Still, he had to be sure. “Tatum, I’m not sure—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “If the answer’s no, just say it. Otherwise, I’d rather we didn’t do much talking.”
He raised an eyebrow. Because talking meant thinking. And she’d already made it clear she didn’t want to overthink this. He should tell her no and walk away. Instead, he was going to give her what she wanted, what he wanted. “I’m not saying no.” He tilted her head back, making sure she was listening. “You want me to kiss you, Tatum? To touch you?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Yes.” The quiver in her voice shook him, stirring a possessiveness he hadn’t felt since they were young and in love. He swallowed back the wash of memories—and regret—and focused on the job at hand.
She wanted to feel alive. He’d give it his all. And enjoy every damn minute of it.
His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tracing her lower lip before he pressed his mouth to hers. His lips parted hers, sealing their mouths and mixing their breaths. When she trembled, he smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him. She was soft and warm, moving against him and gripping his shirt. He kissed her until she was clinging to him, her body molding to his, her tongue making him dizzy. Whatever she wanted, he’d give her.
He paused long enough to turn off the stove and swing her up into his arms. She twined her arms around his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair as he carried her into the living room. He set her on her feet long enough to toss the couch cushions onto the floor in front of the fire, then knelt in front of her.
His hands settled at her waist, working the fabric of her top free from the waist of her leggings. Her skin contracted beneath his fingertips, quivering. He looked up at her as his mouth brushed across her bare abdomen. She gasped, her fingers running through his hair. His lips skimmed her stomach, her waist. Her fingers tightened, tugging. He was mesmerized by the wonder on her face and the feel of her skin. Soft as silk. His hands slid up her sides and around her back, his fingers exploring every bump of her spine.
Her hands moved, settling on his shoulders to fist in the fabric of his shirt.
He lifted her hands, kissing each finger before pulling his shirt off. Her reaction was unexpected. He wanted her to touch him, hoped she would. Instead, she stared at him, slowly dropping to her knees. Her breathing was erratic, so rapid he worried she’d hyperventilate. Her hands stayed put, pressed flat against her thighs.
“Breathe, Tatum,” he whispered.
She nodded, staring at his chest.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, still staring at his chest.
Tatum had never shied away from telling him what she wanted. There’d been times he’d had to put on the brakes. But now she seemed hesitant. “Want me to put my shirt back on?”
She shook her head. “No,” she croaked.
“Talk to me,” he encouraged, taking her hand. How many times had they ended up twined together, too caught up to know where one ended and the other began? It had been natural between them, easy. But now she seemed uncertain and it tore him up inside. “Tell me what you want. What you like.”
She looked at him, blinking rapidly, but said nothing.
He pressed her hand against his chest. Her gaze fixed on her hand, her lips parting as her fingers traced the valley between his pectorals. “Whatever you want, Tatum...” He couldn’t finish his sentence. The way she was looking at him made it impossible for him to say a word.
Her breathing echoed in the quite room, her attention focused solely on his bare chest and stomach. He was spellbound by the fascination on her face.
One second she was sitting there, facing him, her touch tentative. The next he was lying back on the pile of pillows, her hesitation replaced by desperate curiosity. He watched her expression, aware of every move her hands and fingers made. She bent over him, her long golden hair spilling onto his stomach as her lips and tongue explored the super-sensitized flesh of his nipple.
He reached up to thread his fingers in her hair, absorbing every caress and stroke. She took her time, exploring every inch of him with her soft hands and mouth. Her teeth nipped his side, her nails ran the length of his arms, and she kissed and sucked her way down his abdomen. He could barely breathe. Her tongue dipped into his belly button and he arched into her, groaning as her warm mouth brushed across his skin. “Dammit, Tatum.”
She unfastened his pants, clasping the waist of his jeans and tugging his boxers off with them. She sat back on her heels then, staring at his prominent erection. No way could she miss the way he was throbbing, aching, for her. He shuddered as her fingers lightly stroked the length of him. But the noise she made, a strange broken cry, drew his focus back to her.
