Dashing Through the Snow Page 4

  “Touché, indeed.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dash

  She’s got my interest. She had it the second I walked through the door, and now she’s just digging in deeper.

  I turn to watch her as Dilyn walks back into the room. She excused herself to the bathroom to set out a few of her things. She’s getting comfortable, and for some reason, I really, really like that.

  As she walks toward me, her breasts bounce deliciously under the thin material of her sweater. I follow her with my eyes as she passes on her way to the bar. My gaze drops to her perfectly tight, round ass as she goes.

  “So, what are we eating?” she asks after she kicks off her boots and slides onto a bar stool, turning those bedroom eyes my way. I can see laughter dancing around the corners of her kissable mouth.

  Jesus! What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to something like this? No sex? Not even if she begs?

  I swallow a groan.

  When I asked her to stay, it was with every intention of spending the bigger part of the night buried inside that delectable body of hers. But somehow, and I still don’t know exactly how she managed it, my goal morphed into just wanting her to stay. In whatever capacity.

  I want more of her. Just her. Even if there’s no sex, which is admittedly unusual for me. I just want more Dilyn.

  I’ve never met a woman who has piqued my curiosity as much as she has my libido, yet right this second, sitting a few feet away, watching me as though she wants to gobble me up, is one who has done precisely that.

  And I promised her I wouldn’t have sex with her. Christ Almighty, do I have my work cut out for me.

  I push up my sleeves, walking around the other side of the island to the refrigerator to pull it open. “Well, as I said before, we have filet mignon. We have lobster. We have caviar, if that’s your thing,” I add with a glance over my shoulder. Her nose is wrinkled in distaste. I curl my lip in response. “Yeah, mine either.”

  I turn back to the food.

  “Then why is it here? I assumed they stocked this place for you.”

  “Uh, they did.” I don’t face her.

  “But, obviously, you don’t like caviar.”

  “No.” I don’t elaborate.

  After a few seconds, she mumbles, “Ahhhh. You were expecting company.” When I don’t answer, she continues. “And she likes caviar.”

  “There’s also fresh asparagus, stuff for a salad, Belgian chocolate tarts and—”

  “Oh, come on. I’m not insulted. No reason to hide it. I just hope she doesn’t mind that I’m here when she arrives.”

  I finally turn toward her. “She won’t be arriving.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I texted her while you were in the bathroom and told her not to.”

  I hope she doesn’t pick up on the fact that I have a satellite phone. If she tried hard enough, she could find someone to come get her, even in this weather.

  But I don’t want her to go.

  I’m nowhere near ready for her to go.

  She doesn’t frown. She doesn’t smile. She simply watches me steadily. “Why did you do that?”

  I don’t tell her that Bridgette is a groupie. A beautiful groupie, but one who means nothing. We both know it. I’ve never made any bones about it. She’s around when I need something…hot. Nothing more. Hell, she doesn’t even know where I live. But she’s okay with that. She just likes the rush of having sex with a star.

  “Because it’s not her I want to spend time with now.”

  Although she makes no comment right away, her cheeks flush with color. That pleases her whether she’s willing to admit it or not.

  “I’m sorry you did that.”

  “Are you really?”

  The pink deepens. “No. Not at all.”

  “Good. Neither am I.”

  We stare at each other for a few seconds, until her blush brightens again and she looks away.

  “Okay, so does any of that sound good?”

  “All of it sounds wonderful,” she replies enthusiastically, smiling up at me. “I’m not picky. I like most food. I love to eat.”

  “You do?”

  She nods several times.

  “The perfect woman.” I take out the steaks, the asparagus and the salad fixings, and lay it all out on the counter. “How are you at cutting vegetables?”

  “Excellent! It’s my only culinary contribution. I’m a terrible cook.”

  “Then we’ll make a great pair, because I can whip up things that will make your mouth water before you take the first bite.”

  She raises one arched brow. “Oh, I just bet you can.” Her quick, light banter is belied by the nervous laugh that follows

  I smile.

  I love that I throw her off balance. I love that she’s just as attracted to me as I am to her and she doesn’t quite know what to do about it.

  I could help her with that, of course. If I weren’t the dumbass who agreed to not have sex with her.

  But then it hits me. I’m a man who believes in the beauty of semantics, especially when they work in my favor. And in this instance, they very much do. There are a whole lot of things that don’t necessarily qualify as sex, as actual intercourse.

  And she didn’t mention a word about any of those.

  “It’s settled then. You cut the vegetables for the salad. I’ll take care of the rest. And then…we eat.”

  I don’t mention dessert. Semantics. I have much more in mind than just chocolate.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dilyn

  Dash insisted that we eat in front of the fire. Something about the ambience and taking full advantage of being stuck in a luxury chalet in a snowstorm. Within a few minutes of sitting down on the polar bear rug and cutting the first bite of juicy steak, I was in complete agreement.

  Our conversation has been as easy as if we’d known each other for years before today. We’ve laughed and Dash has told funny anecdotes. His charming ways go far deeper than I originally thought. He’s not only gorgeous and sexy, but he’s intelligent and successful, and extremely well read.

