by Lori Foster
“I bet they all tease you about being single.”
Her chin lifted. “Actually, they consider me the strange artsy one in the bunch. They never know quite what to expect from me.” For certain, they wouldn’t expect Booker.
“Strange? Really?” He said it with amusement.
“And why not? Look how different I am from Judith.”
“Yeah.” She felt his gaze tracking over her body, pausing in prime places until she almost squirmed. “You’re different all right.”
Just what the hell did he mean by that? Flustered, she dumped in too much sugar. “Set the oven on 350.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took care of that before leaning beside her against the counter. Without a shirt and his jeans undone, he proved a mighty distraction. “Now, about these differences.”
Frances stirred the batter with single-minded ferocity. “Judith is beautiful.”
With a snort, Booker leaned around to see her face. “You’re an artist, Frannie. You know you’re easy on the eyes.”
“I know I’m not a hag,” she specified. “But I am too thin and probably too tall.”
“You’re damn near the same height as me.”
“Exactly. And judging by Judith, you like women who are elegant. Judith always had her hair just right, her makeup perfect and her nails freshly painted.”
Indulgently, Booker tucked her hair behind her ear. “And the only paint I see on you is often on your nose.”
Rolling her eyes, Frances said, “Or under my nails, rather than on them.” She hesitated a moment, unsure how many comparisons she wanted to make. “Judith has bigger boobs, too.”
His grin came and went quickly. “She’s got a nice rack on her, true. But Frannie?” When she glanced up at him, he said, “She’s not you.” He stroked the side of her throat. “You make me laugh, almost as much as you make me hot. I enjoy being with you, talking to you. I knew things were over with Judith when I decided I’d rather watch football with you than sleep with her.”
Frances paused in her stirring. “Has it really been a month?”
“At least. It feels longer because I’ve wanted you more every damn day.” When she stood there, just staring at him, he gently nudged her aside and began scooping the cookie dough into the press he’d taken from her cabinet. “I should have realized Judith felt the same when she didn’t protest my lack of interest. But everyone kept talking about us being an item, hinting that we should get married. And it was the holidays, a bad time to dump someone. And so, like an idiot, I tried to figure out a way to end it without causing a big scene—so I could be with you.”
He began turning the crank on the old press and a tree-shaped cookie appeared on the baking sheet. “You,” he told her with a sideways glance of accusation, “kept treating me like some asexual buddy.”
Frances gasped in affront. “That’s how you treated me.”
“Not by choice. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t scare you off until I could tell you how I really felt.”
The baking sheet now held two dozen small trees. Frances took it from him, opened the oven and bent at the waist to slide it in.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said from right behind her, “you don’t know what you’re advertising there.”
Frances glanced around to see him staring at her behind. She jerked upright, her face flushed from his attention and the heat that wafted from the oven.
Booker reached out, caught her elbow and dragged her close. “You’re too warm.” So saying, he caught the hem of her sweatshirt and pulled it up and over her head. “Damn, how many layers are you wearing?”
“Enough to jog outside without freezing.”
“Well, maybe you can be an early present and I’ll just keep unwrapping you.” He removed her thermal shirt too, leaving her in an oversized blue T-shirt and gray nylon jogging pants. He stared at her breasts and said, “I don’t suppose you’d want to do a little making out? We could sort of ease into things with a lot of kissing, maybe a little petting. Then tomorrow when you’ve made up your mind—”
Frances threw her arms around his neck. “Yes.”
Chapter Four
Surprised by her sudden acquiescence, Booker lifted her to the countertop and moved her knees apart to stand between them. Frances’s eyes widened, but he didn’t give her time to change her mind. He kissed her.
God, he’d never get used to her taste, her softness. The T-shirt hugged her small breasts, showing the strained outline of her puckered nipples. He slid his hands down her sides, enthralled by her narrow waist, the firmness of her supple muscles. As a runner, she stayed toned and trim. He couldn’t wait to feel her legs around him, squeezing him tight.