She tugged her shirt off, standing to remove her pants. She wavered on unsteady legs, so he sat up and helped her frantically peel off the two pairs of leggings and more socks. When she was as naked as he was, he had to touch her. He buried his face against her side, pressing a kiss against the swell of her hip, before pulling her down with him. Her lips found his, their tongues touching and stroking. He slid his hand through her hair, holding her close, savoring the taste of her as every curve and angle of her body fitted against his.
He didn’t know how much more he could take. He needed her, needed to be inside of her, now. But that wouldn’t be fair. He’d barely touched her. He wanted to touch her. And clearly, she needed to be touched. He wanted to make her fall apart, to lose control, to find a release. Again and again.
His hand cupped her breast, drawing her nipple deep into his mouth. She made that strange little cry again. He looked at her, at the way she bit her lower lip.
“I want to hear you,” he murmured. “I want to know when you like something.”
He rolled her nipple between his fingers and thumb, watching her. His tongue flicked the tip. She groaned, crying out when his mouth latched on to the other nipple.
He lifted her arms over her head, kissing along her sides, sucking the skin until he knew he’d leave marks. His hands were busy too, stroking the curve of her hip, the underside of her breast, the soft skin of her inner thigh. When his fingers traced the slick flesh between her legs, she made that strangled cry.
“Don’t hold back, Tatum,” he demanded, stroking the nub of nerves at her core. “Not with me.” His finger parted her, sliding deep. He groaned at the feel of her, closing his eyes at her tight heat gloving his finger. He moved, stroking her skin, filling her. His thumb set an urgent rhythm against the taut bud, his finger doing the job his body ached to do. And the sounds she made... Pure torture.
Her hands gripped his shoulders as she arched into his touch. He cupped her breast, gently running his teeth over the tip as he added another finger. She was so tight around him. He groaned, burying his face against her breast and gritting his teeth against the need to bury himself inside of her. “You feel so good.” He all but growled the words.
She cried out, long and ragged. He watched her face as her body contracted around his fingers. She grabbed his arm, holding his hand in place as she rode out her climax. It was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen. She was beautiful. So damn beautiful. And he wanted to see that look, that stunned, frantic release, on her face again.
She opened her eyes, gasping. “That was so...so much better than a vibrator.”
He was so surprised, he laughed. And then she was laughing too.
3
TATUM STARED AT the boxes of decorations she’d pulled from the attic. They’d been buried, covered in junk and a layer of dust. But now the wreath hung over the fireplace, its colored glass balls aglow from the white lights inside. The Christmas village was arranged on the side table and she’d unpacked the train that would go around the Christmas tree. These were the things her father had delighted in... Seeing them made
her think of him and happier times.
Now all she needed was a tree.
The repairman had arrived first thing. Nothing like working heat and electric, Christmas decorations, carols and a solid night’s sleep to help dispel some of her moodiness.
Or the mind-blowing orgasm courtesy of Spencer. But last night had been wrong. A huge mistake. He’d caught her when she was vulnerable and needy... And it had been the single most erotic moment of her life.
Not that it would ever—ever—happen again. She’d been arguing with herself all morning. What had she been thinking? Why had things gotten so carried away?
And then she’d remember the feel of him, the things he’d done to her, and all her arguments faded away.
She’d been gasping, still clinging to him, when his cell phone chirped. His posture had changed instantly, his forehead creasing. “Shit,” he’d muttered.
“Something wrong?” she’d asked, wishing she was still in touch with her inner teenager enough to ask him to stay and give her another orgasm—or two.
“Work,” he’d groaned, nuzzling her breast again.
Her fingers had slipped through his tangled black hair. “If you ignore it, will they go away?” Please tell me they’ll go away.
He’d chuckled, then groaned again, his breath brushing her nipples and his hand stroking along her belly. “I wish. They call, I go. Dammit.”
