This Holiday Magic (16 page)

His eyes lingered awhile on the V where her thighs met, and he found that he was salivating in anticipation.

“My God, Sage, you're beautiful,” he breathed, his voice awe-filled.

Sage smiled. “I'm glad you think so.”

By the time Adam had finished the visual tour of her body, he was harder than he'd ever remembered being.

Sage must have been impatient with how slowly he was undressing because she stepped forward to help him. The moment she was within arm's reach, though, Adam couldn't resist pressing her body against his, and then they were kissing. His hands were everywhere, greedily touching her soft, fragrant skin. His mouth was relentless, demanding pleasure as he gave pleasure.

When they came up for air, he greedily let his eyes rove over her. Her golden-brown eyes had a dreamy aspect to them. He realized he'd never witnessed how her physical being changed while in the throes of passion. She was beautiful. Her skin glowed with vitality. Sensuality pervaded every part of her. He would be happy watching her all day. But she impatiently pushed out of his embrace. “Adam, get undressed now!”

Adam was breathing hard as he broke out of his daydream and did as he was told. His eyes never left her as he quickly removed his pants, hopping on one leg then the other as he took them off. Sage unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off him and threw it over her shoulder.

Adam pulled his T-shirt off and now he was in only a pair of black boxer briefs and a pair of black socks.

Sage's hands were at the waistband of his boxer briefs. Their eyes met and held. They didn't speak as Adam reached down and rolled the briefs off his hips and past his muscular thighs. He stepped out of them, and Sage got her first glance of him.

He heard her soft gasp of delight. Her nipples hardened further, and he could have sworn she was blushing. She looked back up into Adam's eyes. “My God, you're beautiful, too!”

That was Adam's call to action. He bent and hurriedly took off his socks, and they went the way of the rest of his clothes.

Then he smiled roguishly at her, picked her up and carried her to the bed. After he'd placed her on the mattress, he said, “Condoms?”

“Nightstand,” Sage said, her gaze going to the top drawer only a few inches from her head. Adam bent and retrieved a condom from the drawer, hastily closed it and set the one condom atop the nightstand for easy access later. Then he gazed down at her and said, “I've been dreaming about this moment since I was sixteen.”

Sage laughed. “Me, too,” she assured him.

They kissed between giddy bursts of laughter; they were so happy to finally be naked in bed together.

Laughter aside, though, the lust was in full evidence because their bodies, so long denied this closeness, reacted with fierce sexual desire. After a while the laughter was replaced by moans. Adam kissed, nuzzled and licked Sage's breasts. He was intoxicated by her silken skin and fascinated by the taste of her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her body, and he worked his way from her forehead to her navel. When Sage gave a little start when his tongue flicked out and touched the most tender spot between her legs, he merely smiled and said, “Open up for a starving man, my love.”

She relaxed and let him feast. She writhed with pleasure, murmured “I love you” over and over again until she exploded and trembled in release.

Having satisfied Sage, Adam got up and put on the condom and entered her. She wrapped her legs around him as he thrust deeply, exulting in the wonderful warmth and tightness of her welcoming body. Sage held on to the backs of his arms, his muscles playing against her palms, which only turned him on more. Her beautiful face mirrored her pleasure. He could not tear his eyes away. When she wet her lips and started panting, Adam knew he was hitting on just the right spot. Her hips rose off the bed as she met his thrusts.

There it was. She moaned loudly. She'd had her second orgasm. Soon afterward Adam climaxed, and his release was so powerful that he was unable to muffle the sound, even though he shoved his face in her shoulder. Sage smiled with satisfaction. Adam hoped he hadn't disturbed any of the other guests of the
palais.

Adam rolled off her and onto his side. Sage turned in bed so that they were facing each other. They smiled. He touched her cheek and softly said, “You're the only woman I've ever loved, and if you'll let me, I'll love you forever.”

“Make it so,” Sage said, and he knew she was remembering his love for
Star Trek: The Next Generation
and his favorite
Enterprise
commander, Captain Jean-Luc Picard. “Make it so” had been the good captain's favorite choice of words when issuing an order.

