A Puppy for Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер

instruction that Danny—and Beau—had probably completely ignored, as they were both well aware. The puppy was no doubt curled up fast asleep on the little boy’s bed at this very minute.

      ‘You really are just a big softie!’ Bree smiled at him teasingly.

      Jackson’s gaze, glittering brightly, continued to hold hers and a derisive smile curved those sensuous lips. Bree took another step backwards.

      Her eyes widened in alarm as Jackson countered that movement by taking a stealthy step forward, standing so close now that Bree was able to feel the heat emanating off his body.

      ‘What are you doing …?’ she breathed softly.

      ‘Nothing …’ he murmured.

      She swallowed hard. ‘That’s goo—’

      ‘… yet,’ he added huskily.

      Bree had been aware of the stillness of the house when she’d first come in, but now that silence was charged with something else: a tense expectancy much like the loaded pause before a predator pounced on its prey!

      She moistened lips that had gone suddenly dry. ‘I only came in to let you know that I’m back.’

      ‘And did you have a nice evening?’ Jackson asked softly.

      ‘Very nice, thank you.’ Bree answered warily, not fooled for a moment by the casual pleasantry when she could still see that speculative gleam in Jackson’s eyes as he continued to look down at her so unblinkingly.

      It was a wariness that Jackson’s next comment proved was completely warranted.

      ‘Did you go out in that dress?’ he enquired as his gaze swept over her from head to toes.

      Bree swallowed. ‘I … Yes, of course.’

      It was one of the dresses Bree had bought a year ago to take on her honeymoon to Paris. Bought but for obvious reasons never worn—before this evening …

      ‘It’s … very nice.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      The speculation deepened in Jackson’s eyes. ‘Did you come home alone?’

      ‘Well, of course I came home alone!’ Bree snapped, glaring at the impertinence of the question.

      Jackson shrugged the wide and muscled shoulders that were clearly defined in the fitted black T-shirt he was wearing. ‘Just checking.’

      Bree still frowned her irritation. ‘Why?’

      ‘Before I do this.’

      Jackson took the single step that separated them, sliding his arms about her waist and pulling her into the heat of his body before his head lowered and his mouth claimed hers in a searingly hot kiss that totally took Bree’s breath away.

      She clung to those wide shoulders as her knees buckled slightly. Not that there was any possibility of her falling when Jackson’s arms were clamped like steel bands about her waist. His hands stroked the length of her spine, his fingers a hot and arousing caress against the bare skin above her gown as his lips continued that plundering exploration, his tongue moist against her lips as he parted them before thrusting deep into the heat of her mouth.

      His tongue stroked intimately against hers, evoking an explosion of pleasure, an aching response deep inside Bree. She felt heat burning between her thighs. Her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened as they pressed against the material of her dress, and she became fully aware of the hard throb of Jackson’s answering arousal as his hands cupped her bottom to pull her up and into him.

      A hard and throbbing arousal that was entirely in response to her, Sabrina Jones!

      Bree felt empowered by that realisation, moving her hands up as she gave in to the temptation to entangle her fingers in that honey-and-molasses hair, finding it just as she had always imagined it would be: thick and long and silkily soft, and so—

       As she had always imagined it would be …?

      She had imagined something like this happening between herself and Jackson?

      Since when?

      What—?

      All thoughts fled—Bree even forgot to breathe—as Jackson’s hand cupped her breast before his questing fingers sought the swollen tip.

      Bree gasped as Jackson’s lips left hers and his other hand moved to twist the long waves of her hair in his fingers. He arched her neck back, exposing it to his lips, teeth lightly nipping the lobe of her ear, before he softly kissed the swell of her breasts.

      ‘Your skin is like velvet!’ Jackson groaned.

      His lips found her aching nipple through the silky material of her dress, his tongue stroking intense heat through the fabric to her breast for long, pleasurable seconds before he clamped his lips around her nipple and pulled it deep into the heat of his mouth.

      An almost unbearable burning coursed through Bree’s body as she gazed down at him, his lashes long and thick against his sculpted cheekbones. His hand moved to cup her other breast, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing against the nipple in the same rhythmic caress. Raging fire burned between Bree’s thighs and she felt herself swelling and moistening there in a deep and aching throb that beat with the same rapidity as her heart.

      She realised that it was Jackson kissing and caressing her so intimately!

      Jackson of the wild and dangerous good looks. Jackson of the lean and muscled body. Jackson who had to be every woman’s wildest fantasy in the flesh. Jackson who could—and did—have any woman he wanted.

      But at the moment he seemed to want Bree.

       At the moment.

      Chilling reality hit Bree with the force of a physical blow, erasing all pleasure, all arousal, as she acknowledged that this couldn’t—shouldn’t!—be happening. Not between herself and Jackson, of all people!

      She knew for a fact that Jackson never became involved with the women in his working life. Not the models he occasionally used for commercial photo shoots, and certainly not his assistants. He had several times stated—as a warning, perhaps?—that he wouldn’t work alongside any woman with whom he had been intimately involved.

      Tonight could definitely be described as intimate involvement.

      How on earth was Bree going to extract herself from this explosive situation without also finding herself out of a job?

      CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘JACKSON, is it possible that you’ve been drinking?’

      ‘What—?’ Jackson staggered backwards, dazed, as Bree pushed him away with a suddenness he hadn’t been expecting, before turning her back on him to rearrange her dress.

       Expecting?

      Hell, Jackson hadn’t been expecting a single thing about the way he had reacted to Bree this evening!

      Not the way she looked with that beautiful waist-length hair loose about her shoulders. Not how sexy that thin scrap of a dress was, leaving so little to the imagination. Not the lure of those smoky-grey eyes. He certainly hadn’t expected her to taste and feel so good. Or the way she’d responded so readily to the caress of his lips and hands on her soft, creamy flesh …

      And Jackson hadn’t expected to become aroused just by looking at her—nor the fact that he was still aroused, his shaft a hard and throbbing ache against his denims!

      In spite of the accusatory way Bree was now glowering at him.

      ‘Have I been drinking?’ Jackson repeated harshly, stepping away and running a hand through the tousled length of his hair. ‘You’re the one who walked in here a few minutes ago looking like some slinky femme fatale from a forties movie!’

      She