by Toni Blake
“You’re a piece of work,” he told her.
Okay, this drew a look from her. After all, she was the one who handed out the judgy comments here. “What does that mean?”
He focused on hanging a pointy blue glass star as he said, “You’re cute. And funny. But so damn angry. What are you so angry about?”
She let her eyes go wide. “Hello.” Then pointed toward the rear of the house. “Trees. Bulldozer. Did the alcohol really go to your head that fast?”
But her reply left him unfazed as he met her eyes. “No, I mean what else? Because there’s something else.”
Lila’s chest tightened. He could see that? Tell that? It was horrifying to learn she was so transparent. Or was he just weirdly perceptive? Her family hadn’t even noticed at Thanksgiving that anything might be amiss with her, and she regarded herself as a master of deception.
She followed the compulsion to deny it anyway. He knew nothing about her, after all. Turning her attention back to decorating, she plucked up a pine cone with the tips painted white and a loop of yarn attached to hang it with. “Wrongo bongo. My only problem is you—and knowing I have to ruin Meg’s holidays by telling her about the trees.”
She could see from her peripheral vision that he still eyed her suspiciously, though. “Sure there’s nothing else?”
“Yes,” she stated unequivocally. Eyeing him back, to be more convincing. Some people had trouble making eye contact in uncomfortable situations. But for Lila, right now, the act was like holding up a protective shield. Proving she meant what she said. Just daring him to cross her. “I don’t know what you think you know—but just drink your hot chocolate and decorate the tree, or I’m kicking you out, blizzard or not.”
A small smile came from her tree-trimming tree-slayer. “I’d better work slow, or you’ll kick me out into the snow anyway.”
“It might be an easier walk before dark.” She grinned, winked.
And he caught her off guard with, “Whoa, you smiled. I didn’t know you could do that.”
“It was an accident. Don’t get used to it.” She reached for her mug on a nearby end table and took a fortifying sip.
“You have a nice one,” he told her.
Confused and wary, she shot him a look. “A nice what?”
“Smile. You should do it more often.”
“I reserve it for people not ruining my family’s legacy,” she quipped.
And he just laughed.
And when her gaze then happened to zero in on the area of the tree where he’d been working, she said, “Oh my God—you can’t put all the glass ones together in a clump like that. You have to mix in the others to even things out. Is this your first time decorating a tree?”
She stepped up to move the blue star—just as he reached for it, as well, bringing their hands together, his over hers, on the antique ornament. She felt the touch in her panties—a rush, a warmth, desire. Oh boy.
She didn’t draw her hand away. And neither did he.
She dared glance over and their eyes met, locked. More warmth cascaded through her as they stood frozen in place, tree-trimming statues.
“Maybe you don’t hate me as much as you’re acting like,” he had the audacity to say.
“Oh, I do. I really do. Trust me.”
“Then why haven’t you pulled your hand away?”
She sucked in her breath. God, he was just...asking like that? Putting it out there, that plainly?
She tried to think fast. “Because it’s an antique and I don’t want to jostle it?” Ugh, it had come out as a question.
Which he answered with, “No.” So sure. So bold.
Fine then. She’d just go back to being honest with him. She glanced toward their two cocoa mugs, one red, one green, sitting side by side on one of the TV trays. “I blame the Baileys,” she said. “Why haven’t you?”
“Same,” he replied. “And...”
Her heart beat double time in her chest. “And...?”
“Like I said, you’re cute. Saucy. Funny as hell.” The whole time, they both stood frozen, holding their ground, hands touching, his lightly covering hers on the blue glass star. “You definitely stand up for what you want, that’s for sure.”
“Damn straight, Indiana Jones,” she told him.
That was when his hand closed more fully around hers on the ornament, warm, firm, a touch unmistakably sexual, as their eyes stayed fixed on one another. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her body swirled with liquid heat. And then he did that thing—that thing where the other person leans in, just a little, their eyelids heavy, their head starting to tilt. Body language for: I’m going to kiss you, so if you don’t want me to, you should back away.
She didn’t back away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE KISS WAS SMALL, light, warm—a test kiss. And damn—for a kiss so small and tentative, it was the best thing Beck had felt in a long while. Despite the weather outside, it moved through him like heat lightning on a Kentucky summer night.
Given that she kept trying to dislike him so much, though, he had to make sure he wasn’t the only one welcoming that heat—so he drew back a little, met her pretty gaze. Her hazel eyes shone on him, big and round, maybe a little stunned, her rosy lips parted. Surprised—but wanting. Just like him.
So he bent, leaned, lowered another soft kiss to her waiting lips. Heard her quick intake of breath. Maybe at first she’d been surprised it was happening, but now she was clearly only surprised at how good it felt, and how fast.
When she drew her hand away from beneath his on the ornament, he’d thought maybe she was stopping this—but no. Instead, she lifted the same hand to touch his cheek. And the next kiss was deeper, longer, more consuming. No more test kissing—this was turning into the real deal. His hands went to her waist—slender beneath the big sweater she wore—and she released a little gasp as he pulled her closer.
She kissed him back now with all the passion rising up inside him, as well. The kind that slowly makes you stop thinking, measuring, until you just give yourself over to it.