Adam grinned. “You know me so well.”

Sage kissed his lips and snuggled closer to him with a contented sigh. “I'm finally where I belong, in the arms of my favorite nerd.”

Adam laughed softly and murmured in her ear, “At last.”

* * * * *

A Family
for
Christmas

Felicia Mason

For Denise and in memory of Leon

Chapter 1

T
rey Calloway wasn't the least bit interested in learning how to do macramé. But Kelly had her heart set on it. And if it made his daughter's six-year-old heart happy, Trey would master the craft and be a better man for having done so. But first he had to untangle the mess of threads he'd created.

“Daddy, your snowflake doesn't look like a snowflake.”

“I know, baby,” Trey said as he tried to dislodge the knots and tangles that did not at all resemble the ones the instructor at the craft store demonstrated.

Trey was the only testosterone in a veritable sea of pink Hello Kitty hair bows, T-shirts and miniature handbags.

After four years of being a single dad, he was used to it. But he didn't think he was ever going to grasp the fine art of macramé.

“Aunt Henrietta is gonna like my snowflake,” Kelly announced, the curls in her high ponytail bobbing as she bounced. “I'm making this one for her for Christmas. Who are you going to give that one to, Daddy?”

“The trash can,” Trey wanted to say. Instead he said, “I don't know yet, princess.”

“Mine is pretty,” she said, holding up her handiwork.

Trey studied it for a moment. “Yes, it is.” He then held up his blob.

Kelly wrinkled her nose. “Maybe you should start over, Daddy.”

“Yes, Daddy, that sounds like a good idea.”

A laughing voice that didn't belong to Kelly. He knew that because it was mature, sexy and belonged to the one woman he wanted to get to know a whole lot better.

Over the past couple of weeks Trey had become adept at noticing his new next-door neighbor's comings and goings. It helped that his home office faced her driveway and backyard.

“Hey there, neighbor lady,” he said, standing to greet Renee Armstrong.

“Look what I made!” Kelly said.

“You did a good job,” Renee told the girl.

Trey glanced around, looking for Renee's shadow, her daughter a couple of years older than his own. He couldn't remember the girl's name, but it was something with a
K.
He remembered that much because of his own, Kelly.

“Did you and your daughter come for the macramé class?” he asked. “It's almost over.”

“No, I didn't know about it. But I came to find something that might interest her. Do you have any suggestions, Kelly?”

The little girl held up her snowflake. “I like macramé.”

Trey groaned. “That makes one of us,” he muttered under his breath loud enough for only Renee to hear.

She smiled. “Well, I'm going to get going. Keisha is over in the art-supply section. I may have a budding Picasso on my hands.”

Keisha. That's her daughter's name.

Trey didn't want Renee to leave. Not yet. He was enjoying her scent of vanilla and—oranges? He'd smelled it before in her house a couple of days after they'd moved in. Whatever kind of perfume it was, it was turning him on as much as the formfitting red sweater with little white snowball puffs that hugged her curves.

“We're going to be baking Christmas cookies tonight,” Trey said. “Would you like to join us?”

If she took him up on the invitation, it would give him the opportunity to see her again…and in his house to boot. So far, he'd been in her next-door home along with his toolbox to level and hang pictures for her and to fix a leaky sink.

A moment later, though, Trey remembered.

Renee was a package deal. The irascible Keisha came with her. Renee and her daughter had been living next door to him for only a month, and in that short span of time he'd realized that Renee had little control over the girl who was prone to foot stomping, pouting and back talk. That very thought set his teeth on edge.

Renee gave him an “I'm not so sure that's a good idea” look.

His hopes soared. She would decline and then he wouldn't have to worry about Keisha's bad influence on Kelly. At eight, Keisha was just the right age to impress a six-year-old, and that influence boded ill based on what he'd seen so far.

“You know what?” Renee said. “We'd love to come bake cookies with you. What time?”

Trey could have kicked himself for letting his dormant libido get the best of him. Putting on a smile to hide his dismay at having to host Keisha, he named a time.

