Christine Rimmer - Married Till Christmas

Then he’d gathered her close to him, pressed his lips to her temple, her forehead, her mouth. She’d kissed him back, twining her arms around his neck, whispering of her love.

It was chilly up there in the mountains at night, even in summer. So they shook out their clothes and put them back on and moved the tent to the other side of the cleared space.

And then they’d crawled back inside, wrapped their arms around each other—and been each other’s first time. She remembered it as awkward and intense. And beautiful, too.

Even later, after he’d stomped all over her heart, she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret choosing him for her first.

* * *

The car was waiting out in front when they left the restaurant.

She felt so soft and pliant by then, her mind a happy haze from the champagne and the wonderful food, the sweet, shared memories—and Deck. Laughing with her. Touching her. Reminding her of just how good it used to be.

When he pulled her down across his lap, she let him. She kicked off her shoes, folded her legs on the seat and gazed up at his wonderful face as the bright lights flowed over him, turning his skin from gold to red to blue. He smelled of some dark spice, familiar in the deepest way. She could ride like this forever, her head in his lap, wrapped in the scent of him.

In no time, the car glided in beneath the porte cochere at their hotel. She sat up, smoothed her hair and slipped her shoes back on.

Inside, he took her hand and she let him. He led her straight to the elevators. They went up. She made no objection when the car kept right on gliding upward past her floor.

At the door to his suite, she hesitated. “We’re going to have to...” That was as far as she got, because his arms went around her.

“Listen,” he said.

“What?”

And then he kissed her for the first time in over a decade.

She couldn’t suppress the low, pleasured hum that escaped her as his lips met hers. He just felt so good. And, well, she wanted it, that kiss, wanted those strong arms around her. So she didn’t push him away.

On the contrary, she pulled him closer, sliding her hands up that hard chest of his, up and over his thick shoulders to clasp around his big neck. He tasted of the cinnamon in the coffee they’d had after dinner—hot and wet and so very right.

Her wrap slithered to the rug at their feet and she hardly noticed it was gone.

He was...bigger. Broader. More encompassing than before. She’d known that already. After all, she had eyes. But there was something so much more immediate about feeling it, about having him hold her, surround her. His body gave off waves of heat. That hadn’t changed. And he smelled even better than she remembered—of that unnameable, too-tempting spice and also faintly of some no doubt ridiculously expensive cologne.

“We have to talk,” she blurted out anxiously when he finally lifted his head.

“That’s a bad idea.” His hands brushed up and down her arms and she knew he was soothing her, settling her to his will. The ploy should have annoyed her, would have annoyed her if only his touch didn’t set her on fire.

How long had it been since she’d felt this way, like she might burst out of her skin with longing? Like if she didn’t make love with this guy tonight, she just might crumple to the floor in a swoon of unsatisfied lust, of thwarted desire?

Too long. Forever. A lifetime, at least.

Not for eleven years, if she let herself be painfully honest about it. Deck just...did it for her in a big way.

No other guy even came close.

Not that she would ever tell him that.

Somehow, she made her lips form the words that had to be said first. “We need to set boundaries.”

A couple of swear words escaped him.

She put the tips of her fingers to those wonderful lips. He stuck out his tongue and licked them. She almost gave it all up right then, grabbed him close again, kissed him hard and long, demanded he take her to his bed right this minute.

But no. Things had to be said. Though she shouldn’t be doing this, right now her yearning exceeded her need for self-protection by an alarming degree. She just couldn’t resist him tonight.

But they needed a clear agreement as to how it would be. “We talk first.”

“Nellie—”

“We talk first or I’ll say good-night.”

“You can’t go now.”

“Watch me.” She tried to step back.

He only held on. But at least her insistence had gotten through to him. He gave in to her demand with a reluctant nod. “All right. We’ll talk.”

Bending, he picked up her wrap and handed it to her. She took it gingerly, draping the filmy, glittery fabric over her arm as he turned away to run his key card past the reader. The green light flashed.

He pushed open the door.

Chapter Three

He led her into the sitting area. “Drink?”

“No, thanks.” She set her wrap over the back of the sofa and smoothed it with nervous hands. Everything felt strange suddenly. She shouldn’t be here.

There was no excuse for her to be here, to give in to him in this massive, impossible, stupid way.

He took off his suit jacket, tossed it over a chair and loosened his beautiful blue tie. His shirt was a gorgeous, lustrous light gray and his watch was a Blancpain. She knew because her father used to have one and she had wanted that watch so bad. She would have worn it proudly if he’d only left it to her. He hadn’t. He’d left it to her half brother Darius, the oldest of the nine of them, which she’d eventually let herself admit was fair.

“What?” He gazed at her with equal parts desire and impatience.

She kept the sofa between them, resting her hands on the back of it. “I need your agreement that this isn’t going anywhere, that it’s just for now, for while we’re here in Vegas.”

He dropped into a big white chair. Spreading his knees wide, he rested his arms on the chair arms, like some barbarian king holding court. “How many times do we have to go over this?”

“Until I’m sure that you agree and understand my, er, terms.”

“Your terms.” He seemed to taste the words and to find them not the least to his liking. “We don’t need terms. Just do what you think you have to do. I’ll do the same.”

She was suddenly absurdly glad for the fat sofa between them, as if it was any kind of real barrier, as if it could actually protect her from what she would do with him here tonight. “I just don’t want you to get any ideas about how things could change when we go home. They won’t. When we’re home, I’m not getting near you. I’m going to pretend that tonight never happened.” She waited, expecting some sort of response from him.

Sprawled back in the chair, he just stared at her. She felt her skin heating, her resolve weakening. It was absurd—she was absurd. But something had happened since last night, when she’d given in enough to have a drink and dinner with him. Something had happened as she’d spent the afternoon and evening with him today. She’d had the advantage before.

But that advantage was gone. She really ought to miss it more.

And still he said nothing.

Oldest tactic in the book: the one who speaks first loses.

She spoke. “Yeah, okay. I want you, Deck. I want you a lot. And I’m starting to get that this is something we just need to do. We need to get it out of our systems, find closure between us once and for all...”

Dear God. What was the matter with her, spouting all this tired psychobabble? Talking about “getting it out of our systems,” like sex was a juice cleanse. And “finding closure,” as though closure was something a person could misplace.

Those phrases were meaningless, really. Just the stuff people said when they were about to do something stupid.