He’d flirt back, playful, fun, like she was.
First, it would just be their legs brushing, then his hand on her knee, then she’d lean into him, laugh.
Then, when the sexual tension crackled and popped, he’d cradle her face in his hands and kiss her. Softly and slowly. Not rushed. No, he’d let it build. Let her feel how much he wanted her. How long he’d been holding back.
Outside, the snow would blow across the lake, ice crystals building on the windows, reminding them of how cold it was.
But inside it would be blazing.
She’d pull back and give him the look, the one that saidmore—and he’d oblige, laying her back on the cot, peeling her coat off, and her sweater.
Her nipples would be hard and stiff with nothing but the ice surrounding them. But his mouth? It would be hot as he kissed and sucked, making love to her breasts.
Her breath would hitch as he ran his hands along her thighs, fingers brushing the edge of those soft black leggings. His fingerwould trace the center, and she’d arch into him, still wanting more.
He’d slide the fabric down, inch by inch, revealing the body he’d been fantasizing about since the moment he saw her.
He’d explore her like he had all the time in the world—touching, teasing, learning every gasp and whimper. His lips would replace his fingers, licking, tasting, driving her to the edge. And then, when she was needy and breathless, begging for more, he’d kneel between her legs, pull her to the edge of the cot, lift her up just a bit, and slide into her in one deep stroke. He’d fill her over and over again until she moaned his name from her lips and her body quaked around him.
It would be everything he wanted. Everything he thought he needed.
But then the fantasy shifted.
She’d shiver after, and he’d wrap her in a blanket, carry her to his truck. Drive her back to his place. He’d make her lasagna, the kind that took hours to bake. Pour a glass of red wine. Ask her about her favorite books, music, the place in Paris she missed most. He’d play her a record, maybe old jazz, and she’d spin slowly around his kitchen, teasing him, laughing.
Maybe they’d take a shower.
God, he really wanted to see her in his shower.
The image alone had his pulse pounding and blood rushing south. He shifted where he stood, fighting to come back to reality. This was not the place for his imagination to get the best of him.
Liam looked around him at all the good, small-town charm that he always tried to avoid this time of year. But not tonight, not when he was trying anything and everything to keep his mind off of Cassidy and all the things he wanted to do with her, because honestly, fantasy Liam was just getting started. Right now, the Christmas carolers, the sea of Santa hats, thesmell of cinnamon-roasted almonds—they were all a welcome distraction.
“Hey, you,” Cassidy said, bumping her hip into him.
Liam startled and then felt like an idiot, wondering if she could tell how hard he still was from thinking about her.
She raised an eyebrow. “You okay there?”
“Yeah, just—uh—thinking about strategy.” Liam motioned to the bakery before him. “I take competition seriously.”
She grinned. “Well, if you’re referring to me, you should know that it’s nothing personal, just business.”
He gave a tight smile. “That’s what they all say, right before someone ends up naked on a cot in the middle of a frozen lake.”
“Wait, what?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Forget it.”
But he couldn’t forget. And judging by the tightness still in his jeans, he was pretty sure he’d never look at his ice shanty the same way again.
“Anyway, you ready for this?” he asked, willing himself to focus on anything else.
“I was born ready,” she replied confidently, swinging her arm in front of her like a strongman.
“Really?”
“No, I just always wanted to say that. But how hard can this be? We throw up some lights, do a cute window display, and raise a bunch of money for charity…”
