Sasha Summers - Christmas In His Bed

She lowered her weapon, watching as the man moved along the porch railing with ease, threading the heavy strand of lights on unseen hooks. He was fast. But why was he there, working so hard to decorate her house? He must run one of those decorating services. Maybe he was at the wrong house? She should stop him before he got too far.

She wrapped a throw around her shoulders and pushed through the front door, still holding her poker. A blast of cold air cut through her sweats and the thermal underwear beneath. Shit, shit and double shit. She’d forgotten how frigid North Texas could get. She hurried across the porch, but stopped a few feet from the man on the railing.

His leather jacket rode up as he worked. And his stomach... She swallowed. What a view. He stretched, exposing more actual man flesh than she’d seen in oh so long. And it was amazing. The kind of amazing even the best romance novels would have a hard time capturing.

Cut. Hard. All man. Every cleft and ridge of his six-pack was on display. His jeans hung low enough to reveal the edge of his hips. Just looking at him made her light-headed. Stunned. Excited. Achy.

Something deep inside her turned molten and fluid.

Her fingers twisted in the throw around her shoulders as her gaze followed the impressively dark happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. What sort of surprises would be found underneath the skintight, faded jeans that clung to this man’s hips? She swallowed, her imagination offering up all sorts of possibilities. She was oh so tempted to touch that stomach.

Which was wrong. And completely unexpected. She’d never ever do something so irrational but...

But all that muscle and strength, the dark lines of a tattoo peeking wickedly from under the edge of his shirt, had her utterly captivated. What would it be like to touch a man like this? Better yet, what would it be like to have him touch her? A shiver racked her body. Brent had very specific preferences in bed—namely her lying still beneath him, quiet, aching for something more. Wanting something...more. More...like this.

She pressed her hand against her stomach and the delicious flare of liquid heat that coiled inside her. Maybe all that reading was getting to her.

This man wasn’t supposed to be here; he might even get in trouble for being here if he was hired to holiday-fy another house. She stepped closer, surprised to hear him humming a Christmas carol. The sound was deep and rough, an undeniable turn-on.

“Excuse me?” she said. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

No response. But one arm went higher, revealing more of the tattoo on his side. A feather? A quill? Covering a long scar along his ribs... And more muscles.

“Hello?” she tried again, a little louder.

He was on one foot then, reaching for something on the roof.

She stepped forward, considering the best way to get his attention. She blew out a deep breath. This was ridiculous. What was the matter with her? She reached out and tugged on one of his jeans belt loops.

“Hold up,” he called out. “Almost...got...it.” The strand of Christmas lights came on, casting the porch in hues of red and green.

She held her breath as he leaped down, eager to see what the rest of this man looked like. But the clear blue eyes that greeted her were a total surprise. The kind of surprise that left her breathless—and shocked.

No.

“Spencer?” Her voice was high and tight. Even now, after years, she knew him. Instant recognition—instant reaction. Her heart twisted sharply at the all-too-familiar blue eyes regarding her in astonishment. And her body was racked with something he’d inspired whenever he was close to her: desire.

Spencer Ryan. The very last person she wanted to see right now.

He stared at her, frozen. Why was he acting so surprised? It was her house. A house she’d practically run from years ago, because of him. She had every right to be here. He did not. She welcomed the anger warming her belly. Anger was good. Much better than...the other feelings bouncing around inside of her.

His gaze sharpened, searching hers. She tried to ignore that familiar pull tightening the pit of her stomach. “Tatum?” His voice was low, husky.

“Yeah... Hi,” she croaked. This is bad. So, so bad. Like she needed another bump to her already dinged confidence. Nothing like coming face-to-face with the man who had humiliated her, destroying her heart and her fragile ego eight years before. Yes, it was the holidays and there’d been a chance she’d run into him. But she’d hoped she wouldn’t. Definitely not her first night home. Not when she wasn’t ready to face him. And certainly not with crazy hair and no bra.

She tore her gaze from his, wrapping her arms around her waist. All the muscle and sexiness was Spencer? What the hell had happened to him? This Spencer barely resembled the clean-cut boy she’d held hands with in the halls of Greyson High School. Now he was big, almost intimidating—with shaggy black hair, a thick stubble covering his angular jaw and a new wariness about his clear blue eyes. Those eyes.

She forced her gaze away. She would not think about his eyes. Or his body. Or those abs. And that tattoo... Her pulse was racing just standing there. He was all hot in his gloriously ass-hugging jeans and broad-shoulder-hugging jacket while she wore a blanket.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, finally smiling. He hesitated briefly before pulling her against him in a warm embrace.

She stiffened. She didn’t want to hug him. He might look good—who was she kidding, he looked frigging amazing—but she knew what he was capable of. What sort of pain he could inflict. She knew that but... His hand pressed, open, against the base of her back. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel the contours of his fingers and the warmth of his palm. And it—he—felt good.

Then she took a deep breath and inhaled his scent. She swallowed, trembling. Dammit. He smelled the same, teasing her...flooding every cell with a steady throb of want. “It has.” She didn’t know where the overwhelming urge to hold on to him came from, but she fought it. It shouldn’t matter that it had been too long since anyone had held her close. She wasn’t going to melt in his arms.

She pushed away from him, stepping back quickly.

His smile faded as he eyed the poker in her hands. “Prepared for battle?”

She blinked, looking at him, then the poker. “What?”

“Or is it some new fashion accessory I don’t know about?” He shot another pointed glance at the poker, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest. If she wasn’t pissed as hell at his sudden and irritating reappearance in her life, she might admire the shift of muscle in his forearms. But she was. She was pissed.

“Where I come from, a woman alone protects herself from strange men hanging off their porches.” She sounded unruffled and together—revealing none of her inner turmoil. “Especially when it’s in the middle of the night.”

He glanced at the open door behind her, then back at her.

“I’m a little tired for company and, since it is late, it’s best if you go,” she said over her shoulder, heading back inside and out of the cold—away from him. Her voice wasn’t shaking. She didn’t look like she was retreating. Even if that was sort of what she was doing. But she sort of had to because she couldn’t seem to get a handle on the way she was reacting to him.

But he didn’t move. He just stood there, a strange expression on his face. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He held up his hands. “If I’d known you were here, alone, I would have said something first.”

“Before you decorated my house?” she asked, holding the doorknob.

He planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Yeah, about that. It was made perfectly clear by the lady in charge that this needed to be done now or suffer the consequences.”