  “That would be Mrs. Chatterley’s Lover. Shocked the masses long before Fifty Shades.”

  “I can’t believe you actually read Mrs. Chatterley’s Lover.”

  “Of course I did. What red-blooded teenaged nerd wouldn’t read a book that was originally banned for its sexually explicit content?”

  “You were a teenaged nerd?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. Still am in a lot of ways.”

  I take a moment to look at him, really look at him—at the broad shoulders and muscular chest, at the big hands and thick arms. He’s all physical fitness and smooth confidence. I find it hard to believe he’s ever been anything except muscular and sexy.

  “What did I tell you about looking at me that way?” he warns softly, pulling my eyes back up to his face. Those black orbs are trained on me and he’s sitting perfectly still. Watching. Waiting.

  “Sorry. Can’t seem to help myself,” I confess cheekily.

  “Oh sure, you can say that now, when you know there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  I smile widely. “I have to admit it does make me feel a little more daring.”

  “Greeeat,” he mutters sarcastically, but he winks to let me know he’s teasing.

  “So when did the big switch happen? When did the nerd become the thrill-seeking playboy?”

  “A few months after my brother died. My parents lost interest in anything except their own pain, so I looked for attention in other ways. Didn’t take me long to realize that I could escape a whole lot of shit when my adrenaline was high enough. Before long, my coping mechanism became an addiction. The rest is history.”

  I study him as he chews, his strong jaw flexing with each bite, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Then he takes a sip of his red wine, lips curving around the edge of the glass. Before long, I forget what we were talking about, content to just watch him eat.

  “
Tell me about you. I know your parents aren’t in your life, so who is?”

  His question brings me back to the conversation quite effectively.

  I look away, turning my attention to the remainder of my delicious meal. I poke the last bite of my steak with my fork, but don’t raise it to my mouth. “Friends. Coworkers. The usual.”

  “The usual, huh? No boyfriend?”

  “Not for a while.”

  “How long is a while?”

  I don’t respond right away. I take a moment to consider the wisdom of being completely truthful. But then I decide that I’ve come this far, might as well keep going. This night will be over soon and we’ll go our separate ways. There’s no harm in telling him the truth.

  “Two years. The last guy I dated seriously is now my boss.”

  “Oh shit.”

  I grin at that. “Nah. It’s not like that. We agreed to be friends for the sake of work. It’s what’s most important to both of us.”

  “More important than each other? Sounds like it wasn’t very serious to begin with then.”

  I shrug, buying some time with a sip of my wine, emptying my glass. Before I can say anything, Dash is refilling it.

  “I thought it was, but…”

  “Maybe you’re more like me than you think,” he observes quietly.

  I frown. “How so?” His lips twitch at my insulted tone, prompting me to add a chagrined, “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Sure you did. And it’s fine. Most people treat love like it’s common, easy to come by, when in fact, it’s not. Until I find something that matters more than my job, I’m just gonna keep living my life. Whether that’s what you intended to do or not, it’s what you’re actually doing, too.”

  I hear him out, processing his words and how they resonate with me. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  He nods, spearing his last bite of meat and sticking it in his mouth. He chews, swallows, and then levels a glance at me over the top of his wine glass. “Most people don’t.”

  “I-I’m sorry. It seems I’ve judged you unfairly.”

  “You aren’t the first.”

  I cast my eyes down again. “I guess I put all risk-takers in the same category as my father—people who choose the thrill over those they love. But I guess if the love isn’t there…there is no choice.”

  I’ve never considered that my dad hadn’t actually loved my mom and me. Not once in all these years.

  Warm fingers curl around mine and tug, forcing me to look up, up to eyes that seem to see right through me.

  “For some people, it’s not a choice. It’s a sickness. A sick need for something they lack. For those people, men like your father, it’s no reflection on how they feel about their loved ones; it’s simply a statement of how they feel about themselves.”

  I consider his reasoning. “I’m sure that’s true, too. But it felt an awful lot like a choice the night he left us.”

  A pause. “I’m sorry he hurt you. That he’s still hurting you.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  Another pause and then Dash begins to lean forward. I hold my ground as his face grows closer and closer. When his nose is nearly touching mine and I can see every individual lash in the fringe that rings his eyes, he stops. I wait, breathless, for him to do something.

  “I have something that is guaranteed to make you feel better,” he whispers.

  My heart pounds heavily against my sternum. “I…I’d like to feel better.”

  And I would.

  I want to get lost, like I do every Christmas, but this time I want to get lost in someone. In Dash. In his deep voice and liquid eyes. In his quick smile and profound understanding.

  Just when I think he’s going to brush that heavenly mouth over mine, he eases back and rolls smoothly to his feet to walk around me. I let out a sigh of disappointment.

  “Don’t sigh, gorgeous girl,” he says, his voice at my ear startling me. “This is just the beginning.”

  Chills down my spine.

  My lips curve into a satisfied smile. I hear the quiet pad of his socked feet as he makes his way to the kitchen, and I think to myself that this might well be the best Christmas I’ve ever had.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dash

  “I thought you were joking,” Dilyn says with a smile when I return with a plate containing a bar of La Maison chocolate, a handful of marshmallows, and four Graham Crackers.

