Page 89

She shifts closer to me on the rug. “You’re extremely confident for a man carrying an unsigned contract that I'm still annoyed about.”

“Well, you’re extremely mouthy for a woman who just fed me her fingers for dessert.”

After we eat, Dylan and Stevie’s Christmas playlist eventually rolls into a slow acoustic number, and Audrey pulls me onto the rug in front of the fire.

We dance badly in festive socks, her arms looped around my neck while my hands settle low on her hips. I spin her once, nearly send both of us into the couch and catch her against my chest.

“Elite athlete,” she says, laughing.

“This floor lacks appropriate traction.”

“Is that why your hand is on my ass again?” She rolls her hips against me, feeling exactly how hard I am beneath my trousers. “Does that help with balance?”

“Actively making it worse, actually.”

Her laughter softens against my mouth when I kiss her, and for several minutes the contract hanging inside my coat by the door becomes the least urgent thing in the cabin.

Then, when we're both loose by the fire with a bottle of wine between us, I hand her the last surprise of the night.

"Here," I say, handing her a small box with a dark red ribbon. "One last gift."

Audrey stares at the box. “Is this another emotionally devastating Christmas gesture?”

“Not exactly.”

“Will I cry?”

I think about the amount of red lace inside. “You might make noises.”

Her eyebrows rise. “That sounded alarmingly confident.”

“Open the box, sweetheart.”

She pulls the ribbon, lifts the lid, and goes very still.

Inside is a red silk nightdress that's so damn smooth it's sparkling in the light of the fire. Audrey holds it up to study the lace over the breasts, the low back, and a hem I know for a fact will barely reach the tops of her thighs.

"I picked it myself," I say, loving the way her pupils are dilating with need. "Some boutique in Chilmore was a little excited that the 'big hockey lumberjack from the tree farm' was in her store buying skimpy lingerie for some mystery woman."

Audrey looks at the silk. Then at me.

"No expectations," I say. "You can wear it, frame it, or set it on fire. But I saw it and thought about you, so I thought you should have it."

She leans over and kisses me so softly and slow that I taste the wine on her lips. She stands up with the box, downs the last of her wine and looks down at me with a tiny smile.

"Give me two minutes," she says, walking toward the bedroom. "And Miles? I fully intend to use this against you."

She comes back, and holy fuck, my restraint dies by the fire.

The red silk skims her body like it was poured over her, with the lace cupping her breasts, the hem stopping high on those incredible legs, and the soft firelight sliding across her bare shoulders.

She stands there letting me look, confident as all hell, and I remember the woman who once tried to rush past being looked at like this.

Tonight, nothing about this woman is rushing.

"Well?" she says.

I stand, cross the room, and move behind her. My hands find her hips through the silk, rough palms dragging slow over smooth fabric, and I feel her breathing change.