by Tawna Fenske
“Nah, it’s nothing like that.” I look down at the cutting board, a little mortified to be telling this story. “When I was eight, I sucked a candy cane into this pointy little spear.”
“Amber and I used to do that.” She smiles. “Then we’d have swordfights until our mom made us stop.”
“Yeah, my mom told me to knock it off, too,” I tell her. “But I didn’t listen. And I ended up stabbing a big hole in my tongue.”
“Oh, God.” Jade stops smiling.
“Took five stitches to close it up, and I wasn’t able to eat much for Christmas dinner.” I shrug and whack the end off the romaine with my knife. “But my mom made me pumpkin-flavored ice cream instead, which is kind of an awesome substitute when you’re eight.”
“Ouch.” Jade shakes her head. “What happened to your mom?” she asks after a long pause. “If you don’t mind me asking. You mentioned she left, but you never said where she went.”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” I tell her. “My Uncle Cort tracked her down to Florida about ten years ago so she could sign some paperwork. But now I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead.”
“She’s never tried to contact you?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not once.”
“God. I’m so sorry.”
I’m more sorry, both for dragging down our conversation, and for dragging Jade into this. Then again, I want her to know. I want her to understand there’s more to me than Studmuffin Santa or Wonder Boy or Hometown Hero or whatever else she thinks of when she sees me.
Why does it matter so much that she knows it?
“It’s fine now,” I tell her. “My tongue is perfectly functional.”
“I noticed.”
I look up from the cutting board to see her flushing bright pink.
“Speaking,” she adds. “I meant your tongue works for speaking.”
I grin and return to my task. “I’m not always great at that, either,” I tell her. “Saying what I want to say. But I manage.”
She dumps the colander of shrimp into the bubbling sauce and stirs, her shoulder bumping mine as she moves to slide the pasta into the water. “I guess it’s understandable you’d have a bit of Christmas baggage.”
I see an opening and take it, seizing the chance to change the subject. “Want to hear a dirty joke that one of the older kids told me yesterday?”
“I’m not sure, do I?”
“Yep.” I grin. “Speaking of Christmas baggage.”
“Okay, go.”
“Know why Santa’s sack is so big?”
Jade looks leery, glancing at me like she’s not sure she wants to hear the punchline. “Why is Santa’s sack so big?”
“Because he only comes once a year.”
She gives an exaggerated groan, but she’s smiling, so I know I haven’t offended her. I’m glad I’ve managed to move the conversation back to lighthearted turf. To steer us away from the ghosts of Christmas past and back into this cozy kitchen that’s filled with the scent of warm pasta water and the lilt of music.
It takes me a moment to recognize it’s Christmas music, and I wonder when she switched it on. I also wonder when I started humming along with it.
“You have a nice voice,” she says as she soaps up the colander, then rinses it. “Maybe you can’t sing, but you can hum.”
“Remind me to add that to my Santa résumé.”
She smiles and sets the colander back in the sink, then uses a pair of tongs to flip the shrimp. “I can’t flirt.”
Her confession is quieter than the others, and it takes me a second to process what she’s said. “Flirt?”
“Right, with guys. I end up putting my foot in my mouth and saying ridiculous things.”
She switches off both burners and pulls on a pair of oven mitts before carrying the pot of water to the sink. She dumps out the pasta into the colander, not meeting my eyes as she shakes out the water.
“Flirting’s overrated,” I tell her.
“Spoken by a guy who’s a pro,” she says.
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t try. Then again, I feel like all my normal skills with women fly right out the window when it comes to Jade. I concentrate on dumping the rest of my salad fixings into the big blue bowl while Jade shovels the pasta into the pot with the sauce and shrimp. She gives it a stir, looking thoughtful and a little bit sheepish.
“Okay, I just thought of one more thing I’m bad at,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“I can’t roll my tongue.” She sticks it out in illustration, and it takes me a second to figure out what she’s talking about.