  It’s dark out now, and the fire is the only light in the place. I purposely haven’t turned on any others. Her skin looks too smooth and perfect in the soft orange glow.

  “I never joke about s’mores.”

  I hand her a stainless kabob skewer and she looks at it dubiously. “Is this how the other half does it? Are sticks just too pedestrian?”

  I return her expression. “Do I look like a guy who would choose stainless steel over sticks?”

  She lets those heavy-lidded whiskey eyes of hers travel slowly from my eyes to my mouth, then down my chest and stomach. They pause on my dick, and she stares just long enough to make it twitch. Her cheeks stain and she brings her gaze back up to my face. “No, I guess you don’t,” she answers in a voice that’s gone all husky.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  I squat down in front of her, my mouth inches from hers. I love how her pupils dilate. I know she won’t admit it, but she wants this as much as I do. I can feel it. My instincts are something I rely on heavily in my profession, in my life, and they’re screaming that we would be damn good together.

  So damn good.

  I take a marshmallow and bring it to her mouth, dragging it across her full bottom lip. “Would you like to hear the options for what to do with these? Making s’mores aren’t the only thing marshmallows are good for.”

  As I watch, she slips her tongue out to sneak a taste of the treat. Impulsively, I roll it into her mouth. She opens wider to accept it then closes her lips on the tip of my finger. She sucks just a little bit, just enough to send all kinds of want to my cock. Air hisses through my teeth as I inhale sharply.

  My eyes snap up to hers. They’re sparkling with feisty humor and brazen desire.

  “Damn you,” I croak, my balls tightening. “You did that on purpose.”

  I stick the tip of my finger, the one wet with her saliva, in my mouth.

  “Maybe,” she mumbles around the marshmallow, her eyes watching my mouth. After she finishes chewing and swallows, she looks back up at me, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a saucy grin. “What, can’t take it when it’s dished out?”

  “Hell, yeah, I can take it.” I spike an eyebrow at her. “But can you?”

  She falters for a second, but then covers it nicely. “Of course I can.”

  “Then let’s make this a little more interesting, shall we? Ever had a deconstructed s’more?”

  Her eyes narrow on me. She’s in trouble, and that’s probably sinking in right about now. “No. What are those?”

  My smile is big and satisfied. Victorious. “Let me show you.”

  I set down the plate and skewers, and pull off my shirt.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says, holding up her palms and shaking her head. I ignore her, loving how her eyes are glued to my abs. I give them a little flex for her.

  Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. I chuckle.

  “You can go first,” I tell her, stretching out on the bearskin rug beside her, belly up, my weight resting back on my elbows. The stiff ridge of my hard-on is visible as hell in the firelight, but I don’t give a damn. I don’t mind that she can see what she does to me.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Make a s’more. Only you have to eat it off me, one bite of each at a time. Separately. Deconstructed.”

  She says nothing, just watches me. I’m sure she’s weighing her options, measuring her level of resistance. Her next question proves it. “But you promised to fend me off and not have sex with me, remember?”

  Oh,
God, this is too good.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I assure her.

  She debates for a few more seconds before coming onto her knees at my side. “So what do I do?”

  “Well, I’m no s’mores expert, but I’d probably lay out my ingredients first. Then I’d roast the marshmallow.”

  Carefully, Dilyn sets a Graham Cracker square on my stomach then sets a piece of chocolate on that.

  “Ah, ah, ah. You have to lay it all out separately.”

  Giving me a roll of her eyes, she takes the chocolate off the cracker and sets it on my skin. Next, she takes one marshmallow and sticks it on the sharp end of the skewer.

  She half-crawls over to the fireplace, that pretty little ass of hers wiggling in my direction. I wonder for a second what kind of panties she wears. I picture something demure, something that would make her look so chaste I’d be forced to do even dirtier things to her. And I’m already thinking of dirty, dirty, dirty things.

  The thought makes my dick strain even harder against the stretchy material of my Under Armor.

  Dilyn holds the marshmallow over the flame. I want to tell her not to get it too close or it’ll burn, but she raises it before I have to. White turns to golden brown within a few seconds, and she swivels back to me. On her knees, she returns to my side. She starts to lay the marshmallow on the chocolate, but catches herself and lays it on my stomach instead. I flinch just a little when the hot sugar meets my skin. When she’s done, she lays the kabob stick aside and eyes the buffet spread over my belly.

  She reaches for a Graham first, taking a small bite off one corner. Then she picks up the chocolate, her fingers lightly scraping my abs, taking a bite of it as well. She returns it and takes up the marshmallow, sinking her teeth into it, sending warm, sweet goo pouring onto her lips. She makes this soft moaning sound as she swallows, her mouth still wreathed in sticky white goodness.

  I react before I can think better of it.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” I say, sitting up, sending food all over the floor.

  I wrap my hand around the back of her neck to hold her still and I trace her lips with the tip of my tongue, licking up the sugar of the marshmallow. Dilyn’s hand has gone slack between us, but she’s not resisting, so I press my lips to hers and slip my tongue between them.