She landed with unnecessary force. He oomphed.
Bailey smiled with satisfaction. “I don’t know, Santa,” she said, pitching her voice to bad-girl sultry. “I thought you had a list.”
Finn’s head came up. He looked stunned.
Good.
She waited for embarrassment or remorse or shame to overtake his surprised expression.
Instead, he smiled. Slow. Sexy. His arm tightened around her as his gaze dropped to her breasts. “Oh, sweetheart, Santa has a list all right, and you’re at the very top.”
She was going to kill him! Of course, she should have known he wouldn’t cooperate and feel the least bit of guilt for…for…
Well, of course she didn’t care if he kissed a hundred other women in front of her. It was none of her business.
Digging her stiletto heels into the linoleum floor, she jerked off his knee. “Your grandmother was worried about you. But obviously you’re in fine form. Tanner will take you home, though you look like your usual capable self to me. Good-bye, Finn.” She started off.
“Whoa. Wait.” He stood to make a grab for her. His arm swung wild, and his body followed it, half turning him so that he stumbled into the chair he’d been sitting on. It toppled with a crash. The women who’d been in line behind her scattered.
Finn spun a full circle, his momentum taking him forward and into Bailey. She grabbed his arms to steady him.
“You are drunk.”
He grinned at her. Still unrepentant. Still sexy as all get-out. “Not so you’d know.”
Rolling her eyes, she pulled him toward the main room with a plan to deposit him in Tanner’s care. “Just keep telling yourself that, handsome.”
But neither Tanner nor his brother Troy was in immediate sight. And Finn wouldn’t stay under her control. With her hands still trying to hold him back, he lurched to the bar. “Gimme another,” he told the guy on the other side. He yanked the Santa hat off his head, stuffed its puffy top into his front pocket, then hitched one hip onto an empty stool. “And white wine for the GND.”
“Finn…”
He handed over the wine with exaggerated care. “Now don’t be like that.” His fingers, damp from the sweating glass, trailed down her cheek. “Not when you’re looking so pretty. So pretty and so hot.”
Despite herself, a pleased flush prickled up her neck. He’d only seen her in bulky sweaters and her store apron before this, and she had actually grown a cup size since leaving home at eighteen.
He smiled again, then palmed her hips to pull her between his legs. Studying her face, he downed the shot of liquor he’d been served in one quick swallow. Then he shook his head, that smile still glinting in his one eye.
“Bailey Sullivan, still slaying me.”
She smelled the liquor on his breath, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Nor was the heat of his hands seeping through her black jeans. The Christmas following her and Finn’s first summer kiss, Trin had given Bailey an old-fashioned muff made out of fake mink and matching ear warmers.
She’d worn them on an under-cover-of-darkness walk to the beach with Finn. He’d laughed at the warmers, but after he’d built a bonfire of pallets and newspapers in one of the cement rings set in the sand, he’d pocketed his lighter and pulled out a flask in its place.
He’d put it to his mouth, and in the light of the flames she’d watched him grimace as he swallowed it down. Her bad boy. Then he’d sat toe-to-toe with her, their legs bent. Reaching around her knees, he’d shoved his cold hands and the cold flask in the warm nest of the muff. His fingers had slid between hers, and just like that her inner thigh muscles had pulled tight. The place between them had started to pulse.
At the tangy smell of tequila in the air between her and Finn, the same thing happened now.
And as then, it spooked the hell out of her.
It shouldn’t be this fast!
Perhaps he was reliving the past too, because in the dim light he shook his head again. “Bailey. Whatever made you put up with a guy like me?”
“Did I have a choice?” she replied, surprising herself by being honest with them both. “It never felt that way.”
His fingers tightened on her hips for an instant. “Not for me either.” He looked away. “But I could have corrupted you…hell, I did.”
Because of the sex? But she couldn’t ask that out loud. It had never felt like corruption, not even close.
