Authors: Patti Berg
Again she closed her eyes and pretended that Mike was sitting on the edge of the tub, that his big, strong, callused hands were in her hair, that he spread the creamy shampoo along the curve of her neck, over her shoulders and chest. That his warm, slick palms cupped her breasts, kneading them gently, toying with her tender beaded nipples, driving her wild.
Slowly, ever so slowly, his hands slid down her body and parted her legs. Heat stabbed at her when she felt his imaginary fingers slip inside her, teasing, circling, moving in and out. Pleasing her in a way no man ever had.
Suddenly every muscle in her body tensed, quivered. Gigantic waves of sheer, unimaginable pleasure ricocheted through her. Her eyes flew open and she was certain Mike had walked in unbeknownst to her, that he’d been stroking her, fondling her, doing unimaginably delightful things to her.
But she was alone. Her own hands were still in her hair. Her legs had parted slightly but the only thing between them was warm, soapy water.
The orgasm had been thrillingly real, brought on by an erotic joyride of her imagination. Enjoy it, she told herself, it might be the closest you ever get to the real thing.
But, unfortunately, playtime had come to an end. She pulled the plug on the tub and turned the warm water on once again to rinse the shampoo from her hair.
Leaning forward, her head under the spigot, she combed her fingers through the long strands, watching the soap bubbles, water, and her hair whirl down the drain. When the last of the shampoo was rinsed out she turned off the faucet and, with her hair still slung forward over her head, started to wring out the water, beginning at the scalp and working her way to the ends of the strands.
But she never got to the end. A long, thick lock of hair had slid down the drain and ... stuck. More and more hair was getting sucked into the pipe as the last bits of water swirled from the tub, and she couldn’t pull back to extricate herself.
She stuck her finger into the drain, hoping she could figure out what was causing the problem, and prayed Mike wouldn’t walk in right now and see her naked behind waving about like a pink helium-filled balloon as she struggled to free herself from the tub.
The wind outside whipped hard against the side of the house and shook the bathroom window.
The lights flickered.
She managed to maneuver around in the tub and tried to grab for the one lone towel on the far side of the sink.
Damn
! Her arms weren’t long enough. She couldn’t even reach his razor.
Twisting her body around, doing contortions she’d never even tried before, she stuck her leg out of the tub and attempted to wrap her toes around the razor. Instead, she gave it a hefty flick and sent it skittering across the room.
The clock struck one.
The power went out, and the room was blanketed in black.
Mike gripped the steering wheel,
fighting the storm battling the truck and trailer. Driving home in a blizzard wasn’t the most foolish thing he’d ever done, but it ranked fairly high on the list. Once too often the truck and empty trailer had hit black ice and he’d nearly lost control. If that wasn’t bad enough, three hours driving through blinding snow had mesmerized him and a few times had nearly put him to sleep.
But he’d made it. Hungry, dirty, and exhausted, he fully intended to forget about writing his sermon and wing it tomorrow morning. Right now he wanted to do nothing more than climb into bed and try to sleep. It usually eluded him, his mind haunted with guilt or spinning over too many things to do. Tonight, with any luck, would be different.
Near the barn he unhitched the trailer, glad he’d left the horse with the vet so he didn’t have to deal with an invalid mare. Then he pulled the truck into the garage. It wasn’t until he plugged in the engine to keep it from freezing that he realized the power had gone out. What more could plague his night?
He went around to the back of the garage and started the generator. In no time at all, lights popped on in the house. Odd. He was pretty sure he’d forgotten to lock the barn door, but he rarely forgot to turn out the lights. The energy bill he got each month was enough to make him remember to flip off switches.
Pulling his hat low on his brow and tucking his chin into the warmth of his coat, he made his way to the barn, thankful to see that the bolt was latched, quickly checked the horses inside, then sprinted through the pounding snow to the back porch.
It was halfway warm inside. Had he been so preoccupied that he’d left the heater running as well as the lights? Deal with it tomorrow, he told himself. Right now he just wanted to sleep.
He stripped out of his coat, hanging it over the back of a chair, and dropped his hat on the table next to a plate heaped with cookies and cake. Rubbing his hand over his whiskers, he stared at the sweets, thinking about Charity, as he’d done far too often on the drive home. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
The cookies and cake were her obvious handiwork. She must have dropped the plate off when she’d checked the barn. The burning lights and running furnace were probably Charity’s handiwork, too, although the reason why she’d wander from room to room turning on lights escaped him.
Then, again, Charity never did what was expected.
In spite of his fatigue, he smiled. She was a thorn in his side and she claimed she didn’t want to see him again. But the craving that had gnawed inside him all day told him things weren’t over between them.
