It Must Have Been the Mistletoe... (10 page)

I
N THE PART OF HER BRAIN
that wasn't consumed with getting naked with Bryant, Layla realized that this part-time security agent/jewelry maker/metal sculptor who was wearing a pendent of a tree was the closest thing to an artist's soul with a farmer's body she was ever going to get.

And he had “temporary” tattooed all over him. He'd even alluded to the fact that they would go their separate ways tomorrow night after the final concert, that they wouldn't see each other again.

She knew this, and yet part of her hoped for something more. Part of her knew that Bryant Bishop was the yin to her yang, the peg for her hole (no sexual pun intended), the refrain for her melody. She knew it, but would not dwell on it.

At least not tonight.

His fingers threaded through hers, Bryant casually led her out of the restaurant to the lobby, where he depressed the call button for the elevators.

“Dinner was wonderful. Tha—”

The doors closed behind them and he ate what was left of her thank-you. His mouth unerringly found hers with an urgency and desperation she hadn't expected but felt all the same. His tongue tangled expertly around hers and she could
feel the long, hard length of him nudging determinedly against her belly.

Her mouth watered.

She tugged his shirt from the waistband of his jeans and found the warm skin at the small of his back. He shuddered and deepened the kiss, and she felt the smooth suction of his mouth against hers down low in her belly. His hands slipped over her back, then beneath her shirt, and the first touch of his fingers against her bare skin snatched the breath from her lungs. A shaky laugh rattled up her throat.

Oh, this was going to be good.

“I'm amusing you?” he asked between kisses. “Clearly I'm not trying hard enough.”

She snickered again. “Oh, I don't know about that. It
feels
hard enough.”

It was his turn to laugh and she felt that rumble against her chest as he lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he cradled her ass, then gave a gentle squeeze. Her sex wept and a low, insistent throb quickened in her clit, sharing the same beat as her heart.

The elevator doors slid open and he hurried down the hall with her clinging to him. Without dropping her or breaking the kiss, he managed to get his hotel room door open.

Neat trick, that.

Five seconds later she was flat on her back on the bed and he was between her legs, flexing against her while they were still fully clothed. He was heavy and hard and…
damn.

“This…would be…so much…better…naked,” she gasped, her hands tearing his shirt over his head. Smooth skin, sleek muscle, no man-scaping. Any guy who worried more about excess body hair than she did made her nervous. There were tiny scars on his chest—burns from bits of metal, she realized, leaning forward to lick one.

He shuddered above her.

The power was heady and she knew the smile that rolled across her lips was wicked.

“I don't trust that grin,” he said, those keen butterscotch eyes missing nothing.

“Smart boy.”

“Boy?” he said, feigning outrage. “I beg to differ.”

She reached down and tugged at his zipper. “I'd like for you to beg.”

He chuckled, baring her midriff so that he could kiss his way up her middle. “I'd like for
you
to beg.”

She was on the verge of making a boner reference when he popped the front clasp on her bra and took the beaded crest of her breast fully into his mouth. His tongue laved her nipple, abrading it in the most delicious way. He suckled her and she felt that tug deep in the heart of her sex, as though there were a corresponding thread connecting the two. A broken gasp sounded between them—hers—and she squirmed against him, needing to feel the hardest part of him against the softest part of her.

She settled for slipping her hand beneath his boxers and palming him. His penis jumped into her greedy hand like a happy puppy waiting to be petted, and she encircled him and began to stroke.

He retaliated by thumbing her other nipple, then licked a path between the two and feasted on the previously neglected one. The small of her back left the bed and she shifted her hips, a soundless entreaty that he answered by stripping the rest of her clothes off, leaving her bare and open to his hungry gaze.

“You're beautiful,” he said.

She never enjoyed compliments about her body. They made her feel self-conscious and weird. “I'm a sure thing,” she told him. “No flattery necessary.”

“Stop that,” he said. “You—” he kissed a rib “—are—” he slid his nose down to her belly button “—beautiful.” He drew
back, retrieved a condom from his wallet, then quickly rolled it into place. A second later he was nudging the pouting folds of her sex, bumping her clit in the process.

