Baby It's Cold Outside

by Heidi Rice

  There was an intriguing bounce to her breasts as she paced and, being an expert in this department, he was pretty damn sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  It was probably wrong to be this turned on.

  “Well, no more,” she said, stopping and turning to face him, her hands on her hips. “I want a serious relationship. Something more permanent, damn it. And a guy who wants the same thing. Is that so wrong?”

  Luke shook his head and tried to focus on what she was saying. She wanted to settle down. After two overseas tours he understood the urge for roots. “Absolutely not.”

  She narrowed her eyes for a moment like she didn’t believe him but quickly resumed her pacing. Her track pants were next in line for the treatment as she pulled at the waist cord.

  “Right. So I decided. No sex until I meet a guy who has the potential to be Mr. Right.”

  She stepped out of them and kicked them aside without breaking stride. A pair of black skinny jeans clung to thighs that would have done any ballerina proud. Luke dragged his gaze from them as she turned and glared at him again.

  “Ten dates. That’s the rule. No putting out until date eleven. You’d think that wouldn’t be too much to ask, right?”

  Luke nodded, forcing himself to look at her face. Her cheeks were flushed and it conjured up thoughts of other ways to get her all hot and bothered.

  “Wrong,” she said, and her voice dripped with disgust.

  She unzipped her jeans and peeled them off to reveal a pair of very tight, nothing-left-to-the-imagination long johns. Luke had never thought long johns were sexy. Which just went to show, you could get to twenty-five and still know jack shit.

  “I mean, at a date a week, that’s only ten weeks, right? And two dates a week is only five weeks. Is that so freaking hard? Can men not go five weeks without sex?”

  The angry pixie was demanding an answer from him but it took a moment to drag his thoughts back from wondering if female long johns had the opening at the front like their male counterparts.

  “They’re jerks, Tamara,” he said, feeling like a complete hypocrite as he wondered if she was going commando. “Any man worth his salt would wait five lousy weeks for you.”

  Tamara nodded her head vigorously. “Damn straight I’m worth waiting five weeks for,” she muttered, and he smiled as she returned to her pacing. “I mean, I think I still look pretty good—for someone who’s thirty. I look after myself, I did ballet for years, and I still do Pilates five times a week.”

  She stopped and grabbed at her shirt. Luke was caught between trying not to think about how flexible Tamara might be and the awful feeling that maybe she was already down to her last layer and the alcohol was playing havoc with her memory.

  He was about to stop her but it was up and over her head in seconds, dragging another layer—the last layer, if the flash of bare belly and the underside of one naked breast was any indication—half up with it. She yanked what appeared to be the matching top to her long johns down, oblivious to the eyeful he’d just copped or how he could see the dark outline of her nipples through the fabric.

  Luke shifted uncomfortably as her unintentional striptease had a predictable effect on a man who hadn’t been with a woman since he’d deployed nine months ago. He was feeling pretty damn hot himself about now. Most definitely overdressed compared to the long-johned pixie with thunder in her eyes prancing around in front of him.

  “These...” She grabbed her breasts in her open palms, flattening them against her chest and glaring at him some more. “...have defied gravity pretty damn well.” She jiggled her hands a little. “They may not be huge but they’ve kept their place. There’s no bra on under here, you know.”

  Luke nodded. “Yes.” He knew. God help him, he knew. “They’re very nice,” he added, because she seemed to want something more from him and he didn’t think “Why don’t you take all your clothes off and come a little closer?” would go down all that well.

  “Damn straight they are. But, oh no, no guy is apparently willing to wait a little while to get his hands on them.”

  She dropped her hands from their position, looking resigned and spent as she flopped back onto the couch behind her. “I’ve been dumped four times in the last few months for not putting out.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “I don’t get men.”

  Luke chose his words carefully, taking a pull of his beer before he said anything. She might have been intoxicated but this angst was obviously coming from somewhere. “So...this ban on casual sex includes kissing?”

