Must Love Mistletoe

by Christie Ridgway

  Her gaze jumped back to Dan. There was a new tightness across his cheekbones, a new kind of watchfulness in his eyes.

  A new quality to the tension in the room.

  Who needs a man? What are they good for?

  All at once, Tracy remembered.

  He took a measured step into the room. Another.

  She clutched one corner of the four-poster bed, her knuckles going white. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  His hands went to the hem of his polo shirt and in one swift movement, he stripped it off.

  Definitely working out. His shoulders were smooth, round hills of muscles that led to his tan chest that tapered to the flat skin of his belly. Tracy swallowed as his hands pulled at the buttons on his 501s.

  Don’t retreat, she told herself. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

  “I don’t know what you think is going to happen here.”

  “You know exactly what I think is going to happen.” The dark, hard thread in his voice sent a hot shiver down her back. “Take off your clothes, Tracy.”

  In broad daylight? The neighbors, their son—

  But he was away at college and she wasn’t a mother first and foremost any longer. She was…

  “Take them off, Trace.”

  At Dan’s command, a brand-new, sexual flame inside her leaped. The heat running down her spine spread, burning every inch of her skin, making it feel tight and too small for what she was trying to hold inside.

  Excitement. Arousal.

  He was naked now. This man—this stranger in her bedroom—drew closer, his penis jutting toward her with the same aggressive attitude she could see on his face and hear in his voice. Her knees went rubbery again.

  Reaching out, he caught the end of her T-shirt in his fist. Then he yanked her close to his nakedness, his other hand biting into the skin at her waist as he jerked her shirt over her head.

  “I want you.”

  His eyes widened.

  She realized the words were hers.

  “Then unhook your bra. I want to see your breasts.”

  Her fingers trembled as they found the hooks behind her back. Dan’s gaze didn’t move off her face until her bra dropped to the Oriental carpet with an almost silent plop. Then he palmed her shoulders with his hands, squeezing a moment before slowly moving them down her torso to cover her breasts.

  Making a cup of his hands, he plumped them for his inspection.

  Between her legs she felt swollen, aching, empty.

  His thumbs rasped across her nipples and she gasped. Her eyes closed.

  “Look at me,” he ordered, his voice harsh.

  Her lashes flew open and instinct made her try to move back. His hands tightened their hold on her breasts.

  “You’re not going anywhere. You’re not looking at anything but me. You will see me. Know me.” His nostrils flared. “Fuck me.”

  Tracy’s heart slammed against her breastbone. He’d never said that word to her before. Never called what they did together a four-letter word.

  It excited her, she realized. Maybe she’d found someone else to be instead of Mother! Someone sexual. Excited. Exciting.

  Dan rubbed her nipples again. “Take off your pants.”

  He didn’t stop touching her breasts as she obeyed. Once nude, she had a moment of doubt. The divorce diet had turned her bony in some areas and saggy in others.

  But he was focused on her mouth again, and he leaned over to kiss her, the first thrust of his tongue as strong and sure as she’d always thought her marriage. He shifted his hands to her hips and drew her flush against his body. His chest hair abraded her nipples, his erection pressed hard against her belly.

  He still desired her.

  His hands cupped her bottom and the angle of his head changed to take her mouth deeper. Heat flashed over her again and that swollen place between her legs throbbed in time with her pumping heart. Oh God.

  Her panting breaths rubbed her nipples against his chest and his smooth penis still kissed her abdomen. But it wasn’t enough.

  Not enough closeness.

  Not enough sensation.

  She pushed closer, and his leg slid between hers. His tongue pushed deep as his knee lifted, pressed steadily against the empty place between her thighs. Groaning, she ground herself against it, without regard for daylight or heartbreak or maturity. Did middle-aged women desire like this?

  “Do me,” she whispered against his lips, astonished at the raunchiness of her words. A little pleased. She lifted her mouth. “Do me now.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then get on the bed.”