“You're pretty damned gorgeous yourself,” she said, meaning every word. He was glorious, utterly perfect, and for this moment, hers. “Come inside me,” she said, rocking against him.

Then he filled her up and she stopped thinking altogether. She could only feel…and it was heavenly.

Ultimate inspiration indeed.

 

C
OME INSIDE ME
.

Bryant hesitated for a fraction of a second—was sure she didn't notice—before he took the literal plunge into her body. A last-ditch effort at self-preservation, he realized.

But too late.

One second he was Bryant Bishop, completely and totally in control of his future. The next, he was inside her and he was no more the master of his fate than the man in the moon.

He was lost.

Sensation bombarded him on all sides, and while the rest of his body felt as though it was free-falling, he had the most peculiar awareness deep down in his chest of being rooted—of belonging. Had she not bent forward and licked his nipple at that moment, he would have lingered on the feeling, then panicked.

But she did and he dove deeper, determined to fix whatever was wrong with him. If he took her hard enough, fast enough, he could make things right again. He could change whatever had just happened to him.

Her greedy feminine muscles clamped around him, holding him as he plunged in and out of her. Her breasts were full and lush, capped with pale pink rosy nipples, and watching her flat belly undulate beneath his, the line of her hips shift
up to meet his, was quite possibly the most erotic thing he'd ever done.

She smoothed her hands over his chest, along his shoulders, then around his neck, and drew him down to kiss her once more. The combination of tasting her while he took her was somehow more rewarding—more significant—than it had ever been. She drew her legs back, allowing him more access, and wrapped them around his waist until the bottoms of her feet rested against his ass. He shut his eyes to keep them from rolling back in his head.

“Woman, you are killing me,” he growled against her mouth.

“Good,” she said, upping the tempo between them. “I'm sure you deserve it for something.”

He chuckled, surprised at her insight, particularly at the moment. “I'm sure you're right.”

“I usually am.”

“And so modest, too.”

She laughed and he felt the vibration around his dick. The sensation kindled that first flash of beginning orgasm and he pounded harder. Sensing the change, Layla met his pace thrust for thrust. She licked his neck, nibbled at his shoulders and slid her hands over his back. She was everywhere, beneath his body and beneath his skin, and the scent of her curled around his senses, drugging him.

He heard her breath catch and her own rhythm increased, her muscles fisting more and more tightly around him. He slipped his arm beneath her back, angling her up and more tightly against him. The new position made his balls slap against her and he nailed her clit with every thrust, which had been the intent after all. He knew his way around a woman's body and that little nub hidden at the top of her sex was the money spot. He knew he could pound, twist, aim and angle all night in her velvety channel, but if he didn't pay homage to that little part of her anatomy, it was all in vain. Just like
that strip of flesh at the base of his balls did it for him—which she was currently stroking, the she-devil—this was her hot button.

Her mouth opened and a slow smile gratifyingly curled the edges and he knew that she was close. Thank God, because so was he.

He pounded harder, in and out, in and out, and felt her slide across the slippery bedspread with every brutal thrust into her body. Any minute now they were in danger of falling completely off the bed. Her breathing came in rapid little puffs, ragged and uneven, and a groan rumbled low in her throat. He knew that sound, knew what it meant, and worked harder. He bent his head, drew her breast into his mouth and sucked deeply.

She bucked hard once, twice, then every muscle in her body locked down tight as those around him contracted over and over again.

Her release triggered his own and the orgasm shot from his loins like a bullet down the barrel of a gun. He dug his toes into the mattress and nudged deep, seating himself firmly inside her. Nothing short of the Jaws of Life could have gotten him out of there at the moment, Bryant thought dimly as his vision blackened around the edges and a bone-deep shiver eddied up his spine. Contentment washed through him, raising every hair on his body, and he sagged against her, utterly spent and completely sated. He kissed her neck, then taking her with him, rolled to the side. He made quick work of removing the condom, then settled her more securely into the crook of his arm.

She fit.

And he was doomed.

“Fair warning,” Layla said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “I'm gonna wanna do some more of that.”