“See?” she says, though it comes out more like “thee” since she’s got her tongue sticking out. It’s flat as a paperback, no curve at all, and I can’t decide if it’s adorable or hot as hell. Maybe both.
“Oh, you mean curling it? Like this?” I stick out my own tongue, easily curving the edges so it rolls like a cigar.
Jade busts out laughing. “Yes, that’s it! Exactly! It’s a genetic thing, I guess. Amber can’t do it either.”
She tries again, making a silly face. Those blue eyes dance with merriment, and all I can think about is her mouth. Her lips, her tongue, how much I want to taste her again. It’s the most ridiculous thing in the world as we stand here making silly faces at each other, but I’m aching with the urge to kiss her.
So I do.
I take a step forward, and she pulls her tongue back into her mouth. She looks at me with those lake-blue eyes as I slide my hands around her waist. I pause there, giving her a chance to pull back if she doesn’t want this. It’s hardly the world’s smoothest seduction, and I can’t blame her if she’s not turned on by chopping veggies and telling dirty jokes and playing silly tongue curling games.
But she doesn’t pull back. She moves willingly against me, lips parting as I draw her close and brush my mouth over hers.
“Brandon,” she whispers, and the sound of my name in that soft, gentle voice makes something uncoil inside me.
I slide my fingers into her hair, wondering when she took it down. Why I can’t seem to get enough of her. I kiss her then, and she kisses back, hands coming up to twine around my neck.
She gives a soft little moan and deepens the kiss, urging me on. I slide my hands down, cupping her perfect backside as I press her up against the counter and hope like hell she turned off the burner. It would be just my luck we’d catch her hair on fire.
But, no, she’s moving against me now, making those soft little noises in the back of her throat that drive me crazy. I pry my hands off her ass and glide up, taking my time tracing her ribs beneath her thermal shirt. She presses into me as my palms skim the undersides of her breasts.
Jade breaks the kiss and looks up at me, her blue eyes wild and her breath coming fast. “How hungry are you?”
“For dinner?”
She nods and licks her lips.
“Not very,” I admit.
“Then hang on.” She pulls away and grabs a lid off the counter, plunking it onto the pot with a clang. She picks up the whole thing with a pair of oven mitts and shoves it into the fridge. Then she turns and tosses aside the mitts.
“Will you come upstairs with me?”
I nod, hoping like hell I understand the invitation. That she’s not just asking me up there to play Monopoly or read comic books. Even if that were true, I’d go willingly. I’d follow her off the end of a pier.
“Yes,” I say, and it comes out sounding weirdly breathless. “I’d love that.”
“Come on.” She grabs me by the hand and turns to pull me down a narrow hallway.
Chapter 9
JADE
I’ve thought about this since I was fourteen years old.
Well, not this, exactly. I was pretty naïve about sex at fourteen, but I knew enough to understand why I felt tingly when Brandon Brown trotted out onto that football field in his tight pants.
As I shove my bedroom door shut behind us and turn
to face him, I can’t help thinking he looks damn fine in jeans, too.
“What’s got you smiling?” he murmurs as he takes a step closer. His thumb grazes the underside of my chin, tilting my face up so he can kiss me again.
God, I could never get tired of kissing this guy.
I’m breathless again by the time we break apart, and I’ve almost forgotten what he asked. “This,” I whisper. “I’ve thought about this for a long time.”
He smiles and kisses me again, edging me back toward the bed as he tunnels his fingers in my hair. I grab for the hem of his shirt and tug, desperate to have it off him. To rake my fingers up those bare abs and to feel that soft, springy hair pressed against me.
Brandon breaks the kiss and helps me with the shirt, tossing it aside before meeting my eyes again. “You sure about this?” he asks.
I nod and reach for the hem of my own shirt. I try for one of those sexy crossed-arm maneuvers, but my thermal undershirt is snug and my hair gets tangled in the armpit and I’m dizzy by the time I find myself standing topless in front of him.
