Under The Covers

by Crystal Jordan, Lorie O'Clare

  Ravenous, his mouth claimed hers. Her bones seemed to melt into the mattress as he deftly flipped her beneath him, their cuffed hands now clenching each other above their heads.

  While he feasted on her mouth, his hand was busy. Before she could take a breath, he had her turtleneck pulled up and over her head to lay like a warm armadillo around her left bicep.

  Her bra was freed to slide down her arm to join her sweater.

  On fire. She was on fire. Making inarticulate sounds, she writhed beneath him, bucking her hips to encourage him, to show him what she wanted.

  His mouth trailed flames down her neck over her collarbone. Downward, aching millimeters at a time, he slowly made his way to the breasts aching for his touch.

  A half shriek, half sigh escaped her lips when his tongue circled her erect nipple. She arched her back in an attempt to force it into his mouth. Instead he continued torturing her, laving first one and then the other, coming close, so close to sucking it into his mouth, only to kiss his way back to the other one.

  Just as she was on the border of becoming violent in her sexual greed, heat enveloped her nipple.

  She sighed, feeling his suction deep down in her womb. Restless, wanting to savor every little nuance of sensation, she moved her legs against the sheet, bucking with each pull of his mouth.

  Her back arched, eyes squeezed shut. Ripples of sensation flowed over and through her. Every hair follicle stood on end. Colored lights flashed behind her eyelids as her entire body convulsed, sending waves of heat washing over her, moisture gushing to dampen her still wet panties and jeans.

  Bret paused, holding Samantha’s limp body crushed against his thundering heart. Damn, the little tease had not only climaxed in her sexy jeans, she’d done it without him.

  That would not do.

  He ignored the little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his grandmother telling him what they were doing—or about to do—was probably against some rule for deputies. But he wasn’t a real deputy, so it didn’t matter. Besides, he’d been way too long without a date. Longer still since he’d had a willing woman in his bed.

  His cock threatened to go off at the idea of what had just taken place in his partner’s pants.

  His hand shook, but luckily Samantha was still coherent enough to cooperate and lifted her hips. Within seconds, they were both naked from the waist down.

  His hand skimmed over smooth skin and the hard jut of her hip bone. The muscles of her abdomen vibrated against his fingertips as they slid toward her welcoming wetness.

  She moaned, spreading her legs, and lifted her hips in time to the rhythmic movement of his fingers, embedded now within her slick heat.

  His cock throbbed, the muscles in his butt and thighs tightening into painful knots along with his balls.

  Rolling on the condom turned into a two-person job.

  With a silent promise to pleasure her more next time, he canted her hips and plunged home.

  12

  Impending dawn bathed the room in a gray haze when Samantha opened her eyes.

  Where was she? Why was she so hot? Sweat dripped from her hair along her neckline.

  Whatever she was lying on was smooth and radiated heat.

  She felt around with her hand. The activities of the previous night came instantly to mind, hitting her between the eyes with the force of a two-by-four, giving her an instant headache.

  Her warm, human mattress grunted and moved a little.

  Oh, ick. Their sweat-slicked chests were stuck to each other.

  The air-conditioning clicked on, chilling her bare back. How did she get naked? Of course, she remembered Bret stripping her pants and thong from her eager and willing lower body. But the removal of her turtleneck and bra were encased in her memory by remnants of a sexual fog.

  As she’d suspected, sex with Bret had been hot and frantic. It was amazing they hadn’t ripped each other’s clothes off in their mating frenzy.

  She started to ease off her latest mistake—and, really, it had been a mistake. Neither of them was to blame, they were just too strangers whose hormones got the better of them while thrust into an intimate setting.

  Thrust was probably not the word she needed to be thinking at that moment.

  Her eyes closed briefly. Lordy, what had she been thinking? She had veered from her plan. She was in Christmas to get her dog back, not to do the horizontal mambo with a science teacher. No matter how great it had been and how much she’d love an instant replay.

  A hard length between her legs caught her attention as she started to move again.

  Now what? Morning-after protocol really wasn’t among her talents. There had never been a need.

  Oh, great. Now he was rubbing her side, his fingers caressing the underside of her breast with each pass of his hand.

  She held her breath. It would be so easy to relax against his warmth, to push her now aching breast into the comfort of his palm.

  But it would be wrong.

  Maybe she’d just lie there a little while longer and move again after Bret went back to sleep.

  Rough fingers rolled her nipple. Her breath hitched. Moisture surged, causing her to squirm a little.

  Tactical error because the little squirm realigned her opening with the hardness she’d been trying to avoid.

  But, dang, it felt so good when he touched her.

  His hand left her breast to splay across her buttocks, guiding her to the proper position for his entry.

  Her body went on autopilot. It was the only explanation why one moment she was thinking, and the next she could only feel, reveling in the tactile sensations streaking through her, leaving her languid yet eager for more.

  He maneuvered her to sit astride him, his hips revolving in lazy, mind-blowing circles.

  In the semidarkness, she could barely make out his face, but she returned his satiated smile.

  He raised both hands to caress her breasts, the action bringing her hand up as well. Because her hand was hanging out around her breast anyway, she pinched and rubbed her nipple while he squeezed and massaged her breasts.