It was the kind of kissing Beck hadn’t had the opportunity to indulge in for longer than he cared to admit. Summer Island had been isolating, and on the few occasions last summer when he’d almost connected with attractive female tourists looking for vacation fun, he’d realized that at thirty-nine, he’d apparently moved past wanting a meaningless, one-night connection—no matter how the rigid part of his anatomy between his legs had protested the decisions.
This, now, seemed like it had all the ingredients to be exactly that—a quick, nonlasting connection. Except for one thing. He liked her. And one more thing. Nothing was telling him to stop. Even if it seemed like an awful idea in ways. She was angry with him. She seemed angry in general. She was Meg’s little sister. Maybe it would spell even more drama.
But she felt too good in his arms. Her lips too soft beneath his hungry mouth. Every little sigh and gasp that left her made him harder. And soon that hardness pressed hotly against the sweet crux of her thighs through their blue jeans as they made out next to the Christmas tree, her palms now at his chest, beginning to knead him through his T-shirt same as if she were a cat, his own hands molded around her hips, learning her curves.
“This changes nothing,” she told him breathlessly between kisses.
His reply came in a rasp. “What do you mean?”
She peered up at him, bit her lip, looking sensual and defiant all at once. “If you think sex is going to make me give you back the key to that bulldozer, or just look the other way about the whole situation, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I’m not barking up that tree,” he assured her, voice deep and low.
“What tree are you barking up?” More kneading fingers at his chest. The slight scrape of feminine nails. He liked it.
And he tried to th
ink of an answer, but it was difficult. Due to the fingernails, and the way their bodies pressed together below. “Pretty much just the this-feels-good-and-I-want-to-be-inside-you tree.”
Another little gasp. This one she tried to squelch, he could tell—but what he’d just said had excited her even more. “That’s...a good tree.”
“Let’s make a deal,” he managed to say—mostly just wanting to get back to kissing, and maybe taking off her clothes. He hadn’t been sure where this was going until she’d mentioned sex, but now the path seemed much clearer. He didn’t want anything to mess that up.
“What deal?” She looked wary—perhaps understandably.
“Something easy, I promise,” he assured her. “For right now, let’s not say one more word about trees—good, bad, Christmas, ones you bark up, or otherwise. Fair?”
“Fair. Now shut up and kiss me.”
Lila knew this was insane. She knew it lacked logic. She knew the alcohol was blurring her good senses and heightening her desire.
But she also knew Beck’s logic was sound, too—this felt good. And she simply hadn’t anticipated that, with anyone, so soon. The simplicity of attraction, chemistry, wanting to connect physically with a man. It was hitting her like a ton of bricks when she’d least expected it.
And if she was honest with herself, she’d harbored a fear: that after Simon she’d be scarred now, afraid, that she’d never want to have sex again. And surprise—she did!
So it made sense to take advantage of that. This was getting-back-on-the-horse sex. This was finding-the-joy-in-life-again sex. This was reclaiming-your-womanhood sex. This was even reclaiming-your-power sex! What had happened with Simon Alexis in Chicago would not bury her.
And further, in a simpler way, this was...a gift. Beck had no way of knowing what an enormous and wonderful gift he was giving her right now.
She was pretty sure most people who knew her thought she was promiscuous, but in fact, she wasn’t. If ever she was going to be, however, this seemed like a good time for it. And with that thought in mind, she pushed his open flannel shirt from his shoulders.
He released her from his grasp only long enough to shrug free of it, then yank his tee off over his head. And—oh. Nice. A nice, broad, firm chest. Not the showy kind that said I-work-out. Instead a more authentic sort that said I’m-a-strong-rugged-guy-who-lives-an-active-life. She sensed that in his shoulders, his arms. She wasn’t sure exactly what all a developer did, but she felt in her bones that he built things, too—swung a hammer, did heavy lifting. That natural strength drew her to him even more. He was the exact opposite of Simon—who worked out.
But stop thinking of Simon. Stop thinking of anything. Except maybe Beck’s chest. Arms. Mouth. The dark stubble on his chin, so alluringly rough beneath her fingertips. They were kissing again, touching—she was exploring all the skin and muscle he’d just revealed. And also thinking about the very hardest part of him, which had pressed so deliciously and unmistakably against her a few minutes ago.
His hands went under her sweater, making her breasts ache. It seemed to her a crime that a man could never know how the sweet, hungry ache in a woman’s sensitive breasts felt. But when his hand tenderly grazed its way up her side to frame the outer curve, then he stroked his thumb across the nipple hidden within her bra, she hoped the sigh of pleasure that left her gave him some small glimpse into the consuming sensation of bliss that had just passed so powerfully through her.
He began to push her sweater upward, murmuring, “Help me with this.” She did, and soon it lay on the floor near an empty ornament box. When she shivered from the cold, he took her hand and pulled her toward the fireplace, grabbing up a throw blanket from the back of the sofa along the way. The heat from the fire warmed her skin instantly—and somehow also fueled her onward.
“I want this,” she heard herself say, unplanned. Maybe it was to assure him—or maybe to assure herself, she didn’t know. But she even said it again, this time looking right up into his big brown eyes. “I want this.”