He smiles and reaches out to skim a palm over the lace edge of my bra. “You’re beautiful.” He draws his thumb over my ribcage, leaning down to peer at the tattoo there. “Is that a heart in a magnifying glass?”
I nod, my emotions somewhere between self-consciousness and dizzying desire. “Yes,” I murmur. “It’s from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The part where his heart grew three sizes?”
He laughs and leans down to plant a kiss on the spot. “I’d totally forgotten that book.”
“I got the ink a couple years ago when Amber and I started talking about this crazy reindeer thing,” I say. “It’s a reminder of why we started it. What it’s all about for us.”
“I love it,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about the tattoo or the story behind it. He kisses me again, and I shiver as every nerve in my core sizzles to attention.
I reach out to touch his chest, his abs, his arms. I can’t get enough of him, and he feels even better than I imagined. He lays me down on the bed, and I go willingly, eager to feel his weight on top of me.
We take our time kissing, making out like teenagers rounding the bases from first to second to third—
“God, Jade,” he gasps as he circles his tongue over my nipple. My bra is long gone and so are my pants, though I’m still wearing panties. I wriggle against him, wondering whether I unzipped his jeans or he did. I slide a hand inside them, making us both gasp.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs against my breast.
“Don’t stop.”
“I want you so much.”
I arch against him, urging him to keep going. To take this to the next level. I stroke him through his underwear, not the least bit surprised by his impressive length. Of course Wonder Boy would be hung like a horse.
He brushes his lips across mine before angling back to look at me. “Um, do you happen to have any, uh—”
“Venereal diseases?”
He looks alarmed, so I shake my head. “No! Definitely not.”
He smiles and plants a kiss along my hairline. “I was going to say ‘condoms,’ but thanks for clarifying.”
I grimace and blow a few strands of hair off my forehead. “No,” I admit, feeling deflated. “I wasn’t exactly planning to cap off my snow day by banging Santa.”
He laughs and slides down my body so he’s kneeling at the edge of the bed. “So we have a problem, then,” he says, planting a kiss on my hipbone. “In my haste to get here with the plow truck, I left my wallet at home.”
Disappointment surges through me. Silly me, I assumed a guy like Brandon Brown would have condoms on him at all times. “I guess I should be relieved you don’t stash prophylactics in your Santa suit.”
He laughs and plants a kiss on my belly. “That would be a shock for all those moms who’ve been fishing in my pockets for candy canes.”
There’s a flare of jealousy in my stomach, but it dissipates the instant I feel Brandon’s warm breath against my belly button. He kisses me there, and I squirm with equal parts pleasure and ticklishness.
“So I suppose we should stop,” I murmur, not wanting to at all.
He shakes his head, eyes glittering with desire. “No way,” he says, hooking his thumbs in the edges of my panties. Instinct has me lifting my hips so he can draw them down, sliding them slowly over my legs and onto the floor. I start to press my legs together, self-conscious to be the only naked one in the room.
But he shoulders my thighs apart. “I’m dying to taste you,” he says.
Oh, God.
His hands are on my hips, and my whole body is throbbing like the drumbeat in an up-tempo Christmas tune. “Brandon,” I gasp, and slide my fingers into his hair.
He plants a kiss on my hipbone, then another on my thigh. A million little kisses landing in unexpected spots until I’m breathless and squirming and dizzy with need. I arch up, torn between feeling bad about the condoms and desperate for more. For anything he can offer.
At last, he gives me what I’m aching for. Just the lightest little flick of his tongue, but I cry out like it’s the first time anyone’s touched me.
“Jesus,” I gasp, clawing at his hair.
“You’re so wet.”
I moan as his tongue glides along my center, dipping, circling, teasing. He grips my hips with both hands, angling me up to meet his mouth. I let go of his hair and grab fistfuls of my comforter, tipping my head back to savor the sensation.
