Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed

by Janice Maynard

  “I’m going to start with a massage,” she said quietly.

  Aidan made no response, but he muttered something inaudible.

  Scooting up onto his chest, she leaned forward until she could reach his wrists. Pressing her thumbs to his pulse, she dug into his flesh and ran a path all the way to the crook of his elbows. Then, using both hands on one arm at a time, she worked her way from his elbow to his upper arm.

  Perhaps because of the posture she insisted he adopt, his shoulder muscles were tight. She spent some time there, finding knots and working them out. It might have been easier if he had been on his stomach, but she wanted to watch his face.

  At one point, he flinched. “Too hard?” she asked. One of her college friends had studied sports medicine, and Emma had picked up tips from her. But sometimes people couldn’t take too firm a pressure.

  “Your assets are in my face.”

  “Ah.” She blushed, though he couldn’t see her. “Almost done with this part.” She moved on to his neck and behind his ears. As her hands warmed his skin, she inhaled the smell of him...the yummy guy aroma that made a girl’s knees weak and led to all sorts of improper thoughts.

  The next bit was very personal. Letting her fingertips glide gently, she feathered her way across his forehead, down his nose and cheeks, along his chin and over his firm jaw to his throat.

  Aidan’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly when she pressed lightly where his pulse beat in the side of his neck. Moving to his collarbone, she stroked it slowly. As she shifted back a couple of inches so she could reach his chest, she realized that his sex was no longer at rest. It was firm and erect and bumped her bottom eagerly.

  From this particular angle, she could have joined their bodies easily. But there was time for that later. She concentrated on rubbing his chest, tracing his rib cage, following the line of his sternum.

  She saw his tongue come out to wet his lips. It seemed as if his breathing had picked up in tempo. At one time, she’d had the freedom to touch Aidan however and whenever she wanted, knowing that every brush of skin made them both drunk with happiness and arousal.

  For one painful moment, the stab of grief consumed her. Even if Aidan eventually forgave her for the past, they would never be the same two people. What they had shared at Oxford was exhilarating. They had been young and in love and frightfully full of themselves.

  Determined to forget the past, she moved quickly, avoiding Aidan’s straining erection and settling in between his legs. She heard him curse, possibly because he thought she had been preparing to join their bodies by sliding down onto his shaft.

  She crouched on her knees. Avoiding his groin area, she rubbed his hipbones. His thighs were next, then his bony knees, his calves, his ankles and finally his big feet. When she slid her fingers between his toes, his back arched off the bed.

  “Enough,” he wheezed.

  “I’m trying to relax you. These are standard massage techniques.”

  “Screw that.” He sat up, raking his hands through his hair. His eyes glittered with desire. “Either your technique sucks, or when you touch me I go insane. I’m betting on the latter.”

  “Oh.” She’d been trying to calm him, to make him feel good after a crappy evening. “I didn’t even touch your...”

  “My penis?” he offered helpfully.

  Frowning at him, she eased back onto her bottom and pretzeled her legs. “I don’t like that word.”

  “It’s a perfectly good word...unless you prefer di—”

  She slapped a hand across his mouth. “I prefer not to talk about it at all. I’m more into doing.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “Happy to oblige.” He mimicked her position, then took her hands and tucked them around his shaft. “Feel free to massage this poor neglected body part.”

  It was her turn to swallow. His sex was proportionally large, the shaft veined and strong, the head weeping for her. “I don’t think they covered this in the manuals,” she muttered.

  When she ran her thumb beneath the flange and used her other hand to squeeze, Aidan’s eyes rolled back in his head. Well, they might have. She didn’t exactly know since his face was scrunched up and his lashes fanned out against his cheeks.

  So far, so good. “You really are tense,” she breathed.

  Despite his advanced state of arousal, Aidan laughed, opening his eyes to look at her with a glazed expression. “Tense doesn’t even begin to describe it. You have an unfair advantage with that upper crust British accent. Everything out of your mouth sounds like a sexual come-on.”

