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Christmas In His Bed
Sasha Summers
Tis the season to be naughty…Newly divorced and back in her hometown, Tatum Buchanan is trying to move on with her life. But she's shocked to discover her ex-husband has rented out her childhood home to her high school sweetheart! And the last thing she expects to see is grown-up Spencer Ryan's cut, hard body. Apparently Tatum's libido doesn't care that Spencer shattered her heart eight years ago…With the holidays looming and Spencer's presence in her house driving her wild, Tatum strikes a bargain with him—twelve days of no-strings sex. Just so she can get him out of her system. But when the twelve red-hot days of Christmas are over, Tatum isn't sure she can say goodbye to Spencer on December 25!


’Tis the season to be naughty...
Newly divorced and back in her hometown, Tatum Buchanan is trying to move on with her life. But she’s shocked to discover her ex-husband has rented out her childhood home to her high school sweetheart! And the last thing she expects to see is grown-up Spencer Ryan’s cut, hard body. Apparently Tatum’s libido doesn’t care that Spencer shattered her heart eight years ago...
With the holidays looming and Spencer’s presence in her house driving her wild, Tatum strikes a bargain with him—twelve days of no-strings sex. Just so she can get him out of her system. But when the twelve red-hot days of Christmas are over, Tatum isn’t sure she can say goodbye to Spencer on December 25!
Spencer stepped forward, erasing the small space between them.
His thumbs ran along Tatum’s jawline, tracing the soft skin of her neck and the shell of her ear. She closed her eyes and her lips parted, her breath escaping on unsteady gasps. He watched her response, her arousal driving him crazy. “How long?” he asked, his tone soft.
Her green eyes fluttered open. “How long?” she repeated, breathless.
“Since you’ve been...kissed.” He bit out the last word. “How long has it been since a man’s loved your body?”
“My body is none of your business.” But the tremor in her voice told him he wasn’t imagining this. Her hands gripped the counter edge as if she was holding herself back. She wanted him, even if she didn’t want to accept it.
“And it’s a damn shame,” he murmured, longing to pry her hands from the counter, to feel her fingers slide through his hair. Before he was through, she’d be holding on to him...
SASHA SUMMERS grew up surrounded by books. Her passions have always been storytelling, romance and travel. Whether it’s an easy-on-the-eyes cowboy or a hero of truly mythic proportions, Sasha falls a little in love with each and every one of her heroes. She frequently gets lost with her characters in the worlds she creates, forgetting those everyday tasks like laundry and dishes. Luckily, her four brilliant children and hero-inspiring hubby are super understanding and helpful.
Christmas in His Bed
Sasha Summers


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader (#ud34671df-8802-5b12-9989-da048491c913),
There’s nothing like your first love. It’s intense and fiery, sweet and all-consuming—if it ends, the pain can be equally so. It took years for Tatum and Spencer to get over the wounds their long-ago breakup caused. But now that they’re thrown together again, their wounds take a backseat to the power of their attraction. Tatum’s never wanted someone like she wants Spencer. And Spencer’s never wanted anyone but Tatum. Once they give in to one another, neither is prepared for how severely their worlds are rocked.
Between the Christmas caroling, wedding showers and bedroom adventures, Spencer does his best to wear down Tatum’s resistance. But no matter how willing Tatum is to have Spencer in her bed, her heart is off-limits. Her heart is too broken to try love again.
I adore first-love stories. There’s something raw and vulnerable about them. And Tatum and Spencer are about as raw as a couple can get. Helping them make their way back to each other, find forgiveness and trust, is quite the emotional roller coaster—let me tell you. But I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I did!
I love to hear from readers so please find me on my website, sashasummers.com (http://sashasummers.com), on Facebook or Twitter, @sashawrites (https://twitter.com/sashawrites).
Enjoy every page,
Sasha Summers
Acknowledgments (#ulink_33db2c0a-0552-5a89-ad65-e98084f51c35)
Thank you to my amazing writer peeps. Writing might be a solitary profession, but I never feel alone. Your support and belief keep me writing.
Thanks, always, to my wonderful agent, Pamela Hopkins, and awesome editor, Johanna Raisanen. Your faith in my books means the world!
And my family—you guys are the best. I love you.

Dedication (#ulink_3b602570-f43a-525c-98cc-1c1bf8c7051c)
To those whose first love is still their only love.
Contents
Cover (#u3f40f0b6-b754-5a62-93f3-8ba06522b927)
Back Cover Text (#u1789146c-6394-553e-81ca-d99a26fc07b9)
Introduction (#uf1b2993a-0271-53b6-903f-fc12149636d5)
About the Author (#ubb6a70ca-62ad-51a2-8da8-16fc5159d881)
Title Page (#u8c2d2c0c-7ff7-5d1e-962e-3716c7c0b399)
Dear Reader (#u8daec1d5-6962-5bee-bd9a-550f3767ba39)
Acknowledgments (#ulink_f75967a6-69f5-5035-acad-ab84ddb1298b)
Dedication (#ulink_a4ce485d-d0c7-52b1-be84-9af45c55c5bc)
Chapter 1 (#u287d4556-f15a-5fa5-b8c9-516f02637421)
Chapter 2 (#uccdf1786-dab1-5dd0-9058-293a7497665b)
Chapter 3 (#u57d559cf-b5b7-58a4-a30b-1108c23b3fc1)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ud34671df-8802-5b12-9989-da048491c913)
BEING BRALESS WAS as close to rebellious as Tatum had been in almost a decade. So was reading her third romance novel in a row, barely emerging from the nest of quilts she’d dragged to the comfy rocking chair in front of the now-dying fire. No makeup, no expectations, no worries. Day one of her new life was good.
When she was done reading, she could dig through her suitcase for her vibrator and some quality alone time. Or she could stay up reading all night long.
For the first time in her life, there was no one to stop her from doing whatever she wanted. And knowing that was...awesome.
She glanced at the old cuckoo clock over the mantel. Right now her ex-husband, Brent, and the new Mrs. Cahill, Kendra, were probably sipping umbrella drinks on some beach somewhere—if he’d actually taken a vacation. But knowing Kendra, she wouldn’t have given him a choice.
She burrowed into her quilts and added the book she’d finished to the pile at her feet. Her evening would be far more satisfying than a night with Brent and his tiny penis. Penis size aside, he had no stamina and had never taken an active interest in giving her pleasure. Tatum had always waited for him to head to the shower before finishing things off right with her handy-dandy purple-swirly love machine. She called him Chris, after her favorite movie actor. Brent and Chris had never met. Brent had no idea Chris existed.
She drained hot chocolate from her large Santa mug and stood, padding across the wooden floor in her socks and slippers to restart the Nat King Cole album. Maybe it was wrong that she was in such a good mood, newly divorced and absolutely alone on Christmas. But she was. She wanted to be happy. And right now, Nat King Cole, stimulating romance novels and copious amounts of hot chocolate were all she needed to be happy. And, maybe later, Chris.
She picked up the last book on the side table, reading the back blurb and its tantalizing promise of “eroticism on every page” with a sigh. But a slight movement from out the large picture window caught her eye. She froze, a prick of fear running down her spine.
A man stood on her front porch railing. A big man. So tall she couldn’t see his head or shoulders as he reached for something on the roof.
She edged closer to the fireplace and the brass poker resting against the wall. She might be alone, but she wasn’t helpless. She gripped the poker and made her way closer to the window.
But the man wasn’t armed with a weapon. He had a large coil of Christmas lights hanging around his shoulder. Christmas lights. She didn’t drop the poker, but her swing-first-question-second instinct wavered. Something about a man hanging Christmas lights brought the threat level down.