His mouth is magical, soft and gentle and so very aware of every spot that feels fucking amazing. It’s like there’s a homing device in the tip of his tongue.
“So sweet,” he murmurs against me. “You’re so sweet.”
I cry out as sensation starts to build inside me. It’s slow at first, but then comes swirling at me like a tornado. He slides two fingers into me, and that’s all it takes. I scream as the first wave takes me, clutching the duvet like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the bed. His fingers move inside me, tongue circling and stroking and driving me mindless. I cry out again, grateful my sister’s not home and that Brandon knows how to keep teasing, how to coax every last pulse of pleasure from my body.
When I finally come down, he slides up my thighs and moves beside me on the bed. He pulls me so I’m curled against him, and I reach for his fly, conscious of the fact that he’s probably dying for his own release.
But he makes a shushing sound in my hair and plants a kiss along my ear. “There’ll be other times for that,” he says. “Just lie back and relax.”
And for the first time in forever, I do.
I wake the next morning to a glass of water and a note on my nightstand. I roll over into a sunbeam, feeling decadent and warm and thoroughly sated.
* * *
Jade,
Last night was amazing. YOU are amazing.
I heard Amber come home at midnight and I didn’t want things to be awkward for you, so I slipped out when she was in her room. Hope that’s okay. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
P.S. The scampi was delicious. I left plenty for you.
* * *
I fold the note into my nightstand, conscious of the fact that I’m grinning like a big, fat idiot.
I pull on a robe and pad barefoot down the hall to my sister’s room. I lift my hand to knock, but she calls out before I have a chance.
“Come on in,” she says. “I’m already up.”
Pushing the door open, I spot her sitting at the dressing table we’ve had since we were little girls. Our mom used to sit us down one at a time to comb our hair, her fingers gently working out wild tangles.
She smiles at me in the mirror, her expression the tiniest bit smug. “Look at you all lovey-faced. It’s like the reindeer when they’re in heat.”
I pick up her hairbrush and give her a light whack on the head. Then I set to work brushing her hair, something I haven’t done for years.
“Mmm,” she m
urmurs as I run the brush through my sister’s dark waves. “That feels nice.”
“You stole my conditioner again,” I reply, not really minding.
“It smells like gingerbread,” she says. “I kinda want to eat it.”
“Please don’t,” I mutter. “Remember what happened to Prancer when he tried to eat the soap?”
“Ugh,” she says with a giggle. “He blew butt bubbles for three days.”
I keep brushing, the dark strands sleek and shiny as the bristles glide through her hair. “How was dinner with Zak’s family?”
“Fine. His brother brought me home around midnight.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and she gives an inquisitive eyebrow lift. “So Brandon was here late.”
I consider not responding. Or telling a small fib about him staying late to shovel snow or help with paperwork. But the flush in my cheeks gives me away.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I offered to make him dinner.”
Her grin gets bigger. “From the looks of you, that’s not all you offered him.”
“We didn’t sleep together,” I blurt, which just sounds silly.
Amber laughs. “I’m not prying,” she says. “I’m not judging, either. Frankly, I’d be glad if you did sleep with him.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She rolls her eyes. “Because it wouldn’t hurt you to date a little bit. Especially someone as hot as Brandon Brown.”
I shake my head and drag the brush down the back of her head, earning a sound like a purr. “I don’t have room in my life for dating,” I say. “And even if I did, can you really picture me with someone like him?”
“You mean a hot, sexy war hero who’s good with kids and generous with his plowing?” Amber gives a suggestive eyebrow wiggle on plowing, then puts a finger to her chin and pretends to consider it. “Gee, let me think . . . uh, hell, yes!”
I laugh at her theatrics, even though I’m not sure I believe the sentiment behind it. “He’s a bit out of my league,” I point out. “The quarterback and the farm girl? It sounds like a bad romance novel.”