The Rancher's Christmas Princess (12 page)

“I noticed that.”

“It’s all kind of pitiful. I thought my heart was broken when
she dumped me for Monty. But now I realize that what was really hurting was only
my pride that she chose the car salesman over me. And now, well, it’s pretty
damn clear she did me a favor. Poor Monty wasn’t so lucky. Lucy’s turned out to
be one of those women who always wants the man she
doesn’t
have.”

“It’s strange the way people are.” She spoke in a thoughtful
tone. “So many of us are never happy with the life we have. We’re just so
certain we should have made other choices.”

“Are you happy, Belle?” He asked the question before he stopped
to think of what it implied. That she
wasn’t
happy.
That there was something missing from her life.

He knew damn well that wasn’t true.

She answered, “Overall, yes. I’m happy. I have a wonderful
family, meaningful work to do. I live in a beautiful place. I have good
friends—even without Anne, whom I miss terribly.”

He wasn’t surprised that she found her life satisfying. “No
regrets, huh?”

A tiny frown creased the smooth skin of her brow. “I have
regrets, yes. That I didn’t make more time to be with my friend when she was
alive. That I missed out on precious moments we might have spent together. That
I...” She seemed to catch herself. “And look where I’m taking this. Into a sad
place. I don’t want to be sad tonight.” Her gaze sought his and held it. He felt
the connection powerfully. As though she had reached her soft hand across the
distance between them and touched him. “Your house looks beautiful, Preston, all
ready for Christmas.”

“Because of you.” His voice was only a little bit rough.

A ghost of a smile came and went on her lips. “We’re going to
have to start wrapping some of the gifts we’ve bought.”

“I can’t wait,” he said, and didn’t even roll his eyes.

She seemed to be looking at his mouth. “It’s cozy, just you and
me by the fire,” she said. He said nothing. At that moment, he didn’t really
trust himself to speak. And then she suggested, “All we need is a little
Christmas music....”

“You’re serious,” he whispered, hardly daring to breathe. It
was becoming very clear that she was after more from him tonight than a little
friendly conversation.

Why?

Never mind. He didn’t care why. When you came right down to it,
there was no way he would ever turn her down.

No matter the cost in the end. No matter the eventual pain.

She put her hand against the soft skin just below her throat,
where that silky red robe came to together to form a tempting vee. “I am,
Preston. I’m serious.”

“Then I’ll play us some Christmas music.” He got up, his
arousal increasing with the movement, with the pressure of his zipper against
his groin. He knew she could see how easily she excited him. All she had to do
was glance at the front of his Wranglers. Normally, that would have shamed
him.

But he didn’t care if she saw. Let her see. Maybe she’d get
smart and leave him alone before this glorious insanity went any further.

She remained in the chair.

He got the remote off the low table by the sofa and turned on
the big screen, pulling up the guide, scrolling to the music channels and
stopping on the one that played holiday music all through December. Bing Crosby
was singing “White Christmas,” a song that was old back when his mom and dad
were dating.

He put down the remote, returned to her and held down his hand.
She took it. He did what he’d dreamed of doing way too often the past few
nights. He pulled her up and into his waiting arms.

They danced, slow and sweet, in front of the fire. Neither of
them said a word. It was enough, more than he’d ever dared hope for, to have his
arms around her, to smell her perfume and feel her silky hair against his
chin.

When the song ended, they stopped and swayed together, waiting
for the next one to start. It was “The Christmas Song.” They began to dance
again.

He nuzzled her hair. Because it felt so good and smelled like
fresh flowers and cinnamon and some tempting exotic fruit. And he asked, “So
what was going on between you and Larry Seabuck today?”

She looked up at him, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “Larry
was explaining to me how the bake auction works.”

He bent his head enough to brush a kiss against her lips.
“Larry has a crush on you. A huge crush.”

They were stopped again, swaying together in one place. Her
body brushed against his, tempting him. Taunting him. She said, “Not to worry. I
have no doubt that RaeNell is going to nip that problem in the bud.”

He gathered her just a fraction closer. Nothing like this, not
ever in his life: Belle swaying in his arms. “She’s a strong-minded woman, that
RaeNell. And bossy. She’s almost as bossy as Betsy Colson.”

She had that irresistible mouth of hers tipped up to him again.
“But no one is as bossy as Betsy Colson.”

