Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style

by Lori Copeland

  “Do you have your tree up yet?”

  “Haven’t had a chance.”

  “The bank has a huge one and since you spend so much time there, I guess it’s kind of like having your own.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “I love trees myself. It’s my favorite part of Christmas. They look so fresh and green. And the smell…” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and drank in the mingling of sharp pine and him—warm male and the faintest hint of leather.

  Her eyes opened and for the first time, she caught him looking at her. Staring, actually, his smoky gray eyes fixed on her expanded bosom. This was more like it.

  She took another deep breath just to watch his eyes widen. A spurt of pure feminine power went through her and made her forget all about her aching feet. Maybe there was something to this vixen business, after all.

  Only one way to find out.

  Twenty-eight.

  “And the decorating…” She licked her lips and searched her brain for something… suggestive. “There’s nothing like stringing lights and…” Her gaze lit on the box of ornaments. “And hanging balls.” She grabbed the delicate glass, cupped it in her hand and stroked the smooth surface. “I just love balls. They’re so…round.”

  “Balls usually are.”

  “And smooth.”

  “That, too.” He frowned. “Have you been drinking Myrtle’s eggnog?”

  “Champagne.”

  “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Why you’re acting so…funny.”

  Funny? Five hours with Bedroom Know-how and he thought she was acting funny? “For your information, I’m acting seductive. Not that you would know seductive if it hit you on the head.” The anxiety and frustration of the past week boiled over. “Five days! Five days of strutting around and stuffing myself into skintight clothes and licking my lips and batting my eyes and puffing out my chest and all so you can stand here and say I’m acting funny. Do you know how much work seduction is?”

  He gave her a blank look. “You’re trying to seduce me?”

  “Damned hard work, that’s what it is. An hour with the hair, two hours with the makeup, and we won’t even talk about the mud mask I did last night that dried so tightly my eyelids stuck together.”

  Blank turned to serious intent. “Winnie.”

  “And all so you would take the hint and kiss me. Is that too much to ask? Just one—”

  “Winnie!”

  “—kiss and then—”

  “Winnie!”

  Her gaze swiveled toward him. “What?”

  “Shut up.” He caught her face with his hands and his hungry lips captured hers.

  What the hell are you doing?

  The question registered in Trace’s brain, a last-minute attempt to keep him from forgetting his objective: distance.

  But then Winnie’s soft, full lips parted, and Trace forgot everything except the sweet taste of her.

  He got lost in that kiss. In the taste of sweet champagne and warm woman, the scent of ripe strawberries mixed with the faintest hint of perfume, the feel of her luscious mouth touching and teasing his own, her tongue rubbing up against his. He had the fleeting thought that he’d never kissed a woman quite like this, quite like her, but then she pressed all those ripe curves against him and he stopped thinking altogether.

  His hands slid down her back, along her ribs, dipped at her waist, spanned the outer curve of her hips. His fingers caught the edge of the hem and he couldn’t help himself, he tugged, pulling her dress high, higher, until his palm rested against the warm flesh at the top of her stockings.

  She moaned into his mouth and heat speared him. It had been so long and he’d never felt a woman this soft, this warm, this responsive.

  “We’re only supposed to kiss,” she panted as his lips slid to her neck.

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just a kiss.”

  “Just one kiss.”

  “One long kiss.” And then his lips found hers again.

  “Okay,” she finally breathed when he pulled away. “To hell with one kiss.” She grabbed at his clothing. “I really want you.”

  “I really want you.” Even as the words burst from his lips, he damned himself for them.

  He couldn’t, he shouldn’t… He had to, otherwise he was going up in a burst of flames. “I really, really want you.”

  “I know.” She pressed against him, her hips cradling his. “I never knew it could get this big.”

  Well, he was a fair size.

  “Or this hard.”

  It had been a long time.

  “Or this…messy.”

  Sure it was… What? He put her away from him and stared down at the stain on his pants.