And sex had never again felt like what it had with Finn.
But of course it wouldn’t, she assured herself, before the thought could begin to worry her. Because everything was a first with Finn.
“I was riding the edge, GND,” he went on. “When I was home, I’d think to myself how I wouldn’t be able to see you if they locked me up in juvie.”
“So you’d avoid crime?” The notion pleased her. “Because of me?”
A corner of his mouth kicked up. “Nah, I just got better at not getting caught at it.”
“Oh.” Instead of laughing, she whacked his chest with her free hand.
Even drunk, his reflexes—or his luck—made him able to catch it, and he flattened her fingers over his heart.
“I was riding the edge,” he muttered again.
As he was now too, she could tell, and she wondered why. With that niggle of curiosity in her head and his hard bone and the beat of his blood beneath her hand, Bailey realized she was riding a dangerous edge as well.
She’d come to rescue Finn, but if she didn’t get out of here, that life-of-its-own sexual attraction might overcome her again. There wasn’t one good reason for her to indulge a second time.
She drew her fingers away. “I have to go.”
“Bailey—”
His protest didn’t stop her from resorting to her usual MO. She ran out on him.
This time though, he caught her. He wouldn’t have, but she was fumbling with an unfamiliar set of keys in the dark parking lot.
He grabbed the bristling ring out of her hand. “You’re driving Gram’s T-bird?”
“She insisted.” It was a 1969, silver-blue with a white landau top, not-quite-classic Thunderbird. Bailey snatched back the keys. “Because I was doing her a favor by rescuing you.”
This time she managed to get the door open, but before she could get herself safely ensconced within the three bazillion tons of steel and whitewall tires, Finn stepped around her and ducked inside to slide along the bench seat.
His grin was wide and toothy in the overhead light. Drunk. Reckless. Sexy. “Okay. Rescue away.”
Not now! Not now when he was so damn attractive and she was so easily lured back to memories of the past. When she was an adult, yet still so stupidly tempted into wanting to make those memories new.
“’Fraidy cat?” he said softly.
And as if she was eleven and he was thirteen all over again, she responded to the taunt and flounced into the driver’s seat. Then hedged her bets by not looking at him as she started the car and drove toward safety.
Not fast enough. Because Finn reached out and drew a fingertip down her bare arm. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No.”
“Because I can keep you warm.” He started to slide closer, but she held him off with her hand.
“All I want for Christmas is for you to keep your distance.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “That’s right, Santa didn’t get to hear your confession.”
You’re too close. Too attractive. You’re making it too easy for me to—
—forget all those other women lining up to have a taste of you.
That thought cleared her head and put the spotlight on her good intentions, but it was still a relief when she pulled into the Jacobson driveway. “Here we are,” she sang out.
He put his hand on her forearm as she made to open her door. “Just a sec,” he said. “I’m a little dizzy.”
He’d gone so quiet on the short ride, she’d almost forgotten he’d been drinking. With a sympathetic pang, she remembered that
woozy wine cooler incident. The tender way he’d cared for her. “Finn, you shouldn’t have had so much to drink,” she scolded. “Let me open your window.”
With a scoot, she was free of the steering wheel and able to lean across him. Too late she remembered the T-bird had power windows.
Too late because Finn pulled her over him and onto his lap, bringing them face-to-face. She was kneeling on either side of his thighs, held there by his hands at her waist.
Her wiggles didn’t get her free of his grip. “What are you doing?”
“I’m dizzy.” He nuzzled her throat. “You and all this pretty bare skin makes me dizzy. Pretty Bailey. Pretty, bare Bailey.”
She put her hands on his head, to push him away. “You’re drunk.”
“Mmm-hmm.” It was an agreeable sound he hummed against her neck, then he licked the notch of her collarbone.
