Yule Be Mine (10 page)

He'd like her.

Flat on her back.

Buck-naked.

His nostrils flared, but not from the scent of brewing coffee. “All right.” Yet he stood there. He knew that once he stepped over the threshold, he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off her. Damn Lucius for putting him in this torturous position. And damn his weakness for wanting her. He knew, absolutely knew, that off-kilter broads not based in reality were a complete and total pain in the ass.

Yet he trembled with the need to gather her near and devour her. Marci got to him in a big way and he hated it. With most women, he enjoyed himself, and he made sure they got enjoyment, too. Mutual enjoyment, yeah, that's what he liked.

Not this insane torment and out-of-control craving. Not this trembling lust and gut-twisting need.

Fuck it.

He stepped in and demanded, “Where's the donkey?”

She twittered a laugh. “Donkey?” Giving him her back, she sashayed into the tiny kitchenette and got out two mugs.

Spellbound, Ozzie stared at her ass. Through the chenille, he could see the perfect heart shape of that fine behind, the softness of it, the slightest jiggle. When Marci wasn't tormenting him or conversing with critters, she taught an aerobics class, and it showed in the graceful muscle tone, the feminine strength of her willowy…

“What donkey, Osbourne?”

Lost in fantasies, he stared at her, confused.

Her lips curved, and she prompted, “You asked me about a donkey?”

Oh, yeah. He took an aggressive stance. “There's a donkey missing from the funeral home's Nativity scene.”

She raised her brows at him, then lowered them in thought. As she came back to him, carrying the coffee, she asked, “And you assume I stole him?”

“Did you?”

She offered him a mug, and he accepted. Their fingers touched, and it struck him like a jolt of red-hot electricity. The old John Henry jumped up with a hearty,
“Hello!”

“Why would you think I did?”

The pounding of his heartbeat almost drowned out her question. “Did what?”

This time she laughed. As if speaking to a slow-witted fool, she repeated, “I'm curious, Osbourne. Why would you think I stole a donkey? I have no record for thievery. In fact, I have no criminal record at all.”

He couldn't think while drowning in lust. He had to get a grip or run like a scared rabbit, and running had never appealed to him. He dragged his gaze from her and strode to the couch, seating himself in the middle.

Rather than look at her again—because that'd do him in—he sipped his coffee, then set the mug on the end table. “I think you took the donkey because you have some weird thing going on with animals.”

“It's not weird.”

He smelled her approach. Like a starving man, he inhaled the scent of woman, of sex, of pure, ripe temptation.

“It's a gift.” Marci sat beside him, and the instant her hip brushed his, he bounded up as if she'd goosed him.

From several
safer
feet away, Ozzie turned on her. “Do you have the stubborn ass or not?”

Again, she seemed to ponder it. “What type of donkey are we talking about?”

“What
type?
” He frowned at her. “What the hell does that—”

Her eyes locked with his, she set aside her own coffee and rose from the sofa. As she stalked toward him, he went mute.

Horny and mute.

No one stalked like Marci Churchill, with that particular enticing gait.

“Marci,” he warned, and he really, really meant it.

“Is it a miniature Mediterranean, a standard, large standard, or—”

“I have no friggin' idea. There really are different types?” He shook his head. “Who cares?” She drew nearer, and he felt himself sinking deep. “The important thing is that the donkey is missing.”

“Donkeys aren't really stubborn, you know. They're just more laid-back and self-preserving in nature than many animals.”

Self-preserving? Why did she always say the most peculiar things? “What does that mean?”

Her gaze drifted over his body, from his booted feet to his drawn eyebrows. “They prefer to do what is good for the donkey, which isn't always what the human thinks is best, especially when it comes to getting wet feet.”

Aha. Eyes narrowing, Ozzie asked, “Wet, as in standing in snow?” Is that why she stole the donkey? She thought it wanted dry feet? Er, hooves. Whatever.

With a shrug, Marci touched his chest. “Stay awhile. Get comfortable.” And with that, she began unbuttoning his coat.

Ozzie was so rigid with excitement that she'd undone the last button before he thought to move. But if she got the coat off him, she'd see he had a lethal hard-on and then she'd take advantage of his weakened state.

Survival instincts kicking in, Ozzie caught her hands. But rather than remove them, he just held them still. Near his belt.

Oh, God.

Her voice lowered and she stared at his sternum. “Donkeys are friendly, Osbourne, did you know that?”

He shook his head. Hell, at the moment, he didn't even know his own name.

“They're excellent with children, too. And they make wonderful guard animals.”

A guard donkey? The absurdity of that cut through the lust and he almost laughed. “You're making that up.”

She smiled and pulled her hands free to slip inside his coat. His breath caught. Okay, so he still wore a flannel shirt and a T-shirt, but he wished he didn't. He wished her hot little hands were on his bare skin.

“The right donkey will take care of an entire herd of cattle, sheep, or goats.” Her fingers spread out, and she pushed the coat off his shoulders. “Their natural aversion to predators inspires them to severely discourage any canine attacks on the herd. Dogs and donkeys don't mix well, but a donkey can be trained to leave the house dog or farm dog alone.”

Her hands were small and soft, and warm, and like any red-blooded male, he knew when to give up graciously. “Marci?”

“Hmmm?” She started on the buttons of his shirt.

He lowered his head and inhaled the sweetness of her silky hair. “I don't think I care about the damned donkey anymore.”

“Do you care about me?”