  “I don’t believe it.” Her beautiful lips parted in wonder. “It really worked.”

  “It didn’t work. That’s the problem.”

  “Not it as in it. It as in a press and shimmy guaranteed to rock his jimmy…”

  Winnie’s excited chant faded into the furious pounding of his heart as two things registered. First off, his jimmy didn’t feel the least bit rocked. Pained, maybe. Huge. Desperate. Far from rocked.

  Point two, the stain was growing before his eyes and smelling suspiciously like…

  Relief swept through him, followed by an enormous ache. While his ego had been appeased, his body was far from it.

  “Dippity-Do?” she asked when he pulled the megasized tube from his pocket.

  “Dorine only stocks the supersize and I never leave home without it.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks flushed an enticing shade of rose and pumped up his blood pressure which had lowered with the momentary distraction. A distraction that should have sent him running for the door. But he was too aroused, too stirred, and too set on finishing what she’d started.

  “I’m sorry, I thought—”

  “You know, you look real pretty when you blush.” He pulled her close. “And I’d really like another up close and personal demonstration of that press and shimmy move. It went a little too fast the first time.”

  She smiled and started to demonstrate, but hesitated. “Don’t you want to empty the other pocket?”

  “It is empty.”

  “Oh—”

  He caught the word against his lips as he devoured her again, her scent, her taste, her nearness driving him crazy.

  Before he could stop himself, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. He peeled the stockings down her legs, relished the sound of her soft sighs as his fingertips brushed sensitive areas. She closed her eyes, her arms above her head, breasts lifted in blissful surrender, the nipples tight and pebbled against the red Lycra.

  Whoa, cowboy.

  The command echoed through his head, but he was past the point of heeding it. He hadn’t yet had the pleasure of seeing her beautiful breasts, let alone feeling them. Tight and puckered against his chest, ripening beneath his tongue.

  His fingers hooked the neckline of her dress and, rather than peel the damned thing over her head, he pulled the fabric down, until it bunched beneath both breasts and plumped them. He dipped his head and drew one eager tip into his mouth.

  She arched beneath him as he licked, savored, suckled. His hands started an exploration of their own. She had the smoothest thighs, so soft and pliant and she was so warm.

  His fingers climbed higher in a desperate search mission that pushed her dress up, until he found his target—the warm heart of her barely covered by a pair of skimpy lace panties.

  One fingertip hooked around the edge and pushed beneath. She was so warm and steamy and moist. He pushed deeper into her and she cried out.

  The sound zapped enough sanity into his passionfogged brain for him to pull back and slow down. Despite her luscious body, her fierce response and her claim to fame as a newly born vixen, she wasn’t near as experienced as she pretended to be.

  Trace had played one too many games of checkers with Miss Winnie Becker not to see the real wo
man beneath the facade.

  Soft. Sweet. Shy.

  “More!” Her legs opened wider as she arched into his hand.

  Okay, not so shy.

  “Now!”

  Make that impatient.

  “Please!”

  He rose and shrugged out of his shirt, popping a few buttons in the process, his gaze never leaving the delectable image of her, the dress crumpled around her waist, her legs spread, her breasts full and aroused. More than that, it was the gaze she turned on him, eyes deep and glittering and hot, that made him want her even more.

  His erection strained against his pants, making the zipper difficult, but finally metal hissed and he sprang forward. His pants and briefs became ancient history. Impatient fingers slid on a condom. Then he was over her, kissing her, working her into a frenzy until she squirmed and cried and clutched at his shoulders.

  “Trace, please.”

  Trace. The name echoed through his head, prickling his damned conscience.

  “I’m a cowboy,” he blurted, his chest heaving, his arms braced on either side of her, every muscle in his body taut to keep from sinking into her.

  “I know.” She grasped his hips and tried to pull him closer.

