'Tis the Season to be Kissed

by Amy Andrews

  Hell, he’d hold out for ten dates just to get one of those kisses. And whatever else she was willing to offer after that.

  He sat on the couch, staring into the flames as he buzzed his electric razor over his face. She’d been pretty clear about her ten-date rule and he admired her for knowing what she wanted and holding out for it. It would be wrong to mess with that. Even on New Year’s Eve.

  Satisfied he’d done a reasonable job, Luke switched off the razor, determined to also switch off his thoughts. Deliberately not looking over his shoulder, he stuffed a throw cushion under his head, stretched out on the couch, shut his eyes, and prayed for sleep.

  It took him all of thirty seconds to remember the couch looked deceptively comfortable. The arms were squishy and soft but he knew from experience the lumpy cushions gave no protection from broken springs that somehow seemed to know the exact moment a person achieved REM to make themselves known.

  He’d always scored the couch during their family weekends at the cabin. In his early teens, he’d outgrown the camp beds that had been his and Georgia’s and he’d graduated to the three-seater. It had seemed pretty damn grown-up at the time but it was a milestone that had soon lost its luster. Even back then, the ancient couch—which had been in every family picture taken at the cabin since the fifties—had been just barely tolerable.

  He tossed and turned for ten minutes trying to find a more comfortable spot, desperate for the sleep that hovered enticingly beyond his reach. Sure, he’d slept on worse—way worse—but he’d made a vow a few months back that his first night home on American soil he was sleeping on a real mattress. After meager hours of disrupted upright sleep in airport chairs and a cramped bus, the couch was a supreme disappointment.

  A spring jabbed him in the ribs and he sat up in disgust. Don’t look, he told himself. Do not look at her. But he couldn’t help himself. He looked.

  He could just make out her shape, snuggled under the covers of what was possibly the world’s most comfortable bed. It was big and wide with a feather mattress that had been made for long, lazy, snowbound weekends. But he refused to even let himself think about that.

  Instead he thought about how very little room she was taking up. She was just a slight little thing right over to one side. Practically the whole rest of the bed was vacant.

  And beckoning him.

  Although he couldn’t be entirely sure it wasn’t his libido doing the beckoning.

  He shifted his gaze to the gray light coming through a kink in the curtains covering a window to the left of the bed. The blizzard had settled, but it was still coming down out there. How many hours had he spent tucked into that bed with his Mom and Dad and Georgia when they’d been kids, playing Go Fish and Scrabble as the snow piled up outside? Happy times. Good memories.

  His gaze wandered back to the sleeping woman as he contemplated a whole bunch of new memories. Of the R-rated variety. He shut his eyes, wiping them from his mind. If he got in that bed with her now, it wouldn’t be about making memories. It would be about fulfilling the very basic human requirement of sleep.

  He stood, hands on hips. He only needed a couple of hours. For now anyway. Just to recharge the batteries. He could be out of the bed before she even stirred, given the amount of alcohol she’d consumed. He’d stay on his side. She wouldn’t even know he’d been there.

  He nodded to himself, decision made. Dropping his hands, he strode over to the bed before battle-honed caution could overcome him. And he didn’t stop to overthink it as he reached the side opposite the sleeping woman. He didn’t think about deep, wet, hungry kisses. Hell, he didn’t even look at her. Just peeled back the covers and eased in under them.

  And as his head sunk into a down pillow and the mattress enveloped him like a long-lost friend, he didn’t even have time to feel guilty. He just crashed headlong into sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Twelve hours ’til midnight

  Tamara didn’t know what time it was or how many hours had passed when she woke. All she knew was she felt like hell. As the memories of what had happened just prior to her falling into a coma started to filter back, she couldn’t help thinking how pertinent it was given that she was going directly to a fiery afterlife.

  Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

  She shut her eyes as her how about it floated back through the thump in her head. Had she really propositioned her friend’s brother? And then thrown up like some Jersey Shore party princess? This wasn’t her. She didn’t drink to excess and certainly not at nine o’clock in the morning. She’d never even been drunk—not really.