  She nodded vigorously and Luke was left in no doubt that kissing was off the table. Damn. “Most definitely,” she added for extra emphasis. “It’s like a gateway drug.”

  “A gateway drug?”

  She looked directly at him and somehow, sitting in her long johns with no bra, possibly no underwear, and high on eggnog, she still managed to look just like a kindergarten teacher.

  “I don’t have good impulse control. Not when it comes to kissing anyway. I like kissing. Hell,” she bugged her eyes at him, “I love kissing. It’s addictive.”

  She held his gaze and Luke was captured by the earnestness he saw in hers. “You know those deep, wet, hungry kisses with plenty of tongue and a lot of groaning that taste like cotton candy laced with cocaine and reek of anticipation that can go on for hours until you can barely breathe and every cell feels alive? Just kissing and kissing and kissing like it’s never going to end?”

  When she shut her eyes and sighed with her mouth slightly parted, Luke swallowed. Hard. Hell yeah, he remembered those kisses.

  She turned her troubled gray gaze to the fire. “But then I want more. I want to feel his hands all over my body. I want to be naked. I want to be horizontal. Or not,” she shrugged. “It depends. And I don’t want to leave until I know all of his kinks and erogenous zones and he knows that I like it when he talks dirty to me as I’m about to come and we’re lying in an exhausted heap barely able to breathe.”

  Luke didn’t say anything as she stared into the fire. Her voice had become husky and he could hear a hitch in her breathing. Her admissions sent all the blood rushing from his head and other areas of his body straight to his dick. There was none left for his vocal cords, which seemed to have gone into some weird kind of paralysis.

  She sighed and looked at him. “Gateway drug.”

  He cleared his throat. “Right,” he said and hoped it came out a lot more manly than it sounded.

  “You know what bugs me?” she asked. “Men think because we’re women, we don’t understand what it’s like to be ruled by our libidos. That we don’t need sex as much as them.”

  She snorted and Luke blinked at the vehemence of it. “That’s just crap, you know? ’Cause I can tell you, after twelve months of dating and really trying hard to find the one and failing miserably, my libido is really freakin’ loud.”

  She looked him up and down, her gaze fanning over every inch of his body, and Luke’s belly clenched at the sudden clarity and frankness there. “How about it?” she said, zeroing in on his mouth like she was already kissing it deep and wet and hungry exactly the way she’d described to him.

  Every single cell he owned screamed yes. He’d been in a war zone for nine months and getting laid had been pretty much at the top of his things-to-do-when-I-get-home list. His dick was definitely voting yes.

  But he couldn’t do it.

  She was drunk. Amusing, cute, and funny as hell with it, but still obviously under the influence. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out Tamara was a good girl who was really going to hate herself tomorrow when she remembered this conversation.

  She stood abruptly, things shifting nicely beneath her shirt, her face contorting and looking crazy-fierce for a moment, and Luke knew if she jumped him, he’d be a goner.

  It was almost a relief when she said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Chapter Three

  Fourteen hours ’til midnight

  Tamara barely ma
de it to the bathroom before hurling up her liquid breakfast. It came up a lot rougher than it had gone down.

  “I’d offer to hold your hair back for you but...”

  “Go away,” she said grouchily to the voice coming from somewhere behind her.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough having a hot man oozing testosterone all over the small cabin when she was at the mercy of her sex-starved hormones, now he was watching her throw up as well. Even with her eyes shut she could see him lounging against the doorframe in his snug jeans and white tee.

  She could also see herself peeling them off with her teeth.

  Spent, she flushed the toilet, dropped the lid back into place, and sat down heavily, keeping her eyes shut as everything spun. The bathroom was chilly and it felt heavenly against her flushed cheeks.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She shook her head, but stopped immediately when her stomach protested. “Nope.”

  She heard him laugh and cracked open an eyelid as he approached. “Come on,” he said. “Brush your teeth, then go to bed. You’ll feel better.”

  His hand was at her elbow helping her upright. “I doubt it,” she said as she meekly allowed him to guide her to the vanity.

  “Trust me, I know a thing or two about overindulging.”