With a finger wave, Renee said farewell to both him and Kelly.

Still standing, he watched her head down the aisle of the craft store. Her perfectly rounded behind and legs encased in tights called to him.

“Mercy,” he muttered, still watching the sway of her hips.

“Thank you for volunteering, sir,” he heard someone say.

“Daddy?”

Trey glanced down at Kelly. She was busy on her next snowflake.

“What is it, princess?” he said.

“Come on now. Don't be shy, sir. We all want to see your handiwork.”

Trey glanced up. Was the macramé instructor talking to him?

“Go ahead, Daddy. Show everybody,” Kelly urged, practically bouncing in her seat. “You stood up when she asked if anyone wanted to show off their new skills.”

New skills?

What the…?

He glanced at the mangled mess on the table in front of him. Then he looked back down the aisle in the direction that had initially captured his attention. Renee Armstrong had disappeared.

He was left with a tangle of knots on the table and the evidence of arousal in his jeans.

“Mine needs a little work,” he told the instructor. “Kelly, why don't you show the class what you made?”

As she jumped up to go show off her craft project, Trey settled back in his chair.
Nice save, Calloway,
he thought.

* * *

For the past three and a half weeks since moving into a new house on Stanhope Drive, Renee Armstrong had been telling herself that her next-door neighbor was hot. But was it only because she'd been so long without male companionship? she thought. Her racing heart and suddenly sweaty palms told a different story. Trey Calloway was fine, with a capital
F
and sugar on top.

As she made her way through the craft store to find Keisha, she thought about her neighbor and her reaction to him.

He was the sort of man who carried himself in a way that made you stop to notice when he walked into a room. Not exceptionally tall, he stood about five-eleven, maybe an even six feet. Always impeccably dressed and groomed, whether like today in pressed jeans and a cream-colored ribbed sweater, or in an expensive suit and overcoat for church, as she'd seen Sunday morning from her window. He always seemed ready for a magazine cover shoot.

His little girl, Kelly, was the same way. Partial to pink, Kelly Calloway clearly had her father wrapped around her finger. Why else would a man like him be in a craft store doing macramé, of all things? When she'd spied him at the table with a group of little girls wearing all shades of pink, she'd thought she might be mistaken. But it was him.

As he'd clearly struggled with the craft project, he'd been even sexier than normal. There was just something that warmed her heart—and some other places—about a man who didn't feel or at least didn't look threatened by a bunch of little girls doing craft projects.

She was suddenly glad—very glad—that she'd actually put on a cute outfit for the trip to the craft shop at Commerce Plaza. She'd almost just grabbed a college sweatshirt and a pair of lived-in jeans. After a week in her high-maintenance work clothes, she preferred getting comfortable on the weekends.

She wondered if he'd noticed the outfit. In the event he was watching as she walked away, she put a little extra sway in her hips to give him something to contemplate.

He was kind of hard to read. She knew she'd been sending hot and cold vibes his way. He'd come to the rescue with a tool kit and some male expertise when her kitchen sink had gone crazy. Beyond that, they'd just shared a wave and a hello in the morning or as they crossed paths taking the garbage or recycling to the curb.

He didn't wear a ring and in the three weeks she'd been in the house she hadn't seen a wife. There was just one car in his driveway. Out here in the suburbia of Cedar Springs, North Carolina, wouldn't there be two if he were married?

What if the invite to bake cookies was a family thing—one of those neighborly invitations that folks in the suburbs routinely offered? She didn't want to go waltzing in ready to make a play only to be greeted by a perfect little Mrs. Calloway standing in the kitchen.

Oh, dear.

Her first instinct—hesitation because of Keisha—now had another layer of worry.

She found Keisha exactly where she thought she would—in the fine-arts section of the store, mulling over choices of papers and pencils.

Renee made a mental note to find an art class for her to take. Maybe the Common Ground Recreation Center offered something. This interest in drawing had sprung up out of nowhere. But if Keisha was finally taking an interest in something beyond sulking, Renee was all for it.

“Hey, sweetie. What did you find?”