  “Close your eyes, naughty boy,” she said, channeling her old headmistress. “I’m not done yet.”

  * * *

  Emma might not be done, but Aidan was almost there. His skin was so sensitive to the touch that it hurt. He took her hand and removed it from the trigger. “Not like this, Emma. I want to be inside you.”

  Her lower lip pouted the tiniest bit. “I wanted to make you feel good,” she said.

  He groaned, shaking his head in bemusement. “Mission accomplished. Now turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Not funny, Kavanagh.”

  “Don’t be so prissy. I’m only going to undo you.” When she gave him her back, he unfastened the band of her bra carefully and slid the straps down her shoulders. “There. Now was that so bad?”

  She faced him again, her breasts high and firm and beautiful. Although she had been bold when his eyes were closed, now she seemed hesitant...even shy. He cupped one breast in his hand. “You don’t have to stay. I’m fine.” Why he was giving her the chance to leave, he wasn’t sure. But it seemed somehow important.

  She took his free hand and held it to her cheek. “I don’t want to leave, Aidan.”

  “Are you staying because you feel sorry for me?” The thought of her sympathy chafed.

  But she shook her head vigorously. “I’d be lying if I said yes. I really did want to make you feel better, but the real reason is selfish.”

  He cocked his head. “Tell me. Please.”

  Pale, narrow shoulders lifted and fell. “I want to feel it again.”

  “It?”

  “The high. At the risk of giving you a swelled ego, you’re very good at satisfying a woman sexually.”

  Her explanation was not what he expected to hear. It seemed impersonal and cold. Though paradoxically, he and Emma were anything but at the moment. Hunger sizzled between them. It seemed, however, as if they were reading from a script, both of them afraid to speak the truth.

  Refusing to acknowledge her confession, bogus or not, he took her with him under the covers. Their arms and legs tangled. “I want you, Emma. You have no idea how much.”

  She nestled against him. “I want you, too, Aidan.”

  Still, he felt dissatisfied. Perhaps this was payback for the way he had insisted that anything physical between them was only sex. Who had he been trying to convince?

  Emma had asked him if there was still a spark. He had denied it. But with her here in his bed, he seemed like the worst kind of liar.

  He ran his hands over her back, tracing her spine, feeling the press of her breasts against his chest. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was twenty-one again. Eager. Painfully naive about women. Standing on the precipice of a moment that would change his life forever.

  How could he have made such a wrong choice? Such a desperately wrong choice? He’d been hurt, true. But he liked to think he was wiser now. Even in the face of Emma’s betrayal, he should have fought for her.

  Her cheek rested trustingly against his chest. Could she feel his heart thump? To him, it felt like a runaway train. Beating out a rhythm on the tracks.

  Last chance. Last chance. Last chance.

  Confusion and lust were poor bedfellows. Lust won every time, even in the absence of clear thinking. He moved over her and kissed her roughly. She arched into his embrace, giving him everything. Her softness. Her k
indness. Her capacity for loving.

  Love. The word was so damned dangerous. As he entered her with one hard thrust, he felt the syllable reverberate in his head, in his heart, in his loins. He did not love her. He wouldn’t allow it. Never again.

  But as his body stroked into hers, as her arms linked around his neck, binding him to her, he felt his will crumble. How could this be wrong? How could anything this good be wrong?

  They loved wildly, passionately, battling almost to see who could give the other more pleasure. He lost the ability to speak, to reason, to keep her at bay.

  He wanted everything she was, everything he was when he was with her. Emotions he had denied for years washed over him, drowning every one of his stupid life rules. His need for release bore down on him, but he didn’t want this to end. He wanted to love her all night long.

  When Emma cried out his name, though, shuddering beneath him, he had no choice but to follow her. The intensity of his climax tore him apart and rebuilt him cell by cell.