She lowered her weapon, watching as the man moved along the porch railing with ease, threading the heavy strand of lights on unseen hooks. He was fast. But why was he there, working so hard to decorate her house? He must run one of those decorating services. Maybe he was at the wrong house? She should stop him before he got too far.
She wrapped a throw around her shoulders and pushed through the front door, still holding her poker. A blast of cold air cut through her sweats and the thermal underwear beneath. Shit, shit and double shit. She’d forgotten how frigid North Texas could get. She hurried across the porch, but stopped a few feet from the man on the railing.
His leather jacket rode up as he worked. And his stomach... She swallowed. What a view. He stretched, exposing more actual man flesh than she’d seen in oh so long. And it was amazing. The kind of amazing even the best romance novels would have a hard time capturing.
Cut. Hard. All man. Every cleft and ridge of his six-pack was on display. His jeans hung low enough to reveal the edge of his hips. Just looking at him made her light-headed. Stunned. Excited. Achy.
Something deep inside her turned molten and fluid.
Her fingers twisted in the throw around her shoulders as her gaze followed the impressively dark happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. What sort of surprises would be found underneath the skintight, faded jeans that clung to this man’s hips? She swallowed, her imagination offering up all sorts of possibilities. She was oh so tempted to touch that stomach.
Which was wrong. And completely unexpected. She’d never ever do something so irrational but...
But all that muscle and strength, the dark lines of a tattoo peeking wickedly from under the edge of his shirt, had her utterly captivated. What would it be like to touch a man like this? Better yet, what would it be like to have him touch her? A shiver racked her body. Brent had very specific preferences in bed—namely her lying still beneath him, quiet, aching for something more. Wanting something...more. More...like this.
She pressed her hand against her stomach and the delicious flare of liquid heat that coiled inside her. Maybe all that reading was getting to her.
This man wasn’t supposed to be here; he might even get in trouble for being here if he was hired to holiday-fy another house. She stepped closer, surprised to hear him humming a Christmas carol. The sound was deep and rough, an undeniable turn-on.
“Excuse me?” she said. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
No response. But one arm went higher, revealing more of the tattoo on his side. A feather? A quill? Covering a long scar along his ribs... And more muscles.
“Hello?” she tried again, a little louder.
He was on one foot then, reaching for something on the roof.
She stepped forward, considering the best way to get his attention. She blew out a deep breath. This was ridiculous. What was the matter with her? She reached out and tugged on one of his jeans belt loops.
“Hold up,” he called out. “Almost...got...it.” The strand of Christmas lights came on, casting the porch in hues of red and green.
She held her breath as he leaped down, eager to see what the rest of this man looked like. But the clear blue eyes that greeted her were a total surprise. The kind of surprise that left her breathless—and shocked.
No.
“Spencer?” Her voice was high and tight. Even now, after years, she knew him. Instant recognition—instant reaction. Her heart twisted sharply at the all-too-familiar blue eyes regarding her in astonishment. And her body was racked with something he’d inspired whenever he was close to her: desire.
Spencer Ryan. The very last person she wanted to see right now.
He stared at her, frozen. Why was he acting so surprised? It was her house. A house she’d practically run from years ago, because of him. She had every right to be here. He did not. She welcomed the anger warming her belly. Anger was good. Much better than...the other feelings bouncing around inside of her.
His gaze sharpened, searching hers. She tried to ignore that familiar pull tightening the pit of her stomach. “Tatum?” His voice was low, husky.
“Yeah... Hi,” she croaked. This is bad. So, so bad. Like she needed another bump to her already dinged confidence. Nothing like coming face-to-face with the man who had humiliated her, destroying her heart and her fragile ego eight years before. Yes, it was the holidays and there’d been a chance she’d run into him. But she’d hoped she wouldn’t. Definitely not her first night home. Not when she wasn’t ready to face him. And certainly not with crazy hair and no bra.
She tore her gaze from his, wrapping her arms around her waist. All the muscle and sexiness was Spencer? What the hell had happened to him? This Spencer barely resembled the clean-cut boy she’d held hands with in the halls of Greyson High School. Now he was big, almost intimidating—with shaggy black hair, a thick stubble covering his angular jaw and a new wariness about his clear blue eyes. Those eyes.
She forced her gaze away. She would not think about his eyes. Or his body. Or those abs. And that tattoo... Her pulse was racing just standing there. He was all hot in his gloriously ass-hugging jeans and broad-shoulder-hugging jacket while she wore a blanket.
“It’s been a long time,” he said, finally smiling. He hesitated briefly before pulling her against him in a warm embrace.
She stiffened. She didn’t want to hug him. He might look good—who was she kidding, he looked frigging amazing—but she knew what he was capable of. What sort of pain he could inflict. She knew that but... His hand pressed, open, against the base of her back. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel the contours of his fingers and the warmth of his palm. And it—he—felt good.
Then she took a deep breath and inhaled his scent. She swallowed, trembling. Dammit. He smelled the same, teasing her...flooding every cell with a steady throb of want. “It has.” She didn’t know where the overwhelming urge to hold on to him came from, but she fought it. It shouldn’t matter that it had been too long since anyone had held her close. She wasn’t going to melt in his arms.
She pushed away from him, stepping back quickly.
His smile faded as he eyed the poker in her hands. “Prepared for battle?”
She blinked, looking at him, then the poker. “What?”
“Or is it some new fashion accessory I don’t know about?” He shot another pointed glance at the poker, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest. If she wasn’t pissed as hell at his sudden and irritating reappearance in her life, she might admire the shift of muscle in his forearms. But she was. She was pissed.
“Where I come from, a woman alone protects herself from strange men hanging off their porches.” She sounded unruffled and together—revealing none of her inner turmoil. “Especially when it’s in the middle of the night.”
He glanced at the open door behind her, then back at her.
“I’m a little tired for company and, since it is late, it’s best if you go,” she said over her shoulder, heading back inside and out of the cold—away from him. Her voice wasn’t shaking. She didn’t look like she was retreating. Even if that was sort of what she was doing. But she sort of had to because she couldn’t seem to get a handle on the way she was reacting to him.
But he didn’t move. He just stood there, a strange expression on his face. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He held up his hands. “If I’d known you were here, alone, I would have said something first.”
“Before you decorated my house?” she asked, holding the doorknob.
He planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Yeah, about that. It was made perfectly clear by the lady in charge that this needed to be done now or suffer the consequences.”
What the hell did that mean? “The lady in charge? Sounds like your wife takes the holidays as seriously as your mother.”
“No wife,” he clarified, placing an odd emphasis on the word no before chuckling. “I was talking about the head of the neighborhood association.”
“Why would they bother you with that?” she asked, more and more confused.
He pulled his keys from his pocket, watching her intently. “Guess Brent didn’t tell you I was renting the place?”
Her lungs emptied painfully. “No, no, he didn’t,” she muttered, reeling. Brent hadn’t told her a lot of things.
“Six months now. After the last tenants left? You didn’t notice my stuff? In the master bedroom?”
“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I’m staying in my old room.” Was this Brent’s idea of a joke? Not that she’d told him much about Spencer. But he knew enough. He knew Spencer Ryan had been her first love and that he’d broken her heart.
And now he was living in her house. The place she needed to regroup and recover.
“You remember how the town gets around the holidays?” he asked, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. “That hasn’t changed.” He shrugged. “I’ve been on assignment for over a week and I’m running out of time. So that’s why I was hanging lights. Now. At night. In the cold.”
