Yule Be Mine (3 page)

Frances silently cursed herself for blushing again. She retreated back to her room to dismantle the bed frame.

Booker knelt beside her. “Frances?”

“I never noticed.”

“Never noticed what?”

Keeping her attention on the task at hand, she blindly gestured toward his lap and gave a whopper of a lie. “Any…boners.”

Booker clutched his heart theatrically and toppled back on his rear. “God, I'm wounded. You really know how to damage the old male vanity, hon.”

Laughing, Frances lifted one half of the frame and stood. Truth was, she'd noticed a few erections here and there, but had always discounted them as some strange male phenomenon. Guys got hard for the most ridiculous reasons.

Booker came to his feet to face her. Losing his smile, he stared at her with beguiling seriousness and seductive charm. “How about now?”

“Now?”

Without looking away from her eyes, he took her wrist and carried her hand to his fly where a thick ridge had risen beneath his denims. The second her fingers touched him, he caught his breath and his voice went hoarse. “Can you notice this one?”

A rush of giddiness nearly took Frances's knees out from under her. He was long, thick and hard…how could she not notice? She thought of him naked, thought of him pressing inside her, filling her up, and her fingers curled tight around him. Booker's eyes closed and she heard the roughness of his breathing.

Filled with curiosity, she traced his length upward, then back down again, measuring him, teasing herself. Booker locked his jaw. “Keep that up and I'm going to lose it.”

She barely heard his words. Lifting her other hand, she covered him completely, stroking, squeezing, reaching lower to feel the heavy weight of his testicles. His teeth clenched. “Frances, I've wanted you too long to have any patience. Add that to month-long celibacy, and I'm working on a hair trigger here.”

So, it really had been a month? That meant something, didn't it?

He stood rigid before her, letting her do as she pleased. Or rather, as she dared. She wanted to push him to the floor and strip him naked, but everything had happened too quickly…

Releasing him, she stepped back. It took him a moment, but Booker finally got his eyes open. He looked in pain. He looked ready to jump her bones. Suggestively, he said, “Why don't we finish putting the bed together?”

“All right.”

His eyes flared at her agreement.

Damn it, she hated her conscience sometimes. “But Booker, I can't…we can't, do anything until you've officially broken things off with Judith. You said you're a nice guy. Well, I'm a nice woman. And like your brother, I want no part of poaching.”

Booker frowned. “Speaking with her is just a formality at this point.”

“It's a formality I'll have to insist on.” In the darkest part of her soul, Frances was afraid that Judith would beg him not to leave her, and he'd agree. She knew it was wrong to hope things would be over between them, especially if Judith would be hurt. But she wished it just the same.

Booker hesitated a long moment before agreeing. “All right. Let's get done here and I'll go call her. But it won't matter, Frannie, not to me.”

Hoping that was true, Frances nodded. They spent the next hour setting up her bedroom. Booker even helped her remake the bed, then rearrange everything in her new studio so that the job was complete. The busy work afforded Frances a little time to think about the new turn of events.

When they'd finished and the last item was in place, Booker caught both her hands and bent to kiss her. “If Judith is home, I could be back here in no time.”

Booker Dean was more temptation than any woman should have to endure. Regretfully, Frances shook her head. “Booker, I need some time to adjust to this. You can't just expect me to take it all in stride.”

“Do you want me, Frances?”

“Yes.” She didn't mind admitting that much. “I have for a long time.”

His triumphant smile was sexy and pure male.

“But I still need some time to think things through.”

“How much time?”

“I don't know. At least until tomorrow.”

Disappointment showed in the drawing of his brows, the darkening of his eyes. “Tomorrow, huh?”

Unable to continue meeting his gaze, Frances looked down at her feet. “You need time to think about this too, you know. You could still change your mind. You might be here on the rebound or because you want validation because Judith tried to cheat on you.” Frances shrugged, feeling a little helpless, caught between wanting to say
yes
and having enough common sense to say
not yet
. “I want you, but I don't want to be used and I don't want regrets and even more than that, I don't want things to get weird between us if we do this, and then tomorrow or the next day or a month from now, you're back with Judith.”

Booker said nothing to all that, and Frances had the feeling he waited for her to look at him. Finally she did and got trapped in the mesmerizing intensity of his dark gaze. She had the bed at her back, Booker in front of her, and a whole lot of desire crackling in the air between them.

