Dear Santa (A Blazing Little Christmas)

by O'Reilly, Kathleen

  Time to get some answers. But nothing else. Absolutely, positively, nothing else.

  * * *

  The room was everything Mrs. Krause had promised, but Rebecca was too wound-up to notice. She had called Natalie four times on her cell, and each time all she got was voice mail. Natalie wasn’t a big fan of the cell phone, but hopefully she would pick up soon.

  Alec Trevayne? Here?

  It reeked of Natalie’s handiwork, which was normally a good thing, but now Rebecca wasn’t so sure.

  “Alec Trevayne.” She said his name aloud, testing to see if the lip shivers would go away with rational thought.

  Nah. Still there.

  Her lips tingled, her heart was pounding and her lower nethers were tingling and pounding, all at the same time.

  Alec Trevayne. Lust from afar. Bently-laden, Oxford-educated Alec Trevayne. For three months it had been her goal to have Natalie arrange a meet, and now, apparently, she had. He still looked good, and he had a great car, but the old thrill at the idea was no longer, chased away by other, more carnal ideas.

  Think, think, think.

  She was a schoolteacher. A former schoolteacher with a strong Teutonic streak of practicality, which did nothing to explain why she quietly shrieked when a knock sounded on the door. Rebecca got up from the bed, praying it was Mrs. Krause.

  “Who is it?”

  “Rebecca, it’s the guy from the mistletoe. Open up.”

  Downstairs Alec Trevayne was waiting, perhaps confused, but nonetheless waiting.

  For her. Upstairs, right outside this door, was a veritable stranger. If it wasn’t for those eyes…Dark, wounded and, yes, sexy as hell.

  Was Rebecca willing to trade a lifetime (possibly) of pedicures and luxury automobiles for one night (possibly) with a man of questionable morals who could kiss a woman to paradise and back?

  Yes, yes, yes. After Rebecca opened the door, he strode inside and she was conscious of the clothes strewn all over the bed, the iPod, the portable exfoliator, the hair dryer, the curling iron, the four charging devices and the portable back massager that vaguely looked like something else, but really wasn’t, although in times of crisis, a woman used whatever was on hand. Rebecca sidled in front of the bed, cocking a hand on her hip. “Yes?”

  “Who’s the guy that’s looking for you? You ran out of there like you were scared of him. Are you?”

  She considered lying, creating a fantastic cover story, but—no. Slowly Rebecca shook her head. “I’m not scared of him,” she admitted.

  “Why did you run?” he asked, a perfectly reasonable question.

  She licked her lips, opting to hide behind the truth. “Because you were kissing me, and I was temporarily confused.”

  He looked at her, frustration evident. Then he looked up at the ceiling in that counting-to-ten posture she had often used herself. “So you’re not afraid of him? I can leave here, and you’ll be fine with him. Right?”

  If this had been another man, Rebecca would have assumed a coy demeanor and subtly flirted until she got her way. But he was different from the men in her universe. And he could kiss.

  That kiss. That life-altering, mind-shattering, lip-tingling, take-me-to-bed-now kiss. Subtle flirtation was completely unnecessary. She should be crawling under the covers, waiting for him to kiss her into gleeful submission.

  Unless she was the only one whose world was rocked?

  No way, Mr. Jose.

  Rebecca corrected her posture and tilted her head back until she could look him square in the eye. When the dark gaze speared her, she almost caved, but quickly recovered.

  “I want you to stay,” she said, fighting the urge to stare at the floor.

  The edge of his mouth curled up, and not in a pretty way. “You want to make the other guy jealous? Sorry. Find another schmuck.”

  Obviously her lurid propositioning skills were getting rusty because her lurid proposition had completely flown over his head.

  “You don’t understand. A friend of mine set me up with him—”

  “And you don’t want to be set up with him?”

  “No, I did,” she replied honestly. “But now I don’t.”

  “What happened?” he asked, not quick to read between the lines.

  “I want you to stay,” she repeated.

  “Because of one kiss?” he asked, and she wished he didn’t sound so—startled.