He was decorating her house...because it was also his house? It wasn’t some horrible mistake. But what the hell was she supposed to do? It wasn’t like she was going to let him stay. No matter what time of the night it was. But she couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say.
He shivered. “It’s a damn cold night.” He grinned.
“I guess this means I have to let you in?” she asked, seriously considering shutting the door in his grinning face. He thought this was funny? Did he not remember the last time they saw each other? The things he’d said? She thought she’d never recover.
“That’d be the neighborly thing to do.” He brushed past her, elbowing the door shut behind him.
“Right. Neighborly,” she tried not to snap. Why was he surveying the room?
Why did he have to have that ass?
Her anger died a little. It was really hard to hate him while thoroughly appreciating the way his jeans hugged the muscles of his thighs. And his ass. That was definitely worth a long, thorough inspection. She swallowed, forcing her eyes up before he saw her. But he was still looking around the house, curious. “What are you looking for?”
He turned, his blue gaze pinning hers, and shook his head. “Nothing.”
Obviously he was lying. It was clear he was looking for something. But what. His gaze was far too...intense and probing. And more than a little unsettling. More than a little...affecting. But words wouldn’t come.
“Home for the holidays?” he asked, his voice deep and rough.
She mumbled, “Yes.” Then added, “And no.” Why was she answering him? Why wasn’t she telling him to leave?
His crooked grin caused her heart to thump heavily in her chest. Not the most reassuring response. “That’s cryptic.” He shook his head.
Maybe it was, but she didn’t feel the need to say more. Yet she couldn’t seem to manage, “Get out now,” so she stood there, her awareness increasing and the silence stretching out. He sighed, that gaze never leaving her face. She couldn’t seem to look away. Or think. A cold shower was definitely in her future. Or Chris. Lots of Chris time.
He was saying something, but her mind was too busy processing everything to hear him. Oh, God. In less than thirty minutes she’d gone from content to distressed. And it was all Spencer’s fault. Again.
“I’d offer to stay across the street at my mom’s but she’s got a full house, with the holidays and all.” His words were soft, echoing in her ears.
She frowned at him, wrapping her arms around her waist. “One of us needs to find a hotel.”
“I haven’t slept in a few days, Tatum. I’d appreciate one night in my own bed. I’m not here much—the empty fridge and pantry can confirm that. I’ll stay out of your way.” He did look tired. His blue eyes were bloodshot and there were bags under his eyes. “I don’t even snore.”
“Spencer—”
“I can move into your room,” he offered.
He was sleeping in her parents’ room. Which was good—she wasn’t ready to go there. Any and all memories of her mom could wait behind that closed door for a few more days. “No,” she said. “I w-wouldn’t sleep in there.”
“I’m sorry about your mom,” he said, grabbing her attention.
Tatum nodded. She hadn’t visited Greyson since her mother’s death three years before. “It’s strange to be here and have it so quiet.” She shrugged, not wanting to share with him.
But Spencer had known better than most about her mother and her fits of temper. When she’d been on a real tear, her mother could be heard all up and down Maple Drive. Her mother’s anger and bitterness had been one of the reasons she’d gone to live with her father her senior year of high school. Spencer had been the other.
“You look good, Tatum.” His voice pitched low, all gravel.
She was acutely aware of the way his eyes leisurely swept her from head to toe. When his attention returned to her face, his jaw was locked. Was that disapproval on his face? Or—her heart was thumping—was it something else? She didn’t know how to read the tension that rolled off of him. But it was unnerving as hell. His gaze narrowed, piercing hers. What was he trying to figure out?
“Tatum?” Her name. His voice. She felt a shudder run down her back.
“No, I don’t.” Her words spilled from her lips. She looked like hell and she knew it. “You look different,” she admitted. Different was an understatement. Even if her response to him was the same: hyperaware. When he was close, she’d felt it. Right now, she was feeling all sorts of things that made her nervous and excited and tense. Dammit.
He cocked a questioning eyebrow her way.
She shrugged. “There’s...more of you.” Including abs and tattoos and the lovely dark happy trail disappearing beneath his waistband. She needed to stop talking—and thinking—immediately. Instead, she stared at his chest, encased in a skintight gray shirt and leather jacket. What was absolutely terrifying was how badly her fingers itched to explore him. No. No exploring. Evicting. Immediate evicting.
He laughed. “More of me?”
His laughter rolled over her, leaving her tingling in all the right places. Dammit. It was cruel that he’d turned out even more beautiful than she remembered. And completely unfair. He’d broken her heart, made her doubt her judgment and left her unbelieving she was worthy of love.
How dare he stand there, teasing her, acting like he wasn’t the bad guy. She knew better. It wasn’t like he was just some dangerously good-looking man making her house all festive while waking up every one of her lady-part nerves. If only that were the case.
“Tatum?” he whispered, coming to stand in front of her. “You okay?”
She nodded. Her attention wandered to his mouth, leaving her breathless. Would his touch feel the same? His lips had branded her skin, magic against her lips... No, she wasn’t okay. If she was, she wouldn’t be dragging up memories better left buried.
Besides, he didn’t deserve to touch her. To kiss her. And she needed to stop thinking of that. Of him—naked. Of what she wanted to do to him—naked. This was Spencer. And the two of them would not be getting naked together.
Even if he is way more exciting than my vibrator. The thought sent another shudder through her.
“You cold?” His voice was gruff and rumbling—shaking her to the core.
“No,” she managed, her tongue thick and her throat tight. She wasn’t cold. For the first time in a long time, she was feeling delectably hot. The only problem with this scenario was he was the one making her feel this way.
She stepped around him, hoping to quiet the desire surging through her veins. Her overstimulated reaction to him made no sense. She didn’t like him. Maybe this is what happens when you go for more than a year without sex? “But I need something to drink and you need to...to go to bed,” she said, glancing at him. “One night,” she added, knowing she was a coward. But it was after midnight, cold, and she wasn’t heartless.
“Okay. One night. I’ll crash here tonight and look into staying somewhere else while you’re in town.” He was staring at her again. “If you’re sure Brent won’t mind?”
She nodded. Brent so won’t mind. She headed into the kitchen, deliberately avoiding his gaze. She could sleep under the same roof; she could be an adult. But she wasn’t going to talk about her marriage or her divorce with him.
He followed her. “Why is it so cold in here? Pilot light go out again?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Brent couldn’t get it to work?”
“The heat won’t come on.” She pointed at the fireplace over her shoulder. “But at least I got the fire going, even if I did burn my thumb and singe some hair.” She held her thumb up.
She hadn’t expected him to cradle her hand in his or hold up her thumb for a thorough inspection. She wanted to yank her hand away and scowl at him... No, she didn’t. Which was worse.
His gaze locked with hers. “Some homecoming.” His hold went from reassuring to overwhelming. “I am sorry about tonight. Not the way I’d imagined seeing you again.” His words shook her. The rhythmic stroke of his thumb along her wrist turned her insides fluid.
Not the way I’d imagined seeing you again.
She blew out a deep breath. “It’s...it’s fine.” Her words were a raspy whisper but she managed to pull her hand from his. No touching. Touching was bad. And more space was good too. She stepped back, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I...I can call a repairman in the morning.”
He glanced at her hand, then back at her, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll fix it before we go to bed.”
We go to bed. She swallowed, staring at the floor so her face wouldn’t betray her thoughts. “Thanks.”
“What’s going on?” he asked softly.
“What do you mean?” She knew what he meant. But her life was none of his business. And, dammit, she was having a hard time thinking straight with him standing there staring at her that way. She needed to stay cool. And keep him at arm’s length. So she busied herself in the kitchen, pulling out the milk, a saucepan and some cocoa packets.
