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Finally, with one last thread of self-control, he tucked her head to his chest and held her tightly, his breathing jerky. “This is insane.”
She licked his nipple. “I like insane . . . I haven’t been insane enough in my life.” He blinked his eyes against the red haze obscuring his vision. He could have his cock inside her in sixty seconds flat, if she cooperated. But then he felt her shiver, and his brain was back in control.
“Up, woman.” He rolled them both to their feet, practically lifting her through the snow and depositing her on the steps. As she was picking up her discarded clothing, he salvaged the burlap bag he’d dropped earlier.
Inside, he stared at her, shaking his head. “Now, all your clothes are wet and dirty.”
She rummaged in her pack, triumphantly holding up a scrap of red nylon. “One last pair of clean undies,” she announced with glee.
He swallowed, consigning her tiny underwear to hell and back. He sent her to the bathroom. “Strip off. I’ll find you something . . . if I’m lucky.”
He returned with one of his flannel shirts and some gray, fleece-lined sweatpants. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Hand me your stuff.”
Her slender arm appeared, thrusting a pile of wet clothes into his hand. In exchange, he passed in her new wardrobe. When she came out a few minutes later, he smothered a grin. She had tried to roll up the shirtsleeves, but they were already drooping. She was holding up the voluminous pants with her hand, and the green woolen socks on her feet clashed horribly with the turquoise shirt.
“I look like a hobo,” she groused.
“Good,” he said fervently. “Now maybe we can get through dinner.”
* * *
They worked amicably, side by side, fixing chili and store-bought sourdough bread. Fortunately, Grant had brought more than enough food, so there was no chance they’d go hungry. While they were washing up afterward, Maddy noticed the bag he’d dropped by the back door. “What’s that?” she asked curiously.
He smiled sheepishly. “Mistletoe.”
She laughed. “You really thought we needed mistletoe?”
He poured the leftover chili in a container and stuck it in the fridge. “It’s traditional. It’s seasonal. It’s ambiance.”
She just shook her head. “Okay, Martha Stewart. If you say so.”
* * *
While Grant began to set up his easel and paints, Maddy began having serious second thoughts. It was one thing to flash a guy during a snowball fight. It was another thing entirely to sprawl out buck-naked on a sofa and let him stare at you for a couple of hours. Her eyes returned again and again to the painting over the mantel. Grant’s ex-wife made a stunning model, her lush sensuality a perfect subject for any painter. Maddy, on the other hand . . . Well . . . She certainly wasn’t Rubenesque. The great artists of that era would have passed her by without a glance. As her feelings of unease mounted, Grant, in contrast, seemed remarkably comfortable. He added log after log to the fire, until the room began to feel like a sauna.
When he began to sweat, he stripped off his shirt and kicked off his boots and socks. No fair, Maddy wailed inwardly. How was a woman supposed to show good sense in the face of such blatant provocation? Half-dressed, he seemed even larger, more powerful. Sleek muscles in his arms and back glistened with a sheen of perspiration.
Her throat went dry.
She wandered around the room, keeping her distance. “Be careful you don’t start a chimney fire,” she warned weakly.
He smiled absently, intent on positioning his workspace. “I’m making it warm in here. You’ll be nude for a couple of hours, and we can’t have you getting cold.”
Cold? She was burning up.
She nibbled her lower lip. “Do you mind if I take a shower first?”
He looked up, his brow creased in concentration. “Hmmm? Oh, sure, whatever you want.”
She escaped to the bathroom. She washed her hair during a twenty-minute shower and would have lingered longer, but the water began to run cold. Shutting off the faucet and stepping out, she towel-dried her hair, shivering despite the wall heater. She found a hairdryer underneath the sink and, after combing out her tangled tresses, began blow-drying her unruly mane a section at a time.
* * *
Grant positioned a swath of fern-green cloth over the sofa. Velvet was a bit cliché, but the color would be spectacular with Maddy’s hair. He was making his preparations on autopilot, one-half of his mind on familiar routines, the other centered down the hall where Maddy was so obviously hiding out.
He admitted reluctantly that he had no right to pressure her into posing for him, but he wanted it badly—badly enough to ignore his gentlemanly side. He could soothe her nerves. He would be blasé if it killed him.
But first he had to pry her out of the bathroom. He went down the hall and knocked on the door. The dryer stopped. “Open up, Maddy . . . if you’re decent—or even if you’re not,” he added with dry honesty.