  Out of a thousand years’ habit, she half turned to pull back the covers.

  “I didn’t tell you to do anything but get on the bed.”

  Tracy froze, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “But…” But this was a stranger in her bedroom and he looked determined to have his way.

  She slowly climbed onto the bed, letting him have a full-on view of her butt, even as she thought, Who is this woman? She could see her in the dresser mirror, blond hair wild, color high on her cheeks, mouth and nipples the same red. A sexual being. A start to a new woman.

  “Hurry up.” Dan put his big hand on the curve of her waist, flipping her to her back and then coming between her legs. “I want to get inside of you.”

  His knees pushed her legs wide. His penis took aim, headed in.

  “Wait.” Tracy placed her palm on his chest, keeping him at bay. “Protection.”

  The man blinked. “What? Protection?”

  “Condoms. I don’t know where you’ve been sleeping.”

  His jaw tensed. “Tracy—”

  “No condom, no come.” She was pretty pleased with the pithy phrase, even though her blood was screaming to get on with it, for him to get on her.

  “Where the hell do you expect me—?”

  “My son’s bathroom.” At least he wasn’t carrying them in his pockets. Or at least he pretended he wasn’t. “Right across the hall.”

  He didn’t say he knew where Harry’s bathroom was. He didn’t protest about the protection any longer. Instead he vaulted off the bed and then returned in a flash, foil packets spread like a poker hand in his fingers.

  “Feeling lucky?” she asked.

  “No. But I feel like screwing.” His head lowered. His body lowered. His latex-covered erection felt like heaven against her wetness. “I feel like screwing you.”

  They didn’t use each other’s names.

  They didn’t say much of anything.

  Instead, palm to palm, fingers gripping hard, they tumbled on the bed, trembled in each other’s arms, worked hard for release.

  Tracy—still not recognizing herself or her lust—turned her head and bit the pillow to keep from screaming when she came.

  Dan bit her shoulder as he finished.

  Then they were on their backs, side-by-side, not touching. Separate again.

  A familiar position.

  When he turned to his side to look at her, she kept her gaze on the ceiling.

  “We haven’t—”

  “No.” They hadn’t fixed anything.

  “I won’t apologize.”

  “Don’t.” Amazingly, she’d wanted it as much as he.

  He rolled off the bed, then reached for his clothes. She watched the newly firm curve of his butt until it was hidden behind his jeans. He pulled his key ring from his front pocket.

  There were keys on it she didn’t recognize.

  Just as she didn’t recognize herself.

  She hated him all over again.

  But she curled into a C to keep the anger inside her and bit back her crone shriek as he let himself out of what had once been their house.

  * * *

  Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas

  Facts & Fun Calendar

  December 10

  Santa Claus’s history traces back to a fourth-century bishop named St. Nicholas. He was credited with bringing three boys back to life, and
thus became the patron saint of children.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Finn watched Tanner slide a cup of coffee onto the bar in front of him, lining it up with the Coke, 7-Up, and glass of iced virgin Bloody Mary already waiting there. He’d been too restless to sit around Gram’s house all evening, but he’d made himself a promise to avoid hitting the alcohol. Two binges a month were his limit.

  Not to mention the trouble he’d gotten into last time he was drunk. Tonight he was determined to keep himself jam-free.

  Maybe a bar wasn’t the best destination for him, but after Gram had gone to bed, within minutes he’d been sick of his own company and the replays of past and recent life experiences that continued to run through his brain. The only relief he’d come up with was to leave the house in search of safe, like-minded company.

  Tanner was the other most messed-up man he knew.

  Finn cupped his palms around the hot ceramic mug. “The Mad Gift Giver struck again.”

  Tanner shook back his newly long, pretty-boy blond hair. “What now?”

  “Late Friday afternoon, when Gram and I came back from her doctor’s appointment—”

  “Anything new there?”