  Tamara snorted at his reflection as she squeezed a huge dollop of toothpaste onto her brush. She just bet he did. The man had a body that was built for overindulgence. She dropped her gaze as the temptation to let it roam all over him took hold. He was broad and tanned, and vitality oozed from every muscle. She had a foaming mouth and really bad hat hair, and was weary to her bones.

  Ducking her head, she brushed, spat, and rinsed, then gargled with the mouthwash she’d brought for extra insurance. When she raised her head she realized he’d been watching her every move. Sexy. Real sexy. She looked at them side-by-side in the mirror. Why was it that he looked like the responsible grown-up, his arms crossed against his chest, a slightly amused smile playing on his very kissable mouth, and she looked like the trashed teenager?

  Her vision blurred for a moment and she blinked a couple of times to clear it only to be confronted by a hint of color just visible through her top. She blinked again, peering hard to ascertain the origin through fuzzy vision and jumbled gray matter. It took a couple of seconds for her to realize it was the merest hint of nipple.

  Nipples, actually.

  She turned to him in horror but the room faded a little around the edges and she grabbed for the vanity.

  “Whoa. Easy there.” And the next thing she knew he’d swept her up into arms that felt strong and safe and depressingly platonic. “I think it’s bedtime for you,” he said as he strode out of the bathroom, and she had to stop herself from saying, “Only if you’ll join me.”

  Then chill gave way to delicious warmth. Warmth all around her—warm air, warm skin, warm breath on her forehead. She made a feeble attempt at protesting but damn if it didn’t feel good to be snug against his chest, and her eyes were already closing. She barely felt him place her on the bed and pull the covers over her. She just sighed and rolled over, letting sleep and warmth and the memory of solid male muscle rock her into deep oblivion.

  Luke retrieved the patchwork quilt his grandmother had made from its location in front of the fireplace and brought it back to the bed containing an already comatose pixie. He watched her for a moment or two, the covers pulled right up to her chin, hiding the rest of her from view. Which was just as well. He’d never known someone could be clothed from neck to ankle and still be almost naked.

  His gaze drifted to her mouth. It was slack, lips parted, and he was reminded of those kisses she’d talked about—deep, wet, and hungry. Cotton candy kisses. It seemed such a shame that a mouth as delectable as hers wasn’t going to be put to good use at midnight. If ever a mouth had been made for New Year’s Eve, it was hers. A soft, snuffly snore escaped and he shook himself out of his inertia—out of his voyeurism—throwing the quilt over the top of the covers and tucking it in around her body.

  His hand stilled as her intoxicating scent wafted toward him. Damn, but she smelled good. With the mint from the mouthwash mixing with the nutmeg and rum from earlier, she didn’t smell like Christmas anymore. She definitely smelled like New Year’s Eve. With a pinch of Halloween and a large dose of crazy. But after nine months and a strangely arousing non-strip striptease, his body had decided that Christmas was overrated. His mouth watered as he thought about exploring those flavors—and others—with his tongue.

  About giving her that New Year’s Eve kiss.

  Half an hour ago, all he’d wanted was a shower, a shave, and a sleep. Right now he’d trade it all for a little bit of crazy. Unfortunately, the crazy was sound asleep and if she’d truly drunk that enormous pitcher of eggnog, then she was going to be out for a while.

  Which left his original plans.

  Luke headed for the bathroom, treading across freezing tiles to the shower, reaching in to flick on the hot water as he stripped off his clothes. The chill was pervasive and he was glad to step under the warm spray and let it sluice over his body. He shut his eyes, trying not to think about the outline of Tamara’s nipples that had been engraved into his retinas, or that flash of belly and breast. But those were preferable to the pictures that had crowded his mind the last nine months, so he gave up fighting it and allowed himself to fantasize.

  Tamara in the shower with him, pushing her chest and belly against the tiles, hearing her gasp at the cold, rivulets of warm water trekking down her shoulders, over her back and the cheeks of her ass as he pushed into her hot center, already wet for him, her breathy whimpers as he drove them closer and closer...