One side of Booker's mouth tipped in a sensual smile, then he stepped up against her and toppled her onto the mattress. Before she could catch her breath, he came down over her. His solid chest crushed her breasts, his hard abdomen pressed into her stomach. Like a tidal wave, desire rolled through her.

Booker cupped her face, kissed her nose, her forehead, her chin. “I don't want Judith. I haven't wanted Judith since I got to know you. But I'll wait. I'll give you some time. And while you're thinking things over, Frances, think about this.”

His earlier kisses had been teasing, tentative.

This one scorched her.

Using his thumbs, he nudged her chin down so her lips parted. He sank his tongue in, leisurely exploring while giving her that full-body contact she'd craved for so long.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, holding on. His hips moved in a carnal press and retreat, mimicking how he'd take her if only she'd say yes. Frances moaned, then moaned again when his fingers found her breast, gently cuddled her, traced her nipple—and then he was gone.

It wasn't easy, but she got her eyes open to see Booker standing between her legs at the side of the bed. He stared down at her, his face flushed, his chest heaving, his dark gaze fierce.

Frances pushed up on one elbow. “Booker?”

“If I don't go now, I won't go at all. But I want more than just a quick tumble, Frannie. You'll figure that out on your own, without me pushing you. So…good night.” He took one step back from the bed. “Think about me tonight. And try trusting me just a little.”

She watched him leave the room, then dropped back down to the mattress with a long groan. Good gracious, Booker on the make was even more exciting than she'd ever imagined. And if he was like this when she said no, how tantalizing would he be when she finally said yes?

N
o way was she going to be able to sleep. It was midnight, but her body hummed and her mind was in turmoil. Had he called Judith yet? What had happened?

Frances punched the pillow, moaned in frustration, and rolled to her side. She'd asked for tonight to think. But all she could think about was whether he'd called Judith, what might have happened, if it was really over. Why didn't he call and tell her?

She moaned again. When she saw him tomorrow, she'd…

“Frances?”

She froze at the muffled call of her name. Eyes wide in the dark, she peered around but saw nothing. No one.

A knock sounded on the wall right behind her head. “C'mon Frannie. I hear you in there.” The squeak of his bed resonated through the wall.

Frances jerked upright. “Booker?”

“Of course, it's Booker. I told you we'd be sleeping right next to each other.” Silence, then: “Why did you moan?” And sounding a little wishful: “Thinking of me?”

“Yes.”

Throbbing silence. “What
are
you doing over there, Frannie?”

The way he said that, she knew exactly what
he
thought she was doing. She punched the wall, heard him curse softly, and smiled. “Get your mind out of the gutter, you pervert. I was beating up my pillow.”

“How come?”

Because you made me all hot and bothered and then walked away
. “Because I can't sleep.”

“And? You can't sleep because…?”

Through her teeth, Frances snarled, “Because I'm wondering if you spoke with Judith and how it went, but you didn't bother to call and tell me.”

“Oh.”

A few seconds later, her phone pealed loudly, giving Frances a horrible start. She stared toward the nightstand in the dark, then groped across the bed until she found it. She lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“I called her.”

Her fingers curled tightly. “And?”

There was a definite shrug in Booker's tone. “Axel answered.”

“
Axel
answered?” Frances collapsed back against the headboard. Man, Booker's brother hadn't wasted any time. Of course, where women were concerned, he seldom did.

But Booker didn't seem perturbed by his brother's rush into his ex's bed. “Yeah. He sounded winded, too, so I'm thinking I interrupted things.”

Her eyes flared wide again. “You interrupted things?”

Laughing, Booker asked, “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“Maybe.” She couldn't believe how cavalier he was about the whole thing.

“I want you.”

Frances gripped the phone, swallowed hard.

“Not going to repeat that, huh?” He sighed, very put out. “Anyway, Axel put Judith on the line, she apologized, said she was drunk. Then I heard Axel grousing at her and pretty soon, she was giggling, then panting. I don't know what he did to her, but she liked it because she finally admitted that she'd been thinking about Axel for a long time, and because of that, she knew she wasn't ready to settle down.”

“Um…wow.” Frances cleared her throat. “I don't know what to say.”