But she wanted a day to think about it, so by God, he’d give her a day. Tonight he’d only tease, show her what they could have together in an effort to hedge his bets. It was a ruthless move, but then, he’d wanted her too damn long to play fair.
He took her mouth in a long drugging kiss, meant to distract her while he slipped his hands beneath her shirt. She felt warm and firm and soft and he knew he’d bust his jeans if he prolonged this too long. The silky skin of her back drew him first. She was so slight of build, so narrow that with his fingers spread, he could span her width. He rubbed back down her sides, then up to her breasts, just under them, not touching her yet despite the urge to weigh her in his palms, to learn her.
“Booker …” she groaned, and the way she said his name pushed him that much closer to the edge.
Using his thumbs, he stroked her nipples, felt them stiffen, and he couldn’t take it. He leaned back, pulled the shirt up to bare her and inhaled sharply at the sight of her.
“Frannie.” He could feel her hesitancy. Her breasts were small, perfectly shaped with dark pink nipples. He bent to take one puckered nipple into his mouth, drawing gently, flicking with his tongue.
Her reaction was electric. She stiffened, lacing her fingers tight into his hair, pulling him closer. Her legs opened wider around him and Booker used one arm to pull her to the very edge of the counter, in direct contact with his hips.
Her groan was long and gratifying.
Earlier, he’d been on the ragged edge, damn near ready to come in his pants. But now he had her where he wanted her. Almost. Naked would be better, but he’d make do.
“I’m going to make you come, Frannie.”
Her eyes snapped open and she stiffened, but Booker didn’t let her gather her wits enough to retreat. Carefully, he laid her back on the counter, kissing her deeply again until she sighed and clung to him. Stroking her, he smoothed his hand over her shoulder, down her side, and to her hip. The elastic waistband of her jogging pants proved accommodating.
Her stomach sucked in and she gasped.
“Shhh …” he told her, then groaned when he found her panties damp. “God, I’ve dreamed of touching you like this.”
He heard her fast shallow breaths and lifted his head. Eyes wide, she stared at the ceiling. Her face was warm, her breasts rising and falling as she panted, her nipples achingly tight.
Booker gently pushed one finger inside her, gritting his teeth against the instant clasp of her body. Her lips parted on a deep inhalation. “How’s that feel?” he asked her, slipping his finger in and out, his voice so low and hoarse he barely recognized himself.
Rather than answer, her neck arched and her eyes closed. With his heart slamming hard enough to shake his body, Booker went back to her breasts—at the same time working in a second finger. She was tight, but so wet and hot he knew she would enjoy the slight stretch of ultra-sensitive flesh.
Her legs opened wider.
Nipping gently with his lips, he teased her nipple. He circled with his tongue, held her with his teeth and tugged until she cried out, rolling her hips against his hand, bathing his fingers in slick moisture. He found her clitoris with his thumb, pressed, and then let her set her pace.
“Booker,” she whispered, then again, a little louder, a little more shrill, �
��Booker.”
God, yes, he thought, thrilled with her response. He held her closer to still her movements. While thrusting his fingers harder, faster, he sucked strongly at her nipple. In a sudden rush of sensation, she climaxed, her body bowing on the countertop, her cries loud and sweet. Booker had to fight back his own orgasm so he didn’t embarrass himself by coming in his pants.
Slowly, Frannie subsided, her body going limp by small degrees. She’d managed to knock the clip out of her hair and it tumbled around her face, a little tangled, a little sweaty. Booker leaned over her, smiling, feeling pretty damn good except for a straining, painful erection.
He touched her lax mouth, brushed a pale blond lock away from her forehead. “I love you, Frannie.”
Her eyes snapped open—and the oven dinged.
Good timing, Booker decided. He knew he could take her now and all her protestations wouldn’t mean a thing. She was soft, limp, open to him in body and emotions. Her gently parted lips told him so. The flush of her skin told him so. Her heavy, unfocused eyes told him so.
