Page 45 of Baby It's Cold Outside

Nipples, actually.

She turned to him in horror but the room faded a little around the edges and she grabbed for the vanity.

“Whoa. Easy there.” And the next thing she knew he’d swept her up into arms that felt strong and safe and depressingly platonic. “I think it’s bedtime for you,” he said as he strode out of the bathroom, and she had to stop herself from saying, “Only if you’ll join me.”

Then chill gave way to delicious warmth. Warmth all around her—warm air, warm skin, warm breath on her forehead. She made a feeble attempt at protesting but damn if it didn’t feel good to be snug against his chest, and her eyes were already closing. She barely felt him place her on the bed and pull the covers over her. She just sighed and rolled over, letting sleep and warmth and the memory of solid male muscle rock her into deep oblivion.

Luke retrieved the patchwork quilt his grandmother had made from its location in front of the fireplace and brought it back to the bed containing an already comatose pixie. He watched her for a moment or two, the covers pulled right up to her chin, hiding the rest of her from view. Which was just as well. He’d never known someone could be clothed from neck to ankle and still be almost naked.

His gaze drifted to her mouth. It was slack, lips parted, and he was reminded of those kisses she’d talked about—deep, wet, and hungry. Cotton candy kisses. It seemed such a shame that a mouth as delectable as hers wasn’t going to be put to good use at midnight. If ever a mouth had been made for New Year’s Eve, it was hers. A soft, snuffly snore escaped and he shook himself out of his inertia—out of his voyeurism—throwing the quilt over the top of the covers and tucking it in around her body.

His hand stilled as her intoxicating scent wafted toward him. Damn, but she smelled good. With the mint from the mouthwash mixing with the nutmeg and rum from earlier, she didn’t smell like Christmas anymore. She definitely smelled like New Year’s Eve. With a pinch of Halloween and a large dose of crazy. But after nine months and a strangely arousing non-strip striptease, his body had decided that Christmas was overrated. His mouth watered as he thought about exploring those flavors—and others—with his tongue.

About giving her that New Year’s Eve kiss.

Half an hour ago, all he’d wanted was a shower, a shave, and a sleep. Right now he’d trade it all for a little bit of crazy. Unfortunately, the crazy was sound asleep and if she’d truly drunk that enormous pitcher of eggnog, then she was going to be out for a while.

Which left his original plans.

Luke headed for the bathroom, treading across freezing tiles to the shower, reaching in to flick on the hot water as he stripped off his clothes. The chill was pervasive and he was glad to step under the warm spray and let it sluice over his body. He shut his eyes, trying not to think about the outline of Tamara’s nipples that had been engraved into his retinas, or that flash of belly and breast. But those were preferable to the pictures that had crowded his mind the last nine months, so he gave up fighting it and allowed himself to fantasize.

Tamara in the shower with him, pushing her chest and belly against the tiles, hearing her gasp at the cold, rivulets of warm water trekking down her shoulders, over her back and the cheeks of her ass as he pushed into her hot center, already wet for him, her breathy whimpers as he drove them closer and closer...

He opened his eyes as the twitch in his dick grew harder, more urgent, and the temptation to do something about it rode him like a drill sergeant. He clenched his teeth, refusing to give in. He was back in the land of the free and the home of the brave and he was damned if he was going to resort to a little hand relief when there were other options, not least of all one very cute one sleeping soundly in the bed he’d been planning on crashing in not that long ago.

He had a feeling once she sobered up, he wouldn’t stand a chance. But it sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him from trying. Five years ago, he would have run a mile from a woman with commitment on her mind but Tamara was...intriguing. And he wasn’t some horny, shallow kid who couldn’t think beyond the dictates of his penis despite current evidence to the contrary. He’d seen a lot in five years, matured a lot.

He switched off the hot water and stood under stinging icy needles until he was shivering and his testicles had headed so far north he doubted he’d ever see them again. But at least his other problem had gone away, even if the freezing water hadn’t been able to cleanse the fevered images in his head.

He dried off briskly, wrapped the towel around his waist, and stopped in front of the mirror, swiping his hands across the surface to remove the fog. He rubbed his hand across his scratchy jaw. He’d been clean-shaven when he left thirty-six hours ago.

Thirty-six long hours.

His travel itinerary had been thrown into complete chaos due to massive disruptions from the freak snowstorms. After hours of sitting in several different airport lounges desperately trying to get a flight—any flight—home, he’d finally managed to get to Toronto and caught a flight to JFK from there. But the airport had closed mid-flight and they’d diverted to Montreal.

From there he’d hopped a bus rather than renting a car because he’d been dog-tired and he knew his mother would never forgive him if he survived the sand of Afghanistan twice only to kill himself on an icy American highway. With all roads to NYC closed at that time, he’d headed for the cabin to hide out until his sister’s birthday party. The Greyhound had just made it to this sleepy part of Vermont when the blizzard engulfed everything in blinding white and closed the road again.

“Dress. Shave. Sleep,” he told his reflection because he knew he wanted to do none of those thin

gs. “Ignore the sleeping pixie in thermal underwear.”

Because she was exactly what he did want to do.

He strode out of the bathroom, gaze fixed determinedly on the dancing fire in front rather than what waited in the bed behind. He busied himself pulling on a pair of boxer briefs from his duffel bag, then headed for the hungry fire to throw on more wood, feeling the instant lick of heat and trying not to think about how responsive Tamara might be if he stoked her fire just a little.

Okay. She was his sister’s friend and she was hell-bent on settling down. But they were in a snowbound cabin on New Year’s Eve, and her addiction to deep, wet, hungry kisses had wormed its way into his consciousness. It had been too damned long since he’d been kissed and her obsession with it had fueled a hunger inside him that seemed to grow more ferocious with each passing minute.

Hell, he’d hold out for ten dates just to get one of those kisses. And whatever else she was willing to offer after that.

He sat on the couch, staring into the flames as he buzzed his electric razor over his face. She’d been pretty clear about her ten-date rule and he admired her for knowing what she wanted and holding out for it. It would be wrong to mess with that. Even on New Year’s Eve.

Satisfied he’d done a reasonable job, Luke switched off the razor, determined to also switch off his thoughts. Deliberately not looking over his shoulder, he stuffed a throw cushion under his head, stretched out on the couch, shut his eyes, and prayed for sleep.

It took him all of thirty seconds to remember the couch looked deceptively comfortable. The arms were squishy and soft but he knew from experience the lumpy cushions gave no protection from broken springs that somehow seemed to know the exact moment a person achieved REM to make themselves known.

He’d always scored the couch during their family weekends at the cabin. In his early teens, he’d outgrown the camp beds that had been his and Georgia’s and he’d graduated to the three-seater. It had seemed pretty damn grown-up at the time but it was a milestone that had soon lost its luster. Even back then, the ancient couch—which had been in every family picture taken at the cabin since the fifties—had been just barely tolerable.

He tossed and turned for ten minutes trying to find a more comfortable spot, desperate for the sleep that hovered enticingly beyond his reach. Sure, he’d slept on worse—way worse—but he’d made a vow a few months back that his first night home on American soil he was sleeping on a real mattress. After meager hours of disrupted upright sleep in airport chairs and a cramped bus, the couch was a supreme disappointment.

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