Mistletoe & Margaritas

Chapter Four

Claire sipped at her cranberry margarita-a lovely and potent holiday concoction of tequila, orange-flavored liqueur, and cranberry and lime juices-and watched Justin over the rim of her glass. She wasn’t sober anymore, but she wasn’t drunk, either. She’d hit that sweet spot of inebriation where she could check out the man’s ass and not feel weird about it.

And what an ass it was. Every woman in the room had checked it out, even the ones who’d had to be sneaky about it because they hadn’t come to the party alone.

Claire hadn’t come alone. And she wouldn’t be going home alone, either. The hot ass in the tight jeans would be leaving with her, since Justin intended to crash on her couch, as he always had in the past.

Warm and flushed and basking in a mild alcoholic glow, she watched Justin laugh at something one of the other guys said and thought about how, a few hours from then, he’d be stretched out on her sofa in his sweatpants and the Bruins T-shirt that always rode up in his sleep and exposed his abs. And then, because her hormones and the margaritas had lit a fire in her belly, she thought about him stretched out on her bed, minus the sweats and T-shirt.

He turned at that exact moment and caught her staring. Or devouring him with her eyes, as the case may be. Judging by the way his eyebrows rose and a soft flush of pink crept up his neck, whatever look she was giving him wasn’t one he’d seen her give him before.

Without breaking eye contact, he took a long swig of beer and she realized he was giving her a look she hadn’t seen from him before, either. Hot. Hungry. The kind of look a man gave a woman when he was considering his chances of getting naked with her and hoping they were good.

She gave him the wrap-it-up signal and he smiled at her over his bottle. He extricated himself from the conversation and then pulled out his phone to call for a cab. And as he made his way over to her while saying a goodbye here and there, she tried not to think about the fact they were going home together. Which they’d done before, of course. Quite often. But not after exchanging sizzling glances over the tops of their drinks.

He did most of the talking on the ride home, telling her a funny story about a drywaller accidentally closing a homeowner’s Chihuahua up in the wall, but she was barely listening. And when they got home, she unlocked her door and picked up Moxie to get her welcome-home love in a daze. Not an alcoholic daze, but a daze caused by the now undeniable fact she really, really wanted to have sex. With Justin.

When Moxie squirmed in her arms, Claire set her down and found herself with nothing to do but stand in the middle of the living room and look at Justin. Who was looking right back at her.

He shook his head, even though she hadn’t said anything out loud. “You should go to bed.”

Oh, she intended to. The question was whether or not she was going alone. Sleep wasn’t going to happen. Not with dreamed images of his hands on her filling her head while her body trembled for his touch. She wanted to feel him against her. Not fleeting nocturnal imaginings, but hot and hard and real.

“Jesus, Claire, stop looking at me like that,” he said in a low, rough voice she wanted saying naughty things against her ear.

“I’m a little bit drunk.”

“So am I, which is why you need to stop looking at me like that and go to bed.”

“Or…” She paused to catch her bottom lip between her teeth, which was a nervous habit rather than intentionally sexy, but she saw his jaw tighten.

“There’s no or. Go sleep it off.”

“But you’re standing under the mistletoe.” Kind of. Close enough, anyway.

“You told me it was just a fun decoration. Go. To. Bed.”

She didn’t think-just acted. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed her mouth to Justin’s.

His body stiffened and his lips were unyielding against hers. The butterflies of delicious anticipation turned to stone, dropping like lead weights in her stomach as she realized what she’d done.

She pulled away, turning so she didn’t have to look at his face, while desperately scrambling for words to fix what she’d done-words that could salvage the most important relationship in her life.

Then Justin swore viciously under his breath and she gasped as he spun her back to face him. Before she could even read his expression, he slid his hand behind her neck and hauled her against his body.

His kiss was hard and punishing and she surrendered to it completely. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he moaned quietly against her mouth and she knew she wouldn’t be going to bed alone. But then, just as suddenly, he ended the kiss and tried to take a step back.

“God, Claire. Go to bed before we do something you’ll regret in the morning.”

Instead she moved closer and pressed her palms to his stomach because she didn’t miss the fact he didn’t think he’d regret it in the morning. His abs tightened as he sucked in a breath and she slid her hands to his hips. When he did nothing but stand there frozen with his hands fisted at his sides, she gathered up the bottom of his shirt until she could get her fingers under it. She wanted skin.

“Claire.” She ignored him, busy as she was exploring the hard expanse of his chest, but he grabbed her wrists through the fabric. “Claire, listen to me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Because you know what I’m going to say.”

He might have her wrists, but she could still slide her fingertips over his skin. “Are you going to say you’re not attracted to me?”

“Uh…no.” His heart was thumping under her fingers and his quickened pulse made her brave.

“Are you going to say you don’t want to make love to me?”