But he’d promised her and because he loved her, because he wanted her for the rest of his life, not just tonight, he slid his arms under her shoulders and lifted her off the counter. She was unsteady on her feet, weaving until he steadied her.
Her T-shirt fell into place. He helped readjust her displaced jogging pants. After a teasing flick on her nose, he said, “The cookies will burn,” and went to fetch a potholder to remove the tray from the oven. The air filled with the humid scents of sugary cookies, and the more subtle scent of aroused woman.
When he turned to face Frances again, she hadn’t moved. She was still staring at him, mute, but also drowsy with satisfaction.
Booker sighed. “I’m going to go now. If I don’t, you won’t get that time you need to think about things.”
That brought her around, her eyes blinking and her shoulders straightening. “You need time to think too, to make sure—”
“No.” He reached out and brushed one fingertip over her left breast, making her shudder anew. “I know what I want.”
“You mean right now?” She swallowed. “Or tomorrow?”
Smiling, Booker told her, “I already got what I wanted right now. Thank you.”
She blinked rapidly again. “You’re welcome.”
“Tomorrow I’d love to have you naked, so I can really love you properly. So I can come with you. Inside you.”
She rolled her lips in on a soft moan.
“After that,” he said, looking at her directly, making sure she understood, “I want everything. Every day, every night, the rest of our lives.”
She drew a shuddering breath, opened her mouth to speak, and Booker put a finger to her lips. “No, honey. Just do your thinking, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”
“But—”
“Can you sleep now? I don’t have to worry about you slipping outside?”
“I can sleep.”
She already looked halfway there, amusing him and blunting the lust with tenderness. He cupped her jaw. “I love you, Frannie,” he stated again, then he went to her door and walked out.
Frances woke slowly, a smile on her mouth. He loved her. Her Christmas wishes had come true. Feeling energized despite the fact she’d only had a few hours sleep, she threw off the covers and went to the window. More snow had fallen, blanketing the world in a dazzling display of silver and white. It was so awe-inspiring it took her breath away.
A tap sounded on her bedroom wall. “G’morning, beautiful.”
Almost dancing in her happiness, Frances dashed back to the bed and laid her hand on the wall. “Good morning, Booker.”
“I miss you.”
She hugged herself in giddy pleasure. “It hasn’t been that long. Why are you up?”
“Because a sexy broad turned me inside out last night, then sent me to my lonely bed. Oh wait. Do you mean why am I out of bed?”
She chuckled. “Booker Dean, you know exactly what I meant.” He had gone home alone, all because he was so considerate and wonderful … and he said he loved her. She wanted to stand up and sing.
“Well, as to that, I was hoping that same sexy broad would have something special to say to me today. I’ve been laying here just waiting.”
Frances fell back on the mattress, arms wide, heart full. Oh, she had things to say to him. Lots and lots of things. What he’d done to her last night, how he’d made her feel …
She sat back up and spoke close to the wall. “She just might.” Booker had said today he wanted her naked, then he wanted her for the rest of their lives. She badly wanted to give him whatever he wanted. Struck with sudden, very daring inspiration, Frances glanced at the clock. She bit her lip, hesitated, then forced herself to say, “I’ll need an hour, okay?”
“Right. One hour. But keep in mind I’ll be holding my breath.” He tapped on the wall, and Frances knew he’d left the room. She jumped up and dashed into the shower. This was going to be the most magical Christmas ever—one that would start her on a new life with the man she loved.
Booker got out of the shower at the sound of knocking on his door. Frances? Damn, he hoped so. He pulled a towel around his hips and went to greet her.
Unfortunately, it was Axel and Cary, not Frances. They sported a box of doughnuts, beard-shadowed cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes.
“Morning, Booker,” Axel said as he walked in, then nudged the door shut behind him. “Did you lock me out on purpose?”
Booker headed to his bedroom to dress. “It’s only seven in the morning. I always lock my door at night when I sleep.”
Cary said, “See? It wasn’t personal.” Then to Booker, “I’m going to put on coffee.”