  Eons later, he clutched her close and slept. But it was a fitful slumber. He jerked awake, time and again, dreaming that he had lost her. In his nightmares, he stood inside a train car, watching her wave to him as some immoveable force carried him away.

  After the third time when he awoke sweating and trembling, he eased from the bed and went in search of a drink of water. He stood naked in the living room area of the suite and peered out at the night between a crack in the drapes. The world was still and dark.

  Today was his brother’s wedding day. Dylan was gaining a wife and a daughter in one fell swoop. What must it be like to know that people depended on you? That their health and well-being directly impacted your own happiness?

  In Dylan’s shoes, Aidan would be scared to death. That was a hell of a thing for a grown man to admit. Even now, with Emma asleep in the other room, Aidan had to resist the urge to run. He remembered his early twenties all too well. He’d been a mess. Drinking too much. Sleeping with too many women. Teaching himself not to feel.

  All because Emma Braithwaite’s betrayal had crushed him. The pain had made it hard to breathe. And it had made him stupid. Unfortunately, Danielle had borne the brunt of that.

  His breath fogged the glass. Rubbing his thumb across the condensation, he told himself to let go of the memories. But what was the old saying? He who forgets the past is doomed to repeat it?

  Aidan couldn’t live through such a cataclysm again. He wouldn’t. He’d been as vulnerable as a newborn pup, no defenses at all.

  This time he was smarter.

  When he was chilled to the bone, he returned to the bedroom. The small lamp still burned. Emma looked like a painting, her golden hair strewn across the pillow, her ivory breasts rising and falling with each breath.

  He climbed beneath the covers, his heart catching sharply in his chest when she murmured and curled into his embrace.

  “You’re so cold,” she said. She didn’t open her eyes, but her face scrunched up in dismay.

  “Sorry.” Her skin felt like velvet—warm, supple and soft.

  Even half-asleep, she tried to protect him. She patted his thigh. “Stay close to me.” The words were slurred. “I’ll warm you up.”

  For the remainder of the early morning, he listened to her gentle breathing, his body wrapped around hers. It was too important a moment to be lost in sleep. He loved her.

  I love you.

  No one was there to hear when he whispered the admission, dry-eyed. He loved Emma Braithwaite. Perhaps he had never stopped. But now was all there was. Come daybreak he had to let her go.

  Though he closed his eyes, he kept slumber at bay. Around seven-thirty, she stirred. He feigned sleep, giving her the chance to make a trip to the bathroom, to find her clothes and to dress.

  When she was ready, he pretended to wake up, rearing up on one elbow to gaze at her sleepily. “You’re leaving?”

  Emma’s smile was shy. “I have to go home and shower and open the shop. Mrs. Correll is coming at two so I can get ready for the wedding, but I’ll be on my own until then.”

  She sat down on the side of the bed and touched his arm. “I wanted to ask you one more thing. If you don’t mind.”

  He tensed inwardly. “What is it?”

  Emma glanced down, her expression troubled. When she looked up at him again, he felt as if he could see into her soul. “How long ago was it that Danielle died?” she asked, the words barely audible.

  Here it was. This was his chance. All he had to do was tell the truth and he’d be free of Emma forever. She would be hurt, but she deserved to suffer a little. It was only fair.

  Feeling cold to his bones, even though the bed still carried the warmth of their two bodies, he looked at her grimly. “Ten years.” When the words left his mouth, it was too late to change his mind.

  As he watched, Emma’s forehead creased. He saw her do the math. “But you left England ten years ago...the first week in December. And you were engaged by Christmas?” Her voice broke on the last word as she stumbled to her feet. “You and Danielle were together before you came to England, weren’t you?” Her tone was less accusatory than grief-stricken. She had gone so white, he feared for a moment she would faint.

  “I guess you weren’t the only one with secrets, Emma. Perhaps no one is ever who they seem.”