Whatever he'd expected her to say, it hadn't been that, and her frankness startled a laugh right out of him. He doodled
on her upper arm, enjoyed the feel of her naked breast against his chest.

“The tour's over tomorrow night,” he said. A warning, but one he felt he needed to make. He was temporary. This was temporary. He didn't do committed or permanent. It wasn't in the genes.

She was different and he felt differently about her. He'd even go so far as to say that she was special. But that didn't change anything.

And until this moment, he'd always been fine with that.

Something told him he wasn't going to be fine anymore.

W
ARNING HER, WAS HE?
As if she'd expected anything more than a brief but beautiful thing between them. Any woman with a grain of sense knew that Bryant Bishop wasn't the kind of guy who would be easily domesticated. Did her heart give a little pang at this knowledge?

Definitely.

She felt a strange sort of connection to him, a sense of hope and rightness she'd never experienced before.

But she wasn't stupid, and letting her heart get tangled up in the strings of the best sex she'd ever had was the height of idiocy.

She wouldn't allow herself to do that. She was going to enjoy him. That was all. She snuggled in closer and nuzzled his neck with her nose.

“I love the way you smell,” she said. “It's like musk and wood. Resinous.” She waited a beat. “Sort of like a Christmas tree.”

She felt his silent laugh vibrate against her cheek. “A Christmas tree? If that's the case, then I want my money back. I don't want to smell like a damned evergreen.”

“You mean you haven't been spraying yourself with car freshener in lieu of cologne?” she deadpanned.

“Er, no.”

She hummed doubtfully. “Live or artificial?” she asked.

“Live or artificial what?” He sounded confused.

“Christmas tree, of course. What do you think we're talking about?”

He laughed again, the sound low and strangely soothing. It moved through her and settled warmly around her heart. “I thought we were talking about the way I smell, but clearly you've moved on.” He waited a beat. “A live branch. I do the Charlie Brown kind of Christmas tree.”

“Ah. Is that a family tradition?”

She felt him stiffen beneath her and marveled at the change. She'd wanted to keep things light and noncommittal. Talking about Christmas had seemed like a safe topic, but clearly…not.

“Not really,” he said, expelling a breath. “To be honest, I don't have any family. My father died several years ago and I've never known my mother or any of her family. Dad's parents passed before I was born.”

He'd never known his mother? Meaning what? That she'd died when he was little? But if that was the case, then that's what he would have said, right? And he hadn't. He'd said he'd never known her. So if she hadn't died…then she must have left. Callous, selfish, miserable bitch. That explained a lot, Layla thought. Talk about hitting the motherlode of abandonment issues. Her chest gave a painful squeeze. “Sorry, Bryant. I don't know what to say.”

“It's not your fault,” he told her. “It just is and I've never known any different, so it's not a big deal.”

Yes it was, but he'd never admit it. He couldn't even admit it to himself. She came this close to inviting him to her own family gathering, just to prevent him from being alone, but didn't. Something told her he'd reject the invitation out of hand and he would know that it had been issued out of pity. That would be reason enough to refuse.

“The family thing isn't all it's cracked up to be, you know,” she said, determined to make light of what had become a very heavy moment.

“So I've been told.”

“It's true. My mother's always freaking out over the dinner—is the stuffing too dry? Did she make enough desserts? Is everyone going to like their presents? Meanwhile, Dad is pulling enough electricity to power a Third World country to run his Christmas lights. He's adding a snowman village and insists that we do a living nativity every year.”

“Living nativity?”

“Yep. And while I appreciate the sentiment, I don't particularly like freezing my ass off while playing Mary.”

Bryant looked down at her, a grin twitching his lips. “Is this event open to the public?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she admitted drolly. “From six to nine on Christmas Eve, the Cole family front lawn.” Rita would be home this year, which would make it all the more special.

His eyes twinkled. “Do I need tickets?”

“It's free to the public. Mom will make hot chocolate.”

“I'll bring my own chestnuts,” Bryant said.

She circled his nipple with her fingertip. “Bring a few for me, would you? I love chestnuts.”

“You do?”

“Who doesn't?”

He paused. “I've planted trees,” he told her. There was a bizarre note to his voice, one she couldn't quite discern.