She tugged the plaid throw over her nakedness, watching him dress with a mixture of appreciation and disappointment. In that moment, disappointment won. She hadn’t wanted him to go. From the bulge in his pants, she knew he didn’t want to go. And when he’d looked at her, there was no denying how badly he wanted to stay. He’d kissed her, once, so hard and deep she moaned. Which made him mutter “Dammit” again before stomping out.
She’d lain on her nest of pillows hoping he’d reappear. But he hadn’t come back and she’d eventually crawled into her bed, buried in quilts and oh so lonely.
She’d woken up with the echo of his fingers on her skin. She could still feel him, taste him... All morning she’d thought of things she wished she’d done. It wasn’t the regret she was expecting, but it was still regret. He’d been her own personal playground and she’d only been allowed on one ride—a ride that had been cut short.
After living in a state of denial, her body was ready to give in, let go and thoroughly enjoy what Spencer was willing to offer her. Too bad she’d said once.
Of course, they hadn’t actually slept together so...
No. God no. What was she thinking?
“Tatum?” She heard the singsong voice through her front door. “Are you decent? It’s Mrs. Ryan, dear, from across the street.”
She blushed. Spencer’s mother. “Coming,” she called out, smoothing her red tunic into place and running a quick hand over her hair and the long beaded necklace she wore. Appearance was important. First her mother, then Brent had insisted she always look her best. And now that Spencer’s mother was on the front porch, she was glad of it.
She pulled open the door to find Mrs. Ryan and Lucy Ryan, Spencer’s cousin. Lucy was the one person she’d kept in contact with from Greyson—the one person Tatum had always counted a true friend. But after Lucy had come to visit her and Brent, their emails and phone calls grew further apart. Brent hadn’t liked Lucy and made it clear he didn’t approve of their friendship. And, sadly, Tatum hadn’t fought to preserve or defend their friendship.
“Tatum!” Lucy squealed, her gray eyes widening at the sight of her.
“Lucy? Oh, Lucy,” she answered, laughing when Lucy hugged her tight.
“I hadn’t heard from you in a while.” Lucy’s voice was muffled. “It’s so good to see you.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I guess I’ve sort of been in hiding.”
Lucy let go of her and Mrs. Ryan hugged her gently. “Well, you’re home now and that’s all that matters,” the older woman said.
“We brought you cookies,” Lucy said, offering her a huge basket overflowing with cookies, breads, some wine and fruit.
“Well...thank you,” Tatum said, taking the basket. “Come in, please.”
That was when she saw Spencer coming up the path. It hadn’t been her imagination. He really was the hottest thing she’d seen in real life. And watching him stroll up her path, all bad boy and muscled body... The phantom heat of his fingers inside her body had her throbbing for his touch and aching for more. Sticking to “once” was going to be hard.
Especially if one of them didn’t move out.
“Hurry up, Spencer,” Lucy called. “It’s cold.”
Spencer took the steps two at a time, striding into the living room before Tatum could react. He hugged her, casually, his scent flooding her nostrils. “Morning, Tatum,” he said tightly, his blue eyes staring into hers.
She nodded, reeling from the effect of his quick embrace.
“Well, come sit, tell us everything,” Mrs. Ryan said, patting the couch beside her. “I haven’t seen you in... Goodness, how long has it been?”
“Almost eight years?” Lucy asked, sitting on the couch beside her aunt.
Tatum nodded.
“You look just the same.” Mrs. Ryan smiled. “I always thought we’d see you in a magazine or a movie someday.”
“Oh...no.” Tatum shook her head. “Would you like something to drink—”
“No, Aunt Imogene is literally bursting to ask you questions about everything that’s happened since you left,” Lucy cut in.
Imogene Ryan’s eyes went round. “Lucy,” she chastised.
“It’s true,” Spencer added.
