Christmas In His Bed. Sasha Summers
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look good, Tatum.” His voice pitched low, all gravel.
She was acutely aware of the way his eyes leisurely swept her from head to toe. When his attention returned to her face, his jaw was locked. Was that disapproval on his face? Or—her heart was thumping—was it something else? She didn’t know how to read the tension that rolled off of him. But it was unnerving as hell. His gaze narrowed, piercing hers. What was he trying to figure out?
“Tatum?” Her name. His voice. She felt a shudder run down her back.
“No, I don’t.” Her words spilled from her lips. She looked like hell and she knew it. “You look different,” she admitted. Different was an understatement. Even if her response to him was the same: hyperaware. When he was close, she’d felt it. Right now, she was feeling all sorts of things that made her nervous and excited and tense. Dammit.
He cocked a questioning eyebrow her way.
She shrugged. “There’s...more of you.” Including abs and tattoos and the lovely dark happy trail disappearing beneath his waistband. She needed to stop talking—and thinking—immediately. Instead, she stared at his chest, encased in a skintight gray shirt and leather jacket. What was absolutely terrifying was how badly her fingers itched to explore him. No. No exploring. Evicting. Immediate evicting.
He laughed. “More of me?”
His laughter rolled over her, leaving her tingling in all the right places. Dammit. It was cruel that he’d turned out even more beautiful than she remembered. And completely unfair. He’d broken her heart, made her doubt her judgment and left her unbelieving she was worthy of love.
How dare he stand there, teasing her, acting like he wasn’t the bad guy. She knew better. It wasn’t like he was just some dangerously good-looking man making her house all festive while waking up every one of her lady-part nerves. If only that were the case.
“Tatum?” he whispered, coming to stand in front of her. “You okay?”
She nodded. Her attention wandered to his mouth, leaving her breathless. Would his touch feel the same? His lips had branded her skin, magic against her lips... No, she wasn’t okay. If she was, she wouldn’t be dragging up memories better left buried.
Besides, he didn’t deserve to touch her. To kiss her. And she needed to stop thinking of that. Of him—naked. Of what she wanted to do to him—naked. This was Spencer. And the two of them would not be getting naked together.
Even if he is way more exciting than my vibrator. The thought sent another shudder through her.
“You cold?” His voice was gruff and rumbling—shaking her to the core.
“No,” she managed, her tongue thick and her throat tight. She wasn’t cold. For the first time in a long time, she was feeling delectably hot. The only problem with this scenario was he was the one making her feel this way.
She stepped around him, hoping to quiet the desire surging through her veins. Her overstimulated reaction to him made no sense. She didn’t like him. Maybe this is what happens when you go for more than a year without sex? “But I need something to drink and you need to...to go to bed,” she said, glancing at him. “One night,” she added, knowing she was a coward. But it was after midnight, cold, and she wasn’t heartless.
“Okay. One night. I’ll crash here tonight and look into staying somewhere else while you’re in town.” He was staring at her again. “If you’re sure Brent won’t mind?”
She nodded. Brent so won’t mind. She headed into the kitchen, deliberately avoiding his gaze. She could sleep under the same roof; she could be an adult. But she wasn’t going to talk about her marriage or her divorce with him.
He followed her. “Why is it so cold in here? Pilot light go out again?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Brent couldn’t get it to work?”
“The heat won’t come on.” She pointed at the fireplace over her shoulder. “But at least I got the fire going, even if I did burn my thumb and singe some hair.” She held her thumb up.
She hadn’t expected him to cradle her hand in his or hold up her thumb for a thorough inspection. She wanted to yank her hand away and scowl at him... No, she didn’t. Which was worse.
His gaze locked with hers. “Some homecoming.” His hold went from reassuring to overwhelming. “I am sorry about tonight. Not the way I’d imagined seeing you again.” His words shook her. The rhythmic stroke of his thumb along her wrist turned her insides fluid.
Not the way I’d imagined seeing you again.
She blew out a deep breath. “It’s...it’s fine.” Her words were a raspy whisper but she managed to pull her hand from his. No touching. Touching was bad. And more space was good too. She stepped back, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I...I can call a repairman in the morning.”
He glanced at her hand, then back at her, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll fix it before we go to bed.”
We go to bed. She swallowed, staring at the floor so her face wouldn’t betray her thoughts. “Thanks.”
“What’s going on?” he asked softly.
“What do you mean?” She knew what he meant. But her life was none of his business. And, dammit, she was having a hard time thinking straight with him standing there staring at her that way. She needed to stay cool. And keep him at arm’s length. So she busied herself in the kitchen, pulling out the milk, a saucepan and some cocoa packets.
He followed her, standing too close. “You’re here alone, basically in the dark, without heat. Alone.”
She put the kettle on the burner, her hands and her voice unsteady. “Did you have to say that twice?” she asked.
“I guess that’s the thing I’m most hung up on,” he confessed.
He was standing behind her, his warmth rolling over her. “It is?” She glanced back at him, the questions in his gaze enough to turn her back to cocoa making. “I assure you, you don’t need to be hung up on anything that has to do with me, okay?” She tried to sound flippant but it didn’t work.
“Old habits die hard. I know how to read you. I always have.” There was an edge to his voice.
“Maybe. When we were kids,” she agreed. But they definitely weren’t kids anymore. And even if he had known what she was thinking—wanting—before she had, didn’t mean he did now. That was a long time ago. “Right now I want cocoa. And peace and quiet.” She spun around to face him, shoving the mug into his hand. “Good night.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” he asked, glancing at the mug she’d placed in his hands before leveling her with the weight of his gaze once more.
“I didn’t realize that was unclear.”
He chuckled.
She was very proud that she didn’t smile at him. Because his smile was hard to resist. He was hard to resist. Because, honestly, she would happily replace her swirly purple battery-operated love machine with this new manlier version of Spencer. She choked on her sip of cocoa. Please, God, don’t let him figure out what I’m thinking. And wanting.
“Brent’s not here.” He paused. “You’re alone.” He swallowed, his gaze searching her face as he leaned forward, placing his mug on the counter, his large hands on either side of her—effectively pinning her against the counter.
“So?” She didn’t deny it. She was alone. She was relieved her out-of-control hunger for him had somehow escaped his notice. But now that she was so close, that wouldn’t last for long. Her heart was slamming against her ribs and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. Because breathing drew in his scent, his tantalizing, captivating, enticing scent.
“And there’s this.” He pointed at her, then himself—stepping so close that his breath fanned her hair. “There’s still a hell