his thumbs up her torso, skimming her bra. “I want these clothes gone,” he said, his voice husky. “I swear I won’t let you freeze.”

  “You first,” she whispered. Willow gripped his T-shirt in her hands and raised it over his head. Once he shrugged it off, her hands explored his chest. God, he was hard as nails under her hands. Athletes, wow. She skimmed his pecs, ducking her head to lick his nipples, which were hardened by the chill. Her hands ventured down his stomach, coming to rest on his belt buckle.

  He interrupted her to tug her sweater upward.

  “I said ‘You first,’” she whispered, grasping his fly.

  “Okay,” he said. He was probably used to being in charge. But the situation was too raw, too far outside her comfort zone to abandon all control. He cooperated, stilling himself while she worked to unzip his jeans.

  When she’d managed the tas
k, he pressed his hands down on the floor and lifted his hips, giving her free reign to tug his pants off him. She took his jeans and his briefs together, pulling them down around his thighs.

  “Hell, it really is cold,” he chuckled.

  She worked his jeans off of him entirely. “I’ll let you keep your socks, under the circumstances,” she said. As she said this, she let her hands begin to trace a path back up his legs, sweeping his shins, his knees.

  She took her time exploring his massive quads. He was solid muscle, as if carved from wood. She pressed his thighs apart with her hands and was rewarded with a hum of expectation. Gingerly, she moved one hand further back and onto his balls, which she stroked lightly, earning a moan. Then, still not rewarding him with the touch he really wanted, she climbed onto his legs, wrapping hers around behind him. Only then did she reach down between their bodies and slip her hand around his cock. He gasped, and she nearly did, too. Because Dane was a very big boy.

  “Cold now?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer. Instead he wrapped her in powerful arms and kissed her like a starving man, crushing her lips to his. As his tongue plundered her mouth, she stroked his shaft. When he groaned, she straddled him even more tightly, hugging him with her legs. The feel of his cock through the fabric of her jeans was tantalizing.

  A one-night-only offer. His words echoed through her head. But what a night it was turning out to be. Dane’s touch was worshipful. Each time she shivered with pleasure, he kissed her. And when she touched him—her hands skimming his back, he sighed from deep in his chest. He was a puzzle—confident with his hands and his kisses, yet seemingly starving for affection.

  This time, when he lifted her sweater over her head, she did not protest.

  Chapter Four

  Dane took a deep breath as he tossed her sweater aside. Don’t rush, he ordered himself. Usually he fucked like he skied—leaning in hard, diving for the finish line. But this girl was something different—soft curves and warm hands. Her touch lingered, and it made him want her hands on his body for as long as possible.