Shit. What kind of tricky question was that? Somehow, he knew no matter what he said, she'd take it the wrong way and he'd end up—

“I didn't ask you an algebra problem, Osbourne. You don't need to do equations in your head. Just tell me, yes or no.”

He locked his jaw, and almost got lost in her beautiful eyes. “If I say no, are you going to make me leave?”

She looked at his mouth, and her gaze warmed. “Do you want to stay?”

Damn it, he hated getting a question answered with another question. “I want what I've always wanted.”

“Sex?” She moved closer, until her breasts brushed his chest, her thighs nudged his.

“Yeah.” Hell yeah. Hot, sweaty, no-holds-barred sex. Naked, gritty sex. Wet, slippery, prolonged—

“Me, too.”

Ozzie almost swallowed his tongue. He forgot the donkey. He also forgot Lucius's instructions to merely watch over Marci,
not
enjoy her. He forgot her featherbrained relationships with animals and her propensity to make him nuts.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he had her backed up to a wall, his mouth sealed over hers, his tongue past her teeth, tasting her deeply. And he didn't want to stop this time, not until he was in her, not until she wrung him out, not until she screamed out a mind-blowing climax.

Maybe not…ever.

 

Marci clutched at him. Finally, finally he wanted her again. She'd never met a man who both infuriated her and made her frenzied with need. But Osbourne Decker did just that.

Why him? she wondered, even as she struggled to get closer to him, as close as two people could be. She sucked his tongue deeper into her mouth and lifted one leg up to wrap around his hip.

He ridiculed her psychic ability with animals.

He made his desire for an emotion-free, no-ties relationship clear.

He epitomized everything she disdained in a man: pigheadedness, macho control, an overflow of confidence.

But he looked at her, and her stomach did flip-flops. He touched her and flash fires burned everywhere. He kissed her, and she wanted to be the most flagrant hoochie imaginable.

Before Osbourne, she'd been circumspect and withdrawn, and maybe even inhibited. But with him, she wanted everything, including wild, unrestrained sex.

Bracing one hand on the wall beside her head, Osbourne levered away enough to reach the front of her robe. His mouth continued to devour hers, and Marci loved every second of it—the musky taste of him, the rasp of his beard shadow on her face, the heat and strength of his big body against hers.

If Osbourne wanted her naked, fine. Then maybe he'd get naked, too, and she could finally satisfy her hunger to touch and taste him everywhere.

But he didn't reach for her belt. Instead, his rough hand clasped the leg she had twined around his hip. His fingers slid around her bare knee, then up her thigh, and onto her bottom. He froze.

“Holy Mother of God,” he breathed. “You're naked under there.”

Never had a man sounded so profoundly grateful. Smiling, Marci nodded. “Yes, I am. I told you I'd just gotten out of the shower.”

“Bless your heart.” And then he was eating at her mouth again while his hand explored, touching every inch of her backside, squeezing, cuddling, before coming around to her belly.

Muscles bulged on his body, making him seem even bigger, stronger. His hot breath fanned her face. His teeth and tongue played with her, feeding her hunger, and further inciting it at the same time.

So many sensations overwhelmed her at once that she stalled.

“Osbourne?” She could barely breathe and her limbs were starting to tremble. His fingers angled downward on the sensitive skin of her belly.

He all but panted. “Yeah?”

“It's too much too fast.”

Breathing hard, his fingertips just touching her pubic hair, he considered that. Slowly and deeply, he inhaled, then carefully withdrew his hand. He cupped her chin and turned her face up.

She thought he had the most incredible eyes. Blue like hers, but darker, a midnight blue. His black lashes were thick and, on a lesser man, they would have seemed girlish. But with blatant lust showing in his gaze, Osbourne looked all male.

And at the same time, very tender.

After a gentle kiss to her lips, he slowly licked his way to her throat. Lazily, he sucked at her skin there, maybe marking her, but who cared? Marci didn't.

She turned her head to make it easier for him. His mouth was so hot, his tongue so silky, and being this close to him let her familiarize herself again with his delicious scent. Osbourne always smelled so good. Not like cologne but like a man, earthy and a little warm and raw.

As he continued to kiss her, he nudged aside the neckline of her robe.

Against her skin, he growled low, “Better?”

“Yes.” Her heartbeat thundered. “Please.” And Marci herself tugged the robe open so he could get to her breasts. She shuddered, waiting impatiently.

He seemed content to look at her.

“Osbourne?”

He never wavered from his perusal of her breasts, his dark blue eyes burning and bright. “I feel like a kid in a candy store.” He bent his bracing arm to bring himself closer to her. So close that she could feel his breath on her nipple when he whispered again, “Beautiful.”

Twining her fingers in his silky hair, Marci tried to urge him forward. But he was a muscled lug, especially thick through the shoulders and chest, and he didn't budge an inch.

He said, “Shhh,” and cupped her breast in his palm. With the side of his thumb, he taunted her nipple, gently rolling over it, around it.

Months ago, they'd gone out and indulged in fevered petting, yet never consummated their attraction. But since then she had not even been kissed by another man. She couldn't take it. She needed him, now. “Enough.”

In reply, he closed his thumb and finger around her, holding her gently, tugging, applying just the right amount of pressure.

Marci knotted her hands in his hair and forced him to her while arching her back. With a rough laugh, Osbourne obliged, and his mouth closed around her.

Heaven.

He began a wet, hot sucking, and she melted.

The sensation was so acute, so wonderful, she squeezed her eyes shut and couldn't stop moaning.

After treating her other breast to the same teasing torment, he whispered, “Now?” and she again felt his hand under her robe, resting lightly on her belly.