“You got that right.” How could he resist kissing her some
more? Why would he want to resist? It seemed there was a reason, but now, with
her in his arms, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what that reason was.
He lowered his mouth and settled his lips gently on hers.

She sighed. Her lips parted. He deepened the kiss.

It was a long kiss, lazy and easy and slow. Now and then he
would lift his head and slant his mouth the other way and they would go on
kissing. He never wanted to stop. It went on through “The Christmas Song” and
the next classic song after that.

When that next song was over, she whispered, “Take me upstairs,
Preston.”

As if he would argue. All those reasons he had for not getting
too close to her? He couldn’t remember a single one of them now.

He let her go long enough to bank the fire and turn off the
music as she went to the side table and got the baby monitor.

They met again by the fire and he kissed her once more, pulling
her in to him real snug that time, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her
beautiful body all wrapped in red satin under his hands, the scent of her
swimming around him, sucking him down into something dark and sweet and too
magnificent to bear.

Finally, she pulled away enough to say it again. “Take me
upstairs.”

He stepped back, offered his hand.

She took it.

Together they turned for the arch to the front hall.

Chapter Nine

T
hey stopped in Ben’s room to check on
him.

And they ended up standing there by the crib, watching him
sleep. The room was in shadow, light slanting in softly from the hallway. When
he slid Belle a glance, Pres could see the soft upward curve of her mouth as she
gazed at his sleeping son.

He completely understood her fascination with the boy. Ben was
a miracle, plain and simple.

It was a gift beyond price, to have a child to raise, a son who
would grow up and, God willing, have children of his own. It felt right,
felt...solid and true.

And now, for a little while, for this bright and glowing
holiday season, not only was there Ben, but there was Belle, too, standing here
by the crib beside him. Showing him how to be a father to his son. Showing him
goodness. Beauty. And grace. Showing him everything he’d always imagined a woman
might be.

And more.

She turned to him, put a hand against his chest, her head
tipped down. “Preston,” she whispered. Just that. His name.

He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to him.

And he kissed her, there in the dark beside his son’s crib. It
was a light kiss. Gentle. She sighed against his lips.

And then he took her hand and led her out of there to the
master bedroom, where he turned on the lamp and shut the door.

She set the monitor on the table next to the lamp. He took her
arm, loving the feel of her silky robe, of her warm, firm flesh beneath. He
pulled her close.

“Preston...” She said his name again, as though she liked
saying it, as though she found pleasure at the feel of it on her tongue.

He lowered his mouth and took her lips in a deeper kiss than in
the other room, a hungrier kiss. He got a little carried away with it, crushing
her to him, loving the feel of her soft breasts against his chest. When they
pulled apart that time she gazed up at him wearing a slightly stunned
expression, her tempting mouth red and swollen from the kiss.

“I think...” She hesitated. She was looking down again.

He tipped her chin up once more. “Tell me. What?”

She pressed her lips together, sighed. “Well, you know, this is
the time when we should speak of contraception, of...protection. You must know
that I’m not on the pill. Or anything else.” A nervous chuckle escaped her. “I
should have planned ahead, shouldn’t I? I’m afraid I’m not all that good at
this.”

“You are doing fine.” He meant that. “Better than fine.”

“You’re kind.”

“No.” He bent his head, kissed the tip of her delicate nose.
“Not kind. Not in the least.” Everything about her tempted him. He caught a lock
of her hair, rubbed it between his fingers. Warm silk. And then he bent and
kissed her again. More slowly, more tenderly. When he lifted his mouth he said,
“Don’t worry. I have what we need.”

“Good.” She kissed the side of his throat. The touch of her
lips there seemed to burn like a brand.

He took her hand again, led her to the bed. “Stay right there,”
he instructed, because he still couldn’t quite believe she was here in his room
with him—that she wouldn’t be leaving any second now.

She looked at him so tenderly. “Oh, Preston. Where would I go?
I only want to be right here. With you.”

“Hold that thought.” He turned to the bedside drawer, took out
the box of condoms, opened it, set a couple of the little pouches on the table.
Then he put the box away. He started to reach for her again.

And then he thought of the bed, that it wasn’t ready. That
seemed all wrong somehow.

Because he wanted it all to be perfect. Just right. For
her...

