Snow Baby. Brenda Novak
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raised her head to make out his face in the darkness. “Wh-What happened?”
Closing his eyes, he shamelessly hugged her to him, belly to belly. It was then that Chantel realized how fast his heart was beating.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, still disoriented.
“Are you kidding? I thought I was going to lose you. It was nip and tuck there for a while.”
Slowly the memory of being stranded in her car came back to her. She remembered how Dillon had rescued her, remembered trudging behind him through the snow. Then there was nothing but blackness until the burning and tingling started and grew painful in its severity.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like I’m on fire.”
“That’s good.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“I don’t know. Outside somewhere. I wasn’t concerned with what happened to them. I just knew I had to get them off you—fast.”
“Because…”
“Because you were soaking wet and freezing to death. And that’s what you’re supposed to do with someone in that situation.” His voice sounded slightly defensive, as though she’d accused him of being some kind of pervert.
Realizing he’d just saved her life, Chantel tried to act nonchalant. She wasn’t sure he’d needed to remove every stitch of their clothing, but he’d obviously acted in what he thought was her best interests. “I’ve seen it before on television,” she admitted.
“How’s the burning in your arms and legs? Getting any better?”
“A little.”
Chantel shifted to remove her lower body from contact with Dillon’s, which was nearly impossible in the snug bag. While modeling, she’d seen a score of naked men, changing from one outfit to another, and lots of men had seen her doing the same thing. But somehow she couldn’t treat being with Dillon as indifferently as she’d handled working around those fellow models, photographers, costumers and artistic directors. Especially since his body felt good enough to melt her bones.
“Relax.”
Though nervous and vulnerable, she tried to do as he suggested, but ended up simply keeping as still as she could. It had been almost a year since she’d been with a man. She’d gotten so skinny in her final months with Wade that he hadn’t wanted her, at least sexually. And the memory of it made her even more self-conscious than she would normally have felt in this particular dilemma.
“I’m sorry I got you into this mess,” she said to break the awkward silence.
His chuckle rumbled in her ear. “Don’t be. From my perspective, there are worse things than having a beautiful woman in my arms.”
Chantel smiled. So he was generous, as well as kind. “What do we do when we’re warm?”
“Wait for morning.”
The thought of spending the entire night in Dillon’s arms sent a shiver up Chantel’s spine. He hugged her closer and began to rub her back again, as though he assumed her reaction had something to do with the cold. But Chantel knew it had much more to do with the man holding her, stroking her.
“That feels good,” she whispered.
Dillon’s shallow breathing—and more obvious proof lower down—told her he agreed. “I guess this might get a little awkward,” he said, knowing, of course, that she couldn’t possibly miss his arousal. “But don’t worry. I won’t, you know, try anything.”
She smiled at his attempt to reassure her. “We just have to relax, like you said.”
“Unfortunately, even that won’t change some things.”
“I know,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
Chantel had felt exhausted only moments earlier, but now her blood zipped through her veins and wouldn’t let her lie still. “We’re not going to be able to rest,” she said, “if we feel we can’t move.”
“We can move.”
“I know, but I’m hesitant to put my arm here or my leg there…”
“Do whatever makes you comfortable.”
Sighing, she snuggled closer, laying her head on his chest and slipping one cold foot between his. The burning in her arms and legs had eased, but her fingers and toes still felt like ice. “Thanks,” she said. “I guess we should probably get some sleep. I’m a lot warmer now, aren’t you?”
“I’m plenty warm,” he told her, but to Chantel his body didn’t feel as though he was ready for sleep. His muscles were taut, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Dillon’s breath stirred her hair, but he said no more. Chantel listened to the storm outside until sleep began to woo her. Then, when she was finally warm, she drifted slowly toward it. As her brain lost its override on her body, she relaxed even more and pressed closer to the muscled chest beneath her hands, the powerful limbs entwined with her own. The steady beat of Dillon’s heart lulled her that final step, and she fell into peaceful oblivion.
DILLON STARED into the darkness, willing his body to forget the soft flesh pressed against his, to block out the smell of woman that filled his nostrils. He and Chantel Miller were merely two strangers surviving the storm together. Morning would come and everything would be the way it was before.
Still, he had to admit that the person he held in his arms was no everyday woman. She was slender and elegant, but it was her smile and her eyes that appealed to him most. Unique, exquisite, haunting.
Beautiful. She was simply beautiful. And, of course, her body did nothing to change that overall impression. Long legs, smooth and shapely, slid against his own; her small perfect breasts were crushed against his chest. He’d longed to touch them from the moment he’d taken off her shirt, to feel them in his palms…
She smashed my truck. She smashed my truck. She smashed my truck. And she made me miss the party at the cabin.
He repeated Chantel’s shortcomings over and over to himself, but nothing quelled the hot desire that smoked through his veins. To make matters worse, he’d begun to feel a little proprietary toward her. He had found her. He had saved her. It was that old finders keepers, losers weepers thing, and he knew it. But no matter how many times he told himself no, his groin tightened, insisting on a different answer.
If it hadn’t been so long, he wouldn’t be like this, he told himself. He and Amanda had divorced two years ago, and he hadn’t slept with a woman since. He’d come close a few times, but the commitment that went with sex had always pulled him up short—because he didn’t want to give his daughters any competition. He owed Brittney and Sydney his wholehearted loyalty. Divorce was hard enough. He knew firsthand how difficult it could be to get along with a stepparent. Why would he do the same thing to his kids that his parents had done to him?
Chantel stirred. One of her hands climbed across his ribs, and he had to stop himself from cupping the roundness of her derriere and pressing her more firmly against him. It was simply the most natural of responses. But she was sleeping peacefully and had no idea she was driving him mad.
And he’d promised he’d be good.
A sweet mewling sound came from Chantel, but her eyes remained closed. She was probably dreaming. He gazed through the darkness, finding the curve of her cheek, the silky spray of hair that fanned out over his arm, and caught sight of her lips. They were slightly parted…and wet.
He clenched his jaw. It was going to be a long night.
THE CELL PHONE broke the silence, waking Chantel with a start. Next to her, Dillon stirred and they both fumbled around until Chantel came up with the phone, which turned out to be her own, and answered it.
“Hello?”