He followed her, standing too close. “You’re here alone, basically in the dark, without heat. Alone.”
She put the kettle on the burner, her hands and her voice unsteady. “Did you have to say that twice?” she asked.
“I guess that’s the thing I’m most hung up on,” he confessed.
He was standing behind her, his warmth rolling over her. “It is?” She glanced back at him, the questions in his gaze enough to turn her back to cocoa making. “I assure you, you don’t need to be hung up on anything that has to do with me, okay?” She tried to sound flippant but it didn’t work.
“Old habits die hard. I know how to read you. I always have.” There was an edge to his voice.
“Maybe. When we were kids,” she agreed. But they definitely weren’t kids anymore. And even if he had known what she was thinking—wanting—before she had, didn’t mean he did now. That was a long time ago. “Right now I want cocoa. And peace and quiet.” She spun around to face him, shoving the mug into his hand. “Good night.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” he asked, glancing at the mug she’d placed in his hands before leveling her with the weight of his gaze once more.
“I didn’t realize that was unclear.”
He chuckled.
She was very proud that she didn’t smile at him. Because his smile was hard to resist. He was hard to resist. Because, honestly, she would happily replace her swirly purple battery-operated love machine with this new manlier version of Spencer. She choked on her sip of cocoa. Please, God, don’t let him figure out what I’m thinking. And wanting.
“Brent’s not here.” He paused. “You’re alone.” He swallowed, his gaze searching her face as he leaned forward, placing his mug on the counter, his large hands on either side of her—effectively pinning her against the counter.
“So?” She didn’t deny it. She was alone. She was relieved her out-of-control hunger for him had somehow escaped his notice. But now that she was so close, that wouldn’t last for long. Her heart was slamming against her ribs and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. Because breathing drew in his scent, his tantalizing, captivating, enticing scent.
“And there’s this.” He pointed at her, then himself—stepping so close that his breath fanned her hair. “There’s still a hell of a...connection between the two of us.” He practically growled the words. Her body tightened, expectant, at the sound of his undeniable hunger.
For her.
His attention wandered to her mouth, leaving no doubt what he wanted. He felt it too. Of course he did.
She could sway into him, give in... But she should fight it. Even if his lips were so close. “Yes.” It took a lot of effort to form a coherent answer.
“Yes?” he repeated, his nostrils flaring as his gaze locked with hers.
“Yes. I am alone.” Her voice wavered.
He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw hard as rock. “That’s all?” he asked. “I won’t touch another man’s wife.” He ground out the words. “But, dammit, I want to kiss you so bad it hurts.”
Kiss me. She stared at him, gripped by a crushing, desperate ache. Touch me. “I’m no man’s wife. But I don’t want you to kiss me,” she whispered.
2 (#ud34671df-8802-5b12-9989-da048491c913)
SPENCER STARED DOWN at her, his nerves strung so tight he worried he’d pop.
Tatum was here.
And all he could think about was touching her, tasting her. Silk. Warmth. Pure temptation. And even though he had no right to touch her, to think of her tangled up with him, he couldn’t stop himself. His body responded to her without reason, as if they hadn’t been living separate lives for years.
Her quiver revealed her lie. She wasn’t immune to him.
“I don’t believe you,” he argued.
She drew in a wavering breath. “I don’t care what you believe.” There was an edge to her voice. She wasn’t immune to him—but she was going to fight it.
Her green eyes clashed with his and he smiled at her. This was Tatum. The girl who’d stolen his heart, the girl he’d lived for. The girl he’d crushed, shredding his own heart in the process. He’d missed her every day for the last eight years.
He reached up, smoothing an errant curl from her forehead. “Your hair is longer.”
She didn’t say anything as he threaded the curl between his fingers. The curl coiled around him, clinging to him the way he envisioned her clinging to him.
“So is yours,” she whispered.
A woman alone protects herself. He’d heard her. No man’s wife. For the first time, nothing was stopping them. Except maybe the defiance in her gaze.
He saw the way she looked at his mouth, the way her lips parted and her hands tightened on the counter’s edge. There was a restlessness about her he’d never seen in her before. She was nervous... That was obvious. Hell, he was nervous. But it was more than that. It was their past. What he’d done was reprehensible. Could she still hate him so much that she couldn’t bear to be close to him?
Or did she hate that she still wanted him?
From the look on her face, it’d be all too easy to assume it was the latter. Because that was what he wanted. Badly. The way she was looking at him now, flushed and dazed, focused on his mouth... He hadn’t been this hard since he was sixteen.
He stepped forward, erasing the small space between them. His thumbs ran along her jawline, tracing the soft skin of her neck and the shell of her ear. She closed her eyes, her lips parted, her breath escaping on unsteady gasps. He watched her response, her arousal driving him crazy. “How long?” he asked, his tone soft.
Her green eyes fluttered open. “How long?” she repeated, breathless.
“Since you’ve been...kissed.” He bit out the last word. “How long has it been since a man’s loved your body?”
“My body is none of your business.” But the tremor in her voice told him he wasn’t imagining this. Her hands gripped the counter edge as if she was holding herself back. She wanted him, even if she didn’t want to accept it.
“And it’s a damn shame,” he murmured, longing to pry her hands from the counter, to feel her fingers slide through his hair. Before he was through, she’d be holding on to him.
He smiled as his lips brushed her startled mouth—featherlight, a whisper of a touch. She shuddered as his nose traced the length of her neck. “You smell just as sweet,” he murmured. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, her little sigh making the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. “You taste the same.” It was true. And it was torture. When he pressed her back, pinning her hips against the cabinets, the feel of her curves against him almost brought him to his knees.
His mouth brushed hers once, still teasing. He tilted her head back, nipping her lower lip. Her lips were so damn soft. He pulled, sucking her plump lower lip until her lips parted. The tip of her tongue...stroking the curve of his lip. Damn.
He groaned, leaning into her, sealing her mouth with his and sliding his tongue into the hot recesses of her mouth. Her hand tangled in his hair, anchoring him firmly so she could deepen their kiss. And she did, the touch of her satin tongue making him groan. Her sudden hunger spurred him on. He gripped her hips, lifting her onto the kitchen counter. She wrapped a leg around his waist and pulled him close—arching into him.
His kiss wasn’t gentle; his tongue demonstrated exactly what he wanted from her. And the soft moan, her grip on his hair, told him she wanted it too. His hold on her hips tightened as he ground against her. He tore his mouth from hers, groaning against the hollow of her throat at the building friction between them. She cried out when his mouth latched on to her neck. He devoured her, holding her tightly, wanting more.
It had always been this way with her. All that mattered was the feel of her, her response, the way she touched him.
But as quickly as she reached for him, she withdrew. Her hold went from clinging to pushing against his chest. “Spencer,” she gasped. Fighting this—fighting him. He heard her deep, unsteady inhalation as she attempted to put some space between them.
Space he didn’t want. He stepped back, breathing hard.
“Spencer,” she repeated. Her voice was low and husky.
He looked at her. God, he wanted her. He hurt from wanting her. He was breathing heavy and losing control. He knew it, but he couldn’t apologize for it. She drove him crazy, made him lose his head. She always had.
“If we’re doing this... It’s one time.” Her eyes bored into his. “Only once.”
He frowned, cupping her face in his hands. “Once?” He’d been half expecting her to tell him to leave. Now she was telling him they were going to have sex. But only once?
“I don’t want to think...” She paused, her voice unsteady. “I want to feel alive...to feel something.”