  Tipsy, occasionally. Very occasionally.

  And she didn’t come on to men. Granted, she was good at the copulatory gaze but she never—never—approached a man first. That may be old-fashioned but it had worked pretty well for her so far.

  Except for this last year.

  Tamara had learned fairly quickly that copulatory gazes only attracted men who wanted to copulate—not procreate. Settle down. Commit. And she didn’t want one without the other or at least without the potential of the other.

  Well...she hadn’t when this had all started a year ago, anyway.

  And then Sergeant Luke Jackson had walked through the door. Although, to be fair, she was so hot to trot right now she’d have probably done the yeti had he been the unfortunate one to step into the cabin.

  Tamara rolled on her back exhaling on a groan. That’s it—I’m officially desperate.

  She opened her eyes. And then, as she became aware of a shape beside her, she froze, her breath stuttering to a halt in her lungs. Very slowly, she turned her head. It wasn’t the yeti, although she almost wished it were because the reality was worse.

  Way worse.

  The dull light peeking through the nearby window may not have been great but it was enough, and she exhaled slowly as she confronted her worst nightmare. Sleeping in bed. Beside her. Six foot plus of broad, bare-chested man. All smooth tanned skin and latent sexuality. Eyelashes to die for. Lips that could have graced any marble statue. A chin cleft that made her weak in a place that was nowhere near her knees.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Was it possible she was still drunk and he was just a figment of her imagination? She opened them again. Nope, she was one hundred percent sober. And he was very, very real.

  She noted that his stubble had gone, leaving just a hint of shadow emphasizing an angular jaw so smooth it begged to be touched. Just like his chest. A sprinkling of hair around dark nipples, then nothing till the tantalizing trail that headed south of his belly button and disappeared behind covers that had been pushed down to his hips.

  Tamara’s heart started to pound. Crap. Was he...naked under there?

  And then another thought—a really, really bad one—started to circle like a buzzard over carrion. Oh God! Had they...?

  Her pulse pounded. Her head thumped.

  Okay, she was pretty sure she’d passed out there for a while but surely she’d remember doing the wild thing with a guy who looked like he’d been invented with the wild thing in mind? A twenty-five-year-old guy.

  Georgia’s brother.

  She shut her eyes and threw a swift prayer out into the universe. Please, please, please don’t let it be so. And if it was? Then for the love of all that was holy, please, please, please let her at least remember!

  Her eyes flew open at a sudden thought and she quickly peeked under the covers—she was still fully clothed. That was good, right? She squirmed a little, trying to decide if she felt any different. Surely after a year’s abstinence she’d know if they’d done...it.

  There was no ache—of the good variety. No residual feeling that all her kinks had been ironed out. No innate sense of...relief. None of that great sexual malaise that went right down into the marrow, paralyzing muscles and leadening bones. In fact, her body still felt pretty wired. She let out a raggedy breath, her gaze drifting down his flat abs. They couldn’t have done it. Luke Jackson looked li
ke a guy who knew how to leaden bones.

  He moved then, and Tamara’s breath seized in her chest. She shut her eyes in case he woke and caught her staring. He rolled, settling on his belly, his head turned away from her, and she breathed again.

  Get up! Get up now!

  Tamara obeyed, refusing the dictates of a body that demanded she give equal time to enjoying the back view. She slipped out from under the covers and did not look over her shoulder no matter how tempting it was. And it was very, very tempting.

  Thankfully it was another hour before Luke emerged. Enough time for Tamara to have kept the fire stoked, prepared her apology speech, and gotten a little distance from her embarrassing antics that morning. Although that distance did evaporate somewhat as he stood straddling the two rooms, a foot on either side, using the archway to stretch. In nothing but his underwear.

  “Hi,” he said, hands gripping the framework above his head. His abs elongated in a particularly tantalizing display. He dropped his head from side to side, drawing her gaze up as he gave his traps the same treatment.

