Christmas with a SEAL

by Tawny Weber

  “You say that as if you know me,” he noted quietly, his gaze intent.

  She opened her mouth to tell him she did before closing it again. Just because she knew him didn’t mean he knew her. She wasn’t sure they’d ever actually said more than hello to each other before tonight.

  Admitting how she knew him would mean telling him she was little Francesca Silvera, the housekeeper’s granddaughter. The tomboy who’d had a secret crush on him all the way through school. Who’d endured haystack hair for a year after dying her red curls blonde to try to look more like his prom queen girlfriend. She’d been the laughingstock of the sixth grade.

  Hey, a girl needed some secrets, right? It wasn’t as if he was ever going to come back to the Banks estate and find out who she really was. So why shouldn’t she enjoy the encounter for what it was—two people, practically strangers, who were very attracted to each other. At least, she was very attracted to him.

  Phillip was hard to read.

  “Frankie?” he prompted, his voice a little huskier than before.

  “You’ve got a polish that most guys only have if they’ve taken lessons,” she lied, giving him a saucy look. “On top of that, you definitely move like a man who knows what to do with his body.”

  “Are you flirting with me?” he asked, sounding baffled.

  Delighted, she laughed. Poor guy. He clearly hadn’t been flirted with enough in his privileged lifetime if he had to ask.

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  A tiny frown creased his brow. Before he could resolve whether he minded or not, Frankie decided to tilt the odds in her favor. She moved a little closer, her fingers sliding from his shoulder to skim along the back of his neck.

  She wet her lips, smiling a little when his gaze shifted. She’d spent many a teenage year dreaming of him looking at her this way. At first she hadn’t had a clue what she’d do if he did give her that look. But thanks to the library, HBO and three older female cousins, it wasn’t that long before she could fill in all the juicy details of her fantasy.

  And life had just handed her a golden opportunity to live out that fantasy, to get more specific about those details. She knew she would regret it if she didn’t make the most of it.

  “I don’t think flirting is a good idea,” he told her, his voice deep.

  “Oh, I beg to differ,” she said, sliding closer. Her breasts brushed his chest, but thanks to the material of her dress, all she felt was hard metal instead of the hard expanse of his sexy chest. So she shifted, pressing one thigh between the length of both of his. Oh, the delight. “Never discount the fun of flirting.”

  “Fun?”

  “You don’t think flirting is fun?”

  He looked so serious as he considered her question.

  “Flirting is usually a prelude,” he mused, his fingers flexing on her hip. Frankie wondered if he wanted to slide them down, wished he would. She’d love to feel his hand on her butt. Would he grab and squeeze, or smooth and caress?

  “A prelude to what?” she asked, her thumb circling his palm. His slacks rubbed in delicious friction against the inside of her bare thigh.

  “A prelude to trouble,” he decided with a smile, looking as if he was trying to warn her off but didn’t want to be rude.

  Ever the gentleman. Enjoying the feeling of his leg between hers, Frankie smiled. She’d always wondered if she could tempt him to lose that polite sheen. Time to find out.

  “You consider sex trouble?” she asked, her fingers skimming up and down the warm skin along the back of his neck. At the same time, she gave him her sultriest look—practiced for hours in front of her bedroom mirror—and made a show of nibbling on her bottom lip.

  His eyes narrowed, but his expression didn’t change. She was impressed. She’d only used that look on one guy before—and granted, he’d been delivering her new futon and she’d been trying to convince him to take the old couch away—but the result had been positive. He’d hauled off the couch, set up her futon and even moved her entertainment center.

  But Phillip was a military man. A Navy SEAL. A yummy challenge in the form of her dream guy. Excitement layered over desire.

  He was the answer to everything she needed.

  A sexy lover she’d been fantasizing about for most of her life. A hot, exciting man who, she was sure, in just one night would set her inspiration free.

  If Frankie could seduce a man as controlled as Phillip Banks, she knew she could seduce her own creative muse out of the cave it had been hiding in.

  “I consider anything done impetuously to have the potential for trouble,” Phillip said quietly, his words reminding her of the teasing question she’d asked. “Sex between strangers is both impetuous and ill-advised.”

  Ill-advised? Frankie’s lips twitched. He was so cute and proper.

  “Well, then, why don’t we get to know each other?” she suggested, her fingers trailing along the back of his neck. “I’m Frankie. I work with silver, love pasta and hoard cookbooks, even though I can barely boil water.”

  He looked baffled for a second, and then his eyes dropped to her dress. Since he had to look past the ample curves of her breasts to see it, she bit her lip, watching to see his reaction.

  Nothing. She frowned.

  Then his eyes met hers again and heat exploded in her belly.

  Oh, those eyes. Deep green, filled with as much passion as pain. She wanted to pull him tighter into her arms and make him forget everything except pleasure.

  “Silver? Like jewelry?”

  Frankie’s stomach clenched, the familiar knot of fear thrumming in her chest. She’d always wanted to be an artist. To stand out for her creative style and share her vision with others. Until that vision had faded.

  The answer to blocked creative energy was to refill the well. She’d tried every other option. Yoga, creative play dates with herself, changing her diet, her sleep habits and her hairstyle. Nothing had helped.