  Finn focused on his coffee, edging it closer to the Coke so that there was equal distance between his beverages. “No. I told you. She’s on the road to recovery. As I was saying though, when we came home from her doctor’s appointment, there was a set of knight’s armor waiting for me on the porch.”

  “Need I ask? Real knight’s armor?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, though it looks museum quality to my admittedly untrained eye. It’s life-sized and filled with Tootsie Rolls from metal heels to metal helmet.”

  Tanner swigged down half a glass of ice water. “Good candy choice, at least.”

  “She must be nervous about coming by the bar because there was also something left for you.”

  The other man carefully set the glass down. “Don’t tell me what it is.”

  Finn couldn’t help his grin. It had been a good idea to come to the bar and hang with his buddy. “One of those big, five-pound—”

  “I said don’t tell me!”

  “—candy Kisses.”

  “Shit.” Tanner rubbed his hand over his face, jostling all that Hollywood hair. “You had to do it. You had to tell me. My life sucks.”

  Finn could only shake his head. Eleven months ago they’d been on the same diplomatic protective detail. But while Finn had been outside the fund raiser when the assassin had fired at the prince, Tanner had been stuck inside. Tanner Hart, the youngest member of the famous, multigenerational family of Hart military heroes, had become infamous for the big ol’ wet one the prince’s daughter had laid on him while all hell was breaking loose outside. Cameras had caught both ends of the action.

  Tanner had been guilty of nothing more than following the plan and sticking close to the spoiled young woman who was the product of a brief marriage between the Middle Eastern prince and an American model. One look at the tabloid photos published all over the globe, however, and he had resigned from the Secret Service. It hadn’t cooled the international gossip for an instant.

  Tanner had yet to get his head screwed on straight about his lack of culpability regarding the tragic results of that night, but Finn was giving him time. If something didn’t happen soon, though, he’d make it his New Year’s resolution to fix his friend.

  One of them had to get back to normal.

  “That woman is the devil,” Tanner muttered.

  At that moment, his brother Troy passed by. “Who?”

  Tanner busied himself with a bar rag. “That damn Desirée.”

  “She might be a pain in the ass, but you have to admit she’s a looker,” Troy said.

  The younger Hart froze. “When have you seen her?”

  Troy shrugged, a mountain of shaved-head macho marine. “What do you mean? The photos, of course.”

  His brother’s blue eyes narrowed. Like Finn, he’d been trained to discern the smallest thing out of place. There was an odd twitch along Troy’s jaw.

  “Tell me she hasn’t been by here,” Tanner demanded.

  “She hasn’t.”

  Tanner groaned. “Well she will. And I’m warning you, Troy. Don’t even let her in the door. She’s trouble with a fucking, capital T.”

  “Little bro, what is she, like fourteen or something?”

  “She’s over twenty-one. And though she might look all innocent with those big eyes and long hair, I tell you, she’s the devil. Just wait, you’ll find out. I dare you to try kicking her out when she comes in and you’ll see just how pigheaded she is.”

  Troy waved his brother’s warning away. “I’m a marine. I can handle one little half princess.”

  Tanner groaned again. “Trouble, I’m telling you. With a capital T.”

  Finn couldn’t help but silently laugh at the note of concern in Tanner’s voice and the ill-fated confidence in Troy’s. Poor guys. The things that a woman could do to a man.

  Then a feminine voice sounded in his ear. “I hope Tanner doesn’t mean me.”

  Finn’s head whipped left. His amusement died. She’d come up on his blind side. Bailey—his own personal devil—Sullivan.

  “Whoops. Gotta go,” he said, starting to slip off the bar stool. He’d left Gram’s because it made him edgy being so close to the Girl Next Door. Getting snarled with her had already proved to be too damn easy, and being her bar buddy would only make it easier.

  She grabbed his wrist. “Finn…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned at his hand. “I just realized. Where are your tattoos?”