  He opened his eyes as the twitch in his dick grew harder, more urgent, and the temptation to do something about it rode him like a drill sergeant. He clenched his teeth, refusing to give in. He was back in the land of the free and the home of the brave and he was damned if he was going to resort to a little hand relief when there were other options, not least of all one very cute one sleeping soundly in the bed he’d been planning on crashing in not that long ago.

  He had a feeling once she sobered up, he wouldn’t stand a chance. But it sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him from trying. Five years ago, he would have run a mile from a woman with commitment on her mind but Tamara was...intriguing. And he wasn’t some horny, shallow kid who couldn’t think beyond the dictates of his penis despite current evidence to the contrary. He’d seen a lot in five years, matured a lot.

  He switched off the hot water and stood under stinging icy needles until he was shivering and his testicles had headed so far north he doubted he’d ever see them again. But at least his other problem had gone away, even if the freezing water hadn’t been able to cleanse the fevered images in his head.

  He dried off briskly, wrapped the towel around his waist, and stopped in front of the mirror, swiping his hands across the surface to remove the fog. He rubbed his hand across his scratchy jaw. He’d been clean-shaven when he left thirty-six hours ago.

  Thirty-six long hours.

  His travel itinerary had been thrown into complete chaos due to massive disruptions from the freak snowstorms. After hours of sitting in several different airport lounges desperately trying to get a flight—any flight—home, he’d finally managed to get to Toronto and caught a flight to JFK from there. But the airport had closed mid-flight and they’d diverted to Montreal.

  From there he’d hopped a bus rather than renting a car because he’d been dog-tired and he knew his mother would never forgive him if he survived the sand of Afghanistan twice only to kill himself on an icy American highway. With all roads to NYC closed at that time, he’d headed for the cabin to hide out until his sister’s birthday party. The Greyhound had just made it to this sleepy part of Vermont when the blizzard engulfed everything in blinding white and closed the road again.

  “Dress. Shave. Sleep,” he told his reflection because he knew he wanted to do none of those thin
gs. “Ignore the sleeping pixie in thermal underwear.”

  Because she was exactly what he did want to do.

  He strode out of the bathroom, gaze fixed determinedly on the dancing fire in front rather than what waited in the bed behind. He busied himself pulling on a pair of boxer briefs from his duffel bag, then headed for the hungry fire to throw on more wood, feeling the instant lick of heat and trying not to think about how responsive Tamara might be if he stoked her fire just a little.

  Okay. She was his sister’s friend and she was hell-bent on settling down. But they were in a snowbound cabin on New Year’s Eve, and her addiction to deep, wet, hungry kisses had wormed its way into his consciousness. It had been too damned long since he’d been kissed and her obsession with it had fueled a hunger inside him that seemed to grow more ferocious with each passing minute.

  Hell, he’d hold out for ten dates just to get one of those kisses. And whatever else she was willing to offer after that.

  He sat on the couch, staring into the flames as he buzzed his electric razor over his face. She’d been pretty clear about her ten-date rule and he admired her for knowing what she wanted and holding out for it. It would be wrong to mess with that. Even on New Year’s Eve.

  Satisfied he’d done a reasonable job, Luke switched off the razor, determined to also switch off his thoughts. Deliberately not looking over his shoulder, he stuffed a throw cushion under his head, stretched out on the couch, shut his eyes, and prayed for sleep.

  It took him all of thirty seconds to remember the couch looked deceptively comfortable. The arms were squishy and soft but he knew from experience the lumpy cushions gave no protection from broken springs that somehow seemed to know the exact moment a person achieved REM to make themselves known.

  He’d always scored the couch during their family weekends at the cabin. In his early teens, he’d outgrown the camp beds that had been his and Georgia’s and he’d graduated to the three-seater. It had seemed pretty damn grown-up at the time but it was a milestone that had soon lost its luster. Even back then, the ancient couch—which had been in every family picture taken at the cabin since the fifties—had been just barely tolerable.