He cleared his throat, put up a finger. “Just a minute...”

She gave him a trembling smile.

He bent and turned down the bed, smoothing the covers back,
revealing the whiteness of pillows and sheets. His damn hands were shaking.

And she saw that they were. She touched his shoulder, whispered
his name again. Never in his life had he felt so exposed. “Please...” She said
it so gently. He straightened. And she took his arm and turned him to face her.
She captured his two hands in her smaller, softer ones and turned them palms up,
revealing the worst of the calluses, the scars, the rope burns....

His hands. Her hands. The comparison brought it sharply home
again that their lives were worlds apart. “What is it?” She tipped her head up
to him, searched his face. “What’s wrong?”

He’d already made a fool of himself, shaking like a newly
branded calf right there in front of her. He might as well go ahead and tell her
the truth. “My dad was always ready with advice. He taught me that a man should
be prepared. So every four years, I buy a fresh box of condoms and throw the old
one out.”

She gazed up at him, golden-brown eyes full of light and
acceptance. “There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s being responsible.”

He put it right out there. “The point is I throw the old
condoms away because I’ve had no occasion to use them.”

“Ah,” she said, a blush stealing over her cheeks.

“I’m not all that experienced at this, Belle. There was Lucy.
And a girl at college. And your friend. And that time, with Anne, well, I told
you, I don’t even remember it. All we know for sure about that time is that I
must have failed to take the old man’s advice.”

“Oh, Preston.” She caught her lower lip between her even white
teeth. “You’re not going to change your mind about this, are you?”

A low, animal sound escaped him. He pulled his fingers free of
hers and caught her face between his rough palms. Her skin was velvet. Perfect.
Like the rest of her. “Not on your life.”

She breathed a long sigh. “Oh, good.”

“It’s only...I’m not so smooth. You should know that.”

She looked at him trustingly. “I don’t care about that. I only
want
you.
”

A scary thought occurred to him. “You’re not...” He swallowed.
Hard. “Belle, is this your first time?”

She shook her head, kissing the pad of his thumb when it
briefly touched her mouth. “There was a man. During my first year at Duke. It
didn’t last.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, closed his eyes. “I just need
to know that you’re certain about this.”

She lifted her mouth to him. “I am.” She murmured the two words
against his lips.

The temptation was too great. He kissed her again, still
holding her sweet face between his hands.

When she opened her eyes and looked at him, he saw no pretense.
And no hesitation in her.

She wanted this.

They could have everything. Together. For a little while.

It wouldn’t be easy when she left him.

But he would think about that later, deal with that later, when
the time came.

Her hands were on his chest again, as if she sought his
heartbeat beneath the fabric of his wool shirt. And then her fingers got busy,
undoing the buttons, top to bottom.

He helped her, pulling the shirttails free of his Wranglers as
she skimmed the heavy shirt off his shoulders and tossed it to a nearby chair.
Underneath, he wore a white T-shirt. She kissed him, through the T-shirt, in the
center of his chest. And then she eased the T-shirt out from under his belt and
up over his belly.

“Lift your arms,” she commanded.

He obeyed. She tossed the T-shirt on the chair, too.Laughing a
little, she kicked off those pretty little red slippers of hers. Oh, she was
something, so eager and so sweet.

“Strong...” Her voice was husky, low. A seduction in itself.
She did it again, laid her hands flat against his chest, which was bare, now.
“So hot...” She stroked him, traced the trail of hair down the center of him to
where it disappeared under his belt. He got even harder.

If that was possible.

She undid the belt, took it away.

He let her do all the work. He should have been more forceful,
he supposed. Should have taken the lead.

But she seemed so pleased with herself, unsnapping and
unzipping and whipping all his clothes away, pushing him down to take off his
boots, then pulling him up to his feet again. He let her do it. All of it.

And when he didn’t have a stitch left, she cuddled up nice and
close to him. She kissed him. For a long, slow time. She wrapped her arms around
him and rubbed his back, those naughty soft fingers trailing downward, to the
base of his spine, lower....

She even eased her hand between them and wrapped her fingers
around him. He groaned when she did that. And then she tried a slow stroke. He
groaned again, deeper and harder than the first time.

That smooth hand sliding over him, gripping him nice and
tight...it was almost more than he could bear. He was getting mighty close to
finishing before they even really got started. He needed to step up a little,
claim some control, or he would lose it completely before they even made it down
to the bed, lose it just from the sweet encircling pressure of her tender
hand.