Her words cut through him. He didn’t know what had happened with her marriage. Had she been mistreated? Heartbroken? She wanted one night, nothing more. And could he handle that, with the history they had, the feelings he still harbored? He knew one thing: refusing her was impossible.
Her green eyes bored into his, waiting, searching—and hungry.
Still, he had to be sure. “Tatum, I’m not sure—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “If the answer’s no, just say it. Otherwise, I’d rather we didn’t do much talking.”
He raised an eyebrow. Because talking meant thinking. And she’d already made it clear she didn’t want to overthink this. He should tell her no and walk away. Instead, he was going to give her what she wanted, what he wanted. “I’m not saying no.” He tilted her head back, making sure she was listening. “You want me to kiss you, Tatum? To touch you?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Yes.” The quiver in her voice shook him, stirring a possessiveness he hadn’t felt since they were young and in love. He swallowed back the wash of memories—and regret—and focused on the job at hand.
She wanted to feel alive. He’d give it his all. And enjoy every damn minute of it.
His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tracing her lower lip before he pressed his mouth to hers. His lips parted hers, sealing their mouths and mixing their breaths. When she trembled, he smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him. She was soft and warm, moving against him and gripping his shirt. He kissed her until she was clinging to him, her body molding to his, her tongue making him dizzy. Whatever she wanted, he’d give her.
He paused long enough to turn off the stove and swing her up into his arms. She twined her arms around his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair as he carried her into the living room. He set her on her feet long enough to toss the couch cushions onto the floor in front of the fire, then knelt in front of her.
His hands settled at her waist, working the fabric of her top free from the waist of her leggings. Her skin contracted beneath his fingertips, quivering. He looked up at her as his mouth brushed across her bare abdomen. She gasped, her fingers running through his hair. His lips skimmed her stomach, her waist. Her fingers tightened, tugging. He was mesmerized by the wonder on her face and the feel of her skin. Soft as silk. His hands slid up her sides and around her back, his fingers exploring every bump of her spine.
Her hands moved, settling on his shoulders to fist in the fabric of his shirt.
He lifted her hands, kissing each finger before pulling his shirt off. Her reaction was unexpected. He wanted her to touch him, hoped she would. Instead, she stared at him, slowly dropping to her knees. Her breathing was erratic, so rapid he worried she’d hyperventilate. Her hands stayed put, pressed flat against her thighs.
“Breathe, Tatum,” he whispered.
She nodded, staring at his chest.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, still staring at his chest.
Tatum had never shied away from telling him what she wanted. There’d been times he’d had to put on the brakes. But now she seemed hesitant. “Want me to put my shirt back on?”
She shook her head. “No,” she croaked.
“Talk to me,” he encouraged, taking her hand. How many times had they ended up twined together, too caught up to know where one ended and the other began? It had been natural between them, easy. But now she seemed uncertain and it tore him up inside. “Tell me what you want. What you like.”
She looked at him, blinking rapidly, but said nothing.
He pressed her hand against his chest. Her gaze fixed on her hand, her lips parting as her fingers traced the valley between his pectorals. “Whatever you want, Tatum...” He couldn’t finish his sentence. The way she was looking at him made it impossible for him to say a word.
Her breathing echoed in the quite room, her attention focused solely on his bare chest and stomach. He was spellbound by the fascination on her face.
One second she was sitting there, facing him, her touch tentative. The next he was lying back on the pile of pillows, her hesitation replaced by desperate curiosity. He watched her expression, aware of every move her hands and fingers made. She bent over him, her long golden hair spilling onto his stomach as her lips and tongue explored the super-sensitized flesh of his nipple.
He reached up to thread his fingers in her hair, absorbing every caress and stroke. She took her time, exploring every inch of him with her soft hands and mouth. Her teeth nipped his side, her nails ran the length of his arms, and she kissed and sucked her way down his abdomen. He could barely breathe. Her tongue dipped into his belly button and he arched into her, groaning as her warm mouth brushed across his skin. “Dammit, Tatum.”
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.
3 (#ud34671df-8802-5b12-9989-da048491c913)
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? Oh, Lucy,” she answered, laughing when Lucy hugged her tight.
“I hadn’t heard from you in a while.” Lucy’s voice was muffled. “It’s so good to see you.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I guess I’ve sort of been in hiding.”
Lucy let go of her and Mrs. Ryan hugged her gently. “Well, you’re home now and that’s all that matters,” the older woman said.
“We brought you cookies,” Lucy said, offering her a huge basket overflowing with cookies, breads, some wine and fruit.
“Well...thank you,” Tatum said, taking the basket. “Come in, please.”
That was when she saw Spencer coming up the path. It hadn’t been her imagination. He really was the hottest thing she’d seen in real life. And watching him stroll up her path, all bad boy and muscled body... The phantom heat of his fingers inside her body had her throbbing for his touch and aching for more. Sticking to “once” was going to be hard.
Especially if one of them didn’t move out.
“Hurry up, Spencer,” Lucy called. “It’s cold.”
Spencer took the steps two at a time, striding into the living room before Tatum could react. He hugged her, casually, his scent flooding her nostrils. “Morning, Tatum,” he said tightly, his blue eyes staring into hers.
She nodded, reeling from the effect of his quick embrace.
“Well, come sit, tell us everything,” Mrs. Ryan said, patting the couch beside her. “I haven’t seen you in... Goodness, how long has it been?”
“Almost eight years?” Lucy asked, sitting on the couch beside her aunt.
Tatum nodded.
“You look just the same.” Mrs. Ryan smiled. “I always thought we’d see you in a magazine or a movie someday.”
“Oh...no.” Tatum shook her head. “Would you like something to drink—”
“No, Aunt Imogene is literally bursting to ask you questions about everything that’s happened since you left,” Lucy cut in.
Imogene Ryan’s eyes went round. “Lucy,” she chastised.
“It’s true,” Spencer added.
Tatum laughed, sitting in the rocking chair. She tried not to pay attention to Spencer as he knelt in front of the fire to add more logs. Tried not to think about how he’d stripped her down on the floor where her feet now rested... “Ask away,” Tatum answered unsteadily.
“What have you been up to?” Mrs. Ryan asked. “I know you finished out high school in California with your father, but after that? Lucy said you went to college there?”
“UCLA,” she said, shrugging. “Got my accounting degree. I get numbers.” People, not so much.
“Ugh.” Lucy winced. “No, thank you.”
“Okay, Miss PhD,” Tatum teased. “I met Brent there. We were married for three years. I was his wife, his accountant and his events planner...and we’ve been officially divorced for eight months.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Ryan said.
“I am too,” she agreed. “Wish I’d had the sense to get out sooner.” She smiled, trying to make light of the situation. But it was true. She’d worked hard to be what Brent wanted, keeping his books sound, his house tidy and his parties memorable. When he hired “more seasoned professionals” to do his books, the slight daily contact they had was gone. Things had disintegrated by their second anniversary. So why had she held on?
She felt Spencer’s gaze on her and glanced his way. He was studying her, looking for something. But what exactly? Instead of worrying about what he was thinking or feeling, she’d be wise to remember he’d been the first one to replace her with another woman.
Whatever spark remained was purely sexual. Which was fine.
“Good riddance,” Lucy chimed in. “His loss.”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” she laughed, even if it sounded a little forced.
“It’s true,” Mrs. Ryan agreed. “You’ll find the man that deserves you, don’t you fret.”