  He flexed his fingers. They were bare of embellishment, except for the heavy signet ring he wore on his left pinkie. In the old days, his knuckles had been perma-inked with skulls, dots, and cryptic messages, most of which only made sense if you were young, stupid, and drinking beer.

  “I had them lasered off before I applied to the Secret Service.”

  “Ouch.” Bailey winced. “So they’re all gone?”

  “Mmm.” Pulling his hand free of hers, he stood. “Now I really do have to go.”

  “A date with Fran?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, The Nanny.”

  He looked into Bailey’s upturned face and noted the sleek fall of her blond hair, the darkened lashes, the kiss-me color of her mouth. His gaze dropped. Since she’d returned to Coronado, he’d yet to see her in anything beside pants and jeans.

  Now here she was, in a red sweater and a short black skirt that exposed plenty of her slender legs, one crossed over the other. Swinging back and forth was one small foot encased in a dominatrix shoe that was all tall stacked heel and B&D black straps.

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you want, GND?” Despite her second appearance at Hart’s, he didn’t think she’d come for the ambience, unless the sound of clacking billiard balls was suddenly a Bailey turn-on.

  “Well…” She leaned her elbow on the bar, and her tongue swiped the gloss on her lower lip.

  His blood rushed south, as well as the intelligent instinct to run. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, but that didn’t erase the tactile memory of the silky softness of her bare legs. Making love with Bailey had always begun with slow, heated kisses. The kind of kisses he never tried to rush, even though his teenage hormones were screaming, In! In! In!

  Once her mouth was red and swollen, her lips trying to follow his as he lifted them away, he’d allow himself to touch her body. A hand over her breast or his fingers sliding along the damp small of her back. More kissing. When he’d finally move to bare her, she would squeeze shut her eyes, tight enough to make sunburst lines at their far corners.

  He’d unbutton her shirt. Unhook her bra. Catch the elastic edges of her panties and draw them down her legs. And because Bailey was still flying blind, he found he could deliberately run his palms up her legs and spread them without her protest or any sort of modest resistance. Maybe she pret
ended it was happening to someone else. Maybe she avoided embarrassment that way.

  Whatever the reason, his heart would be slamming against his chest and his blood would be rushing in his ears as he pushed against the silky skin of her inner thighs…and then looked his fill. He supposed she didn’t know how his heart would stop, his air back up in his lungs as he traced with his eyes the blond curls and the petaled wetness of her sex.

  Then he’d reach out a finger—one of his rough fingers with its even rougher-looking black tattoos—and bathe the tip in her arousal so he could paint her folds with it. One finger became two and he didn’t think she ever knew that he would always suck her taste from them before donning a condom and beginning the slow slide inside her heated body.

  Then her eyes would fly open, but only for a moment. As if reassured that it was her bad boy covering her, she’d release a little sigh and he’d complete the journey. The In! In! In! screamers inside him would sigh too, and settle.

  Inside Bailey, they’d say, as if all was right with the world. Inside Bailey.

  “You were so…cute with the little kids the other day at The Perfect Christmas,” this open-eyed Bailey now said. “I should have thanked you more. Several people have stopped in to comment on what an excellent job you did.”

  The kids had been cute, not Finn, and she knew it. He sighed, even more wary. “Back to the original question. What do you want, Bailey?”

  She made another swipe of her mouth with her tongue. Witch. “Would you consider a reprise of your role as Santa?”

  “No.”

  Tanner had quit arguing with his brother and turned his attention to them. He was smirking. “Finn? Santa?”

  “Ho ho ho,” he answered. “But I’m not doing it again.”

  “Please, Finn.” She put her hand on his forearm. “I didn’t want to have to ask, but Byron’s surfing at Swami’s Beach tomorrow, so I’m desperate. It’s either you or me, or…” Her head turned so that her gaze included Tanner.

  Finn stood. It wasn’t that it bothered him she was looking farther afield. It was that it released him from looking at her anymore: her mouth, that skirt, those legs. So “See you later,” he said, and made for the exit.