  “I’m a cowboy,” he repeated, paused at her hot entrance. “The suit, the hair gel, it was all just a put on because Ezra said you were coming here to marry me.”

  “I know.”

  “I tried to avoid you,” he rushed on, “but you kept coming, and then you caught up with me at the Christmas party and told me all about Arthur, so I figured I’d show up looking like him and it would scare you off.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m a five-time world champion, all right—bull rider, that is. I haven’t played checkers in twenty years. I don’t even like checkers—” The words tumbled into one another as he stared down at her. “You know?”

  “I know.” Her gaze darkened, her arms snaked around his neck and she bowed toward him. “Could we please get on with this before I lose my mind?”

  His answer was to sink into her.

  A groan issued from his throat, mingling with the deep sigh that passed her lips.

  She knew. The truth echoed through his head, stirring dozens of questions, but then she lifted her hips, drew him deeper, and Trace stopped thinking.

  He thrust into her, pumping hard, driving them both higher and higher until her sweet cry echoed in his ears. Then he plunged one final time and gave himself up to the best orgasm of his life.

  IT WAS NOT the best orgasm of his life.

  Trace told himself that the following morning as he slipped from Winnie’s arms and retrieved his clothes.

  The best?

  Only to a man who’d gone without for two years. Why, when he’d sunk his teeth into that first steak after eating hospital food day after day for three months, he’d been in heaven, too. But he certainly hadn’t gone off and done anything foolish like invest in a herd of cattle just so he could eat steak every night.

  He didn’t have time to handle his own herd, not to mention he hadn’t the slightest interest in settling down and running cattle like some shriveled-up cowboy who’d been thrown one too many times.

  He still had a few good rides left in him, enough for another PRCA championship and the chance to do his daddy proud.

  The trouble was, when he looked at Winnie, he forgot about all that, and the only ride he thought of was having her sweet body on top of him, her breasts swaying with the rhythm of their lovemaking, her head thrown back, her lips parted in rapture.

  Hell, it was just one night, he told himself as he slid on his pants and reached for his shirt.

  No big deal. A far cry from the best, and even if it had been the best and he wanted more than one night—like maybe two or three, or even the whole damned five before he packed his bags and headed for Denver—no way was he going to get it. She knew the truth, and while she hadn’t made a big deal last night, he knew it was just because she hadn’t fully comprehended what he’d said. Once she had a chance to think about it, she’d be mad. Furious. She’d push him away faster than a bull could throw Shermin.

  Fine by him.

  Her soft breaths pushed into his ears, begging him back toward the bed. He stiffened, busying himself with his shoes. He was leaving. Now. Before he did something really stupid like crawl back into bed with her and wake her up with a long, slow kiss and the deep thrust of his body. Despite the past night, the urge was still strong, desperate, dangerous.

  Yep, Winnie was dangerous all right. Which was why he wasn’t going to look.

  Damn, but she was beautiful, her fiery hair spread out over the pillow, her skin milky white and pale against the red sheets. And sexy, with her arms tossed over her head, the tip of one breast peeking above the edge of the sheet.

  He closed his eyes, leaned over and tugged the sheet higher. There. No temptation. No fall from grace.

  His eyes opened and her lips, parted and soft, were right there and he couldn’t help himself. He kissed her. A quick kiss. Not half of what he wanted, which was the whole point. Discipline. Willpower. Determination.

  He pulled away and headed for the door, and safety.

  Because Trace Honeycutt didn’t have room in his life for a woman. Especially one who turned him on with her seductive smiles and her luscious curves, and turned him inside out with one glance of her bright grass-green eyes.

  But damned if he didn’t suddenly want one.

  I KNOW?

  Winnie listened to the grumble of Trace’s pickup, her lips still tingling from his goodbye kiss, and gave herself a great big mental kick in the caboose.

  No, “The jig is up and you lose, buster.” Just that desperate, breathless, “I know,” before she’d pulled him back into her arms, and deep, deep inside her.