  Sixteen

  Emma didn’t react outwardly. Not even a single tear. She couldn’t. Not with him watching. The hurt ran too deep. It was all she could do to breathe and move one foot in front of the other. She was perfectly calm as she walked out of Aidan’s suite and rode the elevator down to the lobby. In the early morning there were few people around other than employees. She was not a hotel guest. Anyone could draw a conclusion from that. But what did it matter?

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of a car. But the choking need to put distance between herself and Aidan won out. She kept her speed ten miles under the limit. The mountain road was tricky.

  By the time she made it to her apartment, she hovered on the brink of an ugly crying jag. Her chest felt as if someone had ripped it open with a dull blade. Her eyes burned. Her stomach revolted.

  Upstairs, she glanced at the clock. In barely an hour she had to open the store for one of the biggest shopping days of the year. What was she going to do? She lay across her bed, utterly lost. Aidan was lying. He had to be. He could never have spent time with her at Oxford, adoring her, having sex with her, making plans with her...if he had been in love with another woman. It was impossible. She refused to believe it.

  But then she saw his face as it had been when she walked out of his bedroom. She remembered his dark-eyed stare. And she realized he was right. She didn’t know him at all.

  Raw, brokenhearted sobs wet her pillow and left her feeling hollow and sick to her stomach. Somehow she had to make it through this day. Somehow she had to survive seeing him one more time. Tonight was Dylan and Mia’s wedding. Neither Emma nor Aidan had the luxury of avoiding one another.

  Though the thought of it was beyond comprehension, she knew she had no choice. She gave herself twenty minutes to cry out her misery and pain. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. The empty cavity where her heart normally resided was frightening...like a black hole waiting to swallow her until she was nothing but a spot of darkness.

  She dragged herself to her feet and undressed, ashamed that she had no underwear. What had seemed sexy and fun the night before now carried the tawdry feel of regret. A blistering hot shower did nothing to warm her soul. She dried her hair, applied light makeup with trembling hands, and dressed in a wool sweater and pants.

  In a very real sense, Silver Memories became her salvation during the day. The heavy flow of customers, the constant ching of the cash register...all of it anesthetized her so that she could function.

  When Mrs. Correll arrived midafternoon, the older woman didn’t appear to notice anything amiss in her boss’s demeanor. They exchanged a few words, Emma handed ove
r the keys and fled upstairs.

  For the longest time she sat huddled in her chair by the fire, remembering how Aidan had looked sleeping in this very spot. She wanted to wail and throw things and smash bits of glass, but she was very afraid if she gave in to the emotions tearing her apart, she would never regain control.

  The afternoon ticked away until it was far past time to prepare. She forced herself to heat a can of soup and eat it. She had skipped lunch. Though hunger was the last thing on her mind, she knew she needed the sustenance.

  At last, she went to her tiny closet and reached for the green velvet dress. It was as beautiful as when she had first opened the box and lifted it out. The style was reminiscent of the 1940s, nipped in at the waist, full-skirted and cut low at the bodice with a sweetheart neckline. Trying it on had made her feel like a movie star.

  Now, looking at herself in the mirror, all she saw was the ghost of a woman with sad eyes and a barely beating heart.

  The skies had been clear all day, which meant that by five, the temperatures started to plummet. Emma was to be at the church at five thirty for pictures. Although she was only in charge of the guestbook, Mia had insisted she be included.

  The small chapel where Mia and Dylan had chosen to have their ceremony was one of the oldest structures in Silver Glen. In lean, hard times, the early townspeople had erected a place of worship, nondenominational, welcoming all who wanted to come.

  Only two blocks from Emma’s apartment, the historic building was a favorite stop for tourists in the summertime. Tonight, even though Emma walked quickly in her high heels, the wind cut through her thick wool coat as if she were naked.

  Breathless when she arrived, she paused at the doors to the church, drawing on the faith taught to her as a child for strength to face the night ahead. Then lifting her chin, she turned the polished tin knob and let herself in.

  The well-worn pews were original wood, as was the floor. Etched windows had been a later addition. Instead of stained glass, they were clear, affording grand views of the mountains in the daytime.