  “Yes.”

  “One kiss?” he asked again.

  Oh, come on. What was he? Fishing for compliments here? Rebecca squared her jaw and looked him straight in the eye. “Yes. One kiss. Okay, I’m impulsive. I’m adventurous. I liked the way you kissed, and I wanted to sleep with you. Have sex. Make love. Do me. Screw me. Do the wild monkey, whatever euphemism is easiest for you to understand, that’s good with me.”

  Her stomach cramped in two. This was worse than her bad-perm incident, worse than her first job interview, worse than the day the podiatrist told her it was orthopedics forever. This man couldn’t reject her. Rebecca needed this weekend, this runaway weekend to forget about money, job security and food. This was about living for the moment. Alec was a life goal. This guy was a single moment of time. Right now, she only wanted the latter.

  He just looked at her, blinked slowly, then frowned.

  “And what about Alec? You’ll keep dodging him?”

  At least it wasn’t no. “I didn’t ask for Alec to meet me up here. This wasn’t a date.”

  “I think he thinks it was a date.”

  “He’s entitled to think whatever he wants, but as the other party cluelessly involved in this setup, I’m not responsible for his preconceived expectations. Only my expectations. I have my own expectations. I mean, I had expectations. Well, they weren’t really expectations, more ideas, and Alec Trevayne isn’t involved. At least not anymore.”

  “You have this much trouble with communication in the classroom?”

  “No,” she answered. She usually didn’t have nervous neck sweat, either.

  He stared at her skeptically.

  “I don’t want to think about work. I want to think about nonwork…and if you were interested in nonwork—with me.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” But while his mouth said no, his eyes weren’t so sure. She could see it.

  “Fine,” Rebecca stated, calling his bluff because reverse psychology was on the books for a reason. “Go on. Leave.” She even opened the door.

  His feet didn’t move.

  “Not leaving?”

  “I’m still thinking.”

  “I’d prefer not to hit menopause before you decide.”

  His mouth quirked up on one side. “Okay. We have sex. Make love. Do you. Screw you. Not doing the wild monkey sex, though. That’s a little weird. But I’m only stuck at the lodge for a few hours, maybe a night at the most.”

  Brutal honesty. Brutal, stick-in-your-eye honesty.

  Rebecca hated that. “I don’t remember mentioning anything more.”

  “I just thought you’d like to spend a by-the-numbers, romantic weekend with a guy who seemed like a good guy—once you get past the whole Brit thing.”

  “Can we leave Alec out of the room?”

  The man shrugged. “Your decision to make.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” she said, satisfied with her decision. And his decision, too. A good, safe two feet separated her from him, but the silence grew until it became a living, breathing elephant smack in the middle of the room. They were going to have sex. She was going to have sex with a stranger. She kept the panic carefully concealed from her face—another kindergarten-teaching survival skill.

  Rebecca moved her head to one side, pseudoflirtatiously, and held out her hand. “I’m Rebecca Neumann.”

  * * *

  Cory looked at the outstretched hand. Perfectly silky white skin, polished nails that looked embarrassingly clean. He saw the nervous blink in her eyes, and saw a couple of hours of great sex flying out the window. Now was the time
for sanity to return and he’d be stuck driving all the way to Canada with a hard-on because of some damned cheerleader fantasy.

  “Cory,” he said, taking her hand.

  Her eyes blinked again.

  “Cory?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cory Bell?” she asked, her voice rising a couple of octaves.

  This time he blinked.

  “Yeah.”

  “From P.S. 35?”

  “You went there?” he asked, like he didn’t know.

  “Yes,” she said, launching into full social-secretary persona. “Rebecca Neumann. You had a locker down the hall from me. Back against Mr. Espy’s science lab.” She shook his hand harder. “What a small world.”

  “Yeah.”

  Her hand stopped shaking his. “So what have you been up to since P.S. 35? Ha.”

  He racked his brains. Was he supposed to answer that?

  Her eyes scrunched up, and he noticed that Rebecca Neumann wasn’t eighteen anymore. There were lines around her eyes, the corners of her mouth. Laugh lines. Oddly enough, it made her sexier. Much more approachable. Much more touchable.