  She took a deep breath, focusing on Phillip’s face. On his steady gaze. He’d help. He was the only fantasy she’d ever had that she hadn’t lived out. As soon as she did, she was sure the block would be broken.

  “There are a lot of other things made of silver besides jewelry,” she finally said, smiling sassily. “Quirky, fun, out-of-the-box things. Art’s more fun when it’s unexpected, don’t you think?”

  She almost laughed aloud at the look on his face. Polite doubt. Then his eyes slid down her face like a gentle caress, pausing for a second on her lips before dipping lower.

  Oh. Her breath caught, her body happily sliding back over to the desire side, closing the door on all her boring doubts and worries. No, being turned on was much more fun.

  Even more fun?

  Turning Phillip on.

  Hoping she could, Frankie took a deep breath, letting the cool air work its magic on her breasts, pressing them closer to his chest.

  His eyes met hers, desire clear in the green depths.

  “Did you make your dress?” he asked, sounding so normal she had to blink and wonder if she’d misread that look.

  She shifted so her thigh rubbed against his, her hip brushing the front of his slacks. Heat exploded in her belly, sending awareness through her body.

  He might sound indifferent, but he was rock hard.

  So she could listen to his tone, or something else.

  The choice was a no-brainer.

  “I didn’t make the dress, no. If I had, I’d have made sure it was a little more secure,” she said, shrugging one shoulder so the strap slipped just a little. “It’s heavy and it’s so loose on top that I’m sure one wrong move and the whole thing will end up on the floor.”

  Or one right move.

  Phillip looked as though she’d smacked him upside the head. His eyes went dark and his breath ca
ught as the image took hold.

  Frankie pressed her tongue against her upper lip, enjoying his reaction.

  “So now you know about me. Tell me about you and then we won’t be strangers anymore.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “No? I must have misunderstood,” she teased, not wanting to give away why she really knew so much about him. Tell a guy you knew he wore boxers and size-thirteen boots and liked his waffles with chopped bananas and he’d be bound to get crazy ideas and call her a stalker. “So you’re not a SEAL? You have no stories about growing up with Lara? You don’t have any hobbies or interests?”

  His lips quirked.

  “I am a SEAL, and what I do tends to be classified. If I told stories about Lara, she’d likely tell some about me. I don’t remember any embarrassing ones, but I’m sure she can. And no, I don’t have any hobbies.”

  His hands shifted from her waist to cup her hips, his fingers brushing the top curve of her butt.

  “And interests?” Frankie asked, her words just above a whisper.

  “Right now my only interest is you,” he confessed quietly, his body moving against hers in time with the melody coming from the outdoor speakers.

  “See, this kind of trouble, it’s good,” she told him, surprised she could even form words. Her heart was racing, her pulse dancing way too fast for the music. Her stomach was knotted, but she was too overwhelmed to tell if it was nerves or excitement.

  “You think so?” he asked as his lips brushed over hers. Soft, so gentle that she almost whimpered at the sweetness. And almost groaned when he pulled away.

  Oh, yeah. He was worth the trouble. Her breath a little shaky, Frankie leaned back to stare at Phillip, trying to gauge his thoughts. Or, more important, his decision on whether she was worth the trouble.

  “Wanna leave?” She figured she’d better do the asking, since she knew he wouldn’t.

  Good guys, proper guys like Phillip, they didn’t suggest one-night stands with women they thought were strangers. She’d wondered if his years in the Navy had changed that. She was glad it hadn’t, but man, it would’ve been so much easier if he just grabbed her and dragged her away.

  Since he wouldn’t, she decided she would.

  “Come on,” she insisted, ignoring the chill as she stepped out of his arms and grabbed his hand. She turned toward the elevator, but her feet were frozen to the floor.

  “Frankie...”

  If she hesitated, he’d say goodbye. He’d go back inside, say goodbye and that would be it. She wet her lips, tasting him.

  She wanted him even more now than she’d ever dreamed she could. But nowhere in her imagination had she fantasized about dragging him off to sexual nirvana. It was a little unnerving. But not once in any of her fantasies had she chickened out.

  So...

  “Come on,” she said again, tugging his hand. She stopped to grab their glasses and what was left of the champagne, then tilted her head toward the elevator.

  “Let’s see how exciting trouble can be,” she suggested.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Phillip murmured, looking back at the party as though he might actually consider joining the conga line to escape.

  “Why?” Frankie asked, coming around to face him, so close the metal disks of her dress were probably leaving an imprint on both of their bodies.

  “I’m not a relationship kind of guy,” he warned huskily, his gaze locked on his fingers as they trailed down her cheek, over her chin and along her throat.

  “I’m not looking for a relationship,” she told him quietly, taking his hand in hers and pressing it against the curve of her breast above her dress.

  No. She didn’t want the prince forever.

  She just wanted him for one hot night.

  * * *

  PHILLIP RACKED HIS BRAIN, wondering where the hell logic, caution and good sense had gone. Because, like Elvis, they had clearly left the building.

  For once, though, he didn’t care.

  For the first time in months, he felt alive.