Spreading the chenille throw on the floor, he lay her back on it, her body stretching out in front of the hearth. He peeled away her jeans, then her bra. He laved her breasts with kisses that reached to her core and nearly made her come, just from that.
Next, he pushed his jeans off, too, and his underwear. He dug a condom from his wallet as she waited.
And then heaven was attained right there on the floor of the Summerbrook Inn while a blizzard roiled outside. And in the missionary position, too. She’d never especially been a fan, but somehow Beck made her one. She liked the bigness of him hovering over her, moving, thrusting deep. She liked rising to meet his body with hers. She liked that something so simple could feel so good.
She didn’t keep it simple, though. For truly she was restless and not easily pleased. Soon she pushed against his chest, instigated a roll, got on top. Felt the beauty of her own nakedness and his, too, as she moved on him. Took in the details of his hard, planed body, felt how solid and large he was inside her, gave a fleeting thought to that thing about a man’s hands correlating to his penis size being true. But mostly she just followed the rhythm of her body, the rhythm of her heart—which blocked out everything bad as she connected with him. And soon she was biting her lip, finding her bliss, calling out her pleasure when she toppled into the abyss of orgasm.
* * *
SLEEP. SUCH A MYSTERY. Where do we go when it happens? What is our brain doing? How is it possible that we can turn off so completely and yet our bodies keep working—our lungs keep breathing, our heart keeps pumping blood, our mind dreams. As Lila awoke, though, mostly her thoughts were that of comfort—the sweet comfort of deep sleep. She felt rested for the first time in weeks.
But opening her eyes changed things—left her disoriented. She began to take in certain details. The cracking and flicker of the blaze in the hearth. Firelight and the Christmas tree illuminating the room—the other lights had been turned off and fresh wood laid on the fire.
Oh, I’m at the inn.
Lying on the floor.
And nothing is normal.
And she wasn’t lying there alone—a man’s warm body spooned her from behind, his palm curving over her bare hip beneath a chenille blanket. He’d apparently gotten up, fixed the fire and the lights, then come back.
What time is it? She shifted her gaze, searching for the cable box near the TV. Whoa. Two-seventeen. In the morning. She wasn’t sure what time the sex had occurred exactly, but it hadn’t even been dark out yet. And it got dark early this time of year—five or so. Had she really been lying here asleep on a hard floor for eight or nine hours? She hadn’t slept soundly in weeks, but now, like this, she had? It made no sense.
Yet that wasn’t what mattered here. What mattered was...oh no. She’d slept with the enemy.
She drew in her breath at the horror of what she’d done. Memories began to seep back in. Alcohol. And surrender. Even if it had given her a little of her feminine power back—oh God. Why? Why had she had to do it with this man? Of all the men on the planet, she’d slept with the one who was planning to take from her—and her sister and whole family—something she held dear?
And she couldn’t even blame him. Oh, she could blame him for tearing down the trees, and she could blame him for foisting his stupid Christmas tree on her. But she couldn’t blame him for the sex.
It was her fault she’d started being nice. Her fault they’d started drinking. Her fault they’d started touching. Her fault they hadn’t stopped.
How would she ever explain to Meg that she’d had sex—on the floor of the inn, no less—with the man determined to do the place harm?
Well, she just wouldn’t. She wouldn’t tell her things had gone this far. Or even close to this far. And maybe she’d just take down the stupid Christmas tree before she left for Ann Arbor—she’d make it so no trace of Beck Grainger remained
in this house. Because he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t. That simple.
That didn’t take back what she’d done with him, though. What she’d done with him that...well, if she was honest, made her just want to stay this way. She wanted to put this moment in a jar or a box and keep it separate from everything else that made it an impossible situation. Because it felt so incredibly warm and nice. And safe. Again, safe.
Steeling herself, she silently turned to peek over her shoulder at him. But damn it—he’d felt her stir and opened his eyes. His quick, small smile warmed her as much as the fire. “Getting stiff from the floor? Want to move to the couch, or a bed? Or stay here? I’m good either way.”
She drew in her breath. And did what she had to.
“You have to go.”
Those sparkling brown eyes of his opened wider, his body tensing next to hers. “What?”
She drew her gaze from his and turned back around, because this was harder than she wanted it to be. But only part of this was her fault—the rest was his. Remember that. And that he manipulated you. Not into the sex, but the rest of it. “You have to go. I’m sure the storm is over, and the snow should make it easy to see in the dark.”
She felt more than saw his puzzlement. “You’re serious.”
“This was a huge mistake. Which I blame on alcohol and exhaustion and temporary poor judgment. But my judgment has cleared now, and I need for you to leave and forget this ever happened.”
She thought he’d argue, waited for it. But instead, she suffered an unmistakable sense of loss, along with a dull sadness, as the warmth of his body withdrew from hers—he pulled away from her and got up. And she stared into the fire, trying not to feel. Anything.
Your life wasn’t already enough of a shambles? There wasn’t enough drama for you? Enough problems? So you did this?
But stop. Stop thinking. Toughen up. Be the woman who stood in front of a bulldozer.