All He Wants for Christmas, Page 2

  Even in California December could get downright chilly, and she shivered when the cool sand hit her toes. This year she had Christmas day off, and the two days after that, as well. A rarity. Maybe she should hop on a plane and go south. As in the South Pacific south. Yeah, that would work.

  But she wouldn’t, and she knew it. For all her bravado, she wouldn’t enjoy such a thing by herself, and she had no one to take, a depressing thought.

  She had been invited to Sam’s house for a Christmas fiesta that he was making with his girlfriend, Sara. Or she could head with Eddie to his sister’s house and be overrun with kids. Or Zach and Brooke had asked her to join them. So had Aidan and Kenzie.

  She could do any of that, but she’d told them all she had plans, that she was having a thing. An alone thing, not that they knew that. Much as she loved her friends and even thought of them as family, when it came right down to it, they had their own.

  The predawn air wasn’t that bad, maybe fiftyish, but it was accompanied by a breeze that had the water just icy enough to make her gasp when the first wave washed over her feet.

  “Are you crazy?”

  She didn’t turn to see who had spoken in that quiet, raspy tone. Her body didn’t move at all, except on the inside, where something odd happened deep in her belly—a sort of quiver that she chose to identify as annoyance.

  That her nipples tightened was sheer coincidence.

  “I’m trying to enjoy a moment here.” She shoved her hands into her pockets rather than face the urge she had to grab on to him, just haul him close by the ears and lay one on him. It was so ridiculous, this insane attraction she had for him. Seriously ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he was going to give Brad Pitt a run for his money. In fact, he was the opposite of Brad Pitt, not GQ gorgeous at all.

  Actually, he looked a lot like Harry Potter all grown up: dark, perpetually disheveled hair curling around his ears to just past his collar. Laser-blue eyes, magnified by the glasses he required to see a foot past his face. A crooked smile that was both self-deprecatory and contagious. He was tall, lean and lanky, and…hell. He was attractive, made all the more so by the fact that he had absolutely no idea how much.

  Not that she was noticing.

  Nope, that ship had sailed. She’d had him, curiosity over. Hunger sated.

  Or so she told herself.

  But did he take the hint and leave? No. Anyone else would have sensed something in her tone and backed away, but not Dustin. Somehow she didn’t scare him off. Somehow she didn’t piss him off.

  It was really quite shocking.

  And, she admitted to herself, just a teeny-tiny bit of a relief. People came and went in her life. That was just fact. Her father? Never knew him. Her mother? Traipsing through Europe with a backpack, or so she’d said the last time she’d touched base with her daughter, two years ago now. Any other people who had looked out for Cristina during her rough childhood, and acquaintances since that time, all had moved on and so had she. Apparently, she just wasn’t the type of woman to inspire long-term relationships. In fact, her personal motto read something like a government health warning: Stay away from attachments, as they pose a serious threat to your brains, wallet and if you’re stupid enough, your heart.

  Somehow she’d become a firefighter instead of a statistic. Through time and sheer stubbornness on the guys’ parts, she’d developed friendships. She adored Blake like a brother, adored Aidan and Zach, adored all of them—but she still had a limited amount of how much of anyone that she could take.

  That didn’t seem to be the case for Dustin, damn him. “I came out here alone. Which means I want to be alone. See how that works?”

  “I hear what your mouth is saying, but everything else?” He shifted closer, standing next to her so that her shoulder brushed his arm. “Your body language, your body…”

  Was it just her or did he sound all raspy and, dammit, sexy?

  “Yeah, they’re all saying something else entirely,” he murmured near her ear, giving her a set of goose bumps.

  So he’d seen the happy nipples. She crossed her arms over her chest. “For your information, I’m cold.”

  “Hey, whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night.”

  Now see, that. That was another thing that made him different. He called her on all her shit, every single time.

  No one else did that.

  She found herself staring into his glasses at those shockingly blue eyes. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

  “Maybe because I’m so badass myself.”

  She laughed.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “Not so badass. But I see the soft, marshmallow Cristina.”

  “I’m not soft. Anywhere.”

  “Well, we both know that’s not true.”

  There he went with the sexiness again.

  He shifted even closer, right into her personal bubble. “I see you, Cristina. I see the woman who feeds the stray cat her leftover sandwich.”

  “Only when the bread is stale.”

  “The one who always shoves all her spare change in the homeless guys’ hands every time we go downtown.”

  “I hate having change in my pocket.”

  “The woman who looks at me and her eyes melt.”

  “Hell no, they don’t.”

  He just looked at her, smiling knowingly.

  Ah, crap. “Shut up.”

  He did, not because she asked, but because he liked to be quiet sometimes, as she did.

  He got her the way no one else did.

  All the others would get off their shift and go home to something, someone. She’d go to her apartment and bide her time until she could go back to work. Because, with no real family, work was her life.

  Dustin had a great family: his mom, his sister, his brother…he’d lost his dad a few years back to cancer, and clearly missed him so much, but the rest of them were still very close. So close they constantly nosed around in his life and drove him crazy, and yet he loved them madly. Cheerfully.

