Christmas in His Bed

He didn’t. His face was hard, driven, as he set a deep and frantic rhythm. His barely restrained hunger made her tremble. Her nails dug into his hips, mindless in her need. When he caught her lower lip with his teeth, she came apart. Hard. Fast. Out of control. It was oh so good. “Spencer,” she gasped, shuddering at the aftershocks that rippled through her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She relished the rough groan that tore from his throat as he stiffened.

Seconds later she was lying on her bed, gasping, with Spencer at her side. Her mind was spinning, returning to her preorgasmic state of equal parts panic, frustration...and love. She closed her eyes, draping her arm across her forehead.

She understood why he’d done what he did. Their connection wasn’t just physical. He had known her better than anyone else, had known she was hurting, and did what he had to, to stop it. She would have done the same.

She loved him. So much it scared her.

If she was smart, she’d keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want to be hurt anymore. Heartfelt confessions and desire-fueled promises were all fine and good now, when they were still wrapped in discovery and lust. But there was no way this was real. That this could last. It was too...big.

No matter what Lucy believed, he’d never said he loved her, not in so many words. And while she was willing to accept what he’d done was because he’d once loved her—that didn’t mean he still did. No, better to keep things as they were. It would hurt less this way.

She glanced at him and smiled.

He was sound asleep, snoring ever so softly. And he was gorgeous. This man was the boy she’d loved completely. He’d been lean and awkward the

n, but he’d loved her with a confidence that told her it was right. And she’d been too young to know better. With him, she’d never doubted herself or felt alone.

Until she did.

She studied his profile, the line of his brow, the angle of his jaw, thick brows and full lips. She ran a finger along his forehead, smoothing his hair back. He sighed, turning into her in his sleep.

Dammit.

If Lucy wasn’t due back soon, she’d have no problem staying as she was. But Lucy was coming back, so pants were required. She felt Spencer’s hand twitch and looked down. His hand held hers.

* * *

HE WOKE TO Christmas carols, laughter and singing.

It took a minute to orient himself. He was in Tatum’s bed, alone, covered in blankets.

A shout of laughter made him grin. Tatum and Lucy, from the sounds of it.

He kicked back the blankets, ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock. It was almost 6:00 p.m. He had an hour before he needed to be at the station. He turned on the bedside lamp and stretched. It had been a long time since he’d slept a solid five hours without waking. It made sense that he’d done it in Tatum’s bed. It was the one place he could truly relax.

He glanced around the room, taking in the changes. The pom-pom and trophies were gone. The walls were bare. Even the curtains had been pulled down. He remembered the boxes on the front porch, the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. Was she really packing up? She hadn’t answered him. And it gnawed at his gut. He rubbed his hands over his face and rolled his neck. What would he do if she left?

More important, how did he convince her to stay?

He caught sight of the romance novel on her bedside table and picked it up. He shook his head at the cover and flipped it over to read the back. Something slipped from the pages and fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up. A picture.

He stared at the picture, his heart thumping. A picture of them. They were on a field trip somewhere. One of the journalist students had snapped the picture and given a copy to each of them.

In a room intentionally stripped of all sentimentality, why was this picture out? This was something she’d held on to. Hope crashed into him. And happiness. He tucked the picture beneath the book and stood, heading into the kitchen.

Lucy and Tatum were in pajamas, sliding around the kitchen floor in fuzzy socks. Tatum’s kitten-covered pink thermal pajamas and pigtails had him shaking his head. She looked gorgeous, swinging a large wooden spoon around as she belted out Mariah Carey Christmas carols at the top of her lungs.

Lucy joined in, adding sprinkles to some of the stacks and stacks of cookies that covered the kitchen countertops. Among the tubes of icing and bottles of sprinkles, a gigantic gingerbread house was being built.

He leaned against the door, smiling. When they finished their performance, he clapped.

They both jumped.

Lucy burst out laughing. “Good to see you’re alive and well. I was beginning to worry Tatum might have killed you.”

Tatum glanced at him, cocking an eyebrow but not saying a word. Instead, the tip of her tongue licked a dollop of pink frosting from her spoon.