Jingle Bell: Rock Part 3

A few seconds later, her phone pealed loudly, giving Frances a horrible start. She stared toward the night-stand in the dark, then groped across the bed until she found it. She lifted the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?"

"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 m.u.f.fler 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 spa.r.s.e 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 d.a.m.n dark to be out running around by yourself."

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

"h.e.l.l no." He shivered for emphasis and began unwinding her m.u.f.fler. "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 d.a.m.n 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 gla.s.s 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 ch.o.r.es."

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. h.e.l.l, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"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 h.e.l.l did he mean by that? Fl.u.s.tered, 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 d.a.m.n 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 b.o.o.bs, 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 d.a.m.n 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."

He began turning the crank on the old press and a tree-shaped cookie appeared on the baking sheet. "You," he told her with a sideways glance of accusation, "kept treating me like some as.e.xual buddy."

Frances gasped in affront. "That's how you treated me."

"Not by choice. I just wanted to make sure I didn't scare you off until I could tell you how I really felt."

The baking sheet now held two dozen small trees. Frances took it from him, opened the oven and bent at the waist to slide it in.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said from right behind her, "you don't know what you're advertising there."

Frances glanced around to see him staring at her behind. She jerked upright, her face flushed from his attention and the heat that wafted from the oven.

Booker reached out, caught her elbow and dragged her close. "You're too warm." So saying, he caught the hem of her sweatshirt and pulled it up and over her head. "d.a.m.n, how many layers are you wearing?"

"Enough to jog outside without freezing."

"Well, maybe you can be an early present and I'll just keep unwrapping you." He removed her thermal shirt too, leaving her in an oversized blue T-shirt and gray nylon jogging pants. He stared at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and said, "I don't suppose you'd want to do a little making out? We could sort of ease into things with a lot of kissing, maybe a little petting. Then tomorrow when you've made up your mind-"

Frances threw her arms around his neck. "Yes."

Chapter Four.

Surprised by her sudden acquiescence, Booker lifted her to the countertop and moved her knees apart to stand between them. Frances's eyes widened, but he didn't give her time to change her mind. He kissed her.

G.o.d, he'd never get used to her taste, her softness. The T-shirt hugged her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s, showing the strained outline of her puckered nipples. He slid his hands down her sides, enthralled by her narrow waist, the firmness of her supple muscles. As a runner, she stayed toned and trim. He couldn't wait to feel her legs around him, squeezing him tight.

But she wanted a day to think about it, so by G.o.d, he'd give her a day. Tonight he'd only tease, show her what they could have together in an effort to hedge his bets. It was a ruthless move, but then, he'd wanted her too d.a.m.n long to play fair.

He took her mouth in a long drugging kiss, meant to distract her while he slipped his hands beneath her shirt. She felt warm and firm and soft and he knew he'd bust his jeans if he prolonged this too long. The silky skin of her back drew him first. She was so slight of build, so narrow that with his fingers spread, he could span her width. He rubbed back down her sides, then up to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, just under them, not touching her yet despite the urge to weigh her in his palms, to learn her.

"Booker..." she groaned, and the way she said his name pushed him that much closer to the edge.

Using his thumbs, he stroked her nipples, felt them stiffen, and he couldn't take it. He leaned back, pulled the shirt up to bare her and inhaled sharply at the sight of her.

"Frannie." He could feel her hesitancy. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small, perfectly shaped with dark pink nipples. He bent to take one puckered nipple into his mouth, drawing gently, flicking with his tongue.

Her reaction was electric. She stiffened, lacing her fingers tight into his hair, pulling him closer. Her legs opened wider around him and Booker used one arm to pull her to the very edge of the counter, in direct contact with his hips.

Her groan was long and gratifying.

Earlier, he'd been on the ragged edge, d.a.m.n near ready to come in his pants. But now he had her where he wanted her. Almost. Naked would be better, but he'd make do.