  His heated gaze told her the action turned him on every bit as much as it did her.

  “We probably shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered, slipping and sliding with each movement of his lean hips.

  He made a noncommittal sound and slid their hands between her legs. He held her hand away with the back of his while he ratcheted up her pleasure by rubbing and plucking at her clitoris.

  Close, she was so close to an orgasm her toes began to curl.

  Faster and faster she rocked, rubbing her engorged folds against him while he continued to pleasure her from within and without.

  Her breath came in short, gasping pants; her hips moved with frantic purpose. Her nipples puckered into tight, painful buds that tingled, the sensation shooting to her extremities.

  She was on sensory overload. It was too much yet not enough.

  Working around his hand, she was able to stroke the tips of her fingers along her slick folds.

  Her back snapped into a hard arch, her knees convulsing to slam her down, her pelvic bone grinding against his with each hard thrust of their hips.

  Then it happened.

  Her climax rushed over her, drowning her in lovely waves of sensations. Beneath her, Bret stiffened, every muscle rigid. He gripped her hip bone, halting her movement while he ground against her. Heat exploded in her pelvis.

  She collapsed on his chest, their breathing sounding unnaturally loud, echoing from the high ceiling.

  Sam knew she should say something. They couldn’t keep having sex if she expected to escape Christmas with her heart intact. Yes, it was just sex—for now. But Samantha knew if they kept doing what they were doing, she would end up with a broken heart.

  Samantha Harrison did not have meaningless sex.

  And she’d tell Bret so…as soon as she could draw enough air into her lungs to form the words.

  Their hearts pound
ed against each other, Bret stroking her back while they struggled to regain their breath.

  A rattling sound echoed in the quiet old bank.

  “Hello?” a male voice called from down below, the sound echoing from the marble tile, easily wafting over the open banister into the bedroom. “Bret? You awake? Yo, Bret!”

  The distinctive rumbling sound of the elevator vibrated the bed.

  Heart pounding—and not in a pleasant way—Sam tried to scramble off Bret and the bed. She succeeded in doing neither.

  His hand jerked the cuff against her wrist while his other hand gripped her upper arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Shhh! He’ll hear you.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re not going anywhere.” He held their joined arms aloft. He jingled the cuffs for effect, which only irritated her more. He lowered his voice to match her whisper. “Besides, we could yell, and he wouldn’t hear us over the racket of that old elevator.”

  The sound of the elevator door opening had Samantha diving under the covers.

  “Don’t let on I’m here,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing she could make herself invisible.

  Cooler air wafted across her face. She peeked through her eyelashes to find Bret grinning at her. “Drop the sheet! He’s coming!”

  “Samantha, it’s my cousin Ed probably bringing the spare key. He knows you’re here,” he explained patiently. “That’s the reason he’s bringing the key.”

  Humiliation burned her cheeks. “I still would rather not face him. Please?”

  “Suit yourself.” He dropped the edge of the sheet and said, “Hey, Ed, how’re Paige and the babies?”

  “Good, good. Despite all the dire predictions, the birth was fast and uncomplicated. I should be able to bring them home by Christmas.”

  Bret shifted on the bed and nodded at his cousin.

  “Things all right down at the station?” Ed stared at their boots and then at the pile of jeans and underwear on the floor and grinned. “Need me to do anything for you while I’m here?”

  Under the sheet, Bret tweaked Samantha’s nipple, earning a tiny squeak. “No, I think I have it covered. Thanks anyway.”

  “Heard you had a little excitement. How’s your prisoner?”

  “A little ornery—ow!” He shifted and grinned. “But I’m working on improving her disposition.”

  Ed nodded and stepped back toward the open door. “I’ll just leave the key here on the dresser. I promised Paige I’d be back in time to help her feed the babies.”

  “I didn’t realize you could lactate, Ed, you old dog.”

  “Very funny. She did tell me to give you a message when I saw you. Something about this being your harbinger?” He held up his hand, palm out. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. Play nice, children. I’m outta here!”

  Samantha waited until she heard the front door close before fighting her way out from under the covers. “I’m not ornery! And it wasn’t fair to fondle me when you knew there was nothing I could do to stop you.”

  “Sorry.” He grunted as she crawled over him, shoving bony elbows and knees into every soft—and one not so soft—place on his anatomy. But he still managed to enjoy the view.

  “Do you think he suspected we had…you know?” While she talked, she tugged him to his feet.

  He gazed pointedly at their pile of discarded clothing. “I think he may have had a clue or two.”

  Her shoulders slumped when she saw where he was looking. “Oh, crap!”

  “Hey,” he said, bending his knees to look her in the eye. “Don’t worry about Ed. He never was one to carry tales. Besides, he’s not all that bright.” He flashed a tentative smile. “There’s a chance he didn’t put two and two together.” A very slim chance. Very slim. Ed may not be the sharpest branch on the Bayne family tree, but even he couldn’t have missed the clues. But if it made Samantha feel better, Bret had no problem telling a slight fib, as Gram liked to say.