Booker emerged wearing jeans and carrying a shirt and sneakers. “No. Your coffee sucks. I’ll get it.” Feeling a touch of déjà vu, Booker pulled his shirt over his head, pushed his feet into his sneakers, and began coffee preparations. “All right. Why the early-morning visit?”
Cary grinned. “You are so damn suspicious, Booker. Hell, we’re just heading home after pulling an all-nighter.”
“Together?”
“No.” Axel fished out a fat jelly doughnut and took a large bite. “We hooked up for breakfast, then decided you might want doughnuts, too.”
“You were with Judith all night?”
Axel paused in the middle of chewing. “Is that okay?”
“I keep telling you that it is. Just don’t ever try it with Frannie. I don’t even want you looking at her. Got it?”
“I’ll wear blinders when the girl is around.”
“See that you do.” He finished the coffee. “I’m kind of amazed at your speed with Judith, though.”
Grinning, Axel said, “Yeah, well, she’s been converted.”
“Axel-fied?” Cary asked.
“Exactly. And who can think of marriage when I’m having so much fun being single?”
Booker’s front door opened again and Frances called softly, “Booker?”
Knowing he grinned like a sap and not caring in the least, Booker saluted his brother and Cary. “I’ll be right back.” He would allow his brother one cup of coffee, and then he’d oust him for some alone-time with Frannie.
She stood uncertainly inside his door, her bare feet shifting on his carpet, her hands playing with the belt to her robe. She hadn’t dressed yet? Excellent.
For once, she had her hair loose too, freshly brushed and hanging past her shoulders. She chewed on her bottom lip. Her continued shyness charmed him.
Booker looked her over, realized she appeared naked beneath the robe, and all kinds of delightful possibilities rolled through him. “Good morning,” he murmured, already thinking ahead to how quickly he could get rid of his brother and get Frannie into bed.
Her smile trembled. “Do you remember what you said yesterday, Booker?” Her hands continued to fidget with her belt.
He walked closer. “I said a lot of things.”
“You said you wante
d me naked.”
Heat raced up his spine. “Yeah, I—”
She jerked the belt loose and dropped her robe. It pooled around her slim ankles leaving her gloriously, beautifully nude.
Booker froze, his eyes going wide, his cock leaping to attention. Lord, she devastated his senses. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t move.
And then from behind him, Axel said, “I don’t suppose I should be witnessing this?”
Frannie’s screech was shrill enough to shatter glass. The damn robe was on the floor and she dropped down to grab it, twisting at the same time so that her rump faced them instead of her front. And good Lord, the view …
Cary coughed. Axel choked.
Belatedly, Booker reeled on his brother. He blasted him with a look and gave him a hard shove that sent him stumbling back into Cary, toppling them both into the kitchen. Neither Axel nor Cary seemed to mind the attack. They were both too busy laughing.
Booker slugged his brother hard in the arm.
“Ow.”
“Damn it, Axel, I told you I didn’t want you looking at her.”
In his defense, Axel said, “I didn’t know I’d get to see her in the buff, now did I?” and he rubbed at his shoulder where Booker had hit him. “It’s a reflex. Naked woman equals staring. Any man still breathing would look at that, and you damn well know it.”
“I would,” Cary said, and Booker slugged him, too. But Cary just continued to snicker and grin.
Booker’s front door slammed shut.
Damn it! He rounded on his brother again. “Now see what you two have done?”
“Us? We’re innocent bystanders. In fact, I think I may have wounded myself when she dropped that robe. My eyeballs hit the floor.”
Cary nodded. “Coffee came straight out my nose. Hurt like hell.”
Booker pointed a finger at them both. “Leave.” Then he went into his bedroom and sat on the bed nearest to the wall. He could hear funny noises in Frances’s room. Probably her thumping her fists on the bed.
“Frannie?”
The noise stopped, then in an agonized whisper, “I’m going to kill your brother, Booker.”
“Not if I kill him first.” He smiled. At least she was still talking to him. “Mind if I come over?”