So not fretting. Worrying over her romantic future wasn’t on her top-ten-things-to-worry-over list. She didn’t know who she was or what she wanted—now wasn’t the time to fall in love. No, that was the main reason it had fallen apart with Brent: he defined too much of her. That, and he’d been screwing the most successful real-estate agent in their wealthy, gossipy group of friends.
If anything, she didn’t want a relationship right now. She needed to figure things out, needed to live a little and try new things—for herself.
Like sex. Last night had been a revelation. She wanted lots of hot sex. But she only knew one person she was attracted to. She glanced at Spencer again.
Could she get up the nerve to really consider such a thing? Roommates with benefits? And ask him if he was interested. The potential for rejection gnawed on her insides.
But last night. She drew in an unsteady breath, flooded with a tangle of want-inducing images, sensations and sounds. They were already sleeping under the same roof. Neither of them was involved. And, hell, they were both adults.
He could say no. She swallowed, tearing her gaze from him.
“What are your plans?” Lucy asked. “Whatever they are, tell me you’re staying.”
She nodded. “Come home, regroup, get a job...start again.”
“Sounds like a good plan, dear,” Mrs. Ryan said. “Oh, I know. I’ll check in with George Welch, see if he knows of any openings in his office. He has the largest accounting firm in the county.”
Tatum held up her hand. “You don’t have to—”
“No, she doesn’t. But it’s what she does,” Spencer said. “With or without your blessing, trust me.”
Tatum smiled at him, then Mrs. Ryan. “Thank you.”
“Free today?” Lucy asked. “I’d love to spend some time with you.”
“I’d love that too,” she agreed. “Up for shopping? I have no food.” She paused, looking at the huge goodie basket on the table. “Well, I do now. But I’m thinking a Christmas tree might brighten things up.”
“You do decorate?” Mrs. Ryan asked. “I’m so glad. I know your mother... Well, I’m glad.”
“I do,” she said. “And I want this Christmas to be extra special.”
“You’ve got a great yard, Tatum,” Spencer said.
“You had ideas for a theme, didn’t you?” Lucy asked.
“Spencer, you’re going to have to find a place to stay now that Tatum is back. I’m sure the last thing she wants is a roommate. Especially in your line of work. I tell you, a police officer is never off duty. Constant interruptions. Calls in the middle of the night. Never a dull moment,” Mrs. Ryan said and wrinkled her nose for emphasis.
Law enforcement. It made sense. Spencer’s father and grandfather had both been cops. Why shouldn’t Spencer? It also explained why he left for work in the middle of the night and why he’d been on assignment for so long. She’d been too lost in a lust-induced haze to find out what he did for a living—about his life now.
Spencer sighed. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I feel bad to cause problems, especially this close to the holidays,” Tatum jumped in. She did feel bad, which she didn’t like, for forcing him out of his home, even if it was her house. And if—if—she did decide to proposition Spencer, it would be a hell of a lot more convenient if he was here.
Spencer’s gaze met hers. “There’s nothing to feel bad about.”
Had his eyes always been so blue? So...unrelenting?
“I love it when people put up trees outside.” Lucy steered the conversation back toward decorating. “Ooh, or those giant light-up nutcrackers?”
“Nutcrackers?” Mrs. Ryan didn’t look pleased with the suggestion.
“My car’s too small for that,” Tatum said, eyeing the space in front of the window and remembering her father’s pleasure in big, flocked trees that made a mess but looked bright and cheery glowing with colored lights.
“I can take you,” Spencer offered. “To get a tree, I mean. Or two. One for inside, one for outside.”
“He’s got the truck,” Lucy agreed. “It can fit all three of us, right?”
She caught the arched eyebrow he turned on Lucy before he answered, “Yes.”
“Can’t you shave before you go out in public?” Mrs. Ryan sighed heavily. “You’ll have to excuse his appearance. I can’t stand it when he’s undercover, putting himself in harm’s way. Not only is it dangerous, but he looks like a...a gang member.” She waved at her son.
Tatum grinned. All she saw was a powerfully built man, a man with an amazing body and equally amazing hands. “He did surprise me last night.” She felt delightfully wicked as she added, “I was a little shell-shocked when he left.”
Spencer looked at her, blue eyes narrowing. “Oh, it was mutual, believe me.”
The look in his eyes made her tingle. She’d been more than satisfied, even if he hadn’t. But was he still interested? She hoped he was. She cleared her throat, her voice tight as she asked, “Next time, maybe we can finish our conversation?”
She saw him swallow, the flare of his nostrils, the absolutely gorgeous ridge of his jaw locking. His nod was stiff—but it was enough to have her throbbing.
“Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” Lucy murmured.
She and Spencer looked at Lucy in unison, making Lucy grin widely.
“Well, I have to get those pies in the oven for the women’s auxiliary auction Saturday night.” Mrs. Ryan stood. “You’ll come, won’t you, Tatum?”
“I’d like that, thank you,” Tatum agreed.
“There are so many wonderful parties and events this time of year. And a wedding. A wedding you will be shaving for, Spencer?”
Spencer sighed, then nodded.
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Have fun today. Now that you’re back, Tatum, I expect to see a lot more of you. You’ll feel at home again in no time.”
“I will, thanks,” Tatum agreed.
“Good.” Mrs. Ryan kissed her on the cheek. “Spencer, make sure you get the rest of Tatum’s lights done today, as well. The roof looks a little bare.”
Tatum might want to strip Spencer down and explore every inch of him with her hands and mouth, but she could decorate her own house. “I can probably—”
“I’ll do it,” Spencer assured her. “And we’ll have time to finish that conversation.”
So many delicious images raced through her mind that every inch of her tightened with anticipation.
“Sounds like that’s settled. You make sure the job is done right, Spencer,” Mrs. Ryan said, shooting her son a stern look.
“I’ll make sure,” he said, staring into the fireplace, his jaw tight.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, dear,” Mrs. Ryan called out, waving goodbye as she headed back across the street to her house.
“She hasn’t changed a bit,” Tatum said, smiling at Lucy and Spencer. “You’re lucky to have her.”
Lucy hugged her. “Oh, Tatum... I just realized... I’m sorry about your dad. And your mom. Well, that’s it. You’re going to be a Ryan this Christmas, no arguing. No way you’re going to spend it alone, you hear me?” She hugged her tighter. “This Christmas does need to be extra special.”
Tatum blinked back her tears. She’d lost her mother and grandparents years ago. Her father had passed last year. And now, without Brent, she had no one to celebrate with. “Thanks, Lucy. But I don’t want to invade—”
“Invade,” Spencer said. “You’ll appreciate coming home to a quiet house.” He smiled at her, his blue eyes so blue.
“Off to the tree farm?” Lucy asked. “Or would you rather go shopping?”
One look Spencer’s way told her exactly what she wanted, even if it wasn’t one of her choices. But she could wait. Anticipation was a good thing. Until then, she’d have to find a way to occupy herself. “Let’s start with a tree.”
“I’ll get the truck,” Spencer said, heading out the front door.
“What’s it been? One day?” Lucy asked as soon as they were alone. “How naked did you get last night? And don’t even try to deny it. You two—in the same room—wow. I need a fan and some ice water to cool down.”
She should argue, but she’d never been good at lying. “I admit, he’s... I’m...overwhelmed.”
Lucy laughed. “Yeah, well, you’re not alone. He almost poured orange juice in his coffee this morning.”
“He did not,” she argued, delighted to know their time together had him just as rattled as she was.
“Yep,” Lucy said. “Aunt Imogene texted him to come straight over after work, ready to tear into him for not having the house done. I don’t think he’s had a break in a few weeks but his mom gets all crazy over the holidays. All he said was he’d gotten distracted. By you. Then he stormed off for a shower. I can only imagine what that meant.” Lucy giggled but didn’t ask questions. One of the many reasons Tatum had always loved Lucy—she didn’t pry.