“I do want to make love to you, but-”

She kissed him again before he could finish the thought. He’d already said everything she needed to hear. It was a few long, seemingly endless seconds before his lips parted under hers and he gave in to the kiss.

They managed to make it to her bedroom before the clothes came off, but it wasn’t quick enough for Claire. It had been such a long time and she wanted him and seeing him strip off his boxer briefs as she unhooked her bra just made it so much worse.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said as he picked Moxie up off the bed and set her on the floor. She gave him a disdainful mewl before walking out of the room with her tail held high.

Claire was going to close the door to make sure she didn’t come back, but Justin took her hand to pull her onto the bed and she forgot all about the cat.

He took his sweet time getting down to business, stroking every part of her that ached to be stroked and stopping a lot to kiss her as if she was the oxygen he needed to breathe and he was starving for air.

She’d probably seen him shirtless a hundred times, climbing a ladder with a bundle of roofing shingles over his shoulder, but looking was nowhere near as good as touching and she touched him a lot. His muscles were hard under her fingertips and his skin was warm and…God, how she’d missed this.

“I hope you’re ready, Claire, because you are so hot and I’ve been watching you all night and I can’t not do this now.”

She smiled at the desperation in his eyes and lifted her head to kiss him, nipping at his lower lip before she let him go. “I am so ready.”

She heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper as he sat back on his heels and she closed her eyes, stretching like a cat on a sunny windowsill. She hadn’t felt so good in…a long time, and she savored the loose, languid feeling in her muscles. She could get used to this again.

Justin’s mouth closing over her nipple made her jump and she opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her. She ran her heels up over his calves, letting him settle between her thighs. She gasped as he slowly filled her, lifting her hips as he pressed deep.

She ran her hands over his shoulders and back, feeling the fine sheen of sweat coating his muscles. “Justin…”

“God, you feel amazing.”

She wanted to say more-something about how he felt pretty damn amazing, too-but he was quickening his pace and she couldn’t breathe and it was all she could do not to scream his name.

The orgasm hit her and maybe she did scream then. She didn’t know. Didn’t care. All she knew was that her body was screaming yes yes yes like Meg Ryan in that movie and she didn’t want it to stop.

When it did stop, Justin collapsed on top of her and panted against her neck, she sucked in a deep breath and held it for a long second before letting it back out. Oh, yes, she’d wanted that. Needed that.

And once he made a quick trip to the bathroom and returned to wrap himself around her-after fighting Moxie for the pillow once she deemed it safe to enter the bedroom again-she drifted off to sleep with a silly smile on her face.

Justin opened his eyes just long enough to register where he was and focus on the empty pillow beside him, and then closed them again. Shit. He was in Claire’s bed.

Brendan’s bed.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, even as memories of the night before played through his mind like an X-rated slideshow. It had been nothing short of amazing and he wanted to do it again. As soon as possible. Now would be good, though from the mouthwatering aromas drifting into the bedroom, she was already up and working on breakfast.

After rolling onto his back, he stretched his arms up over his head and opened his eyes again. He’d been in her bedroom before and remembering that made him realize he hadn’t technically spent the night in Brendan’s bed. A few months after the accident, Claire had gotten rid of their queen-sized bed and replaced it with a double. When he’d shown up to help her set it up, she’d explained she wanted the extra space in the room. To his eye, the difference wasn’t worth the effort and he suspected she’d been hit by a need to be rid of the bed they’d shared.

He jerked sideways and almost fell off the bed when something furry brushed his armpit. “Jesus, Moxie! Meow or something before you do that.”

The cat headbutted him in the chin a few times before jumping off the bed. When she squeezed through the slightly open door, it opened wider and let in the mouthwatering aroma of a good, old-fashioned breakfast. With bacon.

As good as it smelled, he hoped it wasn’t ready to go on the table yet because he needed a few more minutes before he could face what they’d done. What he’d done.

“Ten minutes,” she yelled from the kitchen.

He didn’t have to wonder how she knew he was up. If there was a sleeping human to be found, her cat wouldn’t be budged from his or her side. As soon as Moxie left the bedroom, she knew he was awake.

Thankfully, he managed to slip from the bedroom into the bathroom without having to make eye contact, since she was busy at the stove. He shaved and showered, pulling a set of clean clothes from “his” shelf in her linen closet. He crashed on her couch often enough so it make sense for him to keep some stuff there, but it was a one-bedroom and they couldn’t very well share a dresser drawer. That would be weird.

Like sleeping together.

He put off facing the music as long as he could, even taking an exceptionally long time brushing his teeth, but when she banged on the door and told him breakfast was on the table, he finished up and took a deep breath before opening the door.