He caught her wrist, squeezed it a little. She took his signal
and let him go. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her fingers one by one.
And then he guided that hand around behind her and hauled her up so close and
tight, she let out a tiny gasp, a sweet little breathless sound.

Another kiss. He couldn’t get enough of those kisses of hers.
Sweet as honey. Hot as flame.

And so they kissed. And kissed some more.

She still had that robe on. And whatever skimpy little lacy
things were under it.

He really wanted to see that, the lace and the satin under
there. To see what she had against her skin. But he wanted to stretch out the
anticipation, too. He was aching to have her, but he wanted to make it last.

Her robe came together in that tempting vee between the soft
swells of her breasts. He traced it with his finger. She gazed up at him, her
eyes so wide open to him he could have fallen inside them, inside
her,
could have been melted down to nothing in amber
fire.

He meant to go lower, get the tie end of the satin belt and
give it a pull. The belt would drop away—and the robe would fall open. That was
the plan.

But her breasts were too tempting. They distracted him. He
guided the robe out of the way—on one side and then the other, the fabric
giving, pulling up out of the belt to expose her breasts to his hungry gaze.

She had a little bit of silk and lace over them—not a bra, but
a very short little sliplike thing that came to her waist and was pulling out of
the belt a little. He could see her nipples underneath that bit of silk, see the
exact puckered shape of them, so sweet and tight. The sight sent more heat
burning through his groin. He was so hard it hurt now. A glorious kind of
pain.

“What’s this?” he asked, brushing a thumb over the lace,
slipping a finger down the tiny satin strap that held it up.

“Camisole,” she replied.

He repeated the word, gruffly, “Camisole...” He probably should
have known that.

She was probably thinking he really needed to get out more.

And why shouldn’t she think that?

After all, it was true.

And how could he help himself? He bent, put his mouth over the
tip of one breast, right over the silky fabric of the camisole. He stuck out his
tongue, used his teeth to tease her through the silk, to make that nipple harder
still.

She let out a soft cry and reached for him, threading her
fingers up into his hair, bringing his head down even closer, pushing her
breasts up to him. An offering.

One he gladly accepted. He moved to the other breast, gave it
the same treatment as he had the first.

And after that, he forgot all about how he wanted to undress
her slowly, to peel away the layers, to take his sweet time.

He had the tie end of the belt in his fingers and he pulled. It
fell away. He eased the silky robe off her shoulders. It collapsed with a soft
little whoosh to the rug. And then he was grabbing the hem of the camisole. She
raised her arms and he took it up and off her.

Heaven. Heaven under there, soft and pink and perfect. He had
never seen such beauty. Her skin had that wonderful luster to it. The scent of
her drove him wild.

He swept his hands down the slim curve of her back, over her
perfect, round bottom, scooping her up, lifting her—and then laying her gently
down, sideways, on the turned-back bed. He eased her thighs apart and moved
between them, still standing, his feet planted on the bedside rug.

She had on tiny little red panties. He hooked his fingers under
the bits of elastic where they hugged her slim hips, and he pulled. She raised
her long legs high so he could slide them off.

Careful. Gentle.
The words echoed
in his brain. He didn’t want to hurt her or be too rough with her.

But much stronger than the warnings in his head as to how to
treat a lady was the hunger, the need for her that pounded in his blood. He
tossed the panties over his shoulder and guided her raised legs open again,
around him. She sighed.

He bent over her. Her mouth was waiting. He took it, cradling
her head, her hair falling over his arm, brushing him with the warmth of living
silk. He speared his tongue inside, past her open lips, relearning all those
silky surfaces in there, where it was hot and wet and tasted of paradise.

She moaned into his mouth.

He drank the sound, as he drank the sweet, intoxicating taste
of her. And as he kissed her, he touched her. From those perfect, round breasts,
down over her smooth, flat belly—and lower.

She cried out when he cupped her mound. She cried out and she
lifted herself toward him, welcoming him, offering him more.

Everything.

All of her...

He couldn’t wait. He moved his fingers, parting her.

More silk. Hot silk. And so wet. He stroked her and she moved
against his hand, pushing her body toward him, driving him crazy with wanting
her.