Argh! I’m going to drive myself crazy over-thinking the whole thing. I explicitly told him no sex during this trip and he’s just abiding by my decision. If I want to change the status quo I have to man up—or in my case woman up (if there is such a term)—and tell him if he’s not getting the hint.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REBECCA
After I make the bed, I give myself a final once-over in the dresser mirror. Blue jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater is as good as it’s going to get wardrobe-wise. This morning, however, I did put a bit more effort and time into my hair. Don’t ask me why as it’ll be plastered to my head ten minutes after we get to the slopes.
My hair is super thick so the most a half-hour with a curling iron can do is give me loose wavyish curls, but that’s enough. Turning my head, I view myself from several different angles and I have to say, all-in-all, I’m satisfied with the results.
When I open the bedroom door to leave, I give a little start when I’m met with a wall of solid chest.
My chin goes up and I’m staring into Scott’s vivid green eyes before treating him to a full-body perusal. He’s not wearing anything special, just your typical jeans and a gray cotton sweater with a quarter-zip collar. But God does he make them look good.
I inhale deeply through my nose. His scent, an intoxicating combination of soap, cologne and warm male skin, has me thinking of forgoing hitting the slopes today in favor of the sheets.
His heavily-lidded gaze runs up and down me a couple times before settling on my face. “You look good. I like your hair,” he says using the bed-sex voice, all throaty and low.
My body reacts like it always does, beading my nipples as a fire starts to burn low in my stomach.
“So do you.” My voice is thready, more breath than sound.
Shooting a quick glance at the door, Scott’s mouth curves into a faint smile when his attention returns to my mouth. “Can I kiss you now that we’re not in the bedroom?”
Good one. I would laugh if I weren’t so turned on.
I barely manage a nod before he’s towing me by the hand across the hall and into the bathroom. There he closes the door and I hear the faint click of the lock.
It’s a gorgeous bathroom. Done in navy and white, it’s big, the cream-and-tan, marble-like countertop running three quarters the length of the room, in it, double sinks sit an equal distance apart.
It’s there, in the middle of the sinks that he places me, lifting me up and setting me down like I weigh nothing. I seriously don’t mind his take-charge approach. In fact, it turns me on even more.
Without saying a word, he nudges my knees apart to make room for him as he steps in between them and plows his hands through my hair, tugging my head back and crushing my mouth under his. Instantly, we’re a tangle of tongues and hot, labored breaths. I feel the kiss everywhere but mostly between my thighs where his hard-on is pushing rhythmically against me, spiking the ache there to untold heights.
Pushing beneath my sweater and bra, his hands are all over my breasts, palming them, weighing them and tormenting the nipples until the pleasure becomes too much and I’m forced to break the kiss, gasping and out of breath.
“Jesus, Bec, do you know how crazy you’re driving me?” he groans against my neck. To that, my thighs grip him tighter as my sex involuntarily contracts.
He’s not the only one. I honestly don’t know how either of us is leaving this bathroom sans orgasm because that would be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
“Scott…” It’s all I can manage, wedging my hand between our lower bodies to squeeze the thick, hard length of him straining against his zipper.
“Fuck.” He groans like he’s being tortured.
I squeeze him again.
Because he is.
But nothing kills the mood like an impatient knock on the door and a surly male voice saying, “Hey, let me know when you’re done in there.”
I never moved so fast, dropping my legs from around Scott’s hips and smoothing an unsteady hand over my hair, which from a quick look in the mirror, is a far cry from what it looked like ten minutes ago.
Hastily, Scott steps out from between my legs, his gaze still on me. Running both hands through his hair, he watches me hungrily as I put myself together, pulling my sweater down and fixing my bra back in place. After a moment of scorching silence, he helps me off the counter and leads me to the door.
Troy, clad in dark-blue sweats and a t-shirt, is waiting when Scott opens the door, a towel slung over his shoulder.
“Sorry, man,” Scott mutters, keeping a possessive hand on my lower back as we step out into the hall.
My face is hot with embarrassment, and when we pass Troy, I look everywhere but at him. I’m not sure why since Scott is my boyfriend and we are sharing a bed.
“Don’t you guys have a room for that?” Troy says in parting before he goes in and closes the door.
Okay, that’s why.
* * *
Two hours later, while Olivia and Zach are off doing what grownup skiers do—ski—the instructor is putting us newbies through the paces of lesson numero deux.
It’s obvious he has the hots for April. He certainly isn’t subtle about it, constantly finding any and every excuse to touch her. For crissakes the girl knows how to hold a pair of ski poles. Everyone knows how to hold ski poles even if they’ve never skied in their life. Don’t get me started about how we should move our hips. Talk about hands-on instruction.
But April seems to love the attention, batting her thick lashes at him and acting as attentive as any apt pupil. Troy, on the other hand, looks like he’s ready to deck the guy.
Interesting. Troy never struck me as the jealous type. Scott seems to find the whole thing amusing, chuckling under his breath and muttering things like, “Poor bastard.”
I wonder what he knows. Six months ago, a tipsy April had confessed she’d had sex with Troy. Great sex. Amazing sex. Afterward, he’d chocked it up to too much alcohol. She’d done what any girl with pride would do when your best friend, the guy you’ve been crushing on since your sophomore year in high school, says sex with you was a mistake. She agrees, calls it a day and tries to move on. But I know she’s having as hard a time of it as I did with Scott. I certainly don’t envy her. Troy is—or was—her best friend. It’s hard to unring that kind of bell once it’s been rung.
I’m sure Scott doesn’t know that, so what does he find so amusing about what’s going on? I’ll ask him tonight…in bed. I shiver in anticipation as I surreptitiously check him out. Catching my sidelong glance, he flashes me one of his crooked, sexy smiles.
Heat pools at the apex of my thighs. I’m so ready for tonight to come.
I have to forcibly wrest my attention from Scott and back to the lesson at hand.
“Now it’s time to try it on your own. I’ll see you back here in an hour,” the instructor says in his thickly accented English.
Or maybe not. It appears the lesson is already over.
After he repeats the instructions in French, our small group of seven—the four of us, a French middle-aged couple and Julia, who is our age—begins to disband as we head to more adventurous parts of the kiddie slopes.
“So you’re not with her? She’s not your girlfriend?”
I turn to see Julia talking to Troy. At a towering five feet two inches—at the most—she’s petite and cute with flyaway, light-brown hair. She’s from a small town in Ontario I’ve never heard of and speaks a smattering of French. Less than me. Perky and sweet, she’s the kind of girl guys like to take care of. Maybe that’s because she’s small enough to fit in their pockets.
“Nope,” Troy replies with a firm shake of his head. “We’re just friends.”
I follow his gaze to April, who is watching the scene play out from her vantage point about twenty feet away where she’s still standing beside our super-attentive instructor. The jealous glint in her eyes isn’t hard to miss if you know what you’re looking for.
>
“Good,” Julia exclaims, eyes alight with joy. “Then do you mind if I ski with you?”
Clearly she doesn’t care about appearing too interested, the whole veil of mystery thing apparently lost on her.
Behind me, Scott clears his throat, silently urging me to come on and mind my own business. I blithely ignore him, digging my poles deeper into the snow. It’s not being nosy if they’re your friends, and Troy and April are very good friends.
Tearing his gaze from a now glowering April, Troy looks down at Julia, wearing the first real smile I’ve seen on his face today. “I was just going to ask you.”
Did I fail to mention that Troy is also gorgeous with a capital G? Think a young Eddie Cibrian, dimples and all, with a more chiseled jaw, gray eyes, and a slightly more muscular build. His smile is enough to make me blink twice.
“Rebecca!”
My head turns sharply in Scott’s direction when he barks my name. With an angry jerk of his head, he silently commands me to come on.
This time, I relent, and ski toward him, stopping a few feet away.
“I like the guy. Don’t do anything to change that, okay?”
“Jealous?” Secretly thrilled, I struggle to keep the smug amusement from my voice.
I have to admit, I like that he gets jealous sometimes. And I’m not talking psycho, the-guy-has-prison-in-his-future jealous like my friend Susan’s ex, who used to beat the crap out of every guy who even looked at her. No, I’m talking possessive-enough-so-you-know-he-cares jealous. The normal kind.
“Don’t,” he warns darkly, his jaw tight, his eyes squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun.
“I’m just teasing.”
“You don’t tease like that when the guy is sleeping across the hall from you.”
Okay, he does have a good point.
“How ’bout I make it up to you by letting you beat me to that tree?” I point a gloved finger to a large pine in the distance.
Scott lets out a huff. “Let me my ass.”
With that, the race is on.
Five minutes later, I reach Scott, who’s leaned back against the tree, hands folded across his chest, feigning boredom. I slide awkwardly to a stop in front of him, coming short of running over his skis with mine. I can ski fine. It’s the stopping part I’m still having problems with.
Smiling, he raises an eyebrow. “What took you so long?”
Cocky ass.
“I let you win,” I lie, ignoring the stitch in my side as I try to bring my breathing under control.
He snorts. “Liar.”
“At least I have an excuse. I’ve never been skiing before. You have. Didn’t you tell me your dad’s originally from some cold state where he played a lot of hockey and that he taught you to skate?”
Scott’s brows knit as he slowly shakes his head in bemusement. “What the hell does one have to do with the other?”
“They’re both winter sports.” I say it like my explanation is completely logical and not the nonsensical hogwash I know it is. “Plus didn’t you tell me your father tried to teach you to ski?”
“Tried is the operative word.”
At least you have a father who tried. The errant thought runs through my mind before I can stop it. Worse, something must have showed on my face because Scott’s expression immediately goes soft. His next question confirms it.
“Is your dad still trying to get you to see him?”
Talk about killing a mood.
I’ve rarely talked to Scott about John. As in solar eclipse rare. All I told him is that John’s never seen me because he left my mom before I was born and that he’s never given her any child support. I’m not sure the change in status of the last part is worth mentioning now.
“I told you, he’s not my dad.”
Inwardly, I’m pretty sure Scott is rolling his eyes, but outwardly, his expression remains the same. He looks concerned. “Humor me. When I say your dad, I mean in the biological sense, okay?”
I grumble something he must take as my agreement even though it’s intelligible even to me.
“Yes he’s still trying. And no I haven’t seen him nor am I going to.”
To my reply, he gives me this look, which confirms what I’d thought; he heard me on the phone with my mom last night.
“Don’t look at me like that.” I try not to snap and end up sounding hopelessly forlorn. I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s pity.
“How am I looking at you?” he asks while staring at me like I’m a poor, injured bird.
“Like you think I have daddy issues. Well I don’t.” Okay, so now I definitely sound defensive, which is not how I want to come across. “Contrary to popular psychobabble belief, you can’t miss what you never had. Like you just said, John is my father strictly in a biological sense. He’s never been a part of my life and that’s exactly the way things are going to stay.”
Scott makes this sound in his throat and if possible, his expression goes even softer. I lock my jaw and pivot so quickly away from him, the momentum of the movement nearly lands me on my ass. Arms flailing, I somehow manage to drive both poles deep into the packed snow to gain enough leverage to keep me upright.
“Hey, are you mad at me?” he asks softly, his concern even more evident.
I give a furious shake of my head, more angry at my reaction to his question than anything else. “No, he’s just not someone I like to talk about. You know that. I don’t care if he wants to pay for my graduate degree, my wedding or buy me a brand new house, it’s not going to make me like him. I’ve done fine without him for nineteen years, so I can sure as hell do without him for nineteen more.”
The next thing I know, Scott is standing next to me with only inches between us. He’s removed his skis and propped his poles up against the tree. In the ensuing silence, he looks at me—actually it’s more like he studies me—which is downright unnerving.
After too long under his narrowed scrutiny, I finally snap, “What?”
“You know what I think?”
I can tell by his too calm and patient tone it’s not really a question. He’s going to tell me whether I want to know or not.
Resigned, I exhale audibly. “No, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”
He lowers his head until his warm breath mists the shell of my ear. “I think you’re grumpy because I didn’t have sex with you this morning.”
An outraged breath catches in my throat as my head jerks up to stare into his hooded green eyes where heat and the cocky assuredness that had first attracted me to him glint down at me.
He knows.
“You are such a—such a—” For the life of me, I’m too mortified and ticked off to think much less come up with just the right word to skewer him.
He gives a low, rumbling laugh and raises his eyebrows suggestively. “If you want to change the rules, all you have to do is say the word. Right now, though, I’m playing by your rules. You said no kissing in the bedroom and I saved it for the bathroom. I even asked permission first.”
“What are you talking about? Are you forgetting we nearly had sex on the counter?” I hiss, seething.
“But we didn’t. Anyway, I wasn’t going to let it go that far. You see, I’m a man of my word so don’t think that if you wiggle your ass enough at me, I’m going to break my promise. I agreed we weren’t going to have sex and we won’t. Well, not unless you ask me nicely.”
Wiggle my ass?
I’m finding it so hard to breathe, I think I’m in serious danger of hyperventilating. That and the fact that the temperature outside is cold enough to make ice but my face is throwing off enough heat to melt an iceberg. At least that’s how it feels.
I hadn’t been wiggling my ass at him. At most last night had been a weak attempt at seduction. Hardly worth mentioning. This morning is when I’d officially put the moves on him. But that stubborn, cocky jerk hadn’t taken me up on my—apparently—not-so-subtle invitation. Worse yet, he’s now throwing the fai
led attempt back in my face.
That’s chivalry for you.
“You are— You know your ego— You know what—? Never mind. I’m not having this conversation with you.” I hate that I sputter like a six-year-old when I’m angry. And totally humiliated. There’s nothing worse than when someone calls you on your shit. There must be some unwritten rule out there that says boyfriends trying to get back into their girlfriends good graces—aka panties—are not supposed to do that.
And to think I planned on having sex with him tonight. Hell no, not now. He had his chance and he blew it. If he wants to have sex with me, he’s the one who’ll have to come to me crawling.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SCOTT
By the time we get back to the house late that night, everyone’s wiped. We skied until around five and then drove into the city to take in some of the sights and eat dinner.
We ate at a small bistro in downtown Montreal, where conversation flowed. From a casual observer’s standpoint, everyone appeared to be having a good time. If they looked closer they would’ve noticed my girlfriend was giving me the silent treatment and that April and Troy barely spoke to one another.
But I’d rather have Becca mad at me than down in the dumps because of her father. Yeah, I know she says she doesn’t give a hoot about the guy, but in the past whenever the subject of him ever came up, her mood went south fast. Unless something else pissed her off.
It was my fault. At least he tried. I’d taken her comment as an opening and had rushed in headfirst without looking. Well that’s another lesson learned. She’s not ready to talk about her dad so don’t push her.
On the positive side, it’s time for bed. With Becca. So far I haven’t been relegated to the couch, which means I’m not completely in the doghouse.
All Over You (Unforgettable You, Book 1.5) Page 10