  “Imagine seeing you again. After all these years. Like fate. Or kismet. Or serendipity.”

  He didn’t know where this was headed, but Rebecca was still holding his hand. Okay. “No, just caught by the snow.”

  That seemed to make her happy, which was good, because he had already figured out that her buttoned-up sweater concealed a blouse, and possibly an undershirt, but he was up to the challenge, and his cock was starting to throb.

  “Well…” she said, and there they were. Back to square one.

  “Yeah,” he said, and took a step closer, his free hand flexing. Buttons weren’t really a problem.

  Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, a move that would have been sexy if they were already having sex. Then the gray eyes turned dreamy. “Could you kiss me again?”

  Kissing. Hell.

  He’d known this was a bad idea—even if it was Rebecca. “I’m not big on kissing.”

  “But downstairs…”

  Cory wasn’t about to explain the reasons why he didn’t like kissing. The sex, he was completely on board with, but impersonal and anonymous sex. Kissing? Nu-uh. She’d have to find another Prince Charming. And the road to Canada would be long, hard and painful. Cory shook his head, and dropped her hand. “I’ll go.”

  That made her move. “No.”

  “Yes,” he said in a firm voice because Cory didn’t make exceptions, and he wanted to make sure she understood.

  * * *

  Rebecca looked up at him, and drew in a deep breath. A one-night stand wasn’t quite what she had always fantasized about. This was different, but maybe different was right.

  Fate was a powerful thing, opening doors, closing doors, and Rebecca was a big believer in the whole open-door theory. She didn’t hesitate because she liked the banked desire in his eyes. Anything but the emptiness of before. She smiled, confident in her decision, and said yes.

  Then he moved, reaching for the buttons on her cardigan and began to undo them one by one. She stood still, cold air biting bare flesh. First the sweater, next the blue cotton blouse. It slid easily from her shoulders. He smiled at the undershirt, and she wondered, but the silence was a magical thing, more evidence of great things to come. He reached behind her to unhook her Victoria’s Secret bra. Efficiently he disposed of that, warm hands moving to the zipper of her slacks. In two seconds, the pants were gone and he was sliding the last layer of silk down her legs. She felt a strong urge to lock her arms across her chest, but vestal virgin wasn’t the part she was playing. There wasn’t a wedding ring on the line, only the chance to do something she’d never done before.

  He backed her toward the oak dressing table, lifting her up, cold butt to cold wood. He started to remove the wool socks from her feet, and Rebecca stopped him before he could go further. “You’re not big on kissing. I’m not big on sock removal.”

  His face was curious, but he shrugged. “Not a problem.”

  Then he began to undress, shedding boots, sweater, jeans. Each new divestiture exposed something new. A scar on his hip, a tattoo on his arm, a dusting of black hair on his chest. But two things were no mystery. The hard look in his eye, and the straining erection that seemed indestructible.

  He came over, stood before her.

  “Change your mind?” he asked, like he thought she would.

  Stubbornly she shook her head, then watched as he sheathed himself with a condom. A condom. The universal symbol of actual penetration. Cory Bell was going to have sex with her. Sex. With. Her.

  There was that single moment of panic. That time when she felt her blood chill, but then it was over.

  This was Cory Bell.

  The dark eyes watched her carefully, obviously waiting for panic, waiting for the vestal virgin to emerge. However, Rebecca was ready. She’d been waiting days, months, decades for this.

  Rebecca Neumann and Cory Bell.

  He pulled her legs around lean hips and then slid inside her.

  Rebecca gasped, not quite ready.

  “Problem?” he asked casually, as if she’d broken a heel or dropped her change down the sewer. But no, he wanted to know if she had a problem with his cock being inside her. Thick, heavy, lively cock. This was what women threw their lives over for. This feeling. This fullness. This…joining.

  “No problems here,” she said, as if she had casual sex every day.