Keisha sat on the floor, legs crossed with two different colored-pencil sets in her lap.

“I can't decide which one is best.”

Renee crouched down so she could see the two options. “That one gives you lots of different colors to work with,” she pointed out.

Keisha nodded. “But this one has a book that shows you how to draw cartoons. I want to try that.”

Renee smiled and helped her up. “Then it sounds like you've made a decision. Let's get that one.”

“Okay,” Keisha said. She tucked the chosen pencil set under her arm, but didn't immediately put the other back on the shelf.

When Keisha finally relinquished the second set, putting it back in its place in the display, Renee made another mental note to get that one for a Christmas present for Keisha.

“Guess who I saw in the store?”

Keisha glanced up at her, but didn't ask the obvious question.

“Mr. Calloway from next door and his little girl.”

Keisha made a face.

“What?” Renee asked.

The girl poked her lips out. “Nothing.”

Renee blew out a sigh. She was going to have to ask Dr. Hendrickson about this new uncommunicative phase Keisha seemed to be in. It had started a few weeks ago and seemed to be getting worse.

“They invited us over to make Christmas cookies tonight. Would you like that? It'll be the five of us.”

“Who else is coming?”

Renee blinked. That was more interest than she'd seen from Keisha in anything except the art supplies.

“Mr. Calloway, his wife and his daughter.”

“He doesn't have a wife,” Keisha announced as they made their way toward the checkout.

“How do you know?”

“Kelly told me.”

Kelly told her?
Every day after school as they worked through homework, Renee tried to get Keisha to open up about the new school, the new friends she was making—if any—and anything else that might be on the girl's mind. This was the first she had heard of Keisha actually engaging long enough for the briefest of interactions with other kids, let alone in a full-fledged conversation about family.

“Do you and Kelly play together?”

The question seemed ridiculous. Renee knew full well that Keisha hadn't been outside to play with anyone since moving into the new house.

“I see her at school.”

“What did she say about her mom?”

“She doesn't have a mom,” Keisha said. They reached the checkout and Keisha put her art kit on the counter as Renee opened her purse for her wallet.

She had a hundred questions for Keisha but knew better than to press or rush the girl. Nothing would shut down Keisha faster than undue interest on Renee's part.

With the transaction completed, the clerk handed Keisha the bag. The girl grinned, mumbled a thank-you and then skipped to the door. Renee smiled. Glad to see—at last—a glimpse of the old Keisha.

When they were in the car with the heat's air chasing away the December chill, Renee broached the subject again.

“So did Kelly say what happened to her mom?”

“She died.”

Renee gave her a sharp look. “Recently? Oh, that's so sad.”

Keisha took the art kit out of the craft-store bag and read the back panel with the explanation of what was in the package out loud before answering. “No. A long time ago when Kelly was a baby.”

Renee bit back a smile. A long time ago from a kid's perspective could be anywhere in the past from an hour ago to the time when dinosaurs roamed the Earth. The “baby” part narrowed it down a bit. Kelly looked to be no more than five or six years old, so she hadn't been a baby too long ago.

“She told me we were meant to live beside each other because she doesn't have a mother and I don't have a father.”

When Keisha didn't say anything else, Renee glanced over at her. The eight-year-old was staring at her hands. Renee started formulating one of the open-ended questions that Dr. Hendrickson said would draw Keisha out in times like this. Before she could get the gentle question out, Keisha spoke.

“I didn't tell her you weren't my mom.”

Renee's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Her heart felt as if it had been gripped in a vise. Maybe this was what the past few weeks of acting out had been leading to. She so desperately wanted to ask Keisha if that was the case, but she couldn't get past the lump in her throat.

At least she hadn't qualified it by saying Renee wasn't her “real mom.”

Renee was starting to feel as if she needed her own fifty minutes in the therapist's chair. Maybe Dr. Hendrickson would make an exception in his practice and take on an adult as a patient.

“Thank you for buying me the art pencils,” Keisha said.

You're the grown-up here, Renee,
she told herself.
What matters most is what's best for Keisha.