Trudging up the stairs, he stripped out of his clothes and tossed everything into the hamper in the closet. He was too tired to shower, but he couldn’t sleep smelling like an overused and undercleaned corral on a hot summer’s day. Besides, the hot pulsing water would feel good on his bruised and aching muscles.
Striding across the bedroom, he pushed open the bathroom door and ...
A hellish fear shot through him. Charity was curled up in the fetal position in his hundred-year-old claw-foot. She was naked. Her skin was blue. He touched her shoulder lightly. She was icy-cold and she shivered beneath his fingers. “Charity?” He whispered her name, barely able to get the word out because of the lump of dread in his throat. She didn’t respond to his voice but she stirred slightly.
Her right cheek rested against the drain and when he scooped his hand under her head, her eyes fluttered open. “Don’t,” she muttered through chattering teeth. “My hair’s stuck.” She half laughed, half cried, as her gaze flickered over his body. “And you’re naked.”
He plowed his fingers through his hair, grabbed the towel that was next to the sink, and thought about covering himself, but laid it over Charity instead. “I’ll be right back.”
He slipped quickly into a clean pair of jeans, pulled a quilt from the chest at the end of his bed, and raced back into the bathroom.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked, tucking the hand-stitched blanket around the woman in his tub.
“Now that you’re here.”
He slid a hand beneath her head again and helped her hold it up so he could see the damage.
“I tried to rip my hair loose from the drain, but that didn’t work. Then I tried pulling a strand or two out of my scalp at a time, but that hurt like hell. So I just curled up and... and, okay, I started praying that you’d be foolish and drive home in the storm.”
She was accident prone, she was trouble, but he wanted her in his life. Somehow, he’d find a way to make her stay.
Tears had dried on her cheeks. Her hair was a mass of tangles. But he’d never seen a more beautiful woman. “I’m gonna have to cut some of your hair.”
“Cut it all. I don’t care. I just want out of this tub. It’s hard and uncomfortable and”—her lips quivered—“cold.”
He opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out a small pair of scissors, and leaned over her.
“I’ve changed my mind!” she cried out. “Cut as little as you possibly can. I’ve got an audition in a couple of days and I’ve got to look my best.”
A bull rammed his chest. How could he have forgotten that Charity wanted to leave? That Las Vegas was her life?
That was another bit of trouble he could deal with tomorrow. Right now he had to think about the present, and Charity’s latest dilemma.
Tugging the quilt close to her breasts, Charity shivered as she watched Mike cautiously poke the scissors down the drain. She’d never felt so foolish, so exposed.
She shouldn’t have climbed into Mike’s tub. Shouldn’t have shampooed her hair. Shouldn’t have risked being found. She knew that trouble followed her around, so why didn’t she know something like this would happen?
In spite of her embarrassment, she was thankful Mike had come to her rescue—again.
“Can you hold your head up on your own?” Mike asked. “Before I cut, I want to see if I can work any of it loose.”
She rolled over in the tub. Maneuvering was difficult, but she managed to crouch down on her knees, gather her unstuck hair in her hands, and hold it away from the drain.
The quilt gaped open, and she wasn’t oblivious to the very real fact that Mike’s eyes drifted from his work to her chest, to her breasts. His Adam’s apple bobbed when their eyes met. She could almost hear him gulp, and then, being the good, strong, moral man he was, he concentrated again on the drain.
Heat pulsed through her. Mike’s slow, hungry perusal of her body had warmed her like a hot buttered rum, potent, intoxicating, meandering slowly through every vein, artery, and capillary.
She watched Mike’s strong, rugged hands as he dug his finger into the drain, trying diligently to pull her hair loose. She thought about the jagged scar that slashed across his knuckles, wondering if he’d cut himself on barbed wire as he stretched it across the land, fencing in animals that wanted to stray.
Finally he looked at her and shook his head. “You need a warm bed and something hot to drink. You need it now, not an hour or so from now.”
“In other words?”
“I’m going to have to cut the rest of it.”
There was only one small hunk of hair left and she’d long ago tired of being imprisoned in the tub. “All right.” She swallowed hard. “Cut away.”
He shoved the scissors deep into the drain and in just an instant, she was free, jerking her head up and massaging her neck.
A second after that, Mike swept her into his arms. As much as she wanted to protest, his embrace was irresistible and she relaxed against the warmth of his skin.
He carried her to the four-poster, threw back the covers, then laid her down, still wrapped in the quilt. The last thing she’d expected when she’d come here tonight was to end up in bed— Mike’s bed. It was big and soft and she had an incredible urge to ask him to climb under the covers with her—just for a little extra warmth.