But Lucy’s words ramped up her excitement level. If he’d found last night distracting, she couldn’t wait for tonight.
* * *
SPENCER HELD HIS breath as Tatum bent forward to inspect the bin of wood-chip angels. She had great legs. Long, trim, encased in tall black boots. The sight of her round ass hugged by skintight leggings almost made him groan. It definitely made his pants uncomfortable. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“These are adorable.” She straightened, holding up one of the ornaments.
“They’re to go on your outside tree,” Lucy explained. “To give it that rustic look. If that’s what you’re going for?”
Tatum turned the ornament in her hands, her expression assessing. “I have no idea what I’m going for, but I like them.”
“Start with a tree,” he offered.
She looked at him, nodding. Her gaze fell to his mouth. “Whatever you say,” she said.
She was teasing him. Driving him out of his damn mind. Later, he’d remind her she said that. All he could think about was getting her back to her place and into her bed. Instead, he barked out, “This way,” and led them outside. If he was lucky, the chill in the air would help him gain some control over his libido. The last time he’d felt this kind of desire, he’d been nineteen and she’d been his whole world. He glanced back at her, talking and laughing with Lucy. He was older, more grounded now...but somehow being around her made him forget that.
Last night had been a revelation. Leaving her had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Yes, he’d wanted to finish what they’d started, but it was more than that. They’d had unfinished business for a long time. Now that she was back, and they were the way they still were, he hoped he’d finally be able to apologize. And, if she’d give him the chance, explain why he’d done what he did—why he’d broken both of their hearts. His had never fully recovered.
One hour and two trees later, they were pulling in front of Tatum’s house. He was glad Lucy had volunteered to squeeze in the middle. He’d spent most of the day being aware of Tatum’s every move. He wasn’t sure how he’d react if he was being pressed up against her. His wayward body had no problem revealing just how much he wanted her. Walking through a Christmas tree farm with a hard-on wasn’t exactly socially acceptable but there hadn’t been a damn thing he could do about it. Now that they were back at her place and he knew what he had to look forward to, he was in for a long, uncomfortable evening.
Spencer followed them down the path, watching the light fall of snowflakes settle in Tatum’s hair. She was shivering. Didn’t she have a heavy coat? Guess it didn’t get too cold in Los Angeles. It took everything he had not to pull her close and warm her up.
As Tatum opened the front door, Lucy said, “If you decide you need extra hands, call my brothers Dean and Jared. They’re off tomorrow. I figure Zach is going to be pretty out-of-pocket since this is his first Christmas as a married man. And with Patton’s wedding coming up—”
“Zach is married?” Tatum asked, stunned. “Is Patton finally marrying Ellie? She was so stuck on him.” She hung her keys on a hook by the door.
“Patton and Ellie ended a while back,” Spencer said. “Cady, Patton’s fiancée, she’s a force of nature. One my brother didn’t stand a chance against.”
“It was one of those whirlwind sort of things,” Lucy agreed. “The wedding’s New Year’s Eve at a fancy mountaintop resort in Colorado that Zach manages. Romantic, right?”
Her open disbelief had Spencer grinning from ear to ear. “Really?”
Spencer nodded. “I know. Patton. Whirlwind. Marriage. Romance. Who’d have thought?” His big brother Patton was hardly the hearts and flowers type. Hell, neither was Zach. But somehow they were both content to be tied to one woman.
Tatum nodded. “He was always sort of...stuffy. And reserved. No offense.”
“None taken. He was. Hell, for the most part, he still is.” Spencer laughed.
Lucy giggled. “You should see him, Tatum. He’s adorable. Never in a million years did I think Patton could be so crazy in love. And show it. But Cady’s got him hooked.”
“It’s nauseating,” Spencer agreed. But that wasn’t really true. He was happy for his brothers—hell, he envied them. Both of them had the love of a good woman, women who completed them.
“And Zach?” Tatum asked.
“Bianca,” Lucy said. “Sweetest girl I have ever met. I think we were all worried he’d bring home some world-traveling, socialite type with his career and all. But Bianca is wonderful, grounded and kind. You’ll meet them both soon, being an honorary Ryan this year.”
He saw the look on Tatum’s face, the yearning pressing in on him.
“I remember being so jealous of you growing up,” Tatum said, hooking her arm with Lucy’s. “A big family, get-togethers, big parties.” Her gaze met his. “There was always something happening at your house, Spencer. Lots of laughter. And they’re all still here? Your whole family?” Tatum asked. “That’s—”
“Smothering?” he interjected, laughing.
Tatum laughed.
“Sometimes,” Lucy agreed. “But when you’ve got multiple trees to decorate and a mother who wanted this done yesterday, having extra hands—”
“Is pretty damn convenient,” Spencer agreed.
“So, tomorrow, we’ll get you set up before the big Holiday Lights kickoff?” Lucy asked. “I’d offer to stay and help tonight, but I promised to watch Mrs. Medrano’s grandson.”
Which was a relief. He didn’t know how he was going to get Lucy to leave, but there was no way he and Tatum wanted a chaperone tonight. He grinned, anticipation warming his blood. “I’ll get the house lights done. And the tree up.” He glanced at Tatum, noting the flush to her cheeks and hoping it meant she was just as eager. “What else do you want to tackle tonight, Tatum?”
The look she shot him made him bite back a hiss. Damn, but her face gave everything away. And damn if he didn’t like the way her mind was working.
“Shopping,” Lucy prompted.
Tatum nodded, tearing her gaze from his. “Yes. Food... I should go to the store. You’re doing so much to help me out, the least I can do is feed you. And your family tomorrow.”
“I’ll get started here,” he agreed.
Lucy checked her watch. “I have an hour. We can shop, I’ll drop you off and head to Mrs. Medrano’s?”
“Thank you,” Tatum said. “Thank you both for today. It was great to get out, to have...fun doing normal things, you know?”
He needed to remember she’d been through a hell of a lot. She seemed happy, but then, Tatum had always been the smiling, upbeat sort—even when she was hurting on the inside. He wanted her to be happy. If Lucy wasn’t standing here, he’d tell her as much. She deserved to be happy. And if chopping down a tree and putting up some lights made her happy, he’d do it.
He was also more than willing to take off all her clothes, spread her out on her bed and love her body until she was shouting his name. He knew that would make him very happy. He shoved his hands back in his pockets.
Lucy hugged her. “It’s Christmas, Tatum. You’re home. You should be happy.”
Tatum’s smile touched his heart. He’d missed her. He’d missed that smile.
“Now let’s go get you some food so you’re not starving,” Lucy said. “Need anything?” she asked him.
“Nope.”
Lucy nodded and headed out the door.
Tatum smiled up at him. “You sure you don’t want anything?”
“You know I do. But we’ve got all night,” he promised, his gaze shifting to her full red lips. “And I plan on taking advantage of that.”
She shivered. “Who said last night’s offer was still good?”
He smiled. “It’s still good.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her green eyes narrowed before she whispered, “I’ll hurry.”
He nodded, taking in every nuance of her reaction. The dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, parted lips, the quickening of her breath... When their eyes locked, he wanted to lose himself in her—to bury himself deep and never come up for air.
“Tatum?” Lucy called from the front porch.
She blinked, smiled up at him and headed out the door.
He stood watching them run across the snow-covered lawn to Lucy’s waiting car.