  What had happened to her anger? Her body throbbed in answer.

  Hormones, that’s what had happened. Her desperate, deprived hormones had slid into the driver’s seat the minute Trace had kissed her, and her anger had been left by the wayside.

  Not that she wasn’t still mad. She was, even if he had partly redeemed himself by admitting the truth before he’d…before they’d…

  Geez, she’d only meant to kiss him. Just one kiss to prove that he wasn’t nearly as immune to her as he wanted to be. But that one kiss had turned out to be sweeter than she’d expected, more powerful, and there’d been no turning back.

  Her body ached and tingled and she couldn’t help herself. She smiled. Never in her wildest dreams had she anticipated that sex could be so explosive.

  She and Arthur had been intimate, but it had always been so calm and sedate and controlled. She’d always felt warm and fuzzy, never red-hot and as out of control as a brush fire.

  Until last night.

  Until Trace.

  Not because of him, mind you. After eight years of Arthur, Winnie had been a sexual powder keg just waiting to explode. One really good kiss had been enough to light the fuse and BAM! She’d gone up in a blaze of lust, out of control and mindless of anything save the heat burning her up from the inside out.

  But last night was over and done with. Her control was back, her thinking clear, her lust sated and her relationship with Trace Honeycutt had come to an end. Because that’s all it had been. Lust. Pure and simple.

  “YOU’RE AWFUL QUIET,” Shermin remarked later that afternoon as he and Trace sat on the corral fence at the Broken Heart. “You and Winnie have an intense game of checkers last night?”

  “She knows.”

  “I know.”

  “I told her. But she knew before then. She—you know?” He turned a fierce stare on Shermin. “How the hell do you know that she knows, unless—”

  “It wasn’t me.” Shermin threw up his hands. “Missy told her, all I did was fill in the blanks.”

  “How much did you tell her?”

  “Just that you’re a really nice guy, but you’ve got this phobia when it comes to marriage.”

&nb
sp; A phobia? He didn’t have a phobia.

  “And that Ezra’s always fixing you up, but you find ways to get out of the date, but since you thought this was bigger than a date, you had to come up with a better plan. Hence, the nerd idea, but you’re not really a nerd. You’re a bull rider, with five championships under your belt, and you’re also quite a ladies’ man when you want to be, like that time back in the eighth grade when you went out with the Myer triplets and—”

  “Damn, Shermin, why didn’t you just tell her how we used to take baths together when we were three?” Shermin looked guilty and Trace swore.

  “Don’t get so mad. I didn’t mean to tell her anything. I was a rock for the first few minutes. Then she started going on and on about how dishonest the whole plan was, and well, it was dishonest.”

  “How long has she known?”

  “About a week or so.”

  “A week?” Since the night of their first checker game. She’d led him on and made him think she was talking about checkers when she’d really known the truth. She’d deliberately deceived him.

  Just the way he’d deceived her.

  The realization killed his anger. Or maybe it was the image of her, the way she’d been when he’d left her that morning, so soft and warm and rumpled from sleep.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked Shermin.

  “I wanted to, but I was scared you’d get mad and stop the cowboy lessons before I had a chance to learn everything. I was going to tell you after tonight though, I swear. Speaking of which, I know you’re mad, but I’ve got all of five hours to get this chewing stuff down to an art form before the hoedown starts. So please don’t bail on me.” Shermin gave him a pleading look and Trace shrugged.

  “Aw, hell, let’s see what you’re made of.” Trace pushed the image of Winnie aside and focused on Shermin who spit a stream of brown juice and whipped out a tape measure to check the distance.

  “Dam it. Not even a foot.” Shermin pocketed the measure and put more chew into his mouth. “So,” he said, his jaw working at the tobacco. “Was she really mad when she blew the cover on your scam?”

  “Mad isn’t the word I’d use.” More like Eager. Hungry. Desperate.