Unwrap Me. Susan Lyons
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“’Scuse me?” Then he snapped his fingers. “Sorry, I get it. You’re Jewish?”
“No. I just don’t like it.”
Had he heard right? “How can anyone not like Christmas?”
“It’s a long story. Nick, I want to see you, but let’s do something that’s as far removed from Christmas as possible.”
“Like what? Go to a movie?”
“We could.” She paused. “What I’d really love is a beach picnic.”
He imagined the local beaches. English Bay, Second Beach, Spanish Banks. Nice for a brisk walk on a blustery day, but a picnic? The woman was nuts. On the other hand, the carol ships would go past, and they could snuggle up with a blanket and a thermos of one of his holiday favorites, peppermint hot chocolate. “Okay, I guess we could—”
“A sunny beach,” she broke in, a touch of humor in her voice. “Not a cold, gray Vancouver beach with the carol ships going past and the trees all lit up.”
Okay, she could read his mind, but he didn’t do so well reading hers. A sunny beach?
“I know, it’s just wishful thinking.”
Her voice sounded so wistful he wished he could fly her to Mexico. Then he had an idea. “Or imagination. Dig out your bikini, make a pitcher of margaritas, and leave the rest to me.”
“An imaginary picnic?”
“Nah. A real picnic on an imaginary beach.”
“I love it.” Now her voice sparkled with excitement.
When he hung up, he dialed Karen. “What’s up with Jude being anti-Christmas?”
“That’s her story to tell.”
“So it’s for real? She really isn’t into it?”
“Not one bit. She didn’t even want to do the Secret Santa thing.” A wicked chuckle came over the phone line. “Though I gather she won’t be returning my gift.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Come on, Nick. You can give me more than that.”
“No can do.” He hung up.
Refilling his coffee in the kitchen, he glanced at the calendar. Nine days to the twenty-fifth. So many fun things happening in town, and he’d hooked up with the one woman who didn’t do Christmas.
On the other hand, she was hot in bed and interesting, too. How could a guy complain?
The radio was playing “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and he sang along. Then he realized a funny coincidence. He’d met Jude twelve days before Christmas.
An idea struck him. That night, she’d received a Secret Santa gift: him. Grinning, he figured that made him the partridge in a pear tree. Yesterday would have been two-turtle-doves day—but he hadn’t seen her. Except in the hour after midnight—when he’d given her two orgasms and she’d cooed—well, groaned and cried out—her release.
His smile widened. Maybe she hated Christmas, but perhaps he could sneak it into her life without her catching on. It’d be his private joke.
So today was three-French-hens day. He’d use poetic license and get Cornish game hens for their picnic. Now, what about four calling birds for Sunday? He snapped his fingers. His dad was a bird-watcher and had CDs with bird calls. All Nick had to do was make sure he stayed at Jude’s past midnight tonight.
At seven that night, Nick was on her doorstep, bare calves goosebumped below his heavy coat. Juggling bundles, he freed a finger to ring her bell.
“Hi, Nick.” She let him in, eyes widening as she took in his bare legs and feet in thongs. “You braved the elements on your way to the beach.”
“Hey, there, beautiful. You’re worth it.” He thrust a flashy beach towel and wicker picnic basket into her arms and then dropped a kiss on her lips. Man, she smelled good. That peach-rose scent, but something tangy, too, like limes. “Hope you have a bikini on under those clothes.” She wore a sage-green T-shirt and white shorts, and her feet were bare.
Oh, yeah, he remembered those long, shapely legs wrapping around his waist. He remembered the rest of her, too, naked in the firelight, and his chilled body was heating up now.
She winked. “You’ll find out. Once we’re, uh, at the beach.”
He kicked off his thongs and followed her. In the living room, the fireplace was burning.
“Think of it as a beach fire,” she said, tossing him a grin.
“Good idea. After all, the sun’s setting.” He turned off the lamp. “It’ll chill off if we don’t have a fire.” He put his bags on the coffee table, then shrugged out of his coat. Between the fire and his arousal, he was burning up.
Jude took in his getup. “Let me guess: you’re into surfing.”
“Yeah. I like most sports.” He’d chosen his most colorful board shorts, bright green with a pattern of yellow hibiscus flowers. He’d picked them up on holiday in Hawaii, along with the tee that proudly proclaimed, I SURFED THE BANZAI PIPELINE—AND LIVED!
“I should’ve made piña coladas rather than margaritas,” she joked.
“Nah, ours is an eclectic beach. A little Hawaii, a little Mexico, a little California.” He pulled a Beach Boys CD out of his backpack and handed it to her. He’d borrowed it from his parents’ oldies collection.
“Fun.”
While she put it on, he spread the beach towel over the Oriental rug in front of the fire. Then he held his hand out to her, singing along with the sixties band, “Let’s go surfing now.”
“You’ll have to teach me how.”
He tugged her over to stand on the towel and rested his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll be a natural.”
“Oh, yeah?” She kinked an eyebrow.
“As I recall, you have a great sense of rhythm.” He slid his hands down her back and eased her body close to his. The room grew ten degrees warmer.
“Mmmm. I do remember a certain…pleasing…rhythm.” She drew the words out, voice low and sexy, and her stomach rested against his hard-on. “Tell me what I need to do.”
Strip off your clothes and spread your legs. He swallowed hard. Yeah, Jude sure as hell fired him up, but hadn’t he promised himself he’d show a little finesse? “Bend your knees, feel the rhythm, ride the waves.”
“I think I can do that.” Her hips gave a suggestive wriggle, increasing the pressure against him. “If you can create those waves, surfer boy, I’m happy to ride them.”
Waves. The only waves he wanted to ride were those of a mutual orgasm.
Damn, he’d figured on a picnic, a couple drinks, a slow seduction. Now all he wanted was to jump her bones. Now being the operative word.
When his lips touched hers, he knew she felt the same way. There was nothing hesitant or slow about her kiss; she opened right up and welcomed him in. Mmmm, she tasted of lime, a hint of salt. Who needed a margarita? He could get drunk on this woman. His tongue swept her mouth, and hers met and matched it.
She reached up, swiping her fingers through his thick hair and grabbing on to his head, holding him just where she wanted him as her tongue thrust into his mouth. As they kissed fiercely, he fumbled at the waist of her shorts, finding the button, unzipping the fly. He yanked them down and felt the silk of her skin, broken only by a small patch of fabric.
He broke the kiss so he could pull her shirt over her head and then stepped back to take her in. Her bikini was skimpy and printed in a green and brown jungle pattern that