  Loosed from the vicious grip of memories, his body celebrated its freedom by reminding him of all the reasons it felt great to be a man. Most of them below the belt and all of them quite happy to follow Frankie into that elevator.

  So why was he hesitating?

  He glanced at the party in the penthouse again, and closed his eyes. That was why. Family expectations, polite behavior and orders all demanded that he go back in there.

  All his life, he’d met expectations, behaved appropriately and complied with demands before they were issued. He lived for orders, had been groomed to issue them. His entire life was a lesson in discipline.

  And he was so damned tired of it.

  He looked at Frankie, watching the way the neon from the Vegas night sky played over her hair. Her eyes were like midnight, dancing with the same delight that played out over her full lips. She was sexy, so temptingly sexy.

  It wasn’t that he went through life ignoring temptation; he’d simply trained himself not to see it. But there was no denying that he saw her, in all her tempting glory. His gaze shifted from Frankie’s face, drifting down her body. Curves that even a dress of mirrors couldn’t detract from. And those legs. Phillip’s eyes shifted to take in their long, golden length. Would they feel as silky as they looked? She was on the short side, but her legs were so long. Long enough, he’d bet, to wrap around his waist.

  Want hit him hard, hotter and faster than he’d ever felt before. Lust was the only word for it. Desire was too tame, passion too soft. This was edgy, needy, demanding.

  Way too much for that simple kiss they’d shared.

  Because his profession—and his personality—demanded accuracy, he needed to find out.

  Was it really lust?

  Or was it all in his head?

  His gaze locked on hers, Phillip stepped closer. Her dress jingled and her lips parted. He took her mouth. This kiss was soft, too. A brush of the lips, sweet and tasting of champagne. He shifted the angle, his tongue sliding along the seam of her mouth.

  It was as if he’d flipped a switch.

  Hers, his, he had no idea.

  But the kiss went wild.

  She nipped at his bottom lip.

  His tongue demanded entrance, thrusting, swirling, taking. Giving. Tiny explosions, a minefield of emotional bombs, burst inside him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus.

  He could only feel, taste. Want.

  Oh, God, he wanted.

  Frankie’s arms wrapped around him, one across his shoulder so the champagne bottle she still held smacked him in the back. The other slid lower, her hand cupping, squeezing his butt.

  Phillip wanted to reciprocate.

  He wanted to touch her. To feel her skin beneath his palms, under his mouth.

  But not here.

  Somewhere private.

  Because once he started, he wasn’t going to be able to stop.

  He didn’t care whether it was lust alone or a temporary escape from the soul-deep exhaustion that had been eating way at him.

  She was the answer to the question he couldn’t face.

  A question that was tearing at his heart, cutting at his soul.

  He knew the answer was temporary.

  He didn’t care.

  For one night, he wanted—needed—what she could give him.

  Unable to resist, he backed her up against the elevator door, his hands diving into her soft cloud of hair, holding her head steady so he didn’t have to release her mouth.

  He stabbed the call button, then lost himself in the delight of her until the doors slid open.

  “Inside,” he said, guiding her into the car without taking his mouth from hers. He pressed her against the elevato
r wall as the doors closed, only letting go of her long enough to punch his floor number.

  Their tongues danced, sliding over each other in the same seamless rhythm in which their bodies had moved to the music.

  His brain was blessedly blank, all of his senses focused solely on Frankie. On how she felt. On how she made him feel.

  Incredible.

  Then she gently took his hand from her hair, sliding it down her face, over her throat. She didn’t stop until his knuckles were brushing the soft flesh of her breasts, just where her dress started.

  Phillip barely bit back a groan, his fingers itching to touch more. To slip beneath her dress and feel her skin, to rub his thumb over her nipple and feel it bead beneath his flesh.

  But they were in an elevator. And he was only three floors down.

  Then Frankie shrugged, proving once again that her dress wasn’t fitted. The heavy fabric slid off her shoulder, the strap catching on her elbow.

  And baring one breast.

  He hated to leave the delicious haven of her lips, but he had to look. Just had to.

  With one last slide of his tongue over her lower lip, he leaned back, his eyes dropping.

  Holy hell, she was gorgeous.

  Milky pale, with a glistening of freckles, her breast was full, the tip light coral, beaded and begging.

  Unable to resist, he brushed the tip of his finger over her nipple.

  Her breath caught on a whimper.

  He heard a ding, vaguely realizing they’d reached his floor.

  But he couldn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t resist rubbing the pebbled velvet again. He felt her breath catch against his lips and reveled in her reaction. Power, intense and gratifying, surged through him. Her fingers dug into his arms, kneading, then soothing.

  He heard a vague ding again as he slid his lips down the slender length of her neck, breathing in her scent. Flowers and moonlight, sweet and mysterious. He wanted to lose himself in her.

  “More,” she murmured, her hands shoving at his waist to get beneath his sweater. Her fingers were like fire on his skin, making him want things he’d never wanted before. Making him need things he’d never imagined.

  “Much more,” she purred as his lips skimmed down her shoulder. His hand was on the strap of her dress, ready to push it down and feast, when he heard a loud bang.