Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [66]
Especially for him.
The lingering scent of chili—turkey chili, he’d informed her—mingled with the smell of burning wood. Their Thanksgiving dinner had been less than traditional, and she loved him for it. Most of the hours together had been spent right here, in his massive bed, his dog, a husky named Nikita, curled on the floor near the door. Outside the windows, snow fell softly, and for a few peaceful hours it was as if they were totally alone in the world.
Santana, too, was naked, his skin tanned against the white sheets, his black hair mussed and falling over his forehead, his eyes still dark with passion, and she found him incredibly sexy. Still. After over a year of being together.
The bastard had the audacity to grin, his teeth a slash of white in the shadowy room. “And I have the feeling we’ll go over it again and again and again before you can face the fact that you need me.”
“Need you?”
“Yep. That’s what it is. Deal with it.”
“I don’t need—”
“Anyone,” he finished for her. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard it enough.”
“So why are you pressuring me?” He’d asked her to move in with him. Again. A year ago, while she’d been recovering from the mental and physical wounds from dealing with a madman, she’d agreed that living together would be a good idea. It had sounded safe. Smart. Been so tempting. But now ...
“Come on, Regan. Would it be so bad?” He was reaching up, his warm, calloused hands scaling her ribs. Her skin tingled where he touched her, her blood warming. “We could have a lot of fun.” He raised himself upward and touched the tip of one of her nipples with his tongue. His breath was warm against her wet skin. “Think about it. Making love every day, late at night, and in the morning . . .”
She felt that familiar yearning deep within. As if he sensed her response, he reached lower and fanned his fingers between her legs, fingertips skimming the most sensitive of areas. “Think about it,” he whispered against her breast.
“You know, cowboy, you can be a real bastard when you want to be.”
“Years of practice.” Again with the tongue. A quick little flick that caused her insides to melt.
Her damned nipple tightened and she moaned.
She wanted him. Damn, but she wanted him. It was as if she couldn’t get enough of the man.
As if he could read her mind, Santana laughed, white teeth a slash of irreverent mirth.
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” Quick as a cat, he rolled atop her, pinning her to the mattress, his eyes gleaming a dark, intense fire. “We’ve talked about moving in together for a long time now.”
“I know, but I still have kids at home—”
“Who could use a strong father figure.”
“Oh . . . ,” she said, but just his weight, pressing against her in all the right places, was making it difficult to think straight. What the hell was wrong with her? All of a sudden, when she was pushing forty, she was as randy as a teenager. At least she was with damned Santana, and the worst thing was, the son of a bitch knew it!
“We have a good thing going just as it is,” she said.
“But it might be better.”
“Or worse,” she argued.
“Come on, Regan, take a chance.” His eyes were dark with the night. He captured her mouth with his, kissed her hard, then nipped at her lower lip.
“If you think you can convince me by . . . oooh.” His hand was between her legs again, and she couldn’t help but arch upward, her blood racing, her heart beating a wild tattoo. Her fingers curled in the sheets, and finally, she let go, closed her eyes, and groaned as he entered her, feeling that familiar, yet exciting flush that started in the small of her back and worked its way upward as he moved, his breathing suddenly out of control, his skin dewy with sweat.
Would it be so bad to think of the future?
To spend the rest of her life with him?
Right now, she couldn’t think about it, didn’t want to try. For the moment, she would just let the night bring what it may.
Kacey glanced out the broad back windows of Rolling