  “Whatever.” She pulled her sweater back over her head, her bra leaving a misshapen lump by her armpit, and bent to retrieve her underwear. “Let’s get out of these cuffs so I can go to the bathroom alone. Then I need to go back to the B and B and get cleaned up.”

  “Ah…you can’t do that.” He turned the tiny key, freeing their wrists from cohabitation. Funny, his felt sort of lonely. He rubbed at the rapidly cooling skin. “You’re still under arrest. I can’t let you go.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I didn’t do anything wrong, and you know it.”

  “Breaking and entering is a crime, even in Christmas, and it doesn’t matter if the perpetrator doesn’t have criminal intent. You did the crime, now you have to do the time.”

  “Oh, that’s real original.” Tugging up her jeans, she stomped to the bathroom door. “Will you at least take me to pick up some clean clothes and get my car?”

  “Sure. You never did tell me where you put your car keys.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Could you possibly come up with any more clichés?” Huffing a sigh, she leaned against the doorjamb of the bathroom. “I left them on the front porch while I went in to get Rhetta.”

  “That wasn’t too bright.”

  “Add it to my list.”

  Bret’s Jeep rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the Wileys’ home. “Where’s your car?”

  Sam pointed at a black BMW parked on the other side of Sugarplum Lane and reached for the door handle.

  He grabbed her elbow before she could hop out. “Wait. I’ll go with you.”

  She looked at his hand on her arm and then up at him with what his dad had always called a rattlesnake stare. “That’s not necessary. I’m just going to grab my keys and take off.”

  “Yeah, that’s what has me worried. The taking-off part.”

  “I know, I know, I’m still under arrest. I meant I was taking off from here and going back to the jail.”

  He’d just bet she did.

  “You’re not going back to the jail. You’re staying at my house. For now, anyway.”

  They got out of the car at the same time.

  Samantha glared at him across the hood. “If you’re that worried, you can just wait and follow me.”

  He rounded the Jeep and took her elbow, walking her up the sidewalk. “Oh, I’m not worried, Samantha.” He propelled her up the steps to the front porch. But instead of stopping to allow her to get her keys, he continued to the front door and rang the bell.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Sam wrenched her arm away and tried to take a step back. “My keys aren’t in the house! The owners will know we’re here,” she finished in a strident whisper.

  “That’s the idea,” he fired back, ringing the bell again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right here while you apologize to the Wileys for breaking into their house.”

  13

  “Well, that was humiliating.” Sam jerked away from Bret the Traitor’s touch as they walked down the steps of the Wiley home a few minutes later.

  “It never hurts to apologize for a wrongdoing.” He reached her car before her and opened the driver’s side door. “Do you know the way back to my house?”

  She sighed and tried to unclench her jaw. “Yes, I know the way. You live on the town square. It would be almost impossible to get lost.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll follow you back, get you settled before I take off.” He shut the door.

  Immediately, she buzzed down her window. “Wait! You’re leaving?”

  “I’m technically on duty.” He shrugged. “I’m still acting sheriff. I have to spend time at the office.”

  She knew that. Well, she should have known that. Would have known it, had she thought about it. It was the break she needed to escape Christmas with Rhetta. So why wasn’t she gleefully planning instead of watching Dudley walk to his car, admiring his lean hips and long legs?

  It was just rebound sex. She knew it; Bret knew it. Yet it had felt…like more. How desperate and
pathetic was that?

  She started her engine and pulled away from the curb, surreptitiously glancing in the rearview mirror and then jerking her attention back to the road when she saw him smiling at her. She didn’t want him smiling at her. It messed with her head. It messed with her to-do list.

  It messed with her heart.

  No, it didn’t. Her heart had absolutely nothing to do with the feelings chasing each other through her mind and body. Rebound sex would do that to anyone. It had caught her off guard, that was all.

  When you were arrested for breaking and entering, you certainly didn’t expect to experience the best night of your life between the sheets with your arresting officer.

  Another glance in the rearview mirror had her groaning. Her hair was a mess of tangled waves. And with no makeup, her face wasn’t much better. Rhetta had dragged in better-looking stuff from the garbage.

  Sam tapped her brake and stuck out her arm, motioning Bret to come up beside her at the stop sign at the corner of the square.

  “It’s four buildings to your left,” he said with a smile.

  “I know that! I was just wondering if we could swing by the B and B for my stuff. I could really use some clean clothes.”

  “Sure. I was just thinking you might like to go watch the Christmas parade tonight. Did you bring anything warm to wear?”

  “I have a heavy sweater and a jacket in my bag. But if the parade is here, can’t we watch it from your place?”

  “It’s the Harbor Lights Parade out on the bay. All kinds of boats, decorated and lit up. You’ll love it. Trust me.”

  After a quick stop at the Christmas Inn, he motioned her into a parking place in front of the old bank and pulled into the space in front of her.

  She watched him hop out of his car and amble toward hers, a big smile gleaming white in his tanned face.

  Trust me.

  Oh, crap, she could be in so much trouble for Christmas.

  Sam stepped into the shower and almost groaned at the wonderful feel of warm water on bare skin.

  She’d just shampooed her hair when cooler air touched her back.