Tatum laughed, sitting in the rocking chair. She tried not to pay attention to Spencer as he knelt in front of the fire to add more logs. Tried not to think about how he’d stripped her down on the floor where her feet now rested... “Ask away,” Tatum answered unsteadily.
“What have you been up to?” Mrs. Ryan asked. “I know you finished out high school in California with your father, but after that? Lucy said you went to college there?”
“UCLA,” she said, shrugging. “Got my accounting degree. I get numbers.” People, not so much.
“Ugh.” Lucy winced. “No, thank you.”
“Okay, Miss PhD,” Tatum teased. “I met Brent there. We were married for three years. I was his wife, his accountant and his events planner...and we’ve been officially divorced for eight months.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Ryan said.
“I am too,” she agreed. “Wish I’d had the sense to get out sooner.” She smiled, trying to make light of the situation. But it was true. She’d worked hard to be what Brent wanted, keeping his books sound, his house tidy and his parties memorable. When he hired “more seasoned professionals” to do his books, the slight daily contact they had was gone. Things had disintegrated by their second anniversary. So why had she held on?
She felt Spencer’s gaze on her and glanced his way. He was studying her, looking for something. But what exactly? Instead of worrying about what he was thinking or feeling, she’d be wise to remember he’d been the first one to replace her with another woman.
Whatever spark remained was purely sexual. Which was fine.
“Good riddance,” Lucy chimed in. “His loss.”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” she laughed, even if it sounded a little forced.
“It’s true,” Mrs. Ryan agreed. “You’ll find the man that deserves you, don’t you fret.”
So not fretting. Worrying over her romantic future wasn’t on her top-ten-things-to-worry-over list. She didn’t know who she was or what she wanted—now wasn’t the time to fall in love. No, that was the main reason it had fallen apart with Brent: he defined too much of her. That, and he’d been screwing the most successful real-estate agent in their wealth
y, gossipy group of friends.
If anything, she didn’t want a relationship right now. She needed to figure things out, needed to live a little and try new things—for herself.
Like sex. Last night had been a revelation. She wanted lots of hot sex. But she only knew one person she was attracted to. She glanced at Spencer again.
Could she get up the nerve to really consider such a thing? Roommates with benefits? And ask him if he was interested. The potential for rejection gnawed on her insides.
But last night. She drew in an unsteady breath, flooded with a tangle of want-inducing images, sensations and sounds. They were already sleeping under the same roof. Neither of them was involved. And, hell, they were both adults.
He could say no. She swallowed, tearing her gaze from him.
“What are your plans?” Lucy asked. “Whatever they are, tell me you’re staying.”
She nodded. “Come home, regroup, get a job...start again.”
“Sounds like a good plan, dear,” Mrs. Ryan said. “Oh, I know. I’ll check in with George Welch, see if he knows of any openings in his office. He has the largest accounting firm in the county.”
Tatum held up her hand. “You don’t have to—”
“No, she doesn’t. But it’s what she does,” Spencer said. “With or without your blessing, trust me.”
Tatum smiled at him, then Mrs. Ryan. “Thank you.”
“Free today?” Lucy asked. “I’d love to spend some time with you.”
“I’d love that too,” she agreed. “Up for shopping? I have no food.” She paused, looking at the huge goodie basket on the table. “Well, I do now. But I’m thinking a Christmas tree might brighten things up.”
“You do decorate?” Mrs. Ryan asked. “I’m so glad. I know your mother... Well, I’m glad.”
“I do,” she said. “And I want this Christmas to be extra special.”
“You’ve got a great yard, Tatum,” Spencer said.
“You had ideas for a theme, didn’t you?” Lucy asked.
“Spencer, you’re going to have to find a place to stay now that Tatum is back. I’m sure the last thing she wants is a roommate. Especially in your line of work. I tell you, a police officer is never off duty. Constant interruptions. Calls in the middle of the night. Never a dull moment,” Mrs. Ryan said and wrinkled her nose for emphasis.
Christmas in His Bed Page 3