Heating up the Holidays

She pulled open a drawer, revealing a brush, a tube of mascara and a bottle of body lotion. “Here.”

“That’s it?”

“No.” She pulled open her other drawer, which held an unopened box of tampons and an opened box of condoms.

He stared at the condoms and thought down boy. Telling himself it didn’t matter how many condoms were missing, he cranked on the hot water and turned to her.

She was looking at him curiously. “You’re doing it again.”

“What, breathing?”

“Being assertive.”

“Yeah? How’s this for assertive. Strip.”

She stopped in midyawn and raised a brow.

“Strip,” he repeated. “Shower. And then if you’re a good little girl, I’ll tuck you in before I leave.”

Now those eyes narrowed. “So you’re being all sexy for what, just to tease me? Get out.”

“Sure. As soon as I take care of you, since you’re too stubborn to do it yourself.”

“Seriously, what the hell is your problem this morning?”

The box of condoms was open, that was his problem. “Take your damn shower.”

“Fine.” She pulled off her shirt.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. “Jesus, Cristina.”

“Hey, I’m just following directions.” She shoved down her sweats, revealing a miniscule black thong. Then that was gone, too, and with a smug look on her face, she stepped into the shower and shut the curtain in his face.

He let out a slow, long breath. “Good. I’ll just…” stand here as hard as a rock “… leave you to it.”

“Oh, no. You promised to tuck me in.” She stuck her head around the curtain and eyed him, her hair stuck to her head, framing her face, which was pale with dark circles beneath her eyes. Still, she batted them for all she was worth.

Spinning on his heels, he forced himself to leave the bathroom rather than strip down and join her. In the kitchen, he put water on to boil and searched the cupboards, which were pretty bare, but he found some tea bags.

He heard the shower go off while he was waiting for the tea to get good and dark, the way she liked. Then he drew a deep breath and headed back down the hall, reminding himself that he was only going to give her the tea, tuck her in and walk away.

No matter how freaking fantastic she looked naked, and no matter how much he wanted her.

No matter what.

CRISTINA STOOD beneath her shower and let the hot water pound at her sore muscles. She’d held up pretty well in front of Dustin, but she felt a telltale tightness in her chest, and the burning in her throat told her she was an inch from losing it.

If Dustin had stuck around for another minute he might have caught on, but this was a pity party for one only. Work had been tough over the past few days, but that wasn’t what had gotten to her.

It was Christmas.

She hated the third-wheel feeling, hated how it made her feel like a stupid, unwanted kid all over again. She put her face right into the water and told herself that the prickle behind her eyes was simply from the spray, nothing else, but only when she ran out of hot water did she step out of the shower, grab a towel and go into her bedroom. She planned to pull on a big T-shirt and a pair of boxers and get into bed for at least eight straight hours.

But then Dustin walked into her bedroom, holding a mug of tea that smelled so good she nearly jumped him for it.

He handed over the mug but stayed in the doorway, carefully not looking at her bed, which meant he got a good look at her face, far too close a look for her own comfort.

“What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.

Was there anything worse than someone asking that question when you were so close to losing it you could taste the tears? “Other than you won’t do me? Nothing.”

Stepping closer, he snagged her arm, reeling her in, staring into her eyes for a long moment.

“Let go of me.”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She felt her belly hitch for no stupid reason at all, except he wasn’t being his usual laid-back, easygoing self today, but a new aggressive and assertive Dustin, and combined with the frustration simmering in his voice, it all equaled too much sexy for her. “I’m just tired.”

His thumb glided over her jaw, his fingers slipping into the wet hair at the nape of her neck. “Cristina.”

God, the way he said her name, as if she mattered a whole great big bunch. “Look,” she managed in a bored voice. “If you’re not going to get naked, then get the hell out. I said I’m tired.”

He sighed, then lifted his hands with a quick shake of his head. “Fine.” And then, just as she’d wanted, he turned away.

Good.

Perfect.

She could feel those unwanted tears stick in her throat so she ruthlessly held her breath. But he walked so damn slowly! By the time he got to the doorway, she had to suck in air or suffocate.

He whirled around. “What was that?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” I’m fine. Look at me being fine…

But then he took a good look at her face and said her name softly, and she shocked the hell out of both of them by covering her face.

“Ah, Cristina.”

“Go,” she managed in a perfectly even, perfectly pissed-off voice.

But his footsteps came closer instead of heading out the door. And the next thing she knew, he’d tugged her hands from her face and looked her right in the eyes. “You’re not okay.”

“Why the hell won’t you just go?” she asked, baffled. “You want to, you know you do.”

Grimly, he began to pull her in, though she resisted. The mild-mannered Dustin would have backed off, but he wasn’t his usual mild-mannered self at all.

She could have fought him and won, but her fight had left her, gone south for the winter. Instead she sagged into him and pressed her face to his throat.

4

DUSTIN HAD no idea what was going through Cristina’s mind as she stood there in his arms. He couldn’t possibly guess, but he did know he wasn’t going anywhere until he found out. He had a reputation for being quiet and easygoing, but being with this woman made him the opposite. Only she could do this to him, make him feel so revved up. “Talk to me.”

She made a sound, a low, breathy sound that, if it had been any other woman, he’d have said was crying.

But this was Cristina. Kick-ass, rebel-queen Cristina, who never cried. She’d once proudly told him she hadn’t cried since second grade, when one of her mother’s boyfriend’s dogs had eaten her one doll, and she’d only lost it because the dog had choked and died. “Cristina.”

“Bite me.”

He would, gladly. That was the problem. “Spill.”

She muttered a long string of various four-letter words at that, and if she hadn’t been so serious about it, he’d have smiled.

But then a soft sound escaped her, and he knew she wasn’t anywhere close to smiling, and it tore a hole in his