Jill Shalvis: Heating up the Holidays

She laughed again.

At the sound, Dustin shoved his glasses further up on his nose and took a good, long look at her.

“What,” she asked somewhat defensively. “You’ve never seen me laugh before?”

“Not since…”

“Since what?”

“Since we played strip poker and I lost.”

Oh, boy, was that night imprinted on her brain. Her car had broken down. He’d taken her home, and then come in for a quick drink, and somehow he’d charmed her into playing a game of cards. Being a card master, she’d readily agreed, then scammed him, conning him right out of his clothes just out of curiosity.

Beneath his EMT uniform, he’d been hiding a sensual delight of long, lean muscle, and she’d gone from curious to aroused in zero point four.

They’d slept together that night. Even now her body tingled as it remembered, but she lifted her chin. “I laughed because you had SpongeBob SquarePants on your boxers.”

He didn’t look embarrassed but amused. That was the thing about Dustin, he was comfortable in his own skin. “It was laundry day, and my mom bought me those boxers.”

They’d made her hot. Another wave splashed over their toes and Dustin sucked in a harsh breath, backing up in surrender. “Okay, you win,” he said. “You’re the cool kid. Now can we go in?”

“I don’t want to go in.”

“What do you want?”

She let out a low laugh that inadvertently exposed her misery, and he shifted to face her, putting a hand on her arm. “Are you getting a migraine?”

Yeah, he knew her. Really knew her. And worse, he cared. Goddamm him. “No. Are you wearing SpongeBob SquarePants now?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Not telling.” He stroked a rogue strand of hair from her forehead, letting his finger trail over her temple, the rim of her ear.

She shivered and surrendered, as well, stepping into him. “Dustin…”

For a brief moment, his other hand came up, brushing down her back, settling low on her spine. He turned his face into hers, letting the tip of his nose run along her jaw, his mouth brush the underside of her throat lightly before he sighed and went to step back.

She grabbed him, fisted her hands in his shirt and held on tightly, so he couldn’t go anywhere. “Please,” she whispered, horrified to hear the neediness in her voice.

Thankfully, she didn’t need to finish. He knew what she was asking. Please let’s get naked. Please make my body hum again. Please help me find oblivion tonight in your arms.

For a blessed moment he held her close to his hard, warm body, and she felt a surge of triumph. But then with a low groan, he shook his head, setting her away from him. “No.”

“Why? There’s not someone else.” Even the thought stopped her heart.

“You know damn well there isn’t anyone else.”

“Then-”

“Stop it.” He met her gaze. “You know why.”

“Suppose you tell me again.”

“You run and run and run, never slowing down, always working, always keeping busy.”

“So?”

“So then you’re so exhausted that you can barely move. But when your body finally forces you to take a moment, you look around and realize you’re alone. You hate alone. So you see who can fulfill you.”

“And you fit the bill. Perfectly.” She arched against him feeling the hard bulge beneath his zipper that assured her he felt the same way. “What’s the problem here, Dustin? Suddenly you don’t like sex?”

“I don’t like meaningless sex. Not with you.”

She managed another laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

He didn’t smile, and hers faded as she whirled away. But he pulled her back around. Their gazes met.

Locked.

Held.

She felt the jolt clear down to her toes, where it bounced and hit all her good spots. But now was not the time to melt. “So what now? You going to go find someone else?”

His fingers were tight on her arm. Not hurting her, never hurting her, but firm enough that she couldn’t have pulled away without hurting him. His eyes were fierce, his brow furrowed, his glasses slipping down his nose. Beneath the hands she’d set to his chest she could feel the heavy beat of his heart. And it did something to her, made her feel something…basic.

His eyes widened slightly, signaling that she wasn’t alone in this. Nope, the cool, laid-back, easygoing man was worked up, too.

Which was good, because she needed him. Him. No one else. No one else could make her sizzle like this-and she’d tried.

Fisting her fingers in his shirt, she tugged him close to kiss him, hard and deep. The rumble of his groan came up from his chest. The rasp of his five-o’clock shadow scraped her chin. The scent of him she couldn’t get enough of, filling her nostrils as all her bones liquefied as his fingers tightened on her.

Dustin. Dustin was finally in her arms again, kissing her like he’d been dying without her.

His mouth was warm and delicious, soft yet firm, pure unadulterated pleasure. God, he was such a good kisser. She hadn’t had time lately to dwell on that but she took the time now as his tongue stroked hers with the slow, sure precision of a master. He knew how to take his time, that was certain, and she fully appreciated his skill.

She couldn’t have stopped, but that was okay because he dove into the kiss with her, making her feel marginally better about the whole thing. She wasn’t alone in this. Not even close. He hauled her up against that chiseled, hard-earned body, his hands hot and rough, which matched the hot, rough, ragged groan torn from his throat.

Definitely not alone in this…

She strained against him as he rushed to touch as much of her as he could, making her body hum, and then…and then her nose bumped into his glasses and he pulled back so fast she staggered a step and nearly fell on her ass.

His glasses were fogged, and with a harsh, annoyed sound, he tugged them off and wiped them on his shirt before jamming them back on. “I told you. I’m not going to scratch your itch.” His chest was still rising and falling from the kiss, but his voice sounded disturbingly weary. Bending, he grabbed his shoes. She expected him to walk away from her.

Most did. After all, she saw to that, didn’t she?

But she should have known better. Dustin wasn’t like most people. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met. Straightening, mouth still wet from hers but grim, he offered her a hand.

She stared at it.

“Shower and bed,” he said very quietly…in direct opposition to his breathing.

“Alone,” he specified.

Damn. And yet a small part of her knew she’d be lucky to manage a shower before crashing.

She’d summoned the last of her energy to get here, to spar with him, to kiss him, but now she felt as if she’d hit the wall. Nothing left in the tank.

Empty.

God, she wanted her bunk almost more than she wanted her next breath, and yet it seemed like such a chore. But Dustin would get her where she needed to go.

Somehow, someway, he always did.

WHEN THEIR SHIFT ended at eight o’clock that morning, Dustin stepped outside and watched in disbelief as Cristina dragged her sexy but tired ass to the side of the building and unlocked her bike.

They’d just had a rough night, as rough as it gets, where they’d had maybe an hour of sleep broken into fifteen-minute increments, and she was going to ride her bike home.

Hard-core Cristina.

She was tough, so tough that people often forgot that she had a good reason to be so. She didn’t talk about herself much, if ever. What information he had on her he’d pretty much pieced together from five years of knowing her. Her mother had had her when she was only sixteen, and while she’d done her best, her best had often meant hanging with men who weren’t the greatest influence and ruled with a heavy fist. Cristina no longer kept in contact with her mother, and she’d never learned who her father was. She had no siblings, and as far as Dustin could tell, she didn’t keep a lot of friends outside the station.