“What?” For reasons she couldn't begin to explain, her heartbeat quickened and her mouth went dry.

“You asked about family traditions. We never really had what you would call a tradition, but my dad loved chestnuts. He'd roast them and turn on Bing Crosby. A couple of years ago I planted a small grove of trees on my farm. It'll be three to five more years before I can harvest, but I have to admit that I'm looking forward to it.”

She felt faint. “You've got a farm? You're a farmer?”

He laughed. “Well, I wouldn't say that. I haven't planted a damned thing besides those chestnut trees and the odd tomato plant when I'm not touring.”

She grunted. She couldn't do anything else. Artist's soul, farmer's tendency. He'd planted something he didn't expect to harvest for several years. He was committed to his home, to his land.

He just couldn't commit to a woman.

Nothing could have made her sadder.

 

O
NCE AGAIN HE WAS PRESENTED
with an opportunity to tell her where he lived, that he was her neighbor. Or he would be very soon anyway.

And he didn't.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why didn't he want to tell her? What was making him hesitate? Was he afraid she'd change her mind about the property? Decide to plant her sweet peas somewhere else? Or was it the mere significance of her choosing property next to his own? She'd reluctantly shown him her scrapbook this afternoon on the bus. He knew how important building her house was to her, that she equated having her own bit of land as permanence. And had he grown up with her childhood, moving about on the bus over and over, he would have likely felt the same way. In a sense, he suspected he did, just for a slightly different reason. It had certainly made her aversion to the bus make sense, that was for damned sure.

Looking at that scrapbook, seeing every detail of what she wanted for her home, down to the last flower, shrub and tree, really put everything into perspective for him. She'd spent years planning this, hours upon hours scanning house plans and plant catalogues to find just what she was looking for. Every room had been laid out, every decoration, the placement
of furniture, even the rugs on the floor. She'd left nothing out, hadn't forgotten a single thing.

She was not the type of woman who would abandon a child.

“I'm about to ask you the most intensely personal question in the history of the world,” she warned.

Oh, hell. What would she want to know? Why hadn't he ever married? Had he ever been in love? How many children did he want? He chuckled darkly. “Thanks for the warning.”

She paused dramatically. “What are you thinking?”

He laughed again and relief swept through him. “That
is
the most intensely personal question in the history of the world,” he said, surprised to realize that it was true.

“Well?”

“I was thinking about you, actually, and how you hate the tour bus.” He
had
been thinking about that earlier, so it wasn't technically a lie.

She slid her foot against his calf. “Ah, yes,” she groaned. “I loathe the bus. Even listening to the road noise makes me nauseous. I can't tell you how glad I am that we're flying home.”

“Oh, I think you can,” he said, laughing. “I can hear it in your voice.”

She rolled on top of him, settling her sex over the ridge of his arousal. She bent forward and licked a path up the side of his neck. “Can you hear anything else?” she asked huskily.

Soft womanly skin, moist heat against his dick. He was five seconds away from saying to hell with a condom.

“Suit up,” she whispered against his ear. “I want you inside of me.”

In a flash he'd done as she instructed, and a moment later, she was lowering herself, inch by precious inch, down on him. Her heat slowly enveloped him and he set his teeth so hard he was afraid he'd ground the enamel off.

She was killing him. And, judging from that cat-in-the-cream-pot smile drifting over her lips, she was enjoying it.

Damp blond curls, smooth concave belly, the flare of her womanly hips, pink nipples resting like little tinted puffs of whipped cream upon her breasts.

She was quite possibly the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen in his life. His chest ached from looking at her, tightened and squeezed until he was breathless and dizzy.

She rose up, lowered herself once more, and the exquisite action between their joined bodies startled his respiration into action.

She skimmed her fingers over his chest, marking each rib with a tip, seemingly mesmerized by the way he felt beneath her hands. “Your body is like a sexual playground,” she murmured. “Like a swing, a slide and a merry-go-round all rolled into one.”

He grinned up at her, palmed her breasts and thumbed her nipples, then flexed determinedly beneath her. “Then ride.”

And she did.