“I say all's well that ends well. At least with those two. Now to work on you.” His voice dropped. “I need your trust, Frannie.”

Knowing she'd never get to sleep now, Frances flipped on the lamp and got out of bed. A peek out the darkened window showed drifting snow and ice crystals covering every surface. It looked magical, perfectly picturesque for Christmastime, and perfect to help clear her mind.

With the phone caught between her shoulder and ear, she pulled on thickly lined nylon jogging pants. “It's not a matter of trust, Booker. You've just done a hundred and eighty turn, and we both need time to adjust.”

“What are you doing?” He sounded suspicious.

“Nothing.” She sat on the bed to pull on two pairs of socks and her all-weather running shoes.

“Frances Kennedy, are you getting dressed?”

A new alertness had entered his tone, so she hesitated before finally saying in a small voice, “Yes.”

The phone clicked in her ear. Well. In a huff, Frances put the phone back in the cradle and stood. Over her T-shirt, she layered on a thermal shirt and finally a sweatshirt. After wrapping a muffler around her throat, pulling a wool hat low over her ears and grabbing up her mittens, she headed for the apartment door.

She opened it only to find Booker standing there in hastily donned jeans and nothing else. He pushed his way in, forcing her back inside.

“Oh no, you don't.” He flattened himself against the closed door, arms spread, naked feet braced apart, blocking her from leaving. The sparse sprinkling of dark hair over his chest drew Frances's attention. She'd seen his bare chest before, but always with the awareness that she couldn't, shouldn't stare. Now she could. And she did.

His chest hair was crisp, spreading from nipple to nipple, and a line of silkier hair trailed happily from his chest down his abdomen. Fascinated, she visually traced it as it twirled around a tight navel, then dipped beneath his unsnapped jeans. Lord have mercy.

It wasn't easy, but Frances got her attention back on his face—and caught his indulgent look of satisfaction. “What are you doing here, Booker?”
Besides looking like sin personified
.

“Supplying some common sense, apparently.” Vibrating tension brought him away from the door until he stood nose to nose with Frances. “It's too cold, too late and way too damn dark to be out running around by yourself.”

“Wanna go with me?” She wouldn't mind the company.

“Hell no.” He shivered for emphasis and began unwinding her muffler. “We'd both end up with pneumonia.”

“I can't sleep. Running helps me relax.”

Eyes twinkling, he opened his mouth and Frances, knowing good and well what his alternate suggestion would be, snapped, “No, don't say it, Booker. I told you I wanted time and damn it, I'll get time.”

His grin sent a curl of heat through her stomach. He whipped off her hat, kissed her nose. “Okay. Then let's make cookies.” Eyebrows bobbing, he added in a growl, “I
love
your cookies.”

Well, that was nothing less than the truth. She'd already made him several batches of frosted Christmas cookies and they never lasted him long. She supposed baking would be as distracting as running. “All right. But you have to help.”

Using both hands, he pushed his bed-rumpled hair away from his face. “My pleasure. Lead the way.”

This time she dodged the mistletoe as she headed to the kitchen, making Booker laugh. She pulled out flour and sugar, eggs and other ingredients, and he got her big glass bowls off the top shelf.

“You know,” Booker said thoughtfully, “while you're getting used to the idea, I could detail all the benefits of a more intimate relationship between us.”

Frances bit back a moan. The intimate benefits were already more than apparent to her. She didn't need them detailed. Keeping her back to him and carefully measuring in vanilla, she said, “I have a good imagination, Booker. I don't need any help.”

“But I want to tell you.” He came up behind her, caught her hips in his hands and kissed her ear. “It occurred to me that there may be nuances involved that you haven't considered.”

Her right hand held an egg suspended over a bowl. “Yeah? Like what?” She leaned into him, tilted her head to give him better advantage, and sighed when his kisses trailed to her throat. She'd dated plenty of times, even semiseriously once or twice, but she'd never known the side of her neck was that sensitive.

Then again, maybe it was just Booker. Everywhere he touched her made her senses riot.

She knew she should resist him, but it just wasn't possible.

“Like tonight,” he whispered huskily. “When you're restless, I'll be right there to help.” He smiled against her throat. “But if you insist on jogging at night, I can go with you. Or we can make more cookies.”