Loving Tatum had been as easy and natural as breathing. They’d been inseparable, snatching every spare moment together. How many nights had he scaled the side of the house to meet her on her roof? How many nights had they lain there, staring up at the stars and sharing their plans? Plans he’d severed for her. To protect her. Even though driving her away had made every day for the next two years an exercise in survival. He swallowed, watching Lucy’s car pull away from the curb.
Now they had time, time he wanted with her. So he needed to get the damn lights up.
He worked quickly. First things first, he dragged her tree inside, ready to decorate. Then he worked outside, finishing the roof and dormer windows, wrapping the rest of the porch railings and hanging lights around the front windows. He stood back, looking up at his handiwork.
“You’re a Christmas light superhero.” Tatum’s voice reached him.
He glanced back to see her, holding two large bags of groceries. “Got it?”
“There’s two more,” she said. “If you can grab them, Lucy can head to Mrs. Medrano’s. I think I made her late.”
“I think Mrs. Medrano can be five minutes late for her weekly bingo game,” Spencer said, hoping to reassure her. “But I’ll get the groceries.”
“Thanks.” She hurried toward the front door.
He opened the back door of Lucy’s car.
“You okay?” Lucy asked him.
He frowned at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Don’t get all defensive. I’m not being your shrink—I’m being your cousin. The one that knows how devastated you were after your breakup and Tatum left, remember? So I’m worried about you, sue me.” Lucy sighed. “What is it with men acting like they have no emotions? Like it’s some weakness or something. News flash—women like men that emote. Not cry their eyeballs out, but emote.”
Spencer laughed. “Okay, I’ll try to remember that.” He paused. “I’m good. I’m glad she’s back.”
Lucy nodded. “I thought you might be.”
He scooped the two bags of groceries from the back. “Have fun tonight.”
“You too,” she said, giggling. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to need this, but here. In case you need my sofa to sleep on.” She held out a key.
He hoped she was right, that he wouldn’t need it, but he took it anyway. “Thanks.” He slammed the car door and headed back to the house. It looked good. No one on the neighborhood decorating committee could complain now—his mother included. He pushed through the front door, gently shoving the door shut behind him. He put the groceries on the counter and placed the eggs and milk in the refrigerator before he saw Tatum’s shopping bags sitting—unpacked—on the counter.
“Tatum?” he called out.
No answer.
He headed down the hall, toward her room. “Tatum?”
He knocked, pushing her door open to find it empty. That was when he heard the telltale sound of water running. She was in the shower? He went back out into the hall and paused. The bathroom door was cracked. He’d take that as an invitation.
He opened the door, greeted by a cloud of steam, and pushed it closed behind him. Her red tunic lay on the floor. Her leggings, boots, a lacy black bra and a scrap of fabric he assumed was her underwear led the way to the glass-enclosed shower.
“You hoping I’d wash your back?” he asked, his throat tight.
She glanced over her shoulder, smiling sweetly. “To start, maybe.”
“To start?” he asked.
“You said we had all night.” He heard the waver of her voice and knew she wasn’t as brave as she was acting.
He nodded and stripped quickly, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor before stepping into the shower behind her. He stepped forward, shuddering as he pressed against her. There was no way she could miss just how much he wanted her. The length of him was throbbing, pulsing against the soft curve of her ass. He leaned in, his chest flush with the wet skin of her back. He groaned as he pressed an openmouthed kiss against the base of her neck.
She shivered.
He reached around her, pouring body wash into his palm and lathering his hands. His palms slid up her arms and over her shoulders. He took his time, kneading her skin with strong fingers. She sighed, her head falling against his shoulder as he massaged the length of her back. He washed her, his hands slipping and sliding over every inch of her. He didn’t linger in one place, but used his touch to heighten her awareness...and his. His hand slid between her legs, barely cupping the soft skin before sliding up her stomach to cradle her breasts. Her nipples were tight peaks, begging for his touch. He almost caved, pushed her against the wall and slid home. But he didn’t. Not yet. She felt so damn good, the lather of the body wash making her slippery in his hold. When his hands clasped her hips, he ground against her.
Her hand came around, gripping his lower back as she arched into him. She turned her head, looking at him with unfiltered hunger.
She turned in his hold, pressing herself against him and twining her arms around his neck. Her teeth nipped his lower lip, her fingers curling in his hair to pull his head toward hers. He didn’t hold back. His tongue slid between her lips while his mouth sealed hers.
She broke away, gasping. “My turn.” She poured body wash onto her hands.
He stood still, watching as she explored his body with her hands and eyes. She turned him, kneading his back and shoulders, thighs and hips. Her teeth grazed his hips, her tongue traced his spine, and her hands came around him, clasping the length of him with slippery hands. He shuddered, giving in to the onslaught of sensations her hands and mouth unleashed. She turned him once more.
He hadn’t expected her to be on her knees, to have her soft hands clasp the rigid length of him and bring it to her mouth. But the silk of her lips slipping over his tip, the wet heat of her mouth encasing him, made him groan out loud. With one hand she braced herself on his thighs, and the other gripped him firmly in place, letting her set a rhythm both sweet and torturous. Every stroke of her tongue and caress of her lips had him teetering closer to the edge. Did she know how close he was? He pressed his hands against the side of the shower, steadying himself.
“Stop, Tatum,” he ground out. He had to stop her. Had to get control. But, when it came to Tatum, he had no control.
“Stop?” she asked, breathless. “You’re not enjoying it?”
He heard the vulnerability in her voice and ached from it. He groaned. “I am. Too much.”
“I don’t want to stop,” she answered, drawing him deep into her mouth. Her hands slid up the backs of his thighs to grip his hips and he was done for. His climax hit hard. Wave after wave of pure, raw pleasure rocked through him. His moan tore from his throat and echoed in the steam-filled shower.
When he opened his eyes, she was standing before him—a huge smile on her face. He was gasping, his heart hammering and his lungs scrambling for air. She seemed pretty proud of her handiwork.
His hands slid down the side of the shower stall to cup her face. He wiped the water from her forehead and tilted her face back to kiss her. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“I probably look like a drowned rat,” she argued, kissing him back.
“A gorgeous drowned rat,” he continued, pulling her against him. He groaned at the slip and slide of her skin against him.
“Spencer.” Her whisper was low, pleading.
He held her back, staring down at her. “Bed?” he asked, turning off the water without waiting for her answer.
He helped her out of the shower, wrapping a thick white towel around his waist before rubbing her down. She laughed at the thorough job he made of it, but she was dry and rosy when he was done.
Her fingers traced his side. “What kind of feather is this?” she asked, tracing the tattoo.
“An eagle feather,” he answered, twisting the water from her hair.
“Why an eagle feather?”
He glanced at her. “An eagle is a protector. He’s powerful in battle. Alert and watchful. I needed to feel that way after Russ was killed.” Instead of feeling like a failure.
He and Patton had worked side by side with their little brother but neither of them had ever suspected Russell of being corrupt. Even after the night Russ was mowed down, Spencer had a hard time coming to terms with the truth. His little brother had been the bad guy.
Tatum was staring up at him, her fingers stroking the intricately detailed design and easing the crushing weight of his memories.
“I’m sorry about Russ.” There was no doubting her sincerity. “He was a character, always the jokester.”
She was right. Russ had always been the class clown—the one everybody loved. Being charming was a very useful way to divert suspicion.
“To lose your brother and father in the same year...” She paused, sliding her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry you had so much grief all at once, Spencer.”
He stared down at her, loving the feel of her in his arms. Missing her. How many times had he picked up the phone to call her, only to hang up? “Things were tough for a while,” he admitted. “But you get up every day, you find a way to keep going.”

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