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 heart. “Baby, you’re so tired.”
“Just shut up a minute,” she whispered. “Just shut up and stand here and hold me.”
He could do that, for now. He had his arms around her, one hand in her hair, the other on the small of her back, fisted in the towel around her. He was hugging her. Comforting her.
That was it.
But suddenly in the huge, overhanging silence surrounding them, he became aware of the silky disarray of her wet hair, and how good it smelled. Of the imprint of her small body against his, covered only in that damp towel, which didn’t matter because he could still see the picture of her in his mind dropping her clothes before getting into the shower.
Then her hand wriggled up between them, flat against his chest as she lifted her gaze to his.
In that very second, the embrace went from simple comfort to something else.
And he wasn’t alone.
Slowly, she came up in tiptoe and touched her mouth to the corner of his. He went instantly hard.
Her mouth still touching his, she went still, preternaturally still, and then shivered.
And not from the cold.
He slid a hand down her side, reaching for her hand, entwining his fingers in hers, moving their now-joined hands to the small of her back because he couldn’t bear her touching him and not having her.
But the motion arched her spine just enough to have her breasts pressing into his chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh, and he groaned, unable to hold it in, the sound more a plea than anything else.
Her lips parted, answering that plea, and that was it for him. Ripping off his glasses, he opened his mouth on hers, kissing her, hard and long.
Not having her.
God, what a big, fat lie that was. He was going to have her, here and now, and he knew it.
They both knew it.
The kiss was everything, hot and giving, sweet and unbearably sexy, sending waves of desire and hunger through his body, pooling between his thighs in his groin.
He was lost, a goner, drowning in the sensations, the feel of her body against his, her sweet tongue in his mouth, the way they fitted against each other as if it’d been meant to be. Even when the kiss finally ended, he kept his mouth against hers, going still, just breathing her in.
Then she lifted her head, her eyes meeting his, filled with a question mark.
He moved his hand against the sleek strength of her back. She was small-boned, petite against him, almost fragile, but he knew that was deceptive. In reality, she was the strongest woman he knew.
Walk away now, he told himself. Run, or this time you’re going to fall all the way, and she’ll stomp all over your heart.
Again.
And yet he knew that with only the slightest encouragement from her, he’d pull her down to the couch and do something completely crazy and stupid and totally amazing, like yank off the towel and kiss every single square inch of that glorious body until she made those sexy little sounds in the back of her throat that she made, the ones that grew progressively more desperate right before she came, the ones that teased him into a sexual frenzy such as he’d never known.
“Dustin.” She put her hands on his face. “How is it that you’re always there when I need you?”
Yeah. He wasn’t going to run or even walk. No way in hell. Not when she needed him.
“Dustin.” She was still staring deeply into his eyes, which was the thing about Cristina. Everything about getting too close to him terrified her, and yet she didn’t look away.
Nothing less than utterly direct at all times, she took his hand and turned, leading him back to her bedroom.
And he went willingly.
CRISTINA STOPPED at the foot of her bed and glanced at Dustin. God, the slightly befuddled, extremely turned-on expression he wore made her knees weak. Everything about him made her knees weak. Made all of her weak.
And wasn’t that just the problem?
She didn’t do weak, at least not knowingly. And yet…and yet this man. God, this man. When she was with him, she could give in, could be weak, because he was there for her.
Always.
She needed him, and she didn’t understand why, when she’d never needed anyone in her entire life. Her vague anxiety about that wasn’t going to stop her, not when she finally had him here again. Slowly she dropped her towel at their feet.