“You know, cowboy, you can be a real bastard when you want to be.”
“Years of practice.” Again with the tongue. A quick little flick that caused her insides to melt.
Her damned nipple tightened and she moaned.
She wanted him. Damn, but she wanted him. It was as if she couldn’t get enough of the man.
As if he could read her mind, Santana laughed, white teeth a slash of irreverent mirth.
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” Quick as a cat, he rolled atop her, pinning her to the mattress, his eyes gleaming a dark, intense fire. “We’ve talked about moving in together for a long time now.”
“I know, but I still have kids at home—”
“Who could use a strong father figure.”
“Oh . . . ,” she said, but just hi
s weight, pressing against her in all the right places, was making it difficult to think straight. What the hell was wrong with her? All of a sudden, when she was pushing forty, she was as randy as a teenager. At least she was with damned Santana, and the worst thing was, the son of a bitch knew it!
“We have a good thing going just as it is,” she said.
“But it might be better.”
“Or worse,” she argued.
“Come on, Regan, take a chance.” His eyes were dark with the night. He captured her mouth with his, kissed her hard, then nipped at her lower lip.
“If you think you can convince me by . . . oooh.” His hand was between her legs again, and she couldn’t help but arch upward, her blood racing, her heart beating a wild tattoo. Her fingers curled in the sheets, and finally, she let go, closed her eyes, and groaned as he entered her, feeling that familiar, yet exciting flush that started in the small of her back and worked its way upward as he moved, his breathing suddenly out of control, his skin dewy with sweat.
Would it be so bad to think of the future?
To spend the rest of her life with him?
Right now, she couldn’t think about it, didn’t want to try. For the moment, she would just let the night bring what it may.
Kacey glanced out the broad back windows of Rolling Hills and decided she was long past her pull date on this Thanksgiving meal with her mother. The snow was coming down, fluffy flakes being caught in the beams of outdoor lighting strategically placed around the grounds. A gazebo, decorated with strings of white lights, glowed in the distance, and one of the conifers had been decorated as well.
Several of the other patrons had finished their meals and, on their way out of the dining area, waved to Maribelle or stopped by to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. Maribelle introduced them to Kacey and wished them all a wonderful holiday season.
Kacey was about to stand up when a tall, stately man with a shaved head, military bearing, and easy smile paused by their table.
“Is this your daughter?” he asked, and Maribelle quickly introduced Kacey to David Spencer, who pronounced that he was “charmed.” As if they were on the set of some movie out of the 1950s. “You’re as beautiful as your mother,” he said with a wink at Maribelle, who actually blushed. “Best bridge partner in the place, well, probably the whole damned town. Nice to meet you, Acacia.” Fondly he patted her mother’s shoulder before striding out the double doors to the grand foyer.
“See why I like it here?” her mother said, her gaze following Spencer’s stiff back.
“I do. And I see why you were so dead set that I come here. You wanted me to meet him, didn’t you?”
Her mother started to deny it, then shrugged. “You found me out.”
“Are you and he serious?”
“Oh, no!” Maribelle laughed then, a tinkling happy sound that Kacey hadn’t heard in years. “I call him the Commander,” she confided, almost giddy.
“But you’re in love?”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”