Page 43

Because he's waiting. For me. For my words.

For my command.

The elevator dings. We walk the hallway in silence, past sconces wrapped in green, my heartbeat so loud I'm surprised housekeeping hasn't filed a noise complaint.

At my door, my hands shake so badly the keycard misses the reader twice.

Miles stands behind me, close enough that his breath moves warm across the back of my neck, and my whole body lights up.

The lock finally clicks green, and the second it does, I turn around.

He's right there, filling the hallway, blue eyes dark and patient and starving all at once.

"You can kiss me now."

His restraint breaks like a chocolate beam.

"Thank fuck for that."

Miles kisses me hard enough to push us both through the doorway, one arm banding around my waist while his boot kicks the door shut behind us.

I grab fistfuls of his shirt and he lifts me clean off the floor, his mouth crashing over mine with days of stored hunger and tension.

His tongue rolls against mine and he tastes like cranberry and beer, and it's too good. Way too good. I dig my fingers into his biceps, which flex under my grip like they're showing off, while he holds my face in both hands and kisses me like the elevator ride was the longest wait of his life.

The suite glows around us, with the fire crackling, the little Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, and snow drifting past the windows while the resort sparkles below.

The bed has been turned down, white bedding folded back, tiny peppermint chocolates waiting on the pillows.

I enjoy kissing this man far too much.

That's the thought that scares me back to the surface.

"Wait." I press a hand flat against his chest, which is a mistake, because his chest is spectacularly firm and my hand immediately forgets its assignment. "Terms. We need terms."

Miles pulls back, breathing hard. "Terms?"

"This is temporary." I point at him like I'm serving legal papers. "Whatever this is, it exists inside this resort only. And it expires when Christmas ends. No promises, no expectations, no decisions about the future. Agreed?"

Miles listens to my entire negotiation while reaching behind his head and ripping his shirt off.

"Okay. Good negotiating," I say.

His chest is broad and thick, his stomach ridged into abs so defined I want to lick each one individually and rate them out of ten. His skin carries the story of his whole life. A faded scar along his ribs, bruises blooming from today's game, muscle earned from hauling trees up mountains.

He's all man. Every obscene inch of him.

And I am soaked.

"Do contract negotiations usually happen," Miles says, tossing the shirt onto a chair, "while one party is openly studying the other's abs?"

"I'm conducting a visual risk assessment."

"Of what?"

"The wellbeing of my vagina."

He laughs, that big open laugh, and steps back into my space. "I accept your terms. Christmas only. Although I'd point out that no expectations gets complicated when you've been staring at my cock since the elevator."