Postcards At Christmas. Cara Colter
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wonderfully, perfectly close. Her breath smelled of cocoa. “I haven’t had a lot of kisses. I mean, real kisses. On-the-lips kisses.”
He whispered her name again. “Luce.” Somehow her name was the only word he had right then.
She continued on the subject of kisses. “Two from you, so far. Two from a boy I met in Cardiac ICU at a very excellent hospital in Los Angeles. His name was Ramon. He was getting better, they said. And then one night, out of nowhere, he died. He had the most beautiful crow-black hair.” A single tear escaped the corner of her left eye.
He dipped his head, kissed that tear, tasted the salty wetness on his tongue.
She drew in a shaky little breath, put her hands on his shoulders as though bracing herself—and continued, “A boy named Troy kissed me in middle school. It was one of the few times I was well enough to go to school for a while. He kissed me out under the football bleachers. I promised to meet him in front of the school in the morning. But I got bad in the night and there was another surgery and I didn’t go to school again for three years.”
He made a low noise in his throat, a noise of encouragement, and he pressed his lips to the pretty arch of her left eyebrow.
She went on, “And then there was this boy in high school, a very pricey private school. I went there for three months in my junior year. Noah was rich by then....”
Her brother had started from nothing. Lucy’s illnesses had spurred him on to greater and greater success. He’d needed a lot of money to make sure she got the very best care available.
Lucy went on. “The boy in high school? His name was Josh and he lived in our neighborhood in Beverly Hills— This was before Noah bought the estate in Carpinteria. Josh took me to the homecoming dance and I kissed him at the door when he brought me home. He never called me after that. I called him twice, left messages with his mom. And then a few weeks later, there I was in an ambulance again. I was homeschooled exclusively after that. I never saw Josh again and I never kissed anyone else until last year.”
“You had a boyfriend last year?” He hadn’t known.
“Uh-uh. It was at one of Noah’s parties. A man named David, a business associate of Noah’s. David would have done more than kiss me, but I got cold feet—and don’t you dare tell Noah.”
“Never.” He growled the word and tried to recall if he’d ever met this David. He didn’t think so, which was probably just as well.
“Promise me,” she whispered.
“I swear on the blue blood of my Calabretti ancestors, on the honor of all the Bravos who came before me, that I will never tell Noah that you kissed a man named David at one of Noah’s parties.”
“Wow. Now, that’s a vow.”
“I’m so glad you approve.”
She gave him her best Mona Lisa smile. “But you need to seal it with a kiss.”
He didn’t even hesitate. There was no point. He accepted that now. Unless she called a halt, he was in. All the way. He bent and captured her mouth, tasted chocolate and heat and a sweet, slow sigh.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and swayed closer. He felt the giving softness of her breasts against his chest. Not the least childish, the softness of those breasts. “Dami...”
He pulled her closer still, not even caring anymore that she might feel him unfurling against her belly. He only went on kissing her, dipping his tongue into the moist heat beyond her parted lips, sharing her breath, the world a wonderful place that smelled of peaches and chocolate and something else, something of Lucy, fresh and clean and womanly, too.
After a while, he lifted his head. He gazed down into those shining brown eyes.
She whispered, “That’s three kisses from you. Give me another.”
He drank in the sight of her flushed upturned face. “You’re greedy.”
“I need a lot of kisses. I’ve been deprived.” And then she giggled.
That did it. That naughty little laugh of hers made him greedy, too. He swooped down and took her mouth again.
She cried softly, “Oh!” against his lips.
And then he kissed her long and slow and deep, sweeping a hand down to press the small of her back, pushing his hips against her, aching to have her, to feel her tight heat all around him.
She moaned a little, and she lifted her lower body up and into him. Eager. And so very sweet.
That time when he lifted his head, she took the lapels of his jacket and guided them over his shoulders. He allowed that, catching it as it fell, tossing it onto a far chair. She started on the buttons of his shirt.
He caught her hands, kissed them, one and then the other. “Anticipation is a fine thing.”
She tipped her head to the side and considered. And then she blushed again. “I’m rushing it, huh?”
“I want you right now,” he whispered. “I want to bury myself in you and hear you moan beneath me.”
Deeper color flooded upward over her throat, her chin, her plump cheeks. Her scent intensified. “Oh. Well. Okay...”
He bent and scraped his teeth along the side of her throat.
She let out a small rough little sound and clutched him closer. “Dami...” She made his name into a plea.
He caught her earlobe between his teeth and worried it lightly. Then he whispered, “Will you be guided by me?”
Another sound escaped her, more tender than rough. She shifted her fingers up into his hair, pulling his head down into the warm woman-scented curve of her throat. “Yes. Please. That’s what I want. For you to teach me.”
He took her shoulders then and gently held her away from him—just enough that he could meet her wide, dazed eyes. “First of all...”
“Yes?” Breathless. Hopeful. Impossibly sweet.
“We don’t have to hurry.”
She groaned and then pressed her lips together.
He touched her hair. Like living silk. “Say it. Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t hold back.”
She winced. “Well, it’s just that, um, yeah, we kind of do have to hurry. I mean, it’s already Saturday morning. I’m flying home tomorrow. We need to get this done.”
He wanted to laugh at her total frankness, but he didn’t. He held her gaze. “As your friend, I must warn you against men who say ‘trust me.’ But trust me.”
She laughed then. “Oh, Dami.”
“Do you trust me?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I do. Absolutely.”
“Good.” He caught her hand. “Come with me.”
* * *
Dazed, amazed, excited and very nervous, Lucy went where he led her.
To his bedroom.
It was a large room with a high, coffered ceiling from which hung a giant iron chandelier. The bed had an intricately carved headboard and finials shaped like crowns. The turned-back sheets were cobalt-blue satin, the bedding in deep blue and gold and red.
Unreality assailed her. Alone with Dami in his bedroom. Who knew?
He turned on a torchère lamp beside the bed nice and low. The chandelier was on, too, but also low. She could see clearly enough, but everything was soft and shadowed. Which was great. The pleasant dimness eased her nerves.
At least a little.
He took her shoulders again, his long fingers warm and sure against her bare skin. Still, she shivered at the touch, scared and also excited for what was to