Instead, she forced her eyes from his faded-bronze skin, from the mat of hair on his chest, from his flat abs, and a belly button she uncharacteristically wanted to... lick.
Oh, she was warming up fast!
She tore her mind from sex and concentrated on the intricate quilt pattern. “This is beautiful.”
“My mom made it.” He crossed the room in two long strides and ... okay, she quit staring at the quilt and studied the Herculean muscles in his back and shoulders as he opened one of his dresser drawers. “I get a new one every year for Christmas.” He looked at her over his shoulder and her eyes flickered from his firm, fine butt to his bright green eyes. “Still cold?”
“A little.” But that was a whopper of a lie.
“I’ve got some thermal underwear you can put on.”
“I’ve already got a pair of your boxers and a shirt hanging in the bathroom.”
One corner of his mouth rose, making his dimple deepen. “Should I ask what happened to your clothes?”
“I had a run-in with Satan, a few mud puddles, and a blizzard. I was sure you wouldn’t mind me borrowing a thing or two of yours, considering that it was all your fault I had those little mishaps.”
He studied her naked shoulder, where the quilt had slipped away, and followed her blanket-hidden shape all the way down to where she rubbed her feet together beneath the cover. Again he found her eyes and a slow, soft smile touched his mouth. “I’m sure you look better in my clothes than I do.”
Oh, I highly doubt that.
Mike retrieved the boxers and heavy flannel shirt and dropped them beside her. “So, Satan came back?”
“He was after the Tennessee Walker again, at least that’s what it looked like, considering how determined he was to get into the barn.”
“And you managed to get rid of him?”
“I waved my hands, I stomped in the mud, and I screamed at him.” She grinned lightly, then pulled the blanket closer to her neck as she again began to shiver. “I think he got the hint that I didn’t want him around.”
Mike sank down on the edge of the bed. “Not exactly what a horse trainer would do,” he said, “but not bad for a novice. Of course, it would have been better if you’d directed him into the corral and closed the gate.”
“That’s not my style.”
He chuckled. “So you’ve said.”
He drew one of her feet from under the covers and blew warm, moist breath on her icy toes. With her cheeks feeling flushed and her heart going pitty-pat, she immediately began to wonder about the wisdom of a minister sitting on her bed, of a minister rubbing her bare toes, a minister slowly, deeply massaging the arch of her foot.
A shiver rippled through her body, not from the cold but from his gentle yet erotic touch. Here she was lying under the covers and imagining this man doing the same thing every night of the week.
No, no, no, no, no!
She had to keep her wits about her. If anything more happened between them, it would be a disaster.
She drew her foot out of his hands and rubbed the cool pink flesh herself. “Did you say you were going to make me something warm to drink?”
“Hot chocolate okay?” he asked, tucking the blanket around her hips and legs.
She nodded and he rose slowly from the bed. “Think you can stay out of trouble while I’m gone?”
“What trouble could I possibly get into here— in your bed?”
The suggestive innuendo didn’t hit her until the words had slipped over her tongue, but it had obviously smacked Mike right in the face. His intense green-eyed gaze skirted the curves her body formed under the blanket and a frustrated frown wrinkled his brow. “Not to worry, Charity. You won’t get into any trouble there.”
He turned his back on her and walked out of the room but his words hung back. He seemed as confused as she was by their continuing infatuation with each other, wanting each other but wanting something else far more: he wanted Jessie; she wanted what awaited her in Vegas.
Throwing off the quilt, she made a mad dash for the bathroom again, relieved herself, which she’d been dying to do for hours, washed her hands, took a quick look in the mirror at her frightful hair and decided it was beyond help, then ran back to the bedroom, threw on Mike’s boxers and flannel shirt, and climbed under the covers.
Tucking her hands under the fluffy down pillow, she buried her nose into its warmth, inhaling the musky scent of Mike’s aftershave on the pillowcase, a fragrance almost as intoxicating as his presence.
First thing in the morning she was going to say goodbye to him. So long. Farewell. This strange, bewildering fascination between us has been nice, she’d tell him, but it’s better to end it now, before either one of us ends up with a broken heart.
Right now her heart didn’t seem at risk, and she wanted to keep it that way. But when Mike walked into the room with two cups of steaming cocoa and she caught sight once again of his bare chest, his muscular arms, the jeans that sat low on his hips and the band of black hair that raced across the belly button she wanted to lick to that hidden place beneath his zipper, well—she took a deep breath—she wished he wasn’t a minister with good principles and that she wasn’t a showgirl determined to remain a virgin.
He set the mugs on the nightstand beside her, his belly button within easy touching distance.
“That’s hot,” he said. “Don’t take a big gulp.”