“Sounds…interesting.” Truth was, she couldn't clear her thoughts long enough to decide what made sense and what didn't. Not with Booker touching her.

“You wouldn't have to worry about finding a date.”

“I never worry about that anyway.”

The squeeze he gave her nearly took her breath. “I know. How come you never go out much?”

Because she loved him and he'd been with Judith. “I dated a lot before I moved here. But since then, I've had one job after another. Especially with the holidays.” Recently, with her growing popularity, every small gallery around had wanted to put on a show with her work.

Booker stepped away from her, enabling her to draw a deep, fortifying breath. “That's another thing,” he said. “When you're working nonstop the way you do sometimes, I can help with your dinner and chores.”

Slowly, Frances turned to face him. What he suggested sounded a whole lot more involved than an affair. Because everything was so new, she didn't have the nerve to ask him to spell out his intentions. Instead, she said, “I can take care of myself.”

His expression warmed with tenderness. “You're the strongest woman I know. I admire you a lot, Frannie.”

He admired her.

“You're also smart and funny, and I love how I can be myself with you.”

He'd said the
L
word, and it nearly stopped her heart. She watched him with wide eyes and growing tension.

“But Frannie, wouldn't it be nice to have someone to cuddle with at night? Wouldn't it be nice to go Christmas shopping together for gifts? To wake up Christmas morning and share all the magic and fun?”

It felt like her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. He implied that he wanted to…move in?

“I'd like you to meet my folks. They're great. You can't judge them by Axel,” he teased. “He's the black sheep of the family. Were you planning to go home on Christmas?”

He ran that all together too quickly, leaving her dazed. “Christmas Eve,” she murmured, still trying to mentally catch up with him.

“Great. Then I could go there with you and we could hit my folk's place Christmas morning. Gramps and Gramma will be there. Hell, they're ninety now, but still have a wicked sense of humor. There'll be some aunts and uncles, too. Do you have big get-togethers? How many of your relatives will I get to meet?”

Her head spun. She almost dropped the stupid egg but caught herself in time. Turning back to the large bowl, she began adding ingredients. “There's, uh, about twenty of us. Lots of kids. My two sisters are already married.”

“I bet they all tease you about being single.”

Her chin lifted. “Actually, they consider me the strange artsy one in the bunch. They never know quite what to expect from me.” For certain, they wouldn't expect Booker.

“Strange? Really?” He said it with amusement.

“And why not? Look how different I am from Judith.”

“Yeah.” She felt his gaze tracking over her body, pausing in prime places until she almost squirmed. “You're different all right.”

Just what the hell did he mean by that? Flustered, she dumped in too much sugar. “Set the oven on three-fifty.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He took care of that before leaning beside her against the counter. Without a shirt and his jeans undone, he proved a mighty distraction. “Now, about these differences.”

Frances stirred the batter with single-minded ferocity. “Judith is beautiful.”

With a snort, Booker leaned around to see her face. “You're an artist, Frannie. You know you're easy on the eyes.”

“I know I'm not a hag,” she specified. “But I am too thin and probably too tall.”

“You're damn near the same height as me.”

“Exactly. And judging by Judith, you like women who are elegant. Judith always had her hair just right, her makeup perfect and her nails freshly painted.”

Indulgently, Booker tucked her hair behind her ear. “And the only paint I see on you is often on your nose.”

Rolling her eyes, Frances said, “Or under my nails, rather than on them.” She hesitated a moment, unsure how many comparisons she wanted to make. “Judith has bigger boobs, too.”

His grin came and went quickly. “She's got a nice rack on her, true. But Frannie?” When she glanced up at him, he said, “She's not you.” He stroked the side of her throat. “You make me laugh, almost as much as you make me hot. I enjoy being with you, talking to you. I knew things were over with Judith when I decided I'd rather watch football with you than sleep with her.”

Frances paused in her stirring. “Has it really been a month?”

“At least. It feels longer because I've wanted you more every damn day.” When she stood there, just staring at him, he gently nudged her aside and began scooping the cookie dough into the press he'd taken from her cabinet. “I should have realized Judith felt the same when she didn't protest my lack of interest. But everyone kept talking about us being an item, hinting that we should get married. And it was the holidays, a bad time to dump someone. And so, like an idiot, I tried to figure out a way to end it without causing a big scene—so I could be with you.”