She didn’t look any different. The hair he’d buried his face in only hours before was piled on top of her head in a messy knot. She’d thrown on a T-shirt and sweatpants, along with the clunky, sheepskin-lined slippers he’d bought her for Christmas last year. The garage under her apartment wasn’t heated, so the floor tended to be cold. As she set two mugs of coffee on the table, he watched her and, no, she didn’t look any different than the last time she’d done it.

But everything was different because now he knew. He knew what it felt like to hold her. He knew what her body felt like under his and what her long legs felt like wrapped around his hips. And he didn’t know if he’d ever get to feel it again.

And he already wanted to.

Since she already had everything on the table, he took his seat and dug in. They’d burned more than a few calories before falling asleep. But, hungry as he was, he wasn’t so intent on his breakfast he missed the fact she was avoiding eye contact. In his experience, when a woman you’d spent the night with wouldn’t look you in the eye, she either had a bellyful of regret or you sucked in the sack. Or so he’d heard.

“I guess I should thank you.”

He paused with a forkful of home fries halfway to his mouth. That was an odd thing to say. “Thank me for what?”

“You know…for last night.”

“Then I have to thank you, too, because it was mutually amazing. I think. I…hope.” Before he’d been sure it had been just as good for her as it had been for him, but now he was sitting across from a woman who didn’t look like she’d had her socks knocked off between the sheets.

“It was!” She said it a little too quickly for his taste. “It was definitely amazing. And that’s why I said thank you.”

“Okay. You’re welcome, I guess.” He couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something in this conversation.

“It meant a lot to me to…test the waters, so to speak, with a guy I trust so much.” She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “You’re a good friend.”

Oh, hell no. He was…what? A test drive to make sure all her parts were in working order before she went on a real date? “Tell me you didn’t just say that.”

“You are a good friend.” She looked confused. “You’re my best friend.”

“If you want a buddy, get a golden retriever,” he muttered, and then he shoved the home fries into his mouth to shut himself up.

Claire dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “I knew it. This is why friends shouldn’t have sex. Now it’s going to be weird.”

“No, you thanking me like I gave you a tire and lube job so you can go on a road trip is making it weird.” As he watched her expression change to one of restrained amusement, he replayed his words in his mind and groaned. “You know what I mean.”

“Lube job isn’t the sexiest euphemism I’ve ever heard,” she said, her voice heavy with suppressed laughter. “But you did give me one helluva tune-up.”

He laughed and then shook his head. “Wise ass.”

With amusement written all over her face, Claire dug into her breakfast, so he followed suit. But, as the food slowly disappeared, the tension grew thick again.

Pretty soon it would be time for him to go and he had no idea where they stood. Was she even expecting him to go or was he supposed to spend the day with her? And, if he went, did he kiss her goodbye?

The only thing he knew for sure was that he’d made one hell of a mess of things.

He was swallowing the last bite of his veggie omelet when she said softly, “Did I wreck everything? Is it going to stay weird now?”

“You didn’t wreck anything.” Except maybe him, since there was something that sounded a lot like regret in her voice.

“I haven’t been with anybody since Brendan.” She wouldn’t look at him, concentrating instead on moving a mushroom around her plate. “I just wanted to…I just…I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“Hey, that happened to be my favorite position.”

She rewarded him with a laugh, but it was a quick one and then she grew serious again. “I mean it. You were Brendan’s best friend. You’re my best friend. It was wrong of me to throw myself at you because I was a little lonely at night. Your friendship means everything to me and I just hope I didn’t screw it up.”

He forced himself to look her straight in the eye. “Our friendship means more to me than anything, Claire. You know that. And I shouldn’t have let it happen. You were my buddy’s girl and that makes you off-limits. It won’t ever happen again.”

“Let’s chalk it up to too much to drink.” She was full of crap and they both knew it. He’d seen her drunk before and she was nowhere near plastered last night. And neither was he. “Forget it ever happened.”

Forget what was seared into his very soul? Not freakin’ likely. He suspected when he was ninety years old and couldn’t remember where he’d left his teeth, he’d still remember the jolt of her blue eyes looking into his and the whisper of his name on her lips as he moved inside her. “Forget what ever happened?”

She grinned and the world felt mostly okay again.

By the time they’d cleaned up the breakfast dishes and put everything away, the awkwardness between them was almost gone. She went on and on about Christmas and shopping and what she wanted to buy for Nicole now that she was old enough to really get a kick out of the holiday. He said the right words in the appropriate places, but his mind refused to concentrate on the mostly one-sided conversation.

He’d managed to royally put the screws to himself this time, and there was no way out of it.

If he walked away from her, she’d not only be hurt, but she’d probably blame herself for not going to bed-alone-when he told her to. He couldn’t bring himself to do that to her. But if wanting her and not being able to have her was hard before, now it was going to be downright torture. Now he’d know without a doubt what he’d be missing.

He’d deal with it, though, for Claire’s sake. Even if it killed him.