Leslie Kelly - A Soldier's Christmas - I'll Be Home for Christmas / Presents Under the Tree / If Only in My Dreams

Unable to help herself, needing to taste him to get one last, final confirmation that he really was here, she tilted her head and brushed her lips against his, not sure of where she got the nerve but not questioning the impulse.

He resisted for no more than a second, then drew her even more tightly against his body. He opened his mouth, thrusting his tongue against hers in a deep, hungry exploration that both shocked and thrilled her. Ellie kissed him back with fervor, loving the familiar taste of him, that unique Rafe flavor that she’d never experienced with any other man she’d kissed.

The icy snow pelted them and the wind blew so hard her ears hurt, but they kissed and kissed, turning their heads to take things even deeper, urged on by the desperation of so many long, lonely years.

A horn beeped somewhere, long and low, the sound echoing across the thick night. Startled, Rafe pulled away. He stared at her, opened his mouth to say something. No words emerged. Their stares held. Finally, he merely sighed.

“Let’s go inside,” she said, knowing he was thinking that she was a cheating wife and blaming himself for doing something so dishonorable.

“I’m sorry. I should never have...”

“Please, Rafe, take me inside,” she insisted. “We’ve got some talking to do. You’re going to want to hear what I’m going to say.”

She only wondered what was going to happen once he found out she was not only unmarried...but single and completely available.

Not to mention willing.

4

RAFE HAD NO IDEA what Ellie planned to tell him. What could she say that would make him feel any worse than he already did?

He’d broken the guy’s code. Decent men didn’t go around kissing other men’s wives. Even wives who had carved out a piece of your heart and held it in their grasp for seven years.

It had been the heat of the moment, that was all. Adrenaline. She’d almost fallen, he’d saved her from a nasty spill, she’d wound up in his arms.

One kiss. No big deal in the scheme of things.

Even if, in his heart, he knew that kiss had been a huge deal, if only because it left him with a hunger for more.

Saying nothing, he rose to his feet, staying grounded with not only his own weight, but hers. He didn’t immediately put her down, not ready to let her risk another fall. Or not ready to let her out of his arms. Which one, he couldn’t say.

Walking carefully, hearing the crunch of his thick-soled boots in the snow, he carried her to the door of their room and then lowered her onto her own feet. Inserting the thick key into the stiff, icy lock, he kept one arm on her shoulder to be sure her feet didn’t slip out from under her. Although there was an awning that extended the length of the building, the snow had drifted and icy flakes attacked them.

“One more second,” he told her as he jiggled the key, which resisted within the lock. He finally got it to disengage, grabbed the handle and twisted. Finding utter blackness within, he reached around the corner, groping for a light switch. Finding it, he flipped it up and the room gained a sickly yellowish tinge.

“Yikes. Maybe you should have left the light off,” she said, eyeing the room dubiously as they walked inside and pushed the door shut behind them.

“Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s better than a stable, isn’t it?”

She snickered, continuing to study the room, which could only be described as roadside-no-tell-motel chic. The worn, shag carpeting was a faded orange color that had probably been cool and hip in the 1960s...when it was installed. The flimsy furniture consisted of a dresser with two sagging drawers, a table and two mismatched chairs.

But the bed. Oh, the bed.

It was huge—California king, he’d say. It was made up with a red velvet spread, and above it, attached to the ceiling...

“Oh. My. God.”

He whistled, mentally echoing Ellie’s exclamation.

Because the ceiling of this entire room was mirrored.

“I guess this is why it’s called the honeymoon suite,” she said, sounding as though she were forcing the words out of a very tight throat.

He understood the reaction. His own throat suddenly clenched, because all he could imagine was the two of them on that bed, all night long. With those mirrors above them, and the door closed to the storm...and the entire world.

“I’m pretty sure this room has been used in every episode of Supernatural,” she said, averting her gaze from the bed. As if she feared Rafe would think she was worrying about sleeping in it with him. Or that she wasn’t. “Sam and Dean always stay in one like it.”

“Even with only one bed and the mirrors?”

“Well, maybe not just like it.”

He rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Still into that spooky stuff, huh?” he asked as he tossed his duffel onto the dresser. He had also grabbed her carry-on, which had landed in the snow, and now put it beside his things.

“The spookier the better. Still only like to read nonfiction?”

“I’ve expanded my tastes a little,” he admitted. “Believe it or not, one of the guys in my unit has a sister who sends him cases of romance novels every so often. They really make the rounds and are usually worn out from rereading.”

She burst into laughter. “A bunch of tough army rangers reading romance novels.”

Yeah, it sounded pretty strange. Then again, considering the lives he and his squadmates lived, maybe something easy and familiar—something that lifted the spirits and reminded them of the girl back home—was perfectly normal after all.

“Do they read the super sexy ones?” she asked, her tone a little too innocent. Huh. He wondered if she asked because they’d just kissed as if they were about to make use of every inch of mirror above them.

“Those were the most popular ones,” he admitted with a wry grin. “Some of them are damned good. Plus it gets pretty lonely in the field when fraternization is strictly prohibited.”

“So, how long has it been since you’ve...fraternized?” she asked, again, obviously striving for friendly curiosity rather than any kind of personal interest.

He wasn’t buying it. She was interested. She shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t want her to be. But he felt it. Awareness sizzled and crackled in the cold room like sparks jangling off exposed wire.

“A long time,” he admitted.

She stepped closer, eliminating the space between them, and every step she took messed with his head a little bit more, until he could barely remember what the words nice and guy meant.

She licked her lips before asking, “Does that mean you’re not involved with anyone?”

He shook his head, his amusement fading, his jaw growing a little stiff. “No. Unlike you, Mrs...”

“Actually, it’s Doctor, remember?”

“Sorry. Doctor what?”

“Doctor Blake.”

“Didn’t take his name, huh?”

Ignoring the question, she tugged her gloves off her hands. She’d been wearing them all evening, since the heater in the rental car hadn’t quite managed to chase out the cold. Still silent, she brushed her soft fingertips across the small scar on his jaw. It had been joined by another on his temple—one he knew looked newer, rawer—and she gently caressed that one, too.

Rafe literally growled in his throat. “Ellie, don’t.”

“I hate that you’ve been hurt.”

He reached up and grabbed her hand, intending to push it away. But he couldn’t do it. Something within him rebelled at ever pushing this woman away again. He instead squeezed her fingers, turning his face toward her palm and pressing his mouth to her skin. He kissed her, breathed her in, let his head fill with that sweet, light scent she always wore, before growling, “Damn it. You’re a married woman.”