She unfastened his pants, clasping the waist of his jeans and tugging his boxers off with them. She sat back on her heels then, staring at his prominent erection. No way could she miss the way he was throbbing, aching, for her. He shuddered as her fingers lightly stroked the length of him. But the noise she made, a strange broken cry, drew his focus back to her.
She tugged her shirt off, standing to remove her pants. She wavered on unsteady legs, so he sat up and helped her frantically peel off the two pairs of leggings and more socks. When she was as naked as he was, he had to touch her. He buried his face against her side, pressing a kiss against the swell of her hip, before pulling her down with him. Her lips found his, their tongues touching and stroking. He slid his hand through her hair, holding her close, savoring the taste of her as every curve and angle of her body fitted against his.
He didn’t know how much more he could take. He needed her, needed to be inside of her, now. But that wouldn’t be fair. He’d barely touched her. He wanted to touch her. And clearly, she needed to be touched. He wanted to make her fall apart, to lose control, to find a release. Again and again.
His hand cupped her breast, drawing her nipple deep into his mouth. She made that strange little cry again. He looked at her, at the way she bit her lower lip.
“I want to hear you,” he murmured. “I want to know when you like something.”
He rolled her nipple between his fingers and thumb, watching her. His tongue flicked the tip. She groaned, crying out when his mouth latched on to the other nipple.
He lifted her arms over her head, kissing along her sides, sucking the skin until he knew he’d leave marks. His hands were busy too, stroking the curve of her hip, the underside of her breast, the soft skin of her inner thigh. When his fingers traced the slick flesh between her legs, she made that strangled cry.
“Don’t hold back, Tatum,” he demanded, stroking the nub of nerves at her core. “Not with me.” His finger parted her, sliding deep. He groaned at the feel of her, closing his eyes at her tight heat gloving his finger. He moved, stroking her skin, filling her. His thumb set an urgent rhythm against the taut bud, his finger doing the job his body ached to do. And the sounds she made... Pure torture.
Her hands gripped his shoulders as she arched into his touch. He cupped her breast, gently running his teeth over the tip as he added another finger. She was so tight around him. He groaned, burying his face against her breast and gritting his teeth against the need to bury himself inside of her. “You feel so good.” He all but growled the words.
She cried out, long and ragged. He watched her face as her body contracted around his fingers. She grabbed his arm, holding his hand in place as she rode out her climax. It was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen. She was beautiful. So damn beautiful. And he wanted to see that look, that stunned, frantic release, on her face again.
She opened her eyes, gasping. “That was so...so much better than a vibrator.”
He was so surprised, he laughed. And then she was laughing too.
TATUM STARED AT the boxes of decorations she’d pulled from the attic. They’d been buried, covered in junk and a layer of dust. But now the wreath hung over the fireplace, its colored glass balls aglow from the white lights inside. The Christmas village was arranged on the side table and she’d unpacked the train that would go around the Christmas tree. These were the things her father had delighted in... Seeing them made her think of him and happier times.
Now all she needed was a tree.
The repairman had arrived first thing. Nothing like working heat and electric, Christmas decorations, carols and a solid night’s sleep to help dispel some of her moodiness.
Or the mind-blowing orgasm courtesy of Spencer. But last night had been wrong. A huge mistake. He’d caught her when she was vulnerable and needy... And it had been the single most erotic moment of her life.
Not that it would ever—ever—happen again. She’d been arguing with herself all morning. What had she been thinking? Why had things gotten so carried away?
And then she’d remember the feel of him, the things he’d done to her, and all her arguments faded away.
She’d been gasping, still clinging to him, when his cell phone chirped. His posture had changed instantly, his forehead creasing. “Shit,” he’d muttered.
“Something wrong?” she’d asked, wishing she was still in touch with her inner teenager enough to ask him to stay and give her another orgasm—or two.
“Work,” he’d groaned, nuzzling her breast again.
Her fingers had slipped through his tangled black hair. “If you ignore it, will they go away?” Please tell me they’ll go away.
He’d chuckled, then groaned again, his breath brushing her nipples and his hand stroking along her belly. “I wish. They call, I go. Dammit.”
She tugged the plaid throw over her nakedness, watching him dress with a mixture of appreciation and disappointment. In that moment, disappointment won. She hadn’t wanted him to go. From the bulge in his pants, she knew he didn’t want to go. And when he’d looked at her, there was no denying how badly he wanted to stay. He’d kissed her, once, so hard and deep she moaned. Which made him mutter “Dammit” again before stomping out.
She’d lain on her nest of pillows hoping he’d reappear. But he hadn’t come back and she’d eventually crawled into her bed, buried in quilts and oh so lonely.
She’d woken up with the echo of his fingers on her skin. She could still feel him, taste him... All morning she’d thought of things she wished she’d done. It wasn’t the regret she was expecting, but it was still regret. He’d been her own personal playground and she’d only been allowed on one ride—a ride that had been cut short.
After living in a state of denial, her body was ready to give in, let go and thoroughly enjoy what Spencer was willing to offer her. Too bad she’d said once.
Of course, they hadn’t actually slept together so...
No. God no. What was she thinking?
“Tatum?” She heard the singsong voice through her front door. “Are you decent? It’s Mrs. Ryan, dear, from across the street.”
She blushed. Spencer’s mother. “Coming,” she called out, smoothing her red tunic into place and running a quick hand over her hair and the long beaded necklace she wore. Appearance was important. First her mother, then Brent had insisted she always look her best. And now that Spencer’s mother was on the front porch, she was glad of it.
She pulled open the door to find Mrs. Ryan and Lucy Ryan, Spencer’s cousin. Lucy was the one person she’d kept in contact with from Greyson—the one person Tatum had always counted a true friend. But after Lucy had come to visit her and Brent, their emails and phone calls grew further apart. Brent hadn’t liked Lucy and made it clear he didn’t approve of their friendship. And, sadly, Tatum hadn’t fought to preserve or defend their friendship.
“Tatum!” Lucy squealed, her gray eyes widening at the sight of her.
“Lucy?