  It really should be illegal for some guys to go shirtless.

  “Hi,” she responded, hoping it didn’t sound like she’d been sucking on helium for the last hour.

  “I’m starving,” he said. “Are you starving?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve eaten three Pop-Tarts, two Twinkies and,” she held up an orange package, “half a bag of Cheetos.” Also, half a bottle of Tylenol.

  He laughed and headed for the kitchen. “Ooh, Pop-Tarts. My favorite.”

  Tamara watched the swagger of two tight buns for a few seconds before leaping to her feet. Did he not realize he was only in his underwear? He may be used to parading around in next to nothing in front of females he barely knew but it was a little too familiar for her!

  “I’ll get them,” she said, gaze firmly fixed on the toaster as she also headed his way. “Why don’t you...er...get dressed?” Tamara was pleased her voice was sounding firmer.

  And that she hadn’t given into the urge to check him out once more.

  She watched as Luke looked down at himself and then looked at her and grinned. He didn’t even have the good grace to blush over his state of undress. He just shrugged and said, “Sure thing.”

  Tamara put two raspberry tarts in the toaster and was satisfied, when they popped a minute later, to see he’d donned some track pants and his white T-shirt from earlier. Although somehow his clothes just seemed to emphasis what was underneath. Still, at least she wasn’t getting a full-blown Technicolor display anymore and for that she was grateful.

  “Better?” he asked, and the mischief in his grin was charming as hell.

  She gave him her very best kindergarten teacher, this-behavior-is-not-acceptable, look. “Thank you,” she said, because saying, “No, would you mind taking it all back off, please?” was counterproductive.

  Tamara held out his plate and he was on the other side of the kitchen bench, plonking himself on a stool in three strides. “Mm, thanks,” he said and bit into one, his eyes closing momentarily as he groaned in appreciation. A groan that stroked along muscles deep inside. Rusty muscles. He opened his eyes and smiled. “Ahh, the taste of home.”

  She could only imagine how much sexier that smile would be in ten years when his hair had a little gray and there were some lines around his eyes and some salt and pepper in the stubble emphasizing that wicked cleft in his chin. And a gaze that had lived and loved a little more. Although his endless blue eyes told her he’d seen a little too much already of things no one should ever see.

  Only the crackling of the fire could be heard as she watched him devour the food. This was the perfect place to jump in with the apology she’d been practicing.

  “About earlier...”

  Luke looked up from his plate. Here it comes. He shook his head to cut her off at the pass. “It’s fine. You were fine.”

  She shot him an incredulous look. “I don’t think so.”

  He smiled. “It’s fine, really.”

  She shook her head. “First I attacked you, then I practically took off all my clothes in front of you—”

  “That,” he interrupted, “was my favorite part. In case you were wondering.”

  “Then I dump all my sorry dating woes in your lap and then I...then I...”

  “Propositioned me,” he supplied, smiling as she obviously cast around for the right phrasing, her cute pixie cheeks a pretty shade of pink. “That was my second-favorite part.”

  She groaned as she covered her face with her hands and his smile broadened to a grin. “Oh God, I can’t believe I did that... I told you all that...stuff...I’m so, so sorry...”

  “Don’t be. I particularly liked the bit about how talking dirty to you makes you come.”

  She gasped as she dropped her hands, and the look of scandal on her face would have been perfectly at home on a Victorian maiden. “I did not say that,” she sputtered.

  He held her gaze as he raised an eyebrow and watched the slow dawning of truth. He tried very hard not to laugh out loud as pink turned to crimson.

  “Oh God, I did, didn’t I?” She shook her head and shut her eyes tightly, as if she could erase the embarrassing admission by making him temporarily disappear. Then she opened them, a cool change in her gaze as she stood a little straighter. He admired her gumption. “Well, of course, I didn’t mean that,” she said as she picked nonexistent fluff off her gray turtleneck. “It was just the rum talking. It gives me this...temporary insanity...kind of like Tourette’s. It’s not pretty.”