  He studied her face, those experienced eyes looking into her, through her, but she lifted her chin. One corner of his mouth twisted, and then he shifted her legs a few inches higher. As he began to move, his gaze was as mechanical as his movements. He was detached about his lovemaking, his body going through all the right motions, but there was no emotion involved. This was down-and-dirty sex. Torrid, anonymous, tawdry sex.

  Fate had decreed this, but Rebecca didn’t like this new plan. His vacant eyes bothered her, ticked at her insides, and she opened her mouth to say something. But his thrusts were more potent, and the tingles in her breasts and thighs started to come alive, and her mouth fell shut as the pleasure center in her brain took over.

  He made no move to kiss her, no move to touch her, other than the hot hands that lifted her hips. She moaned, low in her throat. His eyes narrowed at the sound, and a bead of sweat formed on the side of his face. Friction built between her legs as he increased the speed, almost painfully fast. She concentrated on that one drop of liquid, watched it slide down over his cheek. His chest was pumping now, so strong she could see the veins underneath his skin. There was life there, buried deep.

  She cried out, a guttural sound that embarrassed her, but her body had moved past the point of no return. It was loose and lax, and she arched her back, her hips echoing his rhythm. It wasn’t romantic, no hearts and flowers, nothing but backroom sex. The satisfaction of a biological drive.

  Rebecca wasn’t used to sex for pleasure alone, and she gasped as he hit a marvelously decadent spot.

  Her body responded, her mind floating free from its objections.

  She groaned, a protest basked in pleasure. A climax was building inside her and she wanted to catch it, but he didn’t slow down, kept pumping again and again and again.

  She arched even further, feeling him deep, deeper inside her, pushing, thrusting, tearing her apart.

  Her hands clutched at the hard wood, clawing at nothing. Cory kept on, relentless, unceasing. She tried to speak, but there were no words. She needed to come. Now.

  He ignored her, mindlessly thrusting. Her head moved from side to side, and she wanted to scream, but knew she couldn’t.

  There.

  There.

  There. The orgasm crashed over her, and he froze, his head listing low. A moan broke from his lips, then his body jerked. Rebecca’s legs went slack, her body reeling from the completion.

  The room was spinning in a three-mojito manner, but there was no pain, nothing but gold
en rays bursting behind her eyelids. Man, if she had guessed this about Cory Bell before, she would have ditched high school Lawrence in a heartbeat.

  This was…

  This was…

  Wow. She’d never known that sex could be so—naughty.

  “Wow,” she whispered, staring up at the ceiling, watching the wooden beams rotating in front of her eyes.

  She felt him pull out of her, and rose on her elbows, watching with dreamy eyes as he cleaned up. Efficiently, he began to dress, not even glancing in her direction. Rebecca might not have been completely back on planet earth, but she knew enough to realize there was more than one thing wrong with this picture.

  As he tugged on his sweater, her conversational skills returned. “You’re leaving?”

  He still didn’t look at her, instead focusing on his socks and boots.

  “You’re leaving?” she repeated, in a slightly less wobbly tone.

  “The snow’s letting up. I should hit the road.”

  Rebecca sat up straight, slid off the dresser, pissed and bare-assed naked.

  Oh, no. Not. Now.

  She tried to walk, her knees dipping before she locked them to stay upright.

  “You’re leaving?”

  He stopped in mid-zip. “Look, you got what you wanted. Go back downstairs. I won’t tell, he’ll never know and you’ll have the quiet, romantic weekend you’re aching for.”

  “I don’t want him.”

  “Don’t lie. He’s exactly what women like you want.”

  Rebecca took in a lung’s worth of air, adding a full two inches to her height. She didn’t care that she was naked, didn’t care that her own juices were trickling down her leg. All she knew was that this man was not going to do that to her and then run away. She didn’t care about Alec Trevayne. She only cared about this man, about how he could make her giddy with tingles. No way was he leaving like this.

  This weekend was her Christmas, her only Christmas, and he wouldn’t steal it from her.

  She stalked over to the window, stared at the last remnants of the day, the snowflakes still falling fast and furious.

  “You cannot drive in this weather.”