Goose bumps rushed like holiday shoppers across her skin. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and the strap of his eye patch pressed into her right palm. “Finn…”
His lips were hot as they roamed higher. They found the angle of her jaw as it curved toward her ear, and he bit down. Those holiday shoppers were in a frenzy now. Sizzling nerve endings were racing them to the bargain tables. Her hands curled into fists and her head fell back.
“This is such a bad idea,” she whispered.
“Yeah.” Agreeable again as his hands cupped her head and tilted it forward. His mouth found hers.
Hot. Then it was wet.
She opened her lips to him and he made it wild.
His tongue plunged deep, sliding along hers with a velvet thrust. Then a second time. She held her moan back but couldn’t help herself from falling against him as he thrust again.
His chest was hot against hers. His erection hard against the juncture of her thighs. He kept kissing her, tasting every surface of her mouth as his hands slid down her shoulders, her arms. Then he was pressing his palms hard against her thighs and pushing his hips up into the cradle of her body.
The delicious pleasure made her squirm, but he held her firm, the heavy placket of his jeans and the heaviness of his body beneath them nudging her right where it felt just fine.
But nudging wasn’t enough.
As it had been dozens of times before, as it had always been with Finn, she was wet and ready and pulsing so fast. So needy, it was embarrassing. Undignified.
Beyond her control.
Her body tried to circle, move, get the rhythm and the pressure she couldn’t stop herself from craving, but Finn—as he always had—played her, toyed with her, strung her along.
She could beg, but she’d always tried to keep some decorum when it came to sex. When it came to Finn.
With one forearm across her thighs, holding her steady, he angled his head to take her mouth even more deeply. His other hand brushed the spaghetti straps of her over-camisole off her shoulders. As they fell to her elbows, he broke from her mouth to trail kisses over her chin, down her neck, along the neckline of the second, clingy camisole and up one of its thin straps.
He caught it between his teeth to lower the Lycra fabric. Hot shivers rolled over her skin as quarter inch by quarter inch, one breast was revealed. Her breath backed up in her lungs, and she trembled as the stretchy fabric caught on her nipple. She gasped as it popped free.
Groaning, Finn caught the other spaghetti strap with a hand and yanked the clothing beneath both breasts. Then he dipped his head, his mouth latching on to her flesh. His tongue washed her nipple, then he sucked, strong.
Hard enough to hurt so good.
Pleasure paralyzed her. Her muscles clenched, everywhere, inside, outside, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
Rubbing his nose along her flesh, breathing deeply as he moved across her cleavage, he found her other nipple. He flattened his tongue against the hard nub, pushing the point into the yielding flesh surrounding it. Her hands jerked to his head, buried in his hair. He opened his mouth around the nipple and she shuddered, pressing her cheek against the silky coolness of his hair.
It took everything she had not to cry out.
As if he knew, as if he wanted her to give in, he used the edge of his teeth. Delicate, then harder. The stinging heat arrowed from her breast to her womb. His hand went to the snap riding low on her belly.
Her skin jittered as two fingertips tucked beneath the waistband to the first knuckle. Paused. For permission? Or anticipation?
Bailey’s blood boiled hot. It was always like this with Finn. Had only been like this with Finn. She opened her mouth to tell him, then remembered.
Four words.
Nothing flocked can stay.
Four simple words that acted like an icy snowball to cool the heat of her desire.
Nothing flocked can stay.
She threw herself off Finn’s lap and onto the seat beside him. Breathing hard, she dug her nails into her palms.
“Finn.” She had to clear her throat, start again. “We need to slow down…or think…or something. Give me a minute here.”
“Yeah.” His voice was harsh. “Fuck. Okay.”
Christmas Central was dark and quiet—it was nearing two A.M.—and she wished she could feel so peaceful inside. What was going on? How could she have fallen so quickly back into his arms?
How come she wanted to be back there so very badly right now?
Stress.
Old memories.
Hormones.
Take your pick. She hadn’t dated in months. Hadn’t bedded in much longer than that. She hadn’t wanted anyone.