  Luke threw back his head and laughed. She was quick on her feet. Must be, dealing with all those expert kindergarten fabrications. “Liar,” he grinned at her haughty stance. “It’s okay. They say knowledge is power.”

  And I am so going to use that interesting little tidbit later.

  Just like that, her hard-fought composure vanished. “What?” She shook her head wildly, making her pixie haircut just a little more unruly, a little more sexy. “No. Really. I was drunk. Utterly intoxicated. I didn’t mean...I don’t...I don’t mean...that.”

  He reached out to cover her hand, not surprised when she withdrew it as if he’d admitted to having anthrax. “Is the idea of you and me so ridiculous?”

  “You and me?” she squeaked.

  “Yes. You and me. A snowy cabin. A New Year’s Eve kiss? One of those of deep, wet, hungry ones you seem to like so much?” His gaze dropped to her mouth. The more her words had wormed into his brain the more he was tempted to partake. “It seems a shame to let such an...opportunity pass us by.” He shrugged. “You never know, it could be the start of something beautiful.”

  Her throat bobbed and he dropped his gaze farther to follow the fascinating movement. “That is ridiculous,” she said.

  Luke wasn’t so sure. He was liking the idea more and more. “Why? Because I’m younger than you?”

  Her indignant snort should have been a sign to back down, but he’d never been one for reading signs. “Yes, that. And, your sister is a close friend. And…”

  He waited calmly for her next decree. When it wasn’t forthcoming, he prompted. “And?”

  “I don’t need pity sex,” she whispered loudly.

  Even though Luke was pretty damn sure she did, he didn’t call her on it. Her chest rose and fell in little agitated shudders, and there were two spots of color high on her cheeks.

  “Okay, sure. But just so you know, it wouldn’t be pity sex. It would be really hot, I’m-totally-into-you sex. Although I do really good pity sex, too. Actually I do really good sex, period.”

  “You’re really quite cocky, aren’t you?” she snapped.

  He grinned as she pinked up a little more at her unintentional referral to something she was obviously trying to avoid. “Well now, that’s for me to know and you to find out, isn’t it?”

  She huffed at him. Actually huffed. It shouldn’t have been a turn-on, but it was.

  “Let’s not talk about this a
nymore, okay?” she asked, and he’d have to have been deaf to not hear the pleading in her voice. “Can we just pretend that none of what happened, actually happened?”

  “Okay.” It was cool. He could be patient. The snow was still bucketing down outside—neither of them was going anywhere. He sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. “What do you want to talk about?”

  She blinked at him a few times, which was cute and distracting but not enough to negate the desperation on her face. He could almost see the cogs turning in her brain.

  “I...thought you’d told Georgia you couldn’t be here for her birthday?”

  He smiled. Good save. “Dates are kind of fluid over there. Often plans can change at the drop of a hat. I didn’t want to disappoint her if things didn’t work out...so now I get to surprise her. Win-win.”

  “Right,” she said vaguely. “Well that’s...good, right? Sensible...”

  He nodded, amused at her attempts to make conversation. “That’s me,” he said. “Mr. Sensible.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah. You ooze sensible.”

  Luke laughed. “Yes, ma’am.” She frowned at him and he apologized on another laugh. “Sorry.”

  She folded her arms. “Any New Year’s resolutions?”

  He admired her persistence with the small talk. She reminded him of his high school biology teacher, Miss Squires. Now, she’d been a real hottie.

  He shrugged. “‘Don’t get dead’ has been my go-to resolution for the last few years.”

  She gasped and all the haughtiness fell from her features. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” She reached for his hand and he was touched by the genuine distress he saw in her troubled gray gaze. “I should have been asking about your life. About what you’ve been through. About Afghanistan.”

  Luke was aware of a tension creeping into his muscles. A tension that a beer, a sleep, a roaring fire in a familiar hearth, and the company of an uninhibited woman had temporarily dispelled.

  “Actually, I really don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered, pulling his hand away.