Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(47)

“Nothing.”

She sat up again, looking hard at him. “Nothing?” Pure disbelief in her voice. “No tree, no gifts, no big dinner?”

“Not that I recall.” He gave her a hopeful look. “Does a shitty childhood make you want to drink? I’ll take sympathy points.”

She leaned all the way forward, putting her hand on his arm, which still rested on the seat back. “It makes me sad for you. I love Christmas.”

“I hate it.”

She looked at him for a long time, her face not far from his, her fingers warm on his arm. “Have you ever had one? A real Christmas?”

Never. But she didn’t need to know that much about him. “Once,” he lied.

“Aww.” Her eyes glistened, and she inched closer. “Tell me about it. I have a feeling it’s going to make me drink.”

“I can’t,” he said, feigning a little heartache. “Hurts too much to remember.”

“Oh, really?” She gave his arm a solid squeeze. “Please tell me.”

He faked a sad sigh. “Okay. It was two years ago. At Allenwood. They had a tree, and we got rubber turkey instead of mystery meat and sleigh bells instead of the lights-out alarm.” He could feel his lips curling in a wry smile. “Santa came sliding down the guard tower when we were all tucked in.”


She rolled her eyes. “You son of a bitch.” She grabbed the bottle from him. “Stop it.”

“I thought you only drink when I say something you like.”

“You did. Made a joke.” She didn’t actually drink, holding it even though he kept his hand on it, too. Her other hand was still possessively around his forearm. So, basically everywhere they could be touching with a fifty-year-old cracked leather seat back between them, they were. “You can definitely stop making me like you now,” she said softly.

“And you could stop touching me.”

She gave him a very slow, very sexy, slightly looped smile…and didn’t let go.

He slipped his hand under her hair, grazing her jaw, curling around the narrow column of her neck. “For the record, Francesca, I really wanted to wait for a bed before we had our hopeless sex.”

She inched closer. “What could be more hopeless than the backseat of a car? I think it’s perfect.”

“I think you’re perfect,” he admitted on a gruff whisper.

He watched her eyes drift closed as his mouth hovered over hers. He could feel her breath, her pulse, her soft skin, and, finally, her lips.

She tasted like rum, only sweeter and warmer. And despite his best efforts to stay sober, Mal was instantly intoxicated.





Chapter Fifteen





God, she was tipsy. Spinning. Lightheaded. Kicked-in-the-ass high on…him. It wasn’t the rum, though that might have made Chessie a little chatty and given her a slight push closer to him. No, it was the feel of his lips. The touch of his hand. The slip-slide play of his tongue against hers as he kissed her like a man appreciating fine wine and not bad rum.

“You okay?” he whispered as he pulled away enough for them to look at each other.

“Yeah.” Except her eyes weren’t open, and her whole body was tingling. “Better than okay.”

She felt him laugh against the next kiss, a rumble that made her want to reach over this stupid bench seat and flatten her hands against his chest so she could feel that laughter vibrate against his gorgeous pecs.

“Here.” He took the bottle as if he knew she was about to drop it, stuffed the top to close it, and set it on the floorboard. That gave her just enough time to think about what they were doing. And wait for a litany of stop, be smart, don’t do this to sing in her head.

But the only thing she heard was the thumping beat of hot blood pulsing through her body, which sounded a lot more like yes than no.

When he turned back to her, his expression was serious and…exactly like it was in the hotel room the other night. His jaw set, his gaze unrelenting, his breath remarkably steady for a man who had to be on the edge of the same sensations that had a hold on her.

Wasn’t he? Didn’t he want to touch and kiss and undress as much as she did?

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, running his finger along her lower lip as if it fascinated him.

“Do you?” ’Cause if so, it was game over.

“This isn’t part of your plan.”

“No,” she agreed with a laugh. “The car, the rain, the lights, the wipers, the water, the detour, the whole damn trip is off plan. And making out with you in a 1959 Ford Prefect? In another league of off the plan.”

“Sometimes…” He trailed his finger down her throat, into the hollow of her neck, down another inch, where the back of the seat forced him to stop. “You have to go with the flow.”

“Ah, yes, contingency sex.”

“Exactly.” His finger slid up her throat again, and he spread his whole hand against her cheek and jaw, holding her face so that she had to look at him. He threaded her hair, twisting strands and sliding through them.

He pulled her closer and kissed her again, angling his head, owning her mouth, tracing her teeth with his tongue. Each second of the kiss brought them closer, leaning up, fighting the barrier that was the only thing keeping them apart.