Now she wanted Finn. Again.
A reckless, crazy thought popped into her brain. Well, why not? Sex didn’t have to be sloppy or emotional. Or even pretend to be permanent.
Maybe a release was her reward. Good girl comes back to save the farm and gets to take the neighboring rancher for a ride.
Okay, fine, it was silliness talking—and desire—but God help her, she found herself willing to listen. It was the gift-giving season, and this interlude with Finn could be her gift to herself. When was the last time she’d gotten herself such a very nice present?
Her heart was still racing, her breasts were still bare, her nipples still wet from his mouth.
Why not?
“Finn.” Surrendering to impulse, she whipped toward him. “Call me nuts, but okay, let’s—”
The rest died in her mouth. Her almost offer evaporated in the air that felt suddenly chilly. Lonely.
He was asleep. Make that passed out. Slumped down on his grandmother’s tucked-and-rolled leather upholstery, Finn was dead to the sober world.
She probably should be relieved, but instead she was pissed at him all over again. Here she was, ready, willing, hot for his body, and he’d gone beyond disinterested.
It took her only a second to find her purse, lying alongside his stupid Santa hat on the floor of the T-bird. She started to toss it into his lap, but then hesitated, staring down at the fleece.
After a moment, she propped it on top of his head. Then she wrote a note, and used a safety pin to fasten her message to his flannel shirt. Finally she grabbed the keys and eased out the car.
Tiptoeing toward the mailbox on his grandmother’s front porch, she tripped over a large box. The top flew off and she stared at the contents. Three dozen—count ’em—long-stemmed roses. Dipped in gold.
Real gold?
Thinking of the over-the-top Nativity scene and the Bunyan-sized chocolate fountain, Bailey would bet the family farm on it.
That made her grimace as she put the car keys in the Jacobson mailbox, but she didn’t take a last look at the Thunderbird and the one-eyed idiot inside, sleeping it off.
His gift giver could worry about him. Whoever was delivering those outrageous presents could rescue the Secret Service agent next time.
But as Bailey slipped between her cool sheets, they abraded her still hypersensitive skin and she couldn’t help but worry. When it came to Finn, she hoped she didn’t nee
d something or someone to rescue her.
* * *
Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas
Facts & Fun Calendar
December 7
Charles Dickens wrote, “Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!”
* * *
Chapter 7
“Finn, you know I love you, but watching you pace is like watching Wimbledon,” Gram said, sitting at the kitchen table with coffee, the newspaper, and her plastic, compartmentalized pill container. “I’m getting neck strain.”
He forced himself to halt, and swiped his own mug off the counter to take a swallow. “Sorry. Just restless, I guess.”
“You should be at work then, not babysitting me.”
He didn’t want to tell her the agent in charge had practically locked him out of the office. It wasn’t a secret to the Secret Service that to be half the agent he’d been in the past, Finn needed to get his head together.
And speaking of heads…The aspirin bottle sat beside the sink and he reached for it. Twenty-four hours and his hangover was still pinned into his brain by what felt like two ice picks. He’d woken up the morning before in Gram’s T-bird with a tongue the size and consistency of a dried kitchen sponge, a piercing headache, and a sheet of paper pinned on his shirt.
Sliding his hand in his pocket, he touched it. U O Me. Bailey’s handwriting was quite clear.
But what exactly he owed her, he wasn’t sure. A thank-you for bringing him back from Troy’s? More days of avoiding her like yesterday? A follow-through on what they’d started in the dark confines of the car?
That wasn’t a wise move. Getting mixed up with the GND wasn’t on his holiday agenda.
However, a hazy recollection—or was it wishful thinking?—continued to tickle the outer edges of his memory as it had since he’d woken up with the ancestor of all hangovers. After Bailey took the safe and sane path and climbed off his lap, had she turned back to him? Had she really said, “Finn…let’s…” implying she’d changed her mind?
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