  He and Cristina were polar opposites. He knew this. She knew this. So why did he have to be the one to get her panties all twisted? Why him?

  Ignoring her with an ease she’d never quite managed with him in return, he kicked off his own boots and socks and immediately hissed out a shocked breath as the waves splashed over his toes.

  She laughed again.

  At the sound, Dustin shoved his glasses further up on his nose and took a good, long look at her.

  “What,” she asked somewhat defensively. “You’ve never seen me laugh before?”

  “Not since…”

  “Since what?”

  “Since we played strip poker and I lost.”

  Oh, boy, was that night imprinted on her brain. Her car had broken down. He’d taken her home, and then come in for a quick drink, and somehow he’d charmed her into playing a game of cards. Being a card master, she’d readily agreed, then scammed him, conning him right out of his clothes just out of curiosity.

  Beneath his EMT uniform, he’d been hiding a sensual delight of long, lean muscle, and she’d gone from curious to aroused in zero point four.

  They’d slept together that night. Even now her body tingled as it remembered, but she lifted her chin. “I laughed because you had SpongeBob SquarePants on your boxers.”

  He didn’t look embarrassed but amused. That was the thing about Dustin, he was comfortable in his own skin. “It was laundry day, and my mom bought me those boxers.”

  They’d made her hot. Another wave splashed over their toes and Dustin sucked in a harsh breath, backing up in surrender. “Okay, you win,” he said. “You’re the cool kid. Now can we go in?”

  “I don’t want to go in.”

  “What do you want?”

  She let out a low laugh that inadvertently exposed her misery, and he shifted to face her, putting a hand on her arm. “Are you getting a migraine?”

  Yeah, he knew her. Really knew her. And worse, he cared. Goddamm him. “No. Are y
ou wearing SpongeBob Square-Pants now?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “Not telling.” He stroked a rogue strand of hair from her forehead, letting his finger trail over her temple, the rim of her ear.

  She shivered and surrendered, as well, stepping into him. “Dustin…”

  For a brief moment, his other hand came up, brushing down her back, settling low on her spine. He turned his face into hers, letting the tip of his nose run along her jaw, his mouth brush the underside of her throat lightly before he sighed and went to step back.

  She grabbed him, fisted her hands in his shirt and held on tightly, so he couldn’t go anywhere. “Please,” she whispered, horrified to hear the neediness in her voice.

  Thankfully, she didn’t need to finish. He knew what she was asking. Please let’s get naked. Please make my body hum again. Please help me find oblivion tonight in your arms.

  For a blessed moment he held her close to his hard, warm body, and she felt a surge of triumph. But then with a low groan, he shook his head, setting her away from him. “No.”

  “Why? There’s not someone else.” Even the thought stopped her heart.

  “You know damn well there isn’t anyone else.”

  “Then—”

  “Stop it.” He met her gaze. “You know why.”

  “Suppose you tell me again.”

  “You run and run and run, never slowing down, always working, always keeping busy.”

  “So?”

  “So then you’re so exhausted that you can barely move. But when your body finally forces you to take a moment, you look around and realize you’re alone. You hate alone. So you see who can fulfill you.”

  “And you fit the bill. Perfectly.” She arched against him feeling the hard bulge beneath his zipper that assured her he felt the same way. “What’s the problem here, Dustin? Suddenly you don’t like sex?”

  “I don’t like meaningless sex. Not with you.”

  She managed another laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

  He didn’t smile, and hers faded as she whirled away. But he pulled her back around. Their gazes met.

  Locked.

  Held.

  She felt the jolt clear down to her toes, where it bounced and hit all her good spots. But now was not the time to melt. “So what now? You going to go find someone else?”

  His fingers were tight on her arm. Not hurting her, never hurting her, but firm enough that she couldn’t have pulled away without hurting him. His eyes were fierce, his brow furrowed, his glasses slipping down his nose. Beneath the hands she’d set to his chest she could feel the heavy beat of his heart. And it did something to her, made her feel something…basic.

  His eyes widened slightly, signaling that she wasn’t alone in this. Nope, the cool, laid-back, easygoing man was worked up, too.

  Which was good, because she needed him. Him. No one else. No one else could make her sizzle like this—and she’d tried.

  Fisting her fingers in his shirt, she tugged him close to kiss him, hard and deep. The rumble of his groan came up from his chest. The rasp of his five-o’clock shadow scraped her chin. The scent of him she couldn’t get enough of, filling her nostrils as all her bones liquefied as his fingers tightened on her.

  Dustin. Dustin was finally in her arms again, kissing her like he’d been dying without her.

  His mouth was warm and delicious, soft yet firm, pure unadulterated pleasure. God, he was such a good kisser. She hadn’t had time lately to dwell on that but she took the time now as his tongue stroked hers with the slow, sure precision of a master. He knew how to take his time, that was certain, and she fully appreciated his skill.

  She couldn’t have stopped, but that was okay because he dove into the kiss with her, making her feel marginally better about the whole thing. She wasn’t alone in this. Not even close. He hauled her up against that chiseled, hard-earned body, his hands hot and rough, which matched the hot, rough, ragged groan torn from his throat.

  Definitely not alone in this…

  She strained against him as he rushed to touch as much of her as he could, making her body hum, and then…and then her nose bumped into his glasses and he pulled back so fast she staggered a step and nearly fell on her ass.

  His glasses were fogged, and with a harsh, annoyed sound, he tugged them off and wiped them on his shirt before jamming them back on. “I told you. I’m not going to scratch your itch.” His chest was still rising and falling from the kiss, but his voice sounded disturbingly weary. Bending, he grabbed his shoes. She expected him to walk away from her.

  Most did. After all, she saw to that, didn’t she?

  But she should have known better. Dustin wasn’t like most people. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met. Straightening, mouth still wet from hers but grim, he offered her a hand.

  She stared at it.

  “Shower and bed,” he said very quietly…in direct opposition to his breathing.

  “Alone,” he specified.

  Damn. And yet a small part of her knew she’d be lucky to manage a shower before crashing.

  She’d summoned the last of her energy to get here, to spar with him, to kiss him, but now she felt as if she’d hit the wall. Nothing left in the tank.

  Empty.

  God, she wanted her bunk almost more than she wanted her next breath, and yet it seemed like such a chore. But Dustin would get her where she needed to go.

  Somehow, someway, he always did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN THEIR SHIFT ended at eight o’clock that morning, Dustin stepped outside and watched in disbelief as Cristina dragged her sexy but tired ass to the side of the building and unlocked her bike.

  They’d just had a rough night, as rough as it gets, where they’d had maybe an hour of sleep broken into fifteen-minute increments, and she was going to ride her bike home.

  Hard-core Cristina.

  She was tough, so tough that people often forgot that she had a good reason to be so. She didn’t talk about herself much, if ever. What information he had on her he’d pretty much pieced together from five years of knowing her. Her mother had had her when she was only sixteen, and while she’d done her best, her best had often meant hanging with men who weren’t the greatest influence and ruled with a heavy fist. Cristina no longer kept in contact with her mother, and she’d never learned who her father was. She had no siblings, and as far as Dustin could tell, she didn’t keep a lot of friends outside the station.

  Inside the station, however, she loved them all fiercely, grumpily, and that love was returned, though not as grumpily. Any one of the guys would lay down his life for her, himself included, and she felt the same. Earlier in the year when her partner Blake had been wrongly accused of arson, she’d steadfastly and vocally objected, and had never wanted to believe the worst of him, even when all the evidence had been firmly stacked against him.

  The people of station #34 were her family. He was her family. And she was afraid to mess with that. He got that, he really did, he just knew deep down inside that what they had could be so much deeper, if only she’d let it.

  But, badass as she was, inside she was terrified. Terrified of letting go, terrified of allowing him too close, terrified of getting hurt.

  What she didn’t understand was that he felt those fears, too. But he’d always felt that life was worth living, fears and all, that if he didn’t go for it, then why bother?

  She fumbled with the bike lock and swore again.

  Walk away, he told himself. He’d made the decision that she was bad for him. Bad for his self-esteem, bad for his ego, bad for everything.

  Except…ah, hell, here came the excuses…except there was something about her. Something about the way her brain worked that was such a turn-on. And then there was the way she made him laugh. He came from a lively family. They were all opinionated and they all were thinkers, and they all made him laugh.

  But Cristina slayed him.

  God, that was sexy. She was sexy. That thought made
him want to smile because at the moment she wore baggy sweat bottoms and a snug long-sleeved thermal top, with her long blond hair down and still wet from her shower. Not an ounce of makeup. He could see the exhaustion in every line of her trim body. She’d laugh her ass off if he told her he found her sexy, just as she was.

  But she had a way of drawing him in no matter what she looked like. He came up behind her in time to hear, “Goddamn mother f—”

  “Trouble?” he asked.

  She spun the lock and rubbed her undoubtedly bleary eyes. “No.” She attempted the lock again.

  It was three miles to her apartment from here. Three miles in which she could run herself into a car or under a bus.

  “Cristina.”

  She yawned, wide. “Yeah.”

  “Let me give you a ride.”

  Another yawn. “Nah, I’m good.” But she rested her forehead on the lock and closed her eyes.

  Setting his fingers over hers, he grabbed her hand and pulled her upright. She was so limp she actually let herself lean on him for a moment, which dammit, made his arms go around her and hold on tight.

  Her wet hair stuck to the stubble on his jaw. It smelled good, like her, like warm, tired woman. God, he was such a sucker. “I’m driving you home.” And a glutton for punishment, let’s not forget that.

  Surprising him, she allowed herself to be led to his truck, let him put her bike in the back for her. Once in the passenger seat, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “It’s a good thing I’m so tired, or I’d have to kick your ass for bossing me around.”

  “Is that right?”

  A hint of a smile crossed her lips. “No.” She was so drowsy her words were slurred. “Actually, when you get all gruff and demanding like this, it turns me on.”

  “Stop it.”

  “It’s true. When you go all rough and manly, it gives me the shivers.”

  She had a wicked grin on her face now, with her eyes still closed, and he had to smile and shake his head. She was teasing him. “And here I thought women wanted sensitivity and sweetness. I’ve been going about it all wrong.”