by Jen Morris
Right, that’s it. I have to know.
“Are you going to tell me what I said?”
He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, playfulness lighting his eyes, and shakes his head.
“Come on!”
“Nope.” His gaze remains locked on mine as a slow smile spreads across his face, and desire ignites in my bones. God, that’s all it takes—one provocative smile from him and I start to unravel.
With a low chuckle he pushes to his feet, raising his arms above his head to stretch. His sweater lifts, exposing half his abdomen, and my eyes fix on the bare skin. There’s a trail of dark hair from his navel down to the top of his belt buckle—a path to his treasure. My fingertips tingle with the need to touch it, to follow and see where it leads. And when he catches me shamelessly feasting on him, his eyes spark with a hunger of his own.
Holy fuck.
Heat rockets through me, settling in an ache between my thighs. Suddenly I’m gasping for breath and I have to look away or I don’t know what I’ll do. No wonder I was behaving so inappropriately on New Year’s Eve after a boatload of booze. I’m barely holding it together now, stone-cold sober.
I need to get away from him. Fast.
“Right.” I dig deep into my reserves of self-restraint as I rise from the chair, knowing there’s only one way to get this out of my system. “I’ll be in my room, writing.”
“You might be more comfortable at the table. Plus it’s warmer out here.”
“No, thank you,” I say stiffly, walking straight to my room and closing the door, even if that means being cold. The further I am away from him, the better.
I sink down onto the bed and flip my laptop open, desperate to dive into my romance novel. I should be working on another article for Justin, but I’ll be honest—I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for upbeat angles on being single. What Agnes said at Christmas keeps coming back to me: being a single lady is only fun when there isn’t anyone special. And Michael—the guy who wouldn’t have sex with me when I was drunk, who went out of his way to bring me up here even though he was mad—he’s pretty fucking special, I think.
But it’s not just that. I’ve sent through three, feature-length articles now, and while Justin has been encouraging, they haven’t even been published yet. It’s already the second of January, and he said the column would be launched in the new year. After everything, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m even in the running for it after all.
I push the thought from my head as my laptop powers on. Because right now, there’s only one thing I want to write about, and that’s not being single.
It’s an hour later when I look up from my laptop and my neck is stiff. Michael was right, I should work at the table. I crack open the door to the living room and I’m relieved to see he’s not there. He must have lit the fire in his room, after all.
I wander out and set my laptop down on the dining table, then pop into the bathroom. The wooden floor is cool under my feet and I shiver, gazing at the bathtub longingly. I could have a quick bath to warm up before getting back into my writing. That would be nice.
Michael has left some fluffy towels out for me, so I run the bath and slip my clothes off, sliding into the deliciously warm water. I sit in the tub, watching the steam swirl up into the air. It’s amazing that I’m here in this warmth while the world outside is freezing. The weather here is crazy. In a way, I’m relieved Michael is here with me, because if I were snowed in by myself I’m sure I’d panic, or freeze to death. At least with him here I know I’ll be okay. Of course, the idea of him helping to keep me safe only makes me want him more.
With a sigh, I drain the tub and dry off, slipping my clothes back on. The last thing I’m going to do is walk across the living room in nothing but a towel in case Michael is out there.
But the bath did the trick, I think. With a serene smile, I head back out into the living room, feeling warm and snuggly, ready to dive back into my writing.
I find Michael sitting at the table with my laptop open in front of him. He stands slowly and turns to me, his eyes wide.
I tilt my head. “What?”
His cheeks are flushed and he looks a little shaken. No, actually, he looks—well, almost turned on. What was he reading on there? Oh…
No.
He huffs out a breath. “I, uh, read some of your romance writing.”
Fuck.
31
“What?”
A smile nudges his lips. “It’s really good.”
Heat rises up my neck and colors my cheeks. If he read it, surely he’s figured out that I’m writing about us. And if that is the case, then… I’m going to die.
“Uh, well,” I begin, groping for some kind of reasonable explanation and grasping nothing. I reach over and slam my laptop shut.
“You left it open. I just caught some of it, then I couldn’t stop reading.” He shrugs helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
I glance at the front door. I don’t care if the snow is up to my neck—I’d rather be out there right now.
“Alex.” His voice is a low, husky rumble as he says my name. “Wow.”
My gaze flits back to him and I realize I’ve lost the ability to speak. Why on earth didn’t I close my laptop? How could I have been so stupid?
“You know,” he murmurs, taking a step closer, “I couldn’t help but notice the names you’ve chosen for your characters.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I stare down at the carpet, my face glowing. This can’t be happening. Please, God, I’ll do anything to make this stop.
“Matthew and Annie. They’re very similar to Michael and Alex.” He steps closer still. “And some of the scenes you’ve chosen seem familiar. There was this one scene in a bookstore, one in a hallway on Halloween, and another in a cabin…”
Fuck. He’s figured it out.
Humiliation crashes over me in hot waves and I close my eyes, wanting to die.
“You’ve been writing about us.”
I feel him step closer, then he places a finger under my chin and tilts my face up to his. My eyes flutter open involuntarily to find him gazing at me. But he’s not laughing or mocking me. Instead, there’s fire in his eyes and his mouth is slowly curling into a grin that sends my heart rate through the roof.
I swallow hard. “I know it’s stupid, but—”
“No. It’s not stupid. It’s hot.”
I hesitate, certain I’m misunderstanding. “What?”
“Yeah. Reading that—” He stops on a heavy breath, his eyes hazy as they roam my face. “It was like reading my own fantasies.”
I feel my jaw unhinge. He’s not appalled or disgusted. He’s turned on.
Fucking hell.
He trails his finger down my neck and along my collarbone. Goosebumps erupt over my skin, each one a tiny proof of the effect he has on me, of how much I want him. I’m breathless, staring at his mouth, wondering what his teeth would feel like skating over my skin. And God, those lips—so full and soft and delicious. I think of the pineapple taste of his kiss, the way his tongue felt sliding over mine, and molten lust shoots down through my center. Kissing him felt like the best thing in the world.
He must be thinking the same thing, because he lifts his hand to my face and drags his thumb over my bottom lip, swallowing visibly. Our eyes meet again, and when I see the raw, burning desire reflected back at me, my whole body feels like it will combust.
I pry my gaze away and Michael drops his hand. We stand in a thick cloud of tension, and when I finally risk glancing back at him, he’s staring at me hard.
“I don’t want to push you, Alex. But—fuck. You can’t say you’re okay being friends and then write stuff like this.” He forces out a lungful of air as a frown drags his eyebrows together. “You want to know what you said to me on New Year’s?”
“Yes. Please.”
“You said you didn’t care about your column if you could be with me.”
I want to be shocked by this
, but I’m not. Because part of me had been thinking it all New Year’s Eve. Hell, that thought has been coming to me since he told me he liked me, three weeks ago. I thought I’d done a better job of fighting it off, but apparently, with enough alcohol in my system, I finally broke down and admitted what I want.
And that’s Michael. It’s always been Michael.
His gaze slides away and his jaw tightens. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this with you. It’s fucking killing me.”
“I know,” I whisper. “It’s not just you.”
“So what do you want me to do, then?” His voice has a gruff edge to it, and when his eyes meet mine again they’re dark, smoldering with frustration.
My blood rushes under my skin as I take a step closer. “I want you to kiss me.”
There’s a flicker of surprise on his face, quickly chased by relief. I expect him to pounce on me, but he doesn’t; he takes my face, sliding his fingers into my hair and stroking his thumb over my cheek. Every atom in my body zings with anticipation as he lowers his mouth, brushing his warm lips over mine in the most soft, spine-tingling kiss of my life.
Then he draws away, still holding me as his eyes search mine. “Are you sure?”
I push up onto my toes and kiss him again, harder. “I want you,” I murmur against his lips. “You have no idea how much I want you.”
His mouth tugs into a disbelieving smile, and he drops his hands to my waist, drawing me close. “I want you too, beautiful girl.”
Beautiful girl. His words hit me straight in the core and I shudder out a breath. I’m instantly hot all over, months of desire compressed into this one moment, ready to explode like a stick of dynamite at the slightest touch. But Michael is patient and gentle, his fingertips on my waist urging me closer as his lips graze my jaw and tease the corners of my mouth, then land on mine in another feather-soft kiss.
“Fuck, Alex,” he murmurs, “I can’t believe this is finally happening.”
“Me either,” I breathe, giddy. It’s like he’s flicked a switch and now my body is a live wire. Urgency pulses through my veins and I push him back against the table. My hands slide down to reach for his belt buckle, but he catches them in his own and I get a strange sense of déjà vu. I draw back to find his mouth quirked in amusement.
“This reminds me of New Year’s.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, pulling away. But he tugs me back by my hands, pressing a kiss to my mouth. “I’m not complaining. But I want to do this right.” He slips his hand into mine and leads me across the living room. And just as he does, a thought occurs to me.
You see, the thing about being a single girl, in the middle of winter, with no prospects on the horizon, is this: you don’t spend a lot of time tending to your overgrown nether regions. It was all fine and good when it was just me, without a man in sight. But now, with Michael leading me towards his bedroom, I cry out in fear.
“Wait!”
He stops abruptly, his forehead scrunching as he turns to me. “Are you okay?”
Right. I am just going to be straightforward, no matter how embarrassing it may be.
“Look. I know this is stupid, but… when it’s winter and you’re single, you don’t always… maintain the highest standards of… personal grooming.” Oh shit, that sounds even worse than it is—like I don’t shower, or something. “I haven’t shaved my bikini line in ages,” I blurt, and heat streaks across my cheeks.
“Is that it?” He gives a little chuckle. “Alex, I don’t care. I want you as you are, warts and all.”
“I don’t have warts!”
He laughs again. “I was kidding. But, listen. While we are making disclaimers…” His expression turns serious and he rubs the back of his neck, his gaze falling to his feet. “I, uh, haven’t had sex in a long time.”
I feel a flash of surprise. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Wait.” I narrow my eyes. Men have a habit of distorting this sort of thing. I bet it’s been, like, three weeks or something. “How long is a long time?”
“Um, over a year.” He glances up at me sheepishly, and I can’t stop the delighted smile that breaks across my face. When I first met him I was convinced he was a womanizer, but instead, he’s been off the market completely.
“You don’t have to look so pleased about it,” he says dryly.
“It’s a good thing.”
“Yeah, well, you might not think so once we get down to it.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Pink stains his cheeks. “It just, uh, the first time… it might not last very long.”
“Oh.” I give him a gentle smile. “I don’t care.”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed.” He looks worried and my heart squeezes. I’ve never wanted him more.
“Michael, I could never be disappointed.”
His expression relaxes and he cups my face, lowering his lips to kiss me. His tongue dips into my mouth, licking against mine. It’s tame, but I can sense the wild appetite underneath. When he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth and drags his teeth across it, my legs shake with need.
Fuck.
This man… he can do whatever he wants with me. I’m ruined. I let out a whimper of surrender, knowing I’ve crossed the line now and there’s no going back.
32
I lower myself to the edge of Michael’s bed. When I look up, he’s gazing at me with dark eyes, flushed cheeks and parted lips. He almost looks a bit stunned, like he can’t believe I’m here. Hell, I can barely believe it.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice scraping up his throat as he takes a step closer. “Fuck yes.”
Shit, my hands are trembling. It’s like I’m nervous or something, which doesn’t make any sense. I’ve had sex before—loads. But this feels different, somehow. This feels significant. Like once we do this, things will be forever changed—I’ll be forever changed.
And I want that, I realize. I want him to change me.
I reach for him and he takes my hand, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of me. His hands slide around my waist and slip under my sweater, warm against my back. When I lean in to touch my lips to his, I see a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, completely at odds with his huge frame and strong hands. I try to reassure it with my kiss.
My lips move across his cheek and down, so I can tuck my nose into his neck, under his ear, breathing in the scent of his cologne. It’s a woodsy smell, like cedar. And then there’s the smell of him. It’s just him—his skin, or something. Fuck, it’s amazing. I want to buy it in bottles and spray it all over my sheets.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” I press my mouth to the soft skin of his neck, sliding my tongue out to taste him, biting gently. He sucks in a ragged breath, his pulse quickening against my lips.
I’m trying to be patient, but it’s not working. My hands snake their way down again, twisting in the hem of his shirt. When I give it a little tug, he raises his arms obediently, watching me take in every inch of his gorgeous body with thirsty eyes as I slip it over his head.
Holy hell. I can’t stop looking at him. He has such a man’s body; not flawless or overly chiseled, but real and solid and firm. My fantasy self spent a lot of time constructing a mental image of what was under his clothes, but what a joke that was. I couldn’t have imagined the scar down the side of his stomach, a tiny puckered line that I trail my fingertip over with a smile. I couldn’t have imagined the way the dark hair on his chest, peppered with a few grays, spans from one nipple to the other and tapers down to his waistband. And I couldn’t have imagined the gentle dip in his lower back, which I discover as I slide my palms around his waist and down over his hot skin, skating onto the curve of his firm, denim-clad ass.
A small moan escapes his mouth as I lean in to kiss his strong shoulders. The shoulders I’ve looked at over and over again, the ones that almost made me
lose the plot when he injured himself at the ice-rink. I’m breathing heavily as I mold my hand to the hard swell of muscle.
“Michael, God… you’re so perfect.”
“I’m not perfect,” he mumbles, but I ignore him.
“You’re gorgeous.” My lips graze his neck, fingers stroking his cheek, his beard. I’m delirious with the thought that this is actually happening, trying not to smother him with my hands. “I could touch you forever.” My mouth is running away from me but I don’t care.
His fingertips curl tighter into my waist, like he’s holding on for dear life. “I’d like that,” he murmurs in response, and fireworks burst inside my chest.
I shuffle back on the bed and he crawls up beside me, positioning himself against my side, tucking his body in against mine. His kisses are lingering and lazy, like we have all the time in the world, but when I feel his tongue slide over mine, my body lights up like the Rockefeller tree. My hands reach for his belt buckle again, and again he catches them, this time chuckling against my lips.
“Not yet. You need to remove some clothes now.”
He kisses me with teasing strokes of his tongue as he slides his fingertip under the hem of my sweater, nudging it up. I’m electric, heat. Every part of me is on fire, feeling like I’m about to boil over just from the way he’s slowly peeling my clothes off. Each brush of his fingertips over my skin leaves a trail of hot embers in its wake. I’m not sure how I haven’t self-combusted yet.
“Michael,” I plead, urging him to hurry up, to strip me and take me.
But he just shakes his head as he pulls my sweater off, tossing it aside. He lets out a little sigh as he gazes at me, dipping down to press a kiss in the valley between my breasts. He’s painstakingly slow as he removes my bra, my jeans—as if he’s unwrapping a precious gift. Then he runs his eyes up and down my frame, drinking me in, and self-consciousness crawls up my spine. He’s firm and sculpted; a model of physical strength. I’m soft curves and squishy bits. Why haven